A Yard of Grass

These are the moments and memories that make this time every 4 years that little bit special. Snapshots of childhood, adolescence and adulthood that make the wait worthwhile. These are not necessarily the most important or defining moments from World Cups in my lifetime, but rather they are the ones that have made this event resonate in a way that no other football event ever can. And while I cannot predict how exactly June 2022 will feel, I do believe that, notwithstanding all that Russia has done as a State in recent years, even in sport, this World Cup may be the last great one as a football event where off-field matters can be left to one side temporarily and the carnival can take place. I mean Argentina was no picnic spot in 1978, even Spain in 1982. Mexico had to drag its way out of absolute devastation in 1986 to put it on, and South Africa and Brazil have a lot of issues too. FIFA are under no obligation to hold their tournaments in Western utopias, so give this one a chance at least. Russia and the USSR before provided a lot of great teams and players throughout the 20th Century, and behind all the macho hooligan posturing beloved by the Putinites, lies a fairly great football culture, which I hope will surface across this vast land in the next month (But like I said, 2022 will be different). So let’s have a look at those moments which made the World Cup so special for Yard of Grass.

Igor Belanov – USSR vs Belgium 1986

Starting near enough where we’re going this week, this goal and this match were pivotal not only for the 8-year old YoG watching his first World Cup but the 12 year old YoG watching the highlights from Mexico 86 every day during the months from January to June 1990 as part of the endless Screensport TV  build-up to Italia 90. One of the great World Cup matches was the 2nd round meeting between a mighty Soviet Union side and a fine Belgian team. The latter had stumbled out of their group, but would succumb only to Maradona himself in the semi-final. (It puts Ireland’s Euro 88 qualification into perspective that we topped a group including Mexico 86 semi-finalists Belgium and Bulgaria who were only knocked out by the hosts in the last 16.)

Anyway, this game ended 4-3 to Belgium after extra time. Igor Belanov got himself a hat-trick, no doubt a major contribution to his Ballon d’Or award for that year. He was one of 13 Dynamo Kiev players on the Soviet squad who had just won the European Cup Winners Cup, which even though it sat beneath the UEFA Cup in the pecking order, was still a massive trophy then. Most of this Soviet squad would go on to the final of Euro ’88 in Germany only to lose to a phenomenally talented Dutch team, one which they had beaten in the group stages. This match was undoubtedly a major factor in many people’s choice of Mexico 86 as the best World Cup of all time. And Belanov’s screamer of an opener is typical of the quality of the tournament.

Niall Quinn – Ireland vs The Netherlands 1990

YoG No. 11 – Ireland at Italia 90 probably says enough about this one, so allow me to quote myself:

Packie popped up with a long hoof. Van Aerle attempted a dangerous back-pass to Van Breukelen, who spilled it towards the on-rushing Niall Quinn, and he slid in to score. We were behind the goal and the place went apeshit. Absolutely apeshit.

Another truly unforgettable moment in Irish football history. We made our way back to our coaches, completely drained, and drove through the night into the early hours to the ferry terminal. I don’t think we knew who we were playing in the next round until the following day. It’s not like your mate could text you, or you could watch it live on a pocket sized device. But it was Romania. The Dutch got Germany. That’ll do.

Hugo Sanchez – Mexico vs Belgium 1986

The build-up to Italia 90 was intense for anyone of my vintage. You were obsessed with knowing absolutely everything about every player in every squad. I completed the monster Italia 90 sticker book as well, but as I referred to earlier, it was the likes of the long-gone Screensport and other early satellite sports channels that really got it going. They were showing special preview shows every day of the week and someone somewhere screened Hero: The Official Film of the 1986 FIFA World Cup at some stage, which I recorded and watched a million times. It was a truly magnificent piece of cinema and I’m speaking here as a 12 year old. Given its title, you won’t be surprised to hear it focussed on a number of individuals. Maradona obviously, Preben Elkjaer, Butragueno and Hugo Sanchez all featured, but the latter was the absolute star.

Approximately 10,000 people died in the Mexico City earthquake in September 1985. This film sought to link the two, opening with scenes of devastation, with its emotional 80’s synth soundtrack, but giving way to the scene below. Hugo Sanchez, according to this particular telling of the story, had reawakened a nation, and its great capital city from a devastating tragedy. It’s difficult from this far out to gauge how ordinary Mexicans and the global media viewed the tournament proceeding after such an event, or if there was any real feeling about it by kick-off. This article provides some context for the draw in December 1985 at least. Like I said at the start, Russia 2018 is not the first World Cup to be held under a cloud. Hugo Sanchez’s simple header against Belgium to put them 2-0 up did a lot to lift that cloud. They would top their group and go out on penalties to West Germany in the Quarter-Finals. He was famous for the spectacular, but this may be his most memorable moment. In front of 110,000 people in his hometown, one of the stars of European football lifted his own country.

Rashidi Yekini – Nigeria 1994

The tragedy of Rashidi Yekini was covered by Yard of Grass back in October 2016. You know the picture well, but the story is very much worth reading.

Michael Owen – England vs Argentina 1998

As a Liverpool fan, Michael Owen brought me to my feet many, many times, most notably in the 2001 FA Cup Final which he won by himself at the death from 1-0 down. I remember cheering this goal as well. I remember being embarrassed by my actions, even if I may have been alone. You don’t cheer England. You never cheer England. Only Mark Wright’s goal in 1990 against Egypt, which sent us into the last 16, could even be welcomed. This felt wrong, but it wasn’t. And neither is putting it on this list. England’s youngest ever World Cup squad member, he came on as sub in the first 2 games, scoring and hitting the post in a 2-1 defeat to Romania in the second game. He retained his place for the last group game and started against Argentina – one of the biggest possible fixtures for England. And he did this after 16 minutes to put them 2-1 ahead:

Josimar – Brazil vs Northern Ireland 1986

As a left-back and possessor of a decent hit, I feel I can relate to every full-back who dreams of those moments when they get a bit of time outside the box to have a crack and do their utmost to create something like this (that one sounded as good as it looked!!!). It seldom happens, but I think I can trace my love of the position and its potential for unleashing absolute thunderbastards to seeing this goal aged 8. Poor ol’ Pat Jennings would have had nightmares about it after, but it was a fine, fine hit.

There are many other contenders, but these are the ones I remember best and which have had the greatest impact. A longer list may include the whitewash on the goal-line flying up as Socrates scored against Italy in 1982; Denmark 6-1 Uruguay in 86; Benjamin Massing’s assault on Claudio Caniggia in 1990; Letchkov’s goal vs Germany in 94; Diana Ross’s miss vs a carefully crafted opening ceremony in 1994!!!; Voller vs Rijkaard; Schumacher vs Battiston; Brazil’s exit in 2014; Zidane’s in 2006; and Suarez’s in 2010 and 2014. All iconic moments, but there’s never enough time.

Obviously every Irish goal is also etched forever in my mind, with George Hamilton’s commentary still better remembered than family member’s birthdays (sure they come around every year!), and it’s just not the same without us. It was great building up to Euro 2012 and Euro 2016 with the latter at least providing some magic on the pitch too, but the Euros is not the World Cup. This is different. The Euros is a football tournament. The World Cup is the only truly global event we have, where in every town in every country on every continent, there’ll be someone watching even the least glamorous ties. It’s a carnival and it is a phenomenon. I trace my life’s events in World Cups, as many others do too (I’m sure 🙂 ). I finished primary school in June 1990; was an awkward long-haired metaller 16-year old with a first summer job with my Dad when watching McGrath hold out the Italians in New York; I was studying for my Masters finals and finishing my thesis when Saipan happened in 2002 and on tour in the UK with my punk band during the tournament itself; I had a real job by 2006 (and had started to take it seriously by 2010!!!) I got married a week after the 2014 World Cup Final and I’ll be watching this one with my 2 kids. Child. Teenager. Student. Thirty-something. Father.

They don’t come around very often. Enjoy it.

