Forgivefulness

A lot of things have been said and done. We won’t go into that now. It was a Premiership weekend. We expect mistakes to be made. We also had the League Cup final which made it like drinking Red Bull when you’ve already been on the espressos all week. Everything becomes unreal. Feet were raised. Tempers flared. Very little sleep was had. Except, of course, by John Terry, who decided to put his head down inside the penalty box during the second half. But we forgive him that too. We need to forgive everyone and move on.

In this new spirit of forgiveness, I’m willing to accept that I was wrong. And I say this without the fear that you’ll want me to cover your bets. We’re in a forgiving mood. So, I was wrong and I don’t want you ever take another tip I might give you in the future about our wonderful game. Only a day or so ago, I was telling you that Arsenal would win the League Cup. But by now, I’m sure you’ve calmed down. You’ll have had time to check yourself out of hospital, headache raging. It’s no worse than mine. Defeat is worse than caffeine. It’s worse than any drug I know. The effects last for weeks.

What can I say? I can’t be right all the time and Arsenal definitely had the beating of the champions. Their youngsters won something greater on the day: the knowledge they can challenge any team if only they can keep their cool and win a few lucky decisions. In the end it came down to one appeal for offside. But consider it again. Arsenal might have won. They should have won. Which is frightening. Frightening when Arsenal's second team can match the most expensive players in the most expensive league.

It’s doesn’t come as a surprise to me. I was wrong because I’m an idealist. I believe that the better football on the day will always win out. I remember watching Chelsea defeat Liverpool last year. On the day, Liverpool deserved to win. Yet Chelsea won through a sublime goal and Liverpool failed because they lacked even a competent striker. The parallel between politics and football is so evident. The best players, the better play, and the better tactics do not always bring success. The better campaign does not always lead to a win. I’m reminded of the last election when the Tories would have had the beating of the Labour Party if only they’d had a striker who could get the ball into an open goal. They’ve revamped their front line, now, though their choices were odd. Does anybody really think that David Davies was a weaker candidate than David Cameron? Yet at the same time, Gordon Brown looks like a shoe-in to take the reins of the Labour Party when better candidates surround him. Brown will probably become leaders, and Davies obviously remains a deputy.

I should learn not to gamble on neither football nor politics. They only leave me with regrets and headaches come Monday morning.

By A Whisker

Mystical forces were at work tonight. They’ve been at work for the last ten years. Biblical forces, such as those that began to give the Labour Party victory when they started to get rid of their chinwhiskers.

Alastair Darling and Peter Mandelson first took razor to throat and others followed. There were a few that held out: Charles Clarke, David Blunkett, Margaret Beckett… But there is a truth of political life that maintains that the clean shaven face is more electable than those with a beard or moustache. We now have equity in the shaving stakes. That’s why the sensible money is going on a hung parliament at the next election.

Tonight, my lucky bottle of rum ran out at half-time of the Barcelona Liverpool match. I didn’t panic. I knew my bet was safe. I knew that one team would win and I was certain it couldn’t be the home side. You see, there are rules of football like there are rules of life. It’s that same rule as runs in politics. Men who don’t shave stand less of a chance.

Barcelona arrived at the ground looking like a team of Mexican banditos heading for the border to rustle themselves some meat before a night with the tavern whores. I’ve never seen a squad of professional footballers look so unshaven. What is it about today’s players that make them avoid the razor? I fancy it’s too much dogging and drinking tequila with IT girls but don’t you think it strange that footballers are always advertising shaving products that so few of them seem to know how to use them? Bobby Charlton never played a match unless he’d had a shave and the same was true for the great Stanley Matthews. I never saw a whisker on his chin.

Yet Barcelona seem to have taken their cue from coach Frank Rijkaard whose snake-tressed appearance makes him look like he’s fallen straight from the pages of Greek myth. And before you go saying anything about me, Forks may have a beard but it's well groomed. You could enter my chin into a dog show and it would come away with best of breed. That’s more than can be said about Deco’s chin.

Some of these footballers need less time with their WAGs and more time with some WAG – water and Gillette.

Hands On The Prize

Last year when a valiant West Ham were muscled out of a much deserved FA Cup victory by a lucky late Steven Gerrard equaliser, I didn’t expect to ever see such an upset again on these shores. Yet as I keep saying until I go blue in the face, ‘football is a funny old game’. An equally surprising result awaits us at the end of a season when every pundit expected the Labour Party to do so well.

Now trailing in the Premiership table behind their big Tory rivals by thirteen points, the lacklustre Labour team must surely concede that they can only settle for second place. The Conservatives looks unassailable while bottom of the table strugglers, Lib Dems United, continue to face a relegation battle as they continue to blame their aging striker Menzies ‘Nobbler’ Campbell. As an old player myself, I think the criticism is unfair. The team is let down by a midfield that expends a lot of energy but only ever seem to get very muddy in the middle of the pitch. It just won't do. It won't do at all.

Meanwhile, Labour Party supporters might still hope that their team do what the Arsenal team achieved in the 1997-98 season. In sixth spot at Christmas, they still managed to win the league title. Yet if such a fightback is to happen, they need to find an alterative to the striking partnership of Tony ‘Gobbler’ Blair and Gordon ‘Robber’ Brown, which has failed to deliver enough goals this season. The service also needs to be improved from a underperforming midfield quartet of Miliband, Reid, Beckett, and Straw, while defensively the team look as weak as ever. John Prescott's ball handling skills are never in question but I do question why he constantly needs to punch everything that comes his way.

Come on gentlemen! Not since the days when I hosted Match of the Day have I seen a team work so poorly as a unit and concede so many home goals. Back in 1979, the flamboyant star of the day was James ‘Flash Jimmy’ Callaghan. He used to make some wonderful runs into the box. He had the longer shorts, high socks, and big sideburns so you knew he was a real footballer's footballer. But he lacked stamina for the longer game. When Thatcher (Margaret not Ben) started to send in some of those deep cross field balls, Flash Jimmy’s game fell apart. Foorball changed that year. The old game was so reliant on dominating the midfield, you see? Flash Jimmy just couldn't protect his wings and that's where Thatcher’s pace and fleetness of foot eventually saw the Tories win the Premiership.

History is repeating itself. But then, as I'm always saying, until I'm blue in the face. Football is a funny old game.