A Quizzical Eyebrow

Look here, chaps. I’ve had an unproductive day so don’t expect too much expert analysis tonight. I've never been one of those pundits who have the stamina of a Gary Lineker. I'm much more likely to measure myself against the true greats of the game: Mr. Tony Gubba and Mr. Stuart Hall.

No doubt Lineker has watched the lot but I’ve only managed to see four matches today and those were the games between Man Utd and Fulham, Charlon and West Ham, Everton and Watford, and, just now, the replay of Liverpool and Sheffield United. I could have watched more. Thanks to Sky replaying them all through the night, I might even watch more. But I can’t help but feel that it’s been a day that has only reminded me of the things about the modern game that disappoint me continually.

Am I the only one to grow tired of Neil Warnock’s perpetual complaint that ‘referees just haven’t played the game, they just don’t understand it’? I know I'm not the only one who tires of Man Utd maintaining their lead in the league table, which does nothing to add drama to the end of the season. Yet, sadly, I seem to be one of the very who who lament when I see our beautiful game becoming the medium for the advertiser’s messages.

It shocked me to see that video advertising hoardings have made it to Craven Cottage. A club that still has no player's tunnel and instead has the teams line up in the car park have spent a fortune to buy themselves the most pernicious evil in the modern game. Give me a team of diving Portuguese rather than these video ads. I find then off putting and I imagine the players do too. Today in size 400 fonts a bookmaker was quoting odds of 9/2 for Rooney to score first. How could this have made the poor lad feel? Does it add to the pressure or does it give him a false sense of optimism. Surely when he sees it, it affects him in some way, doesn’t it? [Update: I take one reader's point that I'm assuming that the players can read...]

Speaking of diving Portuguese, today I finally realised who Cristiano Ronaldo looks like. It’s David Dickinson, he of antiques fame. The boy’s the spitting image of the young Duke. Give it a few years and I think the two will be indistinguishable, though worringly, I feel like he’s looking more like Danny La Rue each time I see him. I think it's the plucked eyebrows.

Mr. Forks is definately a fan of the unplucked eyebrow.

This Wimbledon Folly

Look here, chaps, you’ll have to write and tell me if you want listing in my blogroll. As you know, it’s a heavy responsibility being the custodian of the nation’s favourite game. I’ve been very busy lately and this is the first time I’ve had chance to update my list of contacts in far too long.

There are so many good blogs out there that I’ve only had chance to list a few of them. It reminds me of every World Cup when I’m asked to list my favourite players. There are just so many to choose from. And the best are not necessarily my favourites. Among the world’s many great goalkeepers, I’d always pick John Prescott (pictured). The man can do things in a goal mouth that I honestly didn’t think possible without half-a-pound of axle grease and a willing civil servant doped up on ether.

Looking out on the world of sport today, I’m left baffled to learn that the prize money between the men and women is to be the same at this year’s Wimbledon. I sit here, scratching my chin in utter bewilderment. I can’t for the life of me understand the reasoning behind this move. When the women play five sets, then they will deserve equal money but, call me an old Match of the Day pundit if you wish, it must surely be equal pay for equal work.

You know, this reminds me of when Sue Barker first joined the BBC. I said at the time that she couldn’t be paid as much as we male presenters. Why? Well, look here, chaps. Knocking a ball over a net is no way to prepare for life within the BBC sports department. If Sue Barker had ever scored five goals for Fulham away to Doncaster Rovers then she might know how to present a television programme or two. She might make a good presenter one of thee days but not until she’s had her legs raked by a defender's studs on a cold rain-swept afternoon in Newcastle.