WALL OF SHAME

In Norn Iron, there are calls for a memorial to commemorate the terrorist dead and for a monument to celebrate peace. What is it with politicians and monuments? When it comes to a plaque, slab, tower, or wall officially opened by self-important public officials, self-seeking politicians would miss their daughter’s graduation to attend such an ego ceremony. Call me old-fashioned, but would funds for a peace memorial not be better diverted to healthcare instead of a bricks and mortar piece of Lego, designed to remind one and all of the greatness of various ‘statesmen’? As if this is not ludicrous enough, Irish republicans (and loyalists) are desiring a monument that fondly remembers their dead. I suggest a wall be erected, more for urinating against than wailing at, for such a purpose. After all, Belfast is renowned for its ironically-titled ‘peace walls’ while there is a tradition of urinating against walls that runs in parallel with the ‘marching season’. The inscription on the wall of shame should read as follows:

This memorial commemorates all those brave men and women who shot policemen and soldiers in the back, and then ran away hiding, as well as all those volunteers who planted bombs in hotels, bars, and shopping centres, with no regard for the safety of women and children. Also on this monument are listed the names of those courageous freedom fighters who fought to take away other people’s freedom of existence by killing unarmed Roman Catholics. This mural is a tribute to all those working-class heroes who created orphans, took husbands from their wives, wives from their husbands, and left grieving parents and children to pick up the pieces.

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FOOTBALL IDOLS

I frequently hear how impressive it is to see the Anfield contingent as well as the copycats of Celtic Park with their scarves held aloft in unison, as they sing ‘You’ll Never Walk Alone’. I find this whole scene, and similar slightly less passionate displays at other sporting arenas quite disturbing. There is quite clearly a religious fervour about the support that is offered by football followers to their respective clubs, while you won’t find any such demonstration of passion amongst the few football fans who go to God’s house to worship Him. It is all so reminiscent of the idolaters of the Old Testament. Excuse me for preaching, but could someone kindly remind football supporters that the Creator tolerates no rivals, yet it is abundantly obvious that many men (and women too) place their faith and trust ludicrously in flawed, inconsistent young men, barely out of school. It is quite clear where a lot of people’s worshipping priorities lie. It is frightening to think that God who created the whole world and everyone in it and then sent his Son to save all us sinners is less worthy of attention and praise than a young guy who sticks a ball in the net once every three or four matches. To add insult to injury, some of these young idols live an existence of questionable morals off the football pitch. Recurring stories of rape allegations and wild nights out do nothing to convince this writer that football ‘stars’ are worth worshipping for a second.

I also read with interest recently in a Sunday viewspaper about Harry Redknapp’s fury at the abuse he had been subjected to in a match against Aston Villa, whilst recounting a bad experience at Chelsea too. Redknapp was appalled that grown men were hurling obscenities at him in front of their children. Similarly, in the week-end after England’s Wembley debacle against Croatia, the Chelsea English contingent and Steven Gerrard were on the receiving end of verbal abuse. Commenting on Radio Five Live, Alan Green and Graham Taylor were equally horrified that adults were setting a terrible example to their youngsters with their shocking language and vitriol. Harry Redknapp suggested that football (or at least its supporters) was becoming ‘sick’. Quite frankly, if this is what constitutes being passionate about your club, then count me out! Some people, I believe, need to step back and come to their collective senses.



THE END OF A LOVE STORY

Get your tissues out folks, because this does not have a happy ending. Pathetic, sad, contemptible creature that I am, I have been ‘married’ to Chelsea Football Club for the best (or worst) part of twenty-two years. However, this battered housewife is belatedly filing for divorce on the grounds of the irretrievable breakdown in marriage relations. After years of abuse, as well as occasional good times, a painful experience on Tuesday May 1st 2007 has been the final straw.