It’s hard to imagine how big FA Cup Final day was in the past. It was the only day of the year when you could watch football all day from early morning to late afternoon; the only chance to see a lengthy build-up to a match; to meet the team; see the team bus arriving at the stadium; hear pre-match and post-match analysis in depth; and the only opportunity to experience that one indefinable feeling that has been lost in the modern age – the sense of occasion. No matter who was playing, the whole football community of Britain and Ireland tuned in. The twin towers gleaming; the Wembley turf immaculate; the terraces heaving; Abide With Me; and goals scored that you would remember for the rest of your life. Whiteside. Rush. Cantona. Sanchez. Houchen. Keith Houchen. Marvellous…

And in the weeks building up to these occasions, there was a tradition of recording an FA Cup Final song. A twee, silly and often embarrassing nonsense of a tradition, and one which just could not happen in any meaningful way now – image rights alone could be a legal minefield today. Here are some of the “best” ones.

Ossie’s famous “Tottingham” is around 2:24

Chelsea’s 1972 offering, one you’ll know:

The infamous Anfield Rap from 1988. As memorable as the result, and for the same reason:

I don’t understand anything that happens in the below clip:

There’s only one song to end on, however. Yours, your Dad’s and maybe even your Grandad’s childhood glorious May Saturday afternoons summed up and set to the one true FA Cup Final anthem.

 

There is no way in which one could describe this Liverpool team as one of the greats. Since the last league title in 1990, there have been several iterations far better than this one, but there is no doubt in my mind that the first XI plus a few more, which have been cobbled together by Jurgen Klopp, is my favourite ever Liverpool side.

As a child in the 80’s they were just phenomenal, winning title after title and a shedload of cups. Being too young to remember anything before the 1986 double, I have no memories of their domination of Europe up to the ban. The last title winners were a great bunch with the Irish trio of Houghton, Whelan and Staunton contributing no small part to the triumph. The likes of Hansen, Molby, Beardsley, Barnes and Rush were childhood idols for millions. A special mention for the role of the previously unknown Ronnie Rosenthal as well, whose goals late on in the campaign helped to secure the title. Add in the lunacy of Grobbelaar in nets and you have a team that was easy to love.

Whatever character and ability this side had was taken down by Graeme Souness. A sensible choice at the time, but he was an unmitigated disaster. It wasn’t until the manic teams of Roy Evans when a chink of light was let in, and we began to hope once again. The Newcastle games, in particular, will live long in the memory as a side containing Robbie Fowler, Redknapp, McAteer, McManaman, and Collymore lit up the league in the mid-90’s. Unfortunately this side also featured Scales, Ruddock and Wright, and was never going to win much. We watched on as United and then Arsenal took home all the prizes, and eventually saw the former take our rightful crown in Barcelona in 1999.

The Houllier years were efficient at times, but rarely wonderful. We should have pushed Arsenal further in 2002, finishing runners-up, albeit with that spot secured by the Gunners victory in Old Trafford. Even with the treble in 2001, secured in ridiculous fashion at Wembley and the Westfalenstadion, the former with 2 late, late Michael Owen goals against Arsenal, and the latter by a Golden o.g. from Alaves’s (???) Geli in extra time, this was never a truly great Liverpool team. Decent Champions League appearances aside, these were successful years only when compared to the average, but not when compared to the standards set down while Houllier stood on the Kop in the 1960’s.

Then Benitez happened. Xabi Alonso happened and Luis fucking Garcia happened. A bang average team with some sensational players. In addition to the Spanish flair and genius, there was a rock called Sami Hyppia; a neat but lethal Riise; the criminally under rated Finnan; the warrior Carragher; and Gerrard at his absolute best. Alongside sicknote Kewell; useless Traore; no-mark Baros, there was no way this lot could win the European Cup. But they did, and every one of them is rightly remembered for it! True drama throughout the entire campaign which contrasted sharply with a mediocre season in the league. True drama scraping through against Olympiakos to get to the last 16, a nail biting 2-1 aggregate win against Juve where 1 goal was all the Italians needed in Turin in the second leg, followed by THAT Chelsea game and THAT Luis Garcia “goal”. And the final you know enough about. What feels like only yesterday was in fact 13 years ago, and what seems like a recent memory now in fact makes up part of Anfield folklore.

But the team failed to progress domestically. An FA Cup in 2006 and several great European nights, in particular the semi-final win over Chelsea in 2007, could not mask the starvation the fans felt for the League title. It was in our hands in 2009. I’ll never forget the moment I thought it was all over – it was when the ball was in mid-air over Edwin Van Der Sar’s head having left Andrea Dossena’s left boot to complete a 4-1 rout over United at Old Trafford in March. United were still leaders by a bit and were still favourites, but we took the momentum that day and ran with it. And were it not for Federico Macheda’s ‘later than last gasp’ winner against Aston Villa a few weeks later, that momentum may have overhauled United. 86 points, our highest ever Premier League and 4th highest total of all time, 42 game seasons included (3 points for a win was introduced in 1981). Beaten in the league only twice, a feat achieved only once before in the top flight in 1987-88 and bettered only once in the Division 2 promotion year of 1893-94! It just wasn’t enough. The ownership changed, the manager changed, decline set in quite rapidly and we did fuck all for a few years. The 2011 League Cup win and 2012 Cup final appearance were basically irrelevant as Hodgson then Dalglish fumbled about. But I believe that 2008-09 team was the best since 1990 and should have achieved much, much more.

Brendan Rodgers arrived then and, despite all of his shortcomings, did manage to inspire one great season from his team. The front 3 of Suarez, Sterling and Sturridge combined in one magical year and everything clicked into place. The Uruguayan scored many impossible goals, fed by the other two and Coutinho, who also had a phenomenal season. His winner against City in April seemed finally to end the long wait. But 4 points from the final 3 games put paid to that. Gerrard’s slip against Chelsea providing the killer moment and a massive blot on his career at Anfield, not helped by his frustrated superhero response to the mistake. A bad day made even worse by the next slip, which was the 3 goal lead against Palace.

The team’s attack that year was bolstered by Skrtel and Agger at the back, and Henderson in midfield, but still too reliant on the likes of Kolo Toure and Lucas Leiva. If that season was magnificent in many ways – 84 points, 5th highest in Liverpool’s history, the next was a shambles in as many ways. Playing a weakened team in the Bernabeu in a Champions League group game was a sackable offence in my view, and it played a major part in Rodgers’ downfall. But that team was fantastic to watch and had some great results that year. The 5-0 thrashing of Spurs at White Hart Lane in December was a stand-out. Horsing into Arsenal with 4 goals in 20 minutes was wonderful too. They scored 5 goals or more 5 times, and 4 or more 11 times in the league that year.

But today’s side has something more. It combines the brilliance of 2013/14 with the tension and incredulity of the 2005 team’s run to the European Cup final. Above all else though, you get the sense of watching a team grow into something special through a season. It’s the deep satisfaction of seeing Andy Robertson become a world-class full-back; of Alexander Arnold – if not quite matching his left-sided counterpart – becoming a genuine option; Van Dijk’s solidity rubbing off at least somewhat on those around; Henderson reaching the potential he showed a few years previously; and the front 3 laughing in the face of those who said Coutinho was indispensable. Just laughing! Jurgen Klopp possesses that invaluable ability to make good players better, and he has done that right across the team, even Karius who is nowhere near good enough but still better than he was. The best examples apart from the above are Lallana, Wijnaldum and above all others, Alex Oxlade-Chamberlain. It may be old-fashioned in an era when managers buy rather than create players, but christ is it satisfying. Many look on 2005 as a fluke whereby a few great players dragged a few journeymen to glory. 2018’s run to the final is different. A few great players led by an incredible personality who values the collective over all else, have combined to help craft greatness out of lesser players, and craft truly world class performances when and where required.

We have to talk about Mo Salah alone however. I thought we’d never see the likes of Ian Rush again, then Robbie Fowler emerged. Owen took that mantle for a few years, then Torres came and redefined how good a striker could be. I was sure he was irreplaceable, but then Luis Suarez arrived and again changed my own definition of what comprised a goalscoring opportunity with some of the crazy shit he did. And now Mo Salah has done it again. He scores so many goals from non-chances that it’s ridiculous. I don’t know exactly how the “Expected Goals” stat is calculated but I’m sure he has outscored it a few times. Outrageous chips, lobs, thunderbastards, dribbles from out the back of a cul-de-sac have all been seen several times this season. And then there’s the assists as well. This guy is out of this world. I think Mo Salah’s season is the best individual performance I have ever seen from a Liverpool player, and when you combine that with the emphasis Klopp places on the team, it’s been truly riveting to watch.

