Well, deck the halls and all that other festive claptrap. Whilst you guys are all o-ding on turkey and drowning in alcoholic suds, we, of the footy profession are training, working and playing. You all know my age and I've been a pro in the game since I was 17 so it's safe to say I've not had a Christmas off since Dirty Den ran the Queen Vic and the festive number one was whining Whitney Houston and Saving All My Love. Ian Callaghan once piped up to Bill Shankly when Liverpool were told to report for training the day before their Boxing Day match "..but Boss, it's Christmas Day!" Shanks answered "..Son, yer a fitba' player, have yer fuckin' Christmas in June."
Mac bases himself on Shankly...a lot!!
He thinks Christmas is like Take That...a load of manufactured pish for women and kids and I can't help but agree however there's never been a year when Carey doesn't ask me if we can go out for lunch with her parents on the 26th. Don't she get it? When I was at Everton I once played in a reserve game against Liverpool on Christmas Eve before benching for Neville Southall in a League match two days later down in Southampton.
Anyway, that's a history lesson. The up to date stuff is that since I last blogged at the start of the month, we have been on the kind of run that has Jeff Stelling wetting himself over the stats on Gillette Soc Spec. 4 games, 12 points, goals for 11, goals against ( the one that interests me!) 3 and one of those was a penalty. Seriously, even Andy Carroll would score for us if he was up front. 35 mill and he can't even get a game!
It's the form of champions and has taken us up the table to joint second. Crucially, we're away to the League leaders on Thursday night for the classic 6-pointer. It's a long time since I've felt as enthused about a fixture but I've got that mixture of nervousness and excitement that Boy George must have felt when he took his first shower in prison.
If we win, the gap's closed to one point but if we lose....
....well, let's just say I know what my New Year's resolution will be!
Merry Christmas!
Tuesday, 27 December 2011
Wednesday, 7 December 2011
Come The Revolution...
Okay, the following sounds like Grumpy Old Men on....commentators but I'm not going to apologise for that. It's Champions League night on ITV and of course, things are tough. They might have sacked Adrian Giles and Frankie Lampard's bit of spare from that GMTV/Daybreak/ OhFuckIt'sTooEarlyInTheMorningToBeThatCheery shit but there's the compensation to think of so when it comes to the trenchant, thought-provoking and insightful analysis of a match that Fergie's Furies need to emerge from with at least a point, luxuries like central heating, air conditioning, glass panels away from the unwashed masses and sitting your arse on a seat are deemed dispensable.
Which is why I'm watching Ireland's huffiest hero, Roy Keane and Gareth Southgate ( yes, actually!) regale us alongside the lesser-employed Giles from the side of the fuckin' pitch!! They've cashed in their chips and splashed out on some plastic lectern with ITV stenciled badly onto it but, jesus, if you stuck a flag in their hands they could run the line in the second half.
Clive Tyldesley's trapped in a box somewhere altho' not the kind of "box" the vast majority of the football public would like to see him in complete with incense and a few prayers and he's got Jim Beglin for company ( see above).
Now, most footballers hate pundits even though a load of them wet themselves at the possibility of being offered the Murdoch penny in retirement but I really hate these tosspots who fail to give credit to the humble goalkeeper.
eg....Swiss bloke hits a beauty from a free-kick at the edge of the box and the, in my opinion, under-rated David De Gea in the Reds goal arches high into the air and pushes it over the bar. It's a fucking brilliant save and I should know. I did something similar on Saturday there in a tight 1-0 victory over last season's promoted wunderkids but what do Tyldesley & Beglin pish on about????
"...yeah, he's done okay to get to that, the 'keeper."
Excuse me??
We get this pish all the time from commys and ex-players...
"....yes, it's a reasonable stop but it was a good height for him."
"...he's lucky to get a hand to that. Rooney really should be burying that from there."
"...oh, that's definitely a save for the cameras"
...and on and on and on and on....
Seriously, we custodians should have our own union and not just the PFfuckin'A either. I'll stand for office. Elect me.