On that evening of torment, Chelsea proceeded to lose their fourth semi-final in four successive years, their third consecutive Champions League semi-final knockout, and their third consecutive semi-final reverse to Liverpool. There is now an inevitability about Chelsea Champions League semi-final exits, reminiscent of Leeds United’s reputation as bridesmaids in the late sixties and early seventies when Don Revie’s outfit won less silverware than seemed frequently likely. Mind you, comparisons with that Leeds team and Jose Mourinho’s Chelsea hardly end there. Both teams have been short of admirers, at least amongst the Arsenal and Liverpool media luvvies, borne out of their uncompromising brand of no-nonsense football. However, the trouble with Chelsea in the Abramovich era is that the manager has had a ‘dare not lose’ mentality which on Anfield’s hallowed turf on the night in question produced a dreadful display in which the desire to avoid defeat stifled any attempt to win. The Blues failed time and again to stretch their hosts, resorting without exception to hoofing long balls to Drogba. There was no creativity, flair, or imagination, and if there was a Plan B, namely the introduction of Shaun Wright-Phillips, it was allocated a mere ten minutes to pull a rabbit out of the hat.

Of course Liverpool’s defence and goal-keeper excelled themselves, but failing to score once in three hours of football back in 2005, followed by a repeat performance in 2007 was simply too much to bear. Mourinho’s Chelsea were not attack-minded enough and yes I am belatedly waking up to the fact that Chelsea are boring. Mourinho fluffed his lines. Shevchenko’s goal return of four in his first Premiership season is a monumental embarrassment, but more significantly, while the manager had only two recognised central defenders in Carvalho and Terry, he had no fewer than four players for the lone holding role position. ‘Maureen’ was so possessed it seems with the need for defensive midfielders that any attacking impetus was clearly undermined. The greatest indictment was that while ‘the Special One’ refused to entertain Boulahrouz as a centre half, he played Michael Essien ( arguably his best player) out of position for a large proportion of the season. This re-shuffle was so outrageous that it was the equivalent of Ronaldinho playing centre-half for Barcelona, Gerrard playing in goal for Liverpool, or Ronaldo playing at right-back for Manchester United.

Chelsea and their manager have crossed the line as far as I am concerned. They have been boring and pragmatic, with a tendency to fluff their lines and shoot themselves in the foot in semi-finals. I am not a bad loser, I can assure you, although I have had plenty of practice. This is not a manifestation of sour grapes or a fickle football follower who quits when times are hard. Chelsea’s fortunes have been infinitely worse many times in my painful memory. However, there comes a time in any relationship where assessment is required. I have expended so much time, thought, expense, and emotional energy to a club that is no longer a pleasant distraction. Chelsea no longer make me feel good. Mind you, bragging rights based on the success of your football team is vastly over-rated. When all is said and done, you cannot take the silverware to bed with you or on holiday.

I was neither angry, tearful, nor sad at Chelsea’s routine Champions League exit. I felt nothing for a team who could not deliver a solitary goal in two hours of shambolic endeavour. Watching the stone-faced Steve Clarke and impassive Jose Mourinho perfectly encapsulated the proceedings. Sitting immobile on the bench, they had nothing to offer, pretty much like their hapless team. John Terry and Petr Cech deserve so much better, and so do the fans. This ex-fan could not even complain that Liverpool were lucky. Their penalty success was emphatic and merited. Chelsea no longer command my sympathy and respect. When one has reached this state of mind, it means that the spark has gone, the love affair is over, and it is time to move on.



‘THE DOC’: ANOTHER SPECIAL ONE

Long before the advent of the so-called ‘Special One’, there roamed another unique character in football management. His name was Tommy Docherty. Docherty had been an excellent servant of Arsenal, Glasgow Celtic, and Preston North End before he succeeded the admirable Ted Drake as a 33-year-old manager of an under-achieving Chelsea football team. By his own admission, Docherty (with no managerial record) was thrown in at the deep end and it was a case of sink or swim. Chelsea went backwards (via relegation) before Docherty getting into his stride advanced his ‘diamonds’ not only back to the top flight of English football, but the charismatic Scotsman launched a decade-long golden era at Stamford Bridge which his coach and successor Dave Sexton reaped the rewards from.