Last season was one of two halves whereby top place at Christmas fell apart in January. This season has been far more steady after some dreadful defensive lapses cost us pre-January. It will be remembered for the Champions League run, regardless of the outcome, but overall, this team has brought me to my feet in admiration, incredulity, and pure joy more than any other Liverpool team and they deserved nothing but credit for that. Not the best, but definitely my favourite. They deserve a medal for what they have brought to the Champions League this year – I just hope it’s a winners medal.

Imagine what George Best’s WhatsApp groups would have contained when he was 25; how Paul Gascoigne’s life would have looked if recorded and shared on Instagram; or what the teenage tweets of any of a thousand working class white lads made good in the Football League in 1970’s Britain would have read like. How many tragic pictures of footballing divinities like Tony Adams and Paul McGrath would we have seen after a post-training all-dayer. It’s doesn’t bear thinking about, but we should think about it as we as a society seek to nail everyone for every indiscretion, not because of the indiscretion itself, but because they are, supposedly, “role models”.

It’s been quite a few weeks for sports stars and for those who seek to ascribe this nebulous, ill-defined status to them, for merely being very good at something young people are into. I’ve always been uncomfortable with this aspect of fandom and sport. It’s a tag that rarely gets mentioned about other professions that are supposed to inspire our kids. How often are famous musicians, actors, authors, comedians etc. who go off the rails hanged for this specific offence. I don’t know if its modern parenting or the absence of a moral compass for society since the end of organised religion as a universal force in the Western world, but for people to rely on professional sports stars for an ethical map is ludicrous at best, and deeply offensive at worst.

It is ludicrous because most people – society lets call it – know nothing about these stars. They don’t know if they came from stable or broken homes – were they subject to domestic abuse or bullying as kids; were they absolutely dirt poor; was their neighbourhood violent; have they best mates who died with a needle in their arm or a knife in their stomach; do they have a background with mental health issues; have they been surrounded by racists, sexists or homophobes all their lives. In other words, society, parents, moral guardians, generally have little idea as to the cultural milieu in which these people were produced.

It’s offensive because it degrades the job of parents, wider families, teachers and the people around kids (the “village” it takes to raise them) by claiming there is an equivalent or higher power – a public figure who has been granted this authority over them because they’re good at football or rugby or some other sport. I would be massively pissed off if someone told me that a Liverpool player or Ireland international was a great role model for my kids, because I have no idea what he or she is like off the pitch or who he or she associates with. Is he more likely to be found giving his spare time in Crumlin Children’s Hospital or being fucked out of a nightclub and involved in a scrap? We don’t fully know and we’ve seen enough, particularly in recent weeks, to say that we never truly know what anyone is capable of on their worst days.

Jamie Carragher personified everything I would want my kids to be on a football pitch. Loyal (once he saw sense and swapped blue for red), passionate, inspirational and reliable. He never won the title but he won everything else – 7 major trophys – in a series of Liverpool sides that never quite got there, but close. Off the pitch, I have no idea. I’ve just seen that he married his childhood girlfriend and has two kids and does the bit of charity work, as most people of all professions should if they are fortunate enough to have the resources of time and money. According to Wikipedia, he was awarded the Freedom of the Borough of Sefton for his local charity work and “the exceptional example he sets to the youth of today” in 2008. This source also states he is a Labour party supporter, which means he is at least not a fucking Tory. Who is on Merseyside, I hear you ask. So he seems like a reasonable chap – a role model you may even say. Certainly the former Mayor of Sefton John Walker who bestowed the rare award on him would agree with that.

He then went and gobbed on a car with a young girl in it. Does this negate everything else he has achieved on and off the pitch? Is he now a scouse scumbag, as a huge number of southern English Tory types and Perennially Offended Commentariat would have probably viewed him anyway. Should he never work in the public eye again? I would answer every one of those questions with a resounding no.

It was a scummy horrible action. A vile thing to do. Context is important, however, and we all know modern media has zero time for context. Sure how would you fit context into a clickable headline; how do you pause in your bilious talk-show phone-in for a moment of reflection and consideration. So Carragher is immediately branded a scumbag for a few days until the next disgrace comes along. Granted, even if we looked at the context, his actions can never be excused, but they can at least be understood. Here was a man driving home from work minding his own business, when some hilarious genius decides to drive alongside him, whip out his phone (i.e., drive while using his phone, endangering other road users and his passenger – his child), to video himself goading Carragher having seen his United team beat Liverpool. Epic bantz for the man behind the camera. Imagine how big his balls would have felt the next Monday morning in work after all his colleagues had seen it! What a gas ticket, a card, a great lad, loves the bit of craic!!!

The unnamed driver, however, is not burdened by the weight of the “role model” tag. He gets to do what he bloody well wants. He gets to endanger his daughter and other road users for the sake of banter. Banter, bloody banter. Alongside diving and gambling, the greatest pox on the modern game. And Jamie Carragher reacted extremely poorly to some obnoxious banter and he is being punished. I hope he returns to our screens; we all know how much he regrets it and we all know how much he has brought to football. What we don’t know is if the gas lad behind the camera regrets it or if he will be punished for what he did. I assume every parent regrets those moments when they did something stupid with their kids watching on, particularly when they share it with the whole world. But then not all parents are the same.

If the Carragher incident exposed a nasty side to football banter, the Belfast rape trial has shown up the sinister side of society in general, viewed through the lens of rugby’s ultra macho culture. This trial brought up a lot of themes – entitlement; the force of an institution like Ulster Rugby; alcohol; misogyny; pornography; and above all else, the notion of consent itself. An awful experience for all concerned, yes all. While it’s abundantly clear that there was one victim that night, there were a number of lives turned upside down and which will never be the same again. I’m not going to delve into the details again as those of you who were interested would have read or seen the absolutely ludicrously over-the-top non-stop blanket media coverage throughout this sordid trial. One which laid bare the dignity of one woman, and the depths to which a number of young men sank for the sake of a good night out and a bit of action.

Instead, I’d like to focus on how in the name of god a couple of rugby players could be bestowed and burdened with the role model tag. Rugby players for fucks sake!!! I know this is a football site, and I accept all the shit that goes with our game and the fact that I am biased to an extent, but who in their right mind is looking to rugby players as role models? No sport wears as much obnoxious dickishness as a badge of honour more proudly than Rugby, in particular in south Dublin. Ross O’Carroll Kelly may be a work of fiction, but people like me who grew up in a rugby heartland in Blackrock, surrounded by the game, recognise, loike, soooo much of Paul Howard’s work, and we’d remember what these boys were like as they became men in their late teens. So I don’t know how any parent would look to them as role models. For every sound Brian O’Driscoll type of rugby player or fan I know (and I’m friends with plenty) there’s another lad treating someone as their inferior – the nerdy guy in the office; the waitress; the barman; or the woman beside him in bed. They plough through life blissfully unaware of their actions, and to some extent for some of them, they are shielded from the consequences. While most of this does not result in anything serious, the night in question did, and we did see a scrap outside Kielys between kids from Terenure and Michael’s very recently, which if had involved Rovers and Bohs fans, the media would have screamed “Hooligans!!!” from the rooftops. And let us not forget Annabels.

Paddy Jackson and Stuart Olding are not role models. It should not be in their job description and if it is, it speaks to the arrogance of their employers more than anything else. They are young men who are very good at Rugby, who played a central role in a deeply degrading incident which all parties regret. They have been adjudged not as criminals, but the court of public opinion will see them as it sees them. Should they work again in Rugby? It’s up to them and their prospective employers. I can’t understand why they would do what they did that night. I don’t know if that’s normal behaviour nowadays among twentysomethings, just like when that fucking disgusting stuff emerged about Wesley disco all those years back. I couldn’t believe that was normal either! But I just don’t know. I do hope that this case can act as some sort of watershed moment around many of the above themes it brought to the fore. I’ll leave the issues of consent, porn etc. to others more qualified who have already written on these matters and who will carry on seeking to address them in the future, but in the case of role model sports stars, I think it’s clear. Rugby, despite the mountain of evidence to the contrary, still sees itself as the nice sport played and followed by nice middle-class people. Surely that myth is well and truly blown at this stage, as it has been for other sports for many, many years, football being one of the first. And surely at this stage, the Irish public will seek more than a private school education and a nice accent before they judge a young man as someone they would be happy to have alone in a bedroom with their daughters.

