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.

Chelsea Win Carling Cup

Oh bugger...

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.

From Blair to Beckham

I dragged my hangover around London today. For some years now I’ve abandoned the strict regimen of the athlete and have adopted the no less strict habits of the journalist. Such is my dedication to that lifestyle, it barely gives me time to write. Today, I had to sneak into one of my favourite watering holes to temper my head with a dram or two. That’s where I met up with Des ‘Nobbler’ McGann who used to work with me back when I started to write my columns for Fleet Street. He’s a drunken old sod but knows the English game as well as anybody.

We both shared an afternoon drink, comfortably nurturing that unmistakable excitement which starts to build on a Friday afternoon before a Premiership weekend. I feel not unlike a bride before a wedding night, expectantly brushing down the beard on her chin and keeping her studs tightened in her boots. It’s the Friday before a Premiership weekend and I’m still not recovered from the midweek European action. Old Nobbler told me to put my money on Arsenal to win the Carling Cup on Sunday and I told him that it was no great prediction. Anybody can see that Chelsea are a team running on luck and they barely deserve their second place in the table. Arsenal are playing the best football of the season and are bound to win.

In the lull before the weekend’s excitement, I thought I shouldn't bore you with predictions but I should instead try to reply to the few queries I’ve had in my inbox asking me why I would want to write about football and politics.

Well, look here chaps. I see it like this. Few things in life put a flame beneath the human spirit in the way that sport and politics do. And there are no sports greater than football for bringing us to a boil. The fumes that rise from boiling pot of talented youth and fading superstars is a heady one. The bubbles break in glorious spectacle. There are few places where you see the tribe’s heroes live and die like you do on the football field. It is a season of politics written within nintety minutes. David Beckham and Tony Blair are no different. They are both reaching the end of their premierships yet still find the occasional surges of energy that deceive us into believing that their skills will never fail them. That’s why I hope that Beckham makes the England team. Like the Labour Party need Blair, England needs Beckham. While their powers are still evident, they deserve the chance to shine.

John Terry is no Beckham, but Brown is no Blair. Whatever happens, in politics as well as football, it will be a time before we see their kind again.

Word Games When I'm Drunk...

My mind runs my words out of play. I’ve drunk too much. Can barely stand. Can’t find the remote to turn off the TV. The memory of two UEFA Cup matches lingers as much as the words from the news. I can’t escape the news.

‘War’s a game.’

Or so they said, whoever ‘they’ are. They must know. I wouldn’t talk about something I know nothing about. I suppose ‘they’ feel the same way. And that’s why they say the things they say.

They’re the usual sorts. The ex-army types who appear on the news wearing their badly matched shirts and ties, geometric deigns, grid coordinates, haircuts shorter than those of the 1934 FA Cup winning team. They look like farmers. They say that war’s a game for boys who like big toys. Find them on YouTube videos, like 'Match of the Day' replays. See weapons discharge like John Arne Risse’s left foot. The boom of the crowd. The bulge of the net.

They talk of the thrill of combat. They talk about experiences that turn boys into men. They say that Prince Harry’s going to Iraq and he’s delighted, looking forward to every moment. They say the equipment’s state of the art. They say that the equipment won’t last, there’s not enough of it, that it’s not as good as what the Americans have.

They say…

I say what has happened to the games we played for fun? What’s happened to this country of ours when a boy doesn’t aspire to the England number 7 shirt? Remember the game lads, ladies? Remember what it means to lose but come back to win again? Don’t confuse the game with war. We mix our words too easily. We speak of victory and loss as though we’ll have another chance in the mid-week replay. There are no career threatening injuries now bar one. The big one. The one that got Bobby Moore, George Best, and all the rest.

I’ve never gone to war but I’ve known some pretty terrifying encounters when I was playing the game I love. But it really was only a game. I didn’t know what it was to feel a fear more than that which comes of an ankle injury I thought would keep me out of the game for six months. And I didn’t know the sense of loss any more than the bets that I lost with the unexpected draw.

I want to say that politics is a game too but I’ve drunk far too much because it's a night of European football. I’m now running my words to the corner flag. Counting the seconds. Referee's whistle.

Yes, politics is a game too, only you know what people say...

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.

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.