Docherty was hard work. He confessed to being a strict disciplinarian and like any good sergeant-major, he didn’t suffer fools. In the 1960s, long before football clubs recruited nutritionists, there was a drinking culture amongst the playing staff at Chelsea and other teams elsewhere. Docherty, no stranger to raising a glass or two himself, once infamously sent most of his team home to London from Blackpool on account of an alleged late night drinking session. Consequently, a patched-up Chelsea team were trounced 6-2 in their next fixture. The 1960s was a rollercoaster ride at Chelsea as Docherty and his young team quarrelled one moment and came close to success the next. The favourite story of ‘The Doc’ is undoubtedly his summoning of the local fire brigade to flood the Stamford Bridge pitch in order to oblige a postponement of a Fairs Cup semi-final with the mighty Barcelona, enabling one or two injured Chelsea players to recover in time for the re-arranged fixture. The Catalans were a trifle bemused that a bout of light rain should result in a waterlogged pitch!

Docherty left west London in October 1967 whereupon in his own words, he would accumulate “more clubs than Jack Nicklaus”. The Doc even managed his national team and I was startled to hear that Alex McLeish’s recent debut win as a Scotland manager was the first since Tommy Docherty in the early 1970s. Docherty, never far from the headlines, was appointed as a trouble-shooter at the ailing, post-Busby Manchester United where again the club went backwards (via relegation) only to advance back to Division One instantly, with glory in the 1977 FA Cup final thrown in to the mix. However, Docherty’s uncompromising attitude meant that the unreliable genius of George Best was dropped, transfer-listed, and eventually obliged to depart Old Trafford. Docherty’s own tenure characteristically was short-lived as his hero status was tarnished by tabloid revelations of an affair with the club physio’s wife. Never short of job offers or invitations for ‘after dinner speaking engagements’, ‘the Doc’ may or may not have been special, but he was certainly a one-off.



DO I NOT LIKE THAT

In my humble opinion, one of the greatest-ever television documentaries featured Graham Taylor’s ill-fated attempts to ensure that the England football team would qualify for the 1994 World Cup finals. The cameras followed Taylor around to observe at close quarters his foul-mouthed frustration at his team’s apparent under-achievement. It might have been shocking for the nation to hear what Graham Taylor referred to as “industrial language” but his vocabulary was the norm rather than the exception among the practitioners of soccer management.

Back in 1990 Bobby Robson bowed out as England manager after the national team had recovered from their failure at the 1988 European Championships and a sluggish start to Italia ’90 to reach the semi-finals for only the second time ever in the World Cup. Only penalty heartache (a recurring theme) prevented the English from playing in the final. The question was could the new appointment Graham Taylor build upon England’s quarter-finals and semi-finals appearances in successive World Cups? Taylor’s own reputation was based on outstanding service at Watford allied with taking Aston Villa to second place in Division One in 1990, their highest place since their championship-winning year of 1981.

The omens however were not encouraging when England yet again flopped in a European Championships, this time in Sweden in 1992. Prolific striker Gary Lineker bowed out prematurely from the England set-up after this tournament, vowing never to return. Nevertheless, with promising new striker Alan Shearer emerging to assist the likes of Paul Gascoigne and David Platt, England’s chances of appearing at the World Cup finals in the United States ought to have been reasonably good. However, the only concern was being drawn in a group that included the dangerous Holland and Poland, but it was Norway, not for the first time, who turned the form book on its head – at England’s expense.

By the early summer of 1993, the wheels were starting to come off the England World Cup campaign. Back in the spring, the Dutch had escaped from Wembley with a draw when Des Walker had conceded a penalty to Dennis Bergkamp. Worse was to happen when England first failed to score in Poland and then were soundly beaten 2-0 in Norway. Poor old Taylor lamented in the dug-out to his assistant Phil Neal about how his team were seemingly paying no attention to his pre-match instructions. On top of this major setback, England failed to impress on a brief visit to the United States. It was becoming increasingly likely that the national team would not be returning there in a year’s time.