Moving on from that desperate episode, just when you think there was nothing more that famous sports people could do to kick that role model tag into submission in recent months, along comes the biggest, mouthiest fucker of them all to pummel it into submission. Conor McGregor. Straight off the bat, I’ll be honest and I will offend at least half of you, I think the entire UFC is a load of absolute bollox. I detest everything about it. I hate, hate, the violence of the sport itself; the macho culture it promotes is vile; the PR is a con job; and the entire mode of communication around the whole damn thing is repugnant. I now judge people on whether they like it or not and I put people into boxes based on it. So if you’re a fan of it, first thanks for still reading, and second, I probably won’t like you that much if I met you!!! (Ah come on, there’s a smiley face meant at the end of that line.I’m not that much of a prick!!!)

The notion, therefore, that yer man McGregor, is some sort of role model for young Irish men and boys, makes me a bit queasy. The notion that there are legions of these kids who think any word that comes out of that man’s mouth, or that any of his actions in most recent years, are ideals by which to live your life is a poor reflection on modern Ireland. Are we that cheap? Are we that tacky? Are we that so wrapped up in post-recession consumerism and want, that we are unable to judge that not all money is worth having at any cost? Is Conor McGregor who we now are?

Is he fuck!!!! He’s a multi-millionaire because he dedicated his life to reaching the top of the UFC tree – and despite my views on the sport, to dominate anything the way he dominated this, was admirable beyond belief. He ruled the world and shook things up wherever he went. And I absolutely respect him for that. He’s also the lad who has used racist and homophobic language in public. He’s the lad who out-machoed even the biggest clowns in town when he sped away from his court appearance for driving offences in Dublin. He’s the lad who jumped into the ring of another fight; and now he’s the lad with serious criminal charges hanging over him in the United States.

Yet again, the role model tag is rolled out. I mean come on!!! How can anyone believe he is a role model unless you simply value cash, and cash alone. Is there any other value that he stands for? Hard work, yeh I get that, but that applies to every single sportsman or sportswoman you have ever heard of. Dignity? Humility? Sportsmanship? Respect? What do you want from a role model? If it’s the ability to gather copious amounts of cash from people so you can flaunt it all you want, then yeh go for it. But I would certainly disagree with you. At this stage though, it is becoming a Shakespearean tragedy. Despite my views, I hope he ends up ok after all of this. Glory is a fleeting thing in all sports. Revel in it while you can, but you have to look after it too…

Sportspeople can be role models. Of course they can. The point I am trying to make is that they don’t have to be and being one is not an intrinsic part of the job. Success is measured on a scale and being the best at one thing may contribute to your failings in many other areas out of the ring or off the pitch. We should not look to them to provide a moral or ethical pathway for our children to follow, other than their application to their job. Sportspeople reflect their society. They are not there to fix it.

 

The 40th post on my 40th birthday and a look back at the state of the football world into which I was born. A simpler time I’m sure. Very few major events seem to have occured that year in Ireland, in the south at least. Jack Lynch was in charge. Unemployment in the Republic was just over 8% and rising sharply with around 20% of workers engaged in farming. There were only 35,000 people were in 3rd level education – UCD alone has around 25,000 today. So 1978 wasn’t exactly a year of excitement or joy for Ireland generally. It would be a whole year before the Papal visit dragged a million to the Park and spawned a generation of John-Pauls. It also was 8 years on from Dana’s Eurovision win and another 2 years out from Johnny Logan’s “What’s Another Year?”. Another year without a Eurovision title back then was a feckin’ eternity. And sure no-one had even heard of U2, Where in the World, Andrea Corr, Roddy Doyle, Ted Crilly, Glenroe, Zig or Zag. A grim, grim time indeed.

Football-wise this was the era of John Giles as Ireland player-manager. Having turned the fortunes around somewhat since taking over in 1973, this formerly ramshackle shambles of a national team was taken a bit more seriously by 1978. Unfortunately, the qualification campaign for that year’s World Cup went quite badly, ending with Ireland bottom of a 3-team group behind France and Bulgaria, scoring only twice in the 4 games. The home victory over France provided the only highlight, and more importantly also provided evidence that we were capable of something on our day.

So we sat out the summer of 1978 while Argentina and Mario Kempes lifted the FIFA World Cup. When I think of that World Cup, I think of 3 things – ticker-tape, the magic of Archie Gemmill and then, obviously, Trainspotting…

The Irish campaign for the 1980 European Championships started ok in 1978. A 3-3 draw in Copenhagen was played out in May – just before the World Cup oddly enough – before a 0-0 draw with Northern Ireland in Dublin and 1-1 draw at home to England meant we were still in the group at years end. Then the campaign fell apart with defeats away to Bulgaria, England and Northern Ireland in 1979, punctuated by a 2-0 victory over Denmark and a 3-0 win over Bulgaria, both at home. But the campaign had ended miserably with 3 defeats from 4, leaving us in 3rd place, 8 points behind England and 1 behind Northern Ireland. Giles’ time was up, to be replaced by Eoin Hand who was robbed of qualification in the 1982 campaign – a man whose contribution to building on the work of Giles and handing over a world-class squad to Charlton had been cruelly overlooked until very recently.

In the domestic game, Bohemians won the title by 2 points from Finn Harps, losing only 3 of 30 matches, with my grand-uncle Mick Smyth in goals. Shamrock Rovers won the FAI Cup beating Sligo 1-0 in the final. John Giles was also player-manager in Milltown in a pretty grim period for the club, who failed in their lofty ambitions to build a team and a club to take on Europe. They went into decline but came back spectacularly under Jim Mclaughlin in the mid-80’s before it all went to hell (or Dalymount) in the late 80’s as Glenmalure Park was sold to developers and they started on their arduous journey along the long and winding road to Tallaght.

Across the water, a certain Mr Brian Clough was beginning to throw his weight around. Liverpool, having won the title the two previous seasons, and as reigning European champions, had to make do with second place, as Nottingham Forest – a provincial footballing backwater – took the top spot. Peter Shilton, Martin O’Neill, Garry Birtles, Viv Anderson, Kenny Burns, John Robertson and the aforementioned Archie Gemmill combined and contrived to snatch the title from the formerly imperious Scousers. Then they went and won the European Cup the following year knocking Liverpool out in the first round, and this tiny club went on to win it the year after that again. An incredible feat completely unimaginable today. In fact such an achievement is now impossible. However, this was THE golden era for English football in Europe. Liverpool won it in ’77 and ’78; Forest in ’79 and ’80; Liverpool again in ’81; Villa in 82 and finally Liverpool in 1984. 7 English victories in 8 seasons. Then Heysel happened.

But 1978 also the marked the true beginning of the great Liverpool dynasty. A second consecutive European Cup was enough to hide the disappointment of finishing runners-up in the league. They would reclaim the league title the following season. This was Bob Paisley’s Liverpool, a Liverpool of Souness, McDermott, Dalglish, Clemence, Hughes and Case. An all-conquering side which formed the nucleus of their almost total domination of the 1980’s domestic game. Between 1976 and 1990, they won 10 titles. Only Forest, Everton (twice) and Arsenal interrupted them. They won 2 FA Cups; 4 European Cups (in only 7 years); 1 UEFA Cup and 4 League Cups. 21 trophies in 14 years. And 1978 was one of the peak moments. Until last year only Cloughie’s Forest and AC Milan had retained the European Cup since Liverpool. It’s not done very often anymore.

But to wax lyrical on the good ol days of football without highlighting the cesspits of violence and racism just off the pitch would be a massive oversight. Hooliganism was peaking around 1978 and in March of that year, a massive riot broke out during an FA Cup Quarter Final between Ipswich and Millwall at the Den. From The Ipswich Star comes the following description:

Fighting began on the terraces, spilled out on to the pitch and into the narrow streets around the ground. Bottles, knives, iron bars, fists, boots and concrete slabs rained from the sky. Dozens of innocent people, including many Millwall fans, were injured by the thugs.