On to the autumn and a resounding 3-0 home victory against Poland gave rise to hope that England would still be travelling across the Atlantic Ocean the following summer. Everything now rested on a trip to Holland, with Paul Gascoigne crucially suspended. On the fateful night in question, dubious refereeing decisions conspired against the visitors en route to a 2-0 defeat and as a tabloid headline subsequently suggested, it was ‘End Of the World’ for the England team – and not least the despised Taylor who had been slaughtered in the press as a turnip head whose strategy was exclusively one of ‘route one’ football. Taylor in a moment of supreme farce approached the official on the touchline and told him to relay to his colleague on the field the fact that his decisions had got him the sack. He wasn’t wrong. England had the remaining formality of overcoming San Marino in their last qualifying match but contrived to concede an early lead to compound Graham Taylor’s embarrassment.

I for one have much sympathy and respect for the much-maligned Taylor. He called it ‘the impossible job’ and claimed that Princess Diana thanked him for taking her off the newspaper headlines. Compared with Ericsson and McLaren’s under-achievement with a considerably more talented squad of players, the Taylor era doesn’t seem quite such a dismal failure. Furthermore, as a Radio Five Live expert analyst, Taylor talks an enormous amount of sense, though like many an English football observer, Taylor talks a good game, but then of course delivering it is not so straight-forward when confronted with the poisoned chalice of the impossible job. I’m sure this wise owl was relieved to be sat safely in the commentary box instead of charged with the task of justifying his team selections to a sceptical press conference or sitting in a dugout, cringing his way through a 0-0 with Israel or a 2-0 defeat in Croatia.



FOOTBALL CRAZY

Is it my imagination or is there a lot of stupidity in the world of football? Take football players first. How often do we read about soccer stars filling sports pages in newspapers in which they talk up their chances before a match while disrespectfully dismissing the possibility that their imminent opponents might actually play well and even win? Can there be anything more counter-productive than motivating your opponents by almost ridiculing the other team’s chances? If they had a modicum of sense, football players would pay tribute to the team that they are about to play, almost as a shrewd attempt to cultivate complacency. Unfortunately this level-headed approach is either conspicuously absent amongst soccer stars or else is frowned upon by newspapers that thrive upon gloating and provocative remarks from sneering sports competitors. Speaking of sneering soccer players, Ryan Giggs and his Manchester United buddies were less than generous when they narrowly succumbed to defeat by Chelsea in the FA Cup final. Bemoaning their luck and particularly a controversial refereeing decision merely confirmed them as bad losers who do benefit from the referee when they play at Old Trafford. Manchester United are certainly not alone in the predictable practise of paying tribute to the team they have just beaten but throwing their toys out of the pram when they have lost. It’s hard to respect soccer players who cannot admit that they lost to a better team and who instead resort to empty promises of revenge next time.

Let’s now examine the fans. Why do football supporters unleash a barrage of abuse on an opposing player on the premise that he used to play for their club but now has the cheek to play for the opposition? If a player has made a hundred appearances or scored dozens of goals for a club, why does its supporters single him out for vitriol during the course of a match, and not his colleagues who never played previously for that club? I’m sure that Leeds United fans would hurl abuse at Alan Smith for playing for Manchester United, but they fail to recognise that he gave more service to Leeds than all the other Red Devils put together, yet he is more likely to endure boos than say Ronaldo or Rooney from Leeds fans. It is as if football players are not permitted to change clubs.

Why also do so many men (and women) jump on the bandwagon and swear allegiance to the most successful football teams? Northern Irish people like to suggest that their support of Manchester United is based on the fact that George Best played for the Red Devils. However, there are dozens of excellent servants of the Northern Ireland team who played for other lesser clubs, so why not support them? Billy Bingham played for Luton Town but you will struggle to find many Belfast folk supporting the Hatters, while the late Derek Dougan’s service at Wolverhampton Wanderers did not prompt many Ulster folk to pay homage to Wolves.

It strikes me that people cling on to the bragging rights of their football team to camouflage the obvious lack of success in their own lives: “my team is better than your team”, “my club is bigger than your club”, “our home crowds are bigger than your home crowds”, “we have more history than you”, “we have a better manager than you”, “we have a better goalkeeper”, “ we have better goal-posts”, et cetera , et cetera, ad nauseam.It is a sad state of affairs when a person relies upon the fluctuating fortunes of their football club to ensure a sense of personal satisfaction. Following the biggest and best football teams is a strategy adopted by under-achievers whose own lack of qualifications, career progression and income necessitates the desire to look to successful clubs to compensate for their own sense of failure.



SNOOKER LOOPY

I remember my mother uncharacteristically writing me a note so that I could be excused from primary school one January afternoon, not because of a dental appointment, but because Alex ‘Hurricane’ Higgins was due to play in a Benson And Hedges match on television. Oh we all were bewitched by the remarkable Higgins whose style of play was ahead of its time, as his quick fire potting procedure was eminently more watchable than the deliberations of his contemporaries. In a snooker landscape of Terry Griffiths, Ray Reardon, Cliff Thorburn, and Eddie Charlton, the Hurricane was the speed freak, who sent balls into oblivion in the blink of an eye. It was such a pity that ‘Hurricocaine Higgins’ (to quote Jimmy Greaves) failed to build on his World Championships of 1972 and 1982, as yet another Belfast prodigy started to make newspaper headlines, but not for sporting heroics.

If you liked Alex Higgins, you loathed Steve Davis, his nemesis. I too was initially swept along on the anti-‘Ginger Magician’ tide of emotion. However, whether or not Davis was Higgins’s polar opposite is questionable. In fact, to quote the old cliché, the Hurricane’s worst enemy or the person who most threatened his status among the snooker elite was the face staring back through his mirror. As for Steve Davis, he went from success to success in the 1980s, apart from unexpected reverses in the 1985 and 1986 world championship finals. As time marched on, my admiration for Davis increased. I myself was growing up and symptomatic of my increasing maturity was a respect for the prowess and apparent decency of likeable Steve. Mr. Davis found himself lampooned by Spitting Image as ‘Interesting’, but old ‘Interesting’ went on to star in ‘They Think It’s All Over’ as well as lend his considerable knowledge to the BBC snooker experts, so he did indeed prove to be very interesting. Only Stephen Hendry has probably eclipsed Steve Davis as the greatest snooker player of the television era.

It’s kind of weird how we all swear allegiance to one or two snooker or darts players while feeling distinctly cold about the other competitors. For example, I always had an irrational liking for Eric Bristow at the expense of his darts rival, John Lowe. Similarly, Stephen Hendry was one snooker player whom I never warmed to, for no apparent reason, yet like Davis before him, this Hearts football fan was a model professional and an outstanding player. Instead, I grew to like Jimmy White whom I initially ‘disliked’ again during my early ‘Higgins years’. Has there ever been a greater hard luck story in the whole of sport than the Whirlwind’s consistently spectacular near misses at Sheffield’s Crucible Theatre each spring? I can still remember Higgins embracing young White in a 1982 world championship semi-final after the Ulsterman had come from behind to sneak home 16-15 with the help of one of the greatest-ever clearance breaks in the history of snooker. Most people of course still recall the pain of Jimmy’s ritual defeats at the hands of Stephen Hendry. What is all the more remarkable was that Jimmy idolised Alex and then eclipsed the Hurricane as world snooker’s most eye-catching competitor, while Stephen idolised Jimmy, only to prevent his hero from ever seizing the world crown. Jimmy White is unquestionably the greatest snooker player never to become world champion, and I think we can all relate to his heroic misfortune.