Outside in Cold Blow Lane the violence erupted again, Town fans fleeing a raging, ugly mob. Coach windows were broken with the old and the young caught up in the violence. If Millwall’s hooligans wanted to make a statement, then they had done just that – and Ipswich Town fans were the victims.

BBC’s Panorama had visited the Den a few months beforehand. This short clip sums up at least 2 decades of English football:

Racism was also a nasty presence in those days. Monkey chants and bananas were common, as right-wing extremists latched on to the game as a means to their violent and bigoted ends. But 1978 also saw England’s first black international when Viv Anderson lined out against Czechoslovakia. Obviously things have changed radically in that regard since, but it was 15 more years before Paul Ince became the first black captain and the remnants of the deep-seated institutionalised racism in the game is starkly evident from the fact that of the 92 football league clubs, only 5 have Black, Asian and Minority Ethnic (BAME) managers. There is only 1 in the Premier League, Chris Hughton. He became Ireland’s first black international in 1979, and many would be more than happy to see him become our first black manager at any stage now.

It would be misguided to think that football has shed all of these prejudices and violence. Matchday trouble is still common in and around English and Irish football grounds. The Bohs Rovers rivalry here often explodes onto the terraces and streets – a minority and a small stain on the fanbases but a stain nonetheless. And while you don’t hear monkey chants these days, you still have the remnant racism described above. Homophobia and sexism are still rife, but football grounds are no longer the exclusive domain of the straight male anymore.

So the game has changed more in the last 40 years than the preceding 100. More in the last 20 than the previous 120, and as I watch, read and listen today, the initial boom of the 1990’s as the game became incredibly rich and cleaned up its act in a major way, is giving way again to another boom – the online game – football matches distilled down into a series of GIFs; a player’s abilities assessed by his youtube goal reel; the creeping move away from the team ethic towards individualism as seen in Neymar’s approach to his career; the overbearing media scrutiny; and the proliferation of countless ways in which fans can vent their spleens. Not every voice deserves to be heard.

People of my generation have witnessed these changes first hand. Football on TV has gone from the odd game shown here and there in an atmosphere of menace and dereliction, to as many games as you want shown in an atmosphere of polished hype and comfort. To attend matches now, even in some Irish grounds, is a radically different proposition, and with the redevelopment of Dalymount, 2 tired old grounds will be retired and replaced by something much, much better, shared between the two Northside clubs.

The League of Ireland has practically died and resurrected itself 2 or 3 times in this period as every big club went bust and came back again. I remember Dalyer and the RDS in the late 80’s and 90’s, decent crowds but a sense of futility, especially for Rovers, even in their title-winning season, as they maintained nomadism. The connection of the Irish game to the national team was severed for a generation in the 1980’s, restored only in the last few years as more and more domestic products make a name for themselves on home shores before being picked off by clubs in the UK. The most recent call-up for Enda Stevens is a great example of the hard slog paying off after years having made your name in a very successful Rovers side in the early part of the decade.

But if there’s one thing I’d change straight away in football, it’s the level of dissent which is deemed acceptable. There was a rule – it may still exist – that only the captain could speak to the ref. It was mainly applied in schoolboy football, but I do have memories of seeing skippers pointing to their armbands as they approached the man in black to have a go. Today it is absolutely ridiculous and has been known to be a tactic for a long time, perfected by Ferguson and his Rottweiler Roy over many years. It’s a dreadful stain on the game, along with diving, and it’s one place where we can learn from Rugby. I fear however that due to its box office appeal and the need for a story, it will never be stamped out, even with VAR, which means we will quickly run out of refs. It is simply not worth it.

Another thing I don’t like is the rising persona of the manager and his antics. Mourinho is everything wrong with football in this regard, but Klopp, Guardiola, Allardyce, Pardew et al are not far behind. The staged rage; the constant screaming in the 4th officials face; the mind-games bullshit; the post-match nonsense which shifts blame everywhere but in the mirror. Again, as with most facets of the modern game, Alex Ferguson was akey architect in this. Say something controversial; shift the focus of your failings and those of your players; change the narrative; get away with it. Seems Mourinho may not be that bad a successor after all. But they all do it. We know it’s bullshit, but it perseveres. Content is king – any old irrelevant nonsense gets the clicks.

I wrote about football’s crippling addiction to gambling previously and if there’s one off-the-pitch habit I’d love our game to kick, it’s this. As I said before, the last 40 years has seen so many improvements in the game, but this illness – so skillfully implanted into the game by immoral, rapacious corporations – an illness that is destroying so many lives, is raging through the game, normalising absolutely futile, dangerous behaviour through sponsorship and blanket advertising. Its dirty central presence in the game is as noxious and contemptible as racism was in 1978 and I hope it takes a lot less time to root out. And to those of you who think this is an extreme view, I’m not going to apologise. It’s overbearing presence will be pulled back. It’s only a matter of time. The GAA took a decent stand by banning its sponsorship recently, as did the FA in relation to the England team. I hope it has peaked now and will fall away as the scales fall away from the eyes of its users. It’s not your gambling I have a problem with. It’s the fact that I, and my kids, have no escape from it in the game.

But let’s not end on a rant. Let’s divert to the music of 1978 and the great albums of the year. “Darkness On the Edge of Town” by Bruce Springsteen; “Parallel Lines” by Blondie; “All Mod Cons” by The Jam; “Give Em Enough Rope” by The Clash; “Live and Dangerous” by Thin Lizzy; and “Road to Ruin” by the Ramones. As Punk began to make way for post-punk and the new romantics, followed by a decade of pop and rock excess, this particular gem was #1 in Ireland and the UK exactly 40 years ago. Not a bad song to enter the world to, and one of the most memorable (for many reasons) early examples of the music video. Here’s to 40 more years of football. And Kate Bush!!! Thanks for reading….

Football is not entertainment. It is sport and it is competition. It’s purpose is not to give pleasure to anyone by any means other than by victory. Everything else is nonsense. Neutrals have no right to be entertained by other teams. If you cannot appreciate the competitive aspect of two teams you don’t care about without the need for open, expansive, positive, attractive football, then you may be watching the wrong sport.  Sometimes football is bad to watch. Very bad. But its purpose can still be fully met. I can leave Tallaght or Lansdowne, or turn off the post-match analysis from Anfield having watched an absolute turd and be completely happy. Elated even. If I’m watching England play Slovakia in a qualifier, or United play the way they have under Mourinho, and it’s a boring game, there has to be something in there to watch – there is always a story. United playing boring football is a story in itself, so you can watch how 11 players you know are among the best can turn to such rubbish, yet still be second in the league – ahead of the absolutely “scintillating” Spurs and Liverpool! The answer is because they somehow contrive to win a lot and lose very little. Ditto England in qualifiers – a harder sell I admit!

The idea of football as entertainment is a Sky Sports invention happily trotted out by people when teams are not winning things, like United at the moment who are in the recently-disgraced runners-up spot and the even-more-recently derided position of needing any sort of home win to reach the last 8 of the Champions League. It is part of the marketing of the English Premier League. Your Sky or BT subscription sits alongside your Netflix or Amazon Prime ones and your Betfair account as another piece of the overall entertainment product. Some people show up to the games themselves thinking “this is going to be great”. Player x will do y coz I saw a clip of him do it last week etc. etc., while the hardened fans do what football fans do best and arrive in a state of 90% cynicism and 10% inebriation. Football is not entertainment. It is just what we do. It is part of our lives and the quality; the brand; and the style of how it is performed matters not a jot next to the importance of the results.