Fast-forwarding to the 21st century and I peculiarly like both the unflappable Mark Williams and the show-stopping Ronnie O’Sullivan which is all the more remarkable, considering that these two snooker greats have little warmth for one another. Oh all the memories: ‘the grinder’ Cliff Thorburn collapsing in unbounded delight at recording the world championship’s first-ever maximum break; the farcical 35th and final frame between the likeable Dennis Taylor and Steve Davis in 1985: the John Virgo impersonations of his fellow professionals; the personal feuds and mutual admiration, they all confirm that the game of snooker isn’t a load of balls after all.



SPIN

The art of spin extends far beyond the cricket pitch or Downing Street nowadays. Take a look for instance at the world of employment to see how both employers and employees, not to mention the self-employed, put a spin on their job title. No longer are factory fodder the factory workers of bygone days of yore. Now they are termed as operatives. Gosh I loathe that word ‘operative’ – it’s just a euphemism for ‘dog’s body’. Can you imagine a new episode of Blackadder in these apparently self-conscious times: “Please allow me to introduce Baldrick. He’s my operative.”

As if this stupidity isn’t bad enough, one finds that shop assistants are now designated as ‘customer service advisers’. Do me a favour. Worse still are the job vacancies that advertise for ‘telesales executives’. Executives? Are you having a laugh? They’re just a bunch of gobby, pushy twenty-somethings fresh from university. Most ludicrous of all however are the silly contestants on The Weakest Link who describe themselves as ‘a company director’. Fortunately that nice Anne Robinson quizzes them about their job title: “So tell me. This company of yours; how many employees does it have?” “Er, two.” “Two?” “Yeah, me and me brother.” “What, and you call yourself a company director?” “Yeah, well we still have a company and I help to direct it!”

Dear oh dear oh dear. Britain is overflowing with a growing army of people who have an exaggerated sense of self-importance who blag their way through job interviews and pub conversations with their inflated nonsense. As far as I am concerned (and I am concerned), there is a fine dividing line between spin and bullshit.



FRIENDLY FIRE

It must be doubly upsetting for grieving relatives of British military personnel to discover that their loved one was killed by that most outrageous of phrases: ‘friendly fire’. What is it with American armed forces and friendly fire? It’s bad enough that their airport security was not particularly secure back in September 2001 and that their intelligence before and after has not been especially noteworthy for its intelligence. Therefore, I think that I will pay a state visit to George Dubya Bush at the White House. I will probably be stopped en route by airport security who will demand to know what the hell I am doing in possession of an automatic Kalashnikov-47 – to which I will reply, “Oh don’t worry, I’m only being ‘friendly’.”



REGIME CHANGE

It became oh so fashionable in the final months of the Blair premiership to pour scorn on the Prime Minister for his counter-productive pursuit of war in Iraq. Of course Britain went to war on a false premise – namely the need to seek out and destroy Iraq’s imaginary weapons of mass destruction. Mr Blair and his neo-conservative buddies across the big pond were however effectively engaged in a struggle to effect a regime change, and in this objective, they have hardly departed from the conventional approach to almost any war. Take for example the two world wars.

When Germany invaded Belgium in August 1914, British statesmen and people alike were not tossing and turning in bed at night, worried about the neutrality of Belgium. No, Britain went to war against the Kaiser to topple him and end his expansionist ambitions which had frayed the nerves of Europe for more than a decade. The First World War, like the conflict in Iraq, was fought to achieve regime change.

Even more peculiarly in the Second World War, Britain began hostilities against Nazi Germany in response to its invasion of Poland. Britain in fact was so upset by the territorial violation of Poland that it acquiesced in the Soviet Union’s acquisition of the Polish state at the end of the conflict. So much for concern about Poland. Yes the Second World War too was fought not for the stated reason. It was another attempt at regime change.

Tony Blair, for all his flaws, has only put into practice the much-used formula of going to war for false reasons. Every conflict, almost without exception, is designed to achieve regime change, irrespective of what excuse any politician offers.