We Irish know that better than most. We have put up with absolute shite throughout long periods of my lifetime and did so because at the end of the day we were getting results. Some of the play under Jack Charlton was garbage although it could be quite entertaining as long-ball football goes. It was positive, particularly at home in the Italia 90 qualifiers where we scored 8 goals in 4 matches and conceded none, but there was zero style. It could be boring, particularly against Egypt, Romania and Norway in World Cups. Most of us chose either to ignore it, or accept it. We were in the Quarter-Finals – say nothing!!! Ditto under Trap and O’Neill. Every qualifying game was met with the usual moans and groans but as we were still in with a chance of getting to tournaments, we persevered. Unfortunately both took it too far and when it went wrong, it went drastically wrong. In Poland and then in Lansdowne against Germany, Trap undermined Irish soccer in a fundamental manner. Against Georgia, Serbia, and Denmark, O’Neill came close, using up all of the credit he had in the bank post-France. I don’t often hear Irish fans baying for entertainment from the national team, however, but we do look to exploit our limited talents and play in a manner that wasn’t set down during the “big lad up front” era of English football or the “defend, defend, defend” mantra of the aging Italian. We want results and history has shown we will accept whatever delivers them. Maybe we are quite the pragmatic bunch, or realistic at least.

But back to the Premier League and it’s relentless narrative which pits the entertainers against the pragmatists. I’m quite amused at the bipolar nature of the lumpen mass of “the fans” who scream for more entertainment from Jose yet scream for more pragmatism from Arsene. There is simply no contest. Whatever Jose Mourinho has done since 2004, despite all of his own professional baggage, is in a different world to Arsene Wenger. A completely different world. And no fan of Chelsea, Inter or Real has looked longingly over to the Emirates at the intricate manner of their latest demolition of a mid-table club, followed by an intricate collapse in a Champions League game and been envious. No, Arsenal have long since danced their way off the radar. Their league runners-up spot in 2016 was handed to them by Spurs Out-Spursing themselves towards the end of that silly silly season and should in no way be construed as a title challenge. Much like Liverpool in 2002. And to have failed to win a Champions League knock-out game since 2010 is laughable, given the praise of the Arsenal way we have heard for so long and given the resources available. Mourinho’s brand of football has brought 6 league titles in 3 different countries and one Champions League title since his victories with Porto in 2004. No contest.

So to the United fans, and moreover the neutrals, bemoaning what it going on, I say give over! To those bewildered by the Pogba situation, it doesn’t matter. There is only one winner in that situation, and the folks in charge of @manutd are just going to have to live with the fact that their no.1 marketing asset may not even be in the first 11 footballing assets as things stand. It doesn’t matter. If they finish in second place, behind the best team in a long, long time, and make the last 8 of the Champions League, Mourinho will have eclipsed Wenger again, and barring an extraordinary end to the European campaigns, Klopp and Pochettino. He will be enviously looking up at Guardiola – the great entertainer – but down at the rest, some of whom he may even regard as clowns.

I’m a Liverpool fan and we have been incredible to watch this season. Not for the entertainment value but for the sheer force with which teams have been swept aside at times. They have been incredible in the manner in which they have fulfilled those fundamental aims of the game – to win the match; to beat the other team in a competitive pursuit by crafting masses upon masses of goal-scoring chances and to score shed-loads of goals. Neutrals may agree that they have been great to watch but give me the 5-0 or 7-0 demolitions against Porto and Maribor watched in full by only Liverpool fans, over the manic scrambling victories that Klopp is only now beginning to consign to the past.

So here we are now, don’t even bother entertaining us, just fucking win the thing!!!

An Irish footballer. A typical Irish footballer. And one of the best of the modern era. A man out of time and out of place. A joy to behold. A gamechanger. A man who made Ireland tick. A man who some say deserved more. But a man who achieved great, great things in the green jersey. Some are lamenting how he was under-used and how he somehow never scaled the dizzier heights of the Premier League. Managers reared on a different football culture to Wes never really understood or appreciated him the way we the fans did. But to lament what could have been before his magnificent late blooming for Ireland is to miss the point. Celebrate Wes. Celebrate the fact that we saw him play 42 times for Ireland and celebrate that he was crafted not in English academies, but here in Ireland. In Dublin.

Wes is a football genius from the same playmaking Irish midfield lineage that produced John Giles and Liam Brady. As Dunphy bangs on about repeatedly and bloody correctly, he is the quintessential Irish street footballer who played rather than pushed his way out of trouble and created chances for others. His early days at Shelbourne saw him play a major part in a near-glory Champions League run, the likes of which today would get you Europa League group football and all that entails. The second round second leg in Tolka Park against Hadjuk Split was one of Irish soccer’s great nights, and let us not forget that it was 0-0 on aggregate at half-time in the second leg away in Deportivo. He won 3 league titles with that all-conquering side before heading to Blackpool.

It was in 2008 that Wes moved to Norwich and he has been a stalwart there since, crowning his club career with the Player Of The Year award last season. But it’s been his performances under Martin O’Neill for Ireland which is how most of us will remember him. And jaysus they were truly magnificent. His retirement from the international game is no surprise but it is a sad week for Irish football. He made his debut under Trappatoni in 2008 and was promptly ignored for 4 years, despite being a Premier League regular. Trap preferred Andrews, Whelan and Paul Green in there, even taking the latter to Poland despite having no club. Wes was just one of a half-dozen or so that the ignorant and arrogant Italian was not interested in using. It wasn’t until 2012, at the age of 30, that Wes was given his second cap and it wasn’t until Martin O’Neill took over that he became central.

Some of you may be confused by that statement given O’Neill’s tendency to underuse him and to also rely on a brand of football that’s the antithesis to one in which Wes excels. But the fact is O’Neill played him 40 times in his 46 matches. We’ll be discussing this aspect of both their careers to death forever, and yes behind the stats lie some really poor decisions by O’Neill. So instead I’d like to dwell on the two stand-out moments from Wes’s international career, which happened only a week apart – the goal against Sweden and the cross for Robbie Brady against Italy.

I wrote here about Ireland’s tournament in quite a bit of detail. I still remember the feeling when Wes brought us to our feet in the Swan Bar on that great summer Monday evening in Dublin. It wasn’t just a goal. It was a great goal, crafted with great art between Donegal and Dublin; between Sligo Rovers and Shelbourne. It was skillful and precise; a beautiful finish and a classic celebration. It stood for everything that the previous regime despised – creativity, courage, willingness to take the opponent on. And at the end of Seamus Coleman’s dribbling run was Wes and there was no doubt that he would score.

That was footballing courage on display. But it was mental and psychological courage that was required in Lille a week later. Brought on a bit late when a goal was desperately required against Italy, Wes got the chance. He was gifted an absolute sitter with about 8 minutes on the clock and he fluffed it. But unlike a fairly good proportion of players in that position, he immediately went looking for the ball – not in a Steven Gerrard “I need to be the superhero” way – but in a measured and controlled way. And christ was his cross to Robbie Brady measured and controlled. Another great goal crafted with sublime skill.

I’ve had the pleasure of seeing Wes in the flesh on countless occasions, as I’m sure many of you had. It’s an incredible experience to see how the entire dynamic of the Irish team and the entire game shifts on its axis when he comes on as a sub. Suddenly every Irish player on the ball has an option. Suddenly runs are made and players are found with great passes. Even throw-ins happen faster. Wes was the man who made these things happen.

Much is made of the Irish style of play, or lack thereof, but little is made of the reason for it. It’s down to ignorance. Ignorance dating back to the Charlton days, and the massive success of that era has shaded people’s views of our team, and has even convinced we the fans that we like the hellfire and thunder, the hoofed pressure game and last-ditch heroics. It’s bullshit and it has been instilled in us by outside influences. Charlton was no footballer – the polar opposite of his brother. But even under Jack, there was room for the likes of Houghton, Roy Keane, McGrath and Ronnie Whelan. Martin O’Neill is a man reared on the English way, a man who phenomenally battled his way up through the leagues and through Europe with Celtic. He has many, many positive attributes but his football style is basic. Trappatoni was a complete write-off in this regard. Mick McCarthy got it; Brian Kerr certainly got it and even Staunton probably got it.

The “it” is that we have always been defined not by big centre-forwards; not by lumpen centre halfs; and not just by long-ball football. Our greatest teams always revolved around the little lad in midfield or on the wing, or a tricky forward player. Ray Houghton and the way he never stopped running; Damien Duff and his silky wing-play. Robbie Keane and his ability to outfox the best in the world. Even in defence, Paul McGrath and David O’Leary dribbled their way out of the back more often than they lumped it. And let’s not forget Steven Ireland’s moment in the spotlight and how that could have been. Or Andy Reid for that matter. These are typical Irish footballers. Today we look to Daryl Horgan, Robbie Brady or Seamus Coleman. Let the Rugby have the private school lads built like barges; let the GAA have the rural lads and the 6-foot giants and artless brawlers of the towns and cities; Irish soccer can have all the lads who can run rings around you with the ball at their feet with guile, precision, and that beautiful form of scrappiness that only this game can bring out. Long-ball football is an English style not an Irish style and Wes Hoolahan epitomises that.

Wes Hoolahan; one of only 12 men to have scored for Ireland in a major tournament. One of only 6 Dubliners to have done so. A great Irish football career – the type of player we want all our kids to aspire to – humble, polite, grateful, creative, courageous and the most enjoyable player to watch in many many years. It’s a moment to salute everything he gave us – from Tolka Park to Paris, thanks Wes.

 

Yes indeed let’s talk about the number of foreign players in the English Premier League and across the elite leagues of Europe. Let’s jump right in there. But I want to talk about this issue properly – And when I say ‘foreign’ in relation to England, just to avoid the obvious and boring riposte, I mean beyond the traditional sources for English football, i.e. the UK and Ireland. Anyone who equates the current Liverpool team where only 4 of the 15 players who have started more than 10 of the 26 Premier League games are from England, with the one from the 80’s with 4 Irish internationals, a few Scots and about the same number of English as today, is being frankly ridiculous. As such, and in my view, Ian Harte’s use of the term “foreigner” last week was perfectly acceptable. Those who wanted to know what he meant knew what he meant. And he has a point. His point may be anachronistic in today’s global world; it may hark back to a ‘football’ that no longer exists; and at its worst plays into the hands of the little Englander and petty Brexiteer too readily. But it is a point that should be explored properly, mainly now because it is one which is no longer the exclusive preserve of the Mersons and Harry Redknapps of this world and I want to talk about it, get your feedback, and I have nothing in common with those blinkered old men.

Let’s start by asking the question – What is football for? If it’s entertainment, why do we show up knowing a match will be crap? If it’s escapism, why does it exist everywhere we turn? If it’s about community, why do we support foreign teams? If it’s about sporting spirit, why do we turn a blind eye to our own teams cheating? The truth is that football is about all of these things, and moreover it’s about the combination of these things which adds up to a whole far, far greater than the sum of its parts. But where does it come from; what is the true heart and soul of the game? And as someone on the cusp of 40, having lived through the pre-Sky era all the way to today’s Oligarch era, I think I have a decent understanding of what’s good and what’s not. (Playing ‘Seven Nation Army’ after a goal is scored is an abhorrent abuse of the crowds right and power to lift a team, for example.) And in my view, I still feel that football, even at the highest levels, is about community. Despite attempts which have been made in the past, and I’m sure will be made again in the future, a club still plays its home games in its home stadium, even if they have moved location at some point in their history. Bricks and mortar are required. The road from Milltown to Tallaght was a very rocky one indeed for Shamrock Rovers, but they are rooted there today. Liverpool treated some neighbours very, very badly over the years, but it was because they had plans to expand locally and not to merely disappear to the nearest motorway junction to build a new stadium free from restrictions. Many clubs have taken the latter route and have lost out on matchday experience as a result. But they’ve almost all stayed in their cities, towns and suburbs. Football, therefore, by necessity is about place, and moreover a particular place – your home ground.

And in Ireland, we should have that understanding better than most. Every weekend throughout the year the GAA and their incessant media ram this down our throats, usually by way of comparison to the English Premier League (they never reference the massive community aspect and voluntarism of Irish soccer, across the board from those giving support to schoolboy clubs every week all the way up to those helping stage Champions League qualifiers, ah no sure that wouldn’t suit the agenda). But the first half of what they say is usually true. The rigidity, almost dictatorial nature, of the GAA in this regard is not something I would ever contemplate for soccer, but there is some merit in at least basing it on such structures.

Football was of course based on similar structures from the outset. The most famous expression of this was Celtic’s 1967 European Cup winning team all being born within 30 miles of Parkhead. That was not a shocking statistic then. As a child in the 1980’s, it raised an eyebrow slightly when I first heard it, mainly because I wondered why no Irish or English played for them. Today, for any club in Europe, from Real Madrid to Dundalk, such a scenario would be simply ludicrous. The world has become so much smaller in the 50 years since; globalisation has taken a firm hold as the driving force of business, sport, culture and in pushing environmental concerns to the background and there is no escape from this.

To focus on the clubs, however, is to miss the most important point. While the clubs were the focus of their communities and where the best players in the area ended up, with a few imports from other regions and the odd other country – most significantly being the influx of Irish players to England particularly from the 1950’s – it was each national team which was the ultimate expression of community. The best players from each club were brought together to form an XI to represent the country. And most of these players were playing in the best teams in that country. Amsterdam was Ajax. Ajax, Feyenoord and PSV together were Holland, providing 17 of the 22 Dutch players for the 1974 World Cup; Johan Cruyff could be added to that list as he had moved to Barcelona by then.

In most cases more than 3 clubs were represented, as most countries did not have the same “Big 3” as the Dutch did and still do, but there was always a spine of top clubs represented, with those players usually being among the best at those clubs. This cannot be said now. How many of the best 3 players at top English clubs today are from Britain and Ireland? City – Sterling? United – none. Chelsea – none. Liverpool – none. Arsenal – ah we’ll give Aaron Ramsey a shot. Spurs – Kane and Alli, with Eriksen, Vertonghen and Lloris fighting for the final spot along perhaps with Dier.

So what I hear you say. The argument about foreigners in all leagues, but especially the English leagues, can only count if there is a problem. So what is the problem with the above. Does it matter that Real Madrid and AC Milan are no longer bastions of Spanish and Italian footballing excellence? Who cares if half today’s Ajax squad are not Dutch? It’s the way of the world. Look around your workplace and look around your streets. Football is merely reflecting that and there is no way that I believe economic migration is not beneficial for destination countries, in the same way that the Premier League is a much higher quality league than Division One was in 1984, when Liverpool won their 4th, and England’s 7th, European Cup in 8 seasons.

But life is not like sport. There is no international competition for the best accountants, software developers, architects or plumbers. There is no Roofing World Cup as far as I know, and there is no European Auditing Championships, at which Ireland as a nation must compete (thank Christ). There isn’t even a local league. Sport is different. The IRFU make absolutely no bones about this when a player sets sail to foreign shores. Forget about them. On the other hand, Rugby does make quite the mockery of international eligibility even when compared to the FIFA Granny Rule, but the point is that few bat an eyelid at these transboundary transgressions in that code and the GAA don’t have to worry about it at all.

And that is the point. It’s not a numbers game. This is not a Proper Football Man argument Jeff and it’s not a backwards approach to the global game. It’s about questioning the status quo. And beyond that it’s about questioning the motives behind the status quo. Because football today may be about all of those things mentioned earlier, but it is of course, for those with all the power, all about money.

International economic migration patterns ebb and flow. Ireland can attest to that with massive changes in my lifetime, even over the last decade and a half. Economic fortunes rise and fall and a country’s attractiveness with it. We accept this as it has been the way of humanity since we first started to migrate several millennia ago. Football is different. It appears to be immune to normal economics, particularly with so many clubs no longer requiring to be financially viable in order to be successful, as billionaires merely pump more cash in. They do not give a flying one about the working classes of Moss Side and Merseyside. They are American Vultures who live off Government bailouts; the broken backs of their own thoroughly degraded underclass; and the loose labour laws of parts of Central America and Asia, or they are Middle Eastern oligarchs with all that entails in terms of business practice, human rights and how they view 50% of the world’s population.

They want this. They want the 1% to be even smaller. They have taken English football and turned it into a playground for the global elite and they have rendered the connection between the corporate-box stands and the surrounding terraced houses more and more tenuous. This isn’t about there being too many foreign footballers or foreign managers and how it’s too hard for a lad from Drogheda to get to the top 4 anymore. This is about the game itself. How the hell do you raise your son or daughter to love a game that takes so much for so little in return? Yes I want to see players like Steve Finnan and Jamie Carragher raising the European Cup again. I want to see another Roy Keane in my lifetime, like I saw Ronnie Whelan and Liam Brady before him. That’s not too much to ask. That’s not unreasonable. But as long as the bubble stays inflated, and as long as, unlike any other sector of the economy, European elite football, remains driven solely by money unfettered by normal rules of finance, we will not see it again. And in my view that means we are staring into an abyss right now and it’s very very difficult to see how we can pull back. The English league we grew up watching, and the one which was an intrinsic part of the development of all of our great Irish international players is completely dead. What will replace it? If the English FA cannot get it to function for their own failing international team, what hope is there for Ireland, Northern Ireland, Scotland and Wales. The influx of players and managers from outside Britain and Ireland to England, or of foreign talent to any league in Europe, is not a cause of any problems in the game. It is merely a symptom of the same trend we see in economies across the world in all sectors – Globalisation and agglomeration. Money brings talent; talent brings success; success brings more money, and the cycle which began in earnest in the late 1990’s feeds itself and has us where we are today. It is time to acknowledge this.

The little Englanders of the game can moan all they want but the reason we have Pep on top of the table with Ederson in his goal, and not Mark Hughes with Joe Hart, is the same reason these people have jobs and yet another media outlet for their ill-informed thoughts – Money. And money voluntarily handed over to them in large numbers by the poorest in society.

I don’t know what the solution is, but I’m fairly certain that this is a part of it.

 

Where did it all go wrong? As I rose to my feet to acclaim Wes Hoolahan’s artful curler into the bottom corner of the Swedish net in Paris, from a perfect Seamus Coleman cutback, I thought maybe – just maybe – we’d finally cracked this football lark for the first time since 2002. Nothing that happened in the rest of that tournament called for revision of that view. Martin and Roy were getting the best out of these lads. And, as I said here, we were back in love with the Boys in Green. A phenomenal start to the World Cup campaign had us dreaming. O’Neill’s terseness in interviews could be brushed off as an affectation – a grumpy oul fecker but our oul fecker, and more importantly a successful one. Then it all went wrong…

A diabolical, truly bloody diabolical performance against Georgia, then Serbia and the whole thing fell asunder. Regardless of the fact that we squeaked past Wales, and made the play-offs, this was a bad group with no great teams in it. And moreover, we were in a position to win it, but ended up needing a Celtic implosion from our Welsh and Scottish cousins to get us a play-off. And no matter how he tries to spin it, Martin O’Neill absolutely blew the 2-legged battle with the Danes. He blew it. With the sort of tactical incompetence and naivety you wouldn’t get away with playing Football Manager 2 in 1989 (fast forward to 1:00 or so – man the shite we had to put up with!!!).

I was happy to leave the events of the past fortnight alone. The uncontrollable hooplah over his contract and the Stoke interest had me reaching for the off-switch on many occasions. Hourly updates from the JoeBalls-erati had me banging my head against a brick wall. In essence, a man with a job may be interested in another job. So fucking what! It happens in every walk of life.

The FAI, as is their wont, again made this innocuous event seem like the apocalypse through their peasant style of administration – “sure say nuttin’ lads”. What was a molehill, albeit not an insignificant one, became a mountain. Why, oh why, this shower of slack-jawed goms insist on announcing contracts that have not been signed is beyond comprehension. And a clause saying he can speak to clubs is no big deal. Having an international manager in demand is a good thing! And the fans don’t bloody care that much!!! There was no need to announce anything back in October before we’d even got out of the group. We all have lives outside the Irish national team to be getting on with. We have clubs to support and families to feed for jaysus sake. We didn’t really mind if O’Neill walked in November after our elimination either. He’d just gifted a World Cup place to Denmark by losing 5-1. In fucking Dublin! Just get on with your damn jobs and tell us something when you have something to tell us. But no, we have to look like we’re working and chief slack-jaw Delaney had to dribble out some half-baked announcement before we’d finished the group to appease some imaginary set who were demanding something! Amateur hour. Again. Peasants. Again – sure aren’t we lucky to have him, didn’t he do great coming 3rd in the last qualifying group and getting to the Euros  – standards exceeded in qualifying by Charlton and McCarthy every time, by Trapattoni twice out of three attempts, and matched by both Kerr and Staunton once each. Hardly a ringing endorsement of that particular campaign despite O’Neill’s insistence that it’s proof of his genius – you can strike humility of his list of attributes now too!

I was going to let all that go despite the nonsense over the past fortnight. In my view, O’Neill was still in the black. But only just. Then today happened. Today we drew Wales and Denmark in the European Nations League and Martin O’Neill gave this interview to Tony O’Donoghue.

The “grumpy oul fecker” – someone I was willing to give some latitude to, the almost comically “tetchy” interviewee – was full-on straightforward unpleasant yet again to the RTE man. Tony O’Donoghue has not once asked an unreasonable question. In my view, he has represented the Irish football public, i.e., done his job, very, very well in the face of extremely testing conditions under the current regime. Some people may disagree with that and back O’Neill to the hilt. Many of these people will have green and white hooped shirts in their wardrobes – and not the Irish ones with Woodies or Pepper on the front. I’m not interested. His rant today was unacceptable, and ranks alongside his dreadful, dreadful dismissal of O’Donoghue after the turd Ireland served up in Tbilisi last year.

He is now no longer in the black as far as I’m concerned and it’s hard to see how we can respect him again. I disagreed fundamentally with those who compared the 5-1 to the 6-1 we suffered at home to Germany under Trap. One was a second leg play-off defeat after a 0-0 away first leg where we did admittedly have to chase the game, in a successful campaign (2nd place after being seeded 4th – very few other statistics matter) after a successful enough tournament; the other was a humbling in a qualifier after a shockingly poor tournament. It did not signal the end of an era to me. But the stench around the regime today is beginning to overpower us.

Martin O’Neill and Roy Keane need to deliver something spectacular in 2018. We need to see a new approach in the friendlies in the first half of the year and we need to see ambition in the Nations League. No-one expects us to win that group by the way, but we do expect performances we can be proud of; and not to finish last. A big ask, some may say, but we are owed a big result. And the manager needs to stop, just STOP being such an unpleasant man to the press. Talking to the fans via the media is a big part of your job and if you hate it that much, no one today would cry if you left. We owe you nothing and you owe us massive for 2017’s absolute clusterfuck. Grow up Martin and cop on.

 

 

 

 

Lazy one today. Just a load of random pictures of football at Christmas, inspired by the nonsense that used to appear in Shoot and Roy of the Rovers back in the day at this time of year. Enjoy…

Last trustworthy English goalkeeper Peter Shilton

Bouncers “Take it handy boys”

Woman on the right “It’s only Spurs lads!!”. With Greavsie 4th from the left…

The beginning of the end of the great Liverpool dynasty in the early 90’s…

Christ!

If only there was rhyming slang for how fecking Charlie Nicholas this photo is…

Class from Pirlo. What else do you expect…

Pint of wine out of shot. This post has been worth doing for this pic alone…

Football hipster Santa Klopp picture on a story headlined “Jurgen Klopp slams possible Liverpool game on Christmas Eve as ‘the worst you can get'” – No Premier League schedule will get in the way of his Jurgen Yuletide…

1998 Story from the Middlesbrough Gazette with the caption “Gazza pulled a couple of Christmas crackers as Boro fought out a 2-2 top flight draw with Newcastle.” It’s been a long 20 years….

Fucking hell! Could it get any scarier than that!!

Yes. Yes it could… That man there is probably the greatest player to have ever played the game of football. Different class…

Roddy the rednosed Reindeer…

That word… That word you are looking for is geebag… as in “Did you see Mourinho in those Real Madrid Christmas photos?” “Yeh, what a total geebag”. If you’re English, ask someone Irish what that means. There is no English equivalent. There just isn’t.

The last 10 years in one photo…

George Best and Mike Summerbee as Santa in 1967… Those were the days eh?

Never change Eamo! Never change… and with that ludicrous mush, we can say the bottom of the barrel has been well and truly scraped… Happy Christmas. Enjoy the ridiculously stretched out Premier League schedule over the festive period and I hope your team deliver you some Christmas cheer, as long as your team is Liverpool…

Thanks for reading…