And the first thing we do, brothers in over-sized mitre gloves, is sort out these tossers on the box who know fuck all about goalkeeping. England's most capped player is Peter Shilton with a million appearances. Get HIM on a panel and let him explain how we do it.
This is for every goalkeeper in history from David De Gea back to Bert Trautmann, Jimmy Cowan and my own hero, Jimmy Rimmer...united we stand...divided we fall.
Oh, and second on the list is to find the wanker at Mitre who re-invented the football that changes direction in mid-air...we know where you live amigo!!!
Which is why I'm watching Ireland's huffiest hero, Roy Keane and Gareth Southgate ( yes, actually!) regale us alongside the lesser-employed Giles from the side of the fuckin' pitch!! They've cashed in their chips and splashed out on some plastic lectern with ITV stenciled badly onto it but, jesus, if you stuck a flag in their hands they could run the line in the second half.
Clive Tyldesley's trapped in a box somewhere altho' not the kind of "box" the vast majority of the football public would like to see him in complete with incense and a few prayers and he's got Jim Beglin for company ( see above).
Now, most footballers hate pundits even though a load of them wet themselves at the possibility of being offered the Murdoch penny in retirement but I really hate these tosspots who fail to give credit to the humble goalkeeper.
eg....Swiss bloke hits a beauty from a free-kick at the edge of the box and the, in my opinion, under-rated David De Gea in the Reds goal arches high into the air and pushes it over the bar. It's a fucking brilliant save and I should know. I did something similar on Saturday there in a tight 1-0 victory over last season's promoted wunderkids but what do Tyldesley & Beglin pish on about????
"...yeah, he's done okay to get to that, the 'keeper."
Excuse me??
We get this pish all the time from commys and ex-players...
"....yes, it's a reasonable stop but it was a good height for him."
"...he's lucky to get a hand to that. Rooney really should be burying that from there."
"...oh, that's definitely a save for the cameras"
...and on and on and on and on....
Seriously, we custodians should have our own union and not just the PFfuckin'A either. I'll stand for office. Elect me.
And the first thing we do, brothers in over-sized mitre gloves, is sort out these tossers on the box who know fuck all about goalkeeping. England's most capped player is Peter Shilton with a million appearances. Get HIM on a panel and let him explain how we do it.
This is for every goalkeeper in history from David De Gea back to Bert Trautmann, Jimmy Cowan and my own hero, Jimmy Rimmer...united we stand...divided we fall.
Oh, and second on the list is to find the wanker at Mitre who re-invented the football that changes direction in mid-air...we know where you live amigo!!!
Sunday, 27 November 2011
Rituals, Russians and Reality
Mac's got this ritual, right? Exactly half an hour before the home matches, he slips into his office, closes the door, locks it and then...
...well, fuck knows, but he stays there until exactly five minutes before kick-off at which point he emerges, straightens his lucky tartan tie ( yeah, I know, it makes him look like something off a shortbread tin) and then heads into the dressing room to shout his bollocks off at us. He calls it "encouragement".
Nobody knows what goes on behind that locked door for those 25 minutes but of course, we've all speculated. Everything from writing his memoirs, downing a wee 'goldie' from his bottle of scotch, listening to The Proclaimers on his ipod and checking out the Russian porn sites have all been offered as possibilities with the latter option a cause for some real laughs backstage. He turned up at a supporters function a few years back with his 'date', a 30+ Ukranian stunner called Ivana who only knew two words of English one of which was, somewhat disconcertingly, 'cocaine' and cracked a fan on the jaw when he asked if Ivana took paypal or roubles! We never saw her again.
Whatever he does though it's all part of his match-day build-up. We are a superstitious lot in the great world of football. I've already told you about the vinegar on my gloves, Spock always puts his shorts on last and Cracknell chants out a decade of the rosary from the confines of a lavatory cubicle. Which is strange, cos he's not even a catholic and I doubt if the Virgin Mary chooses to hang about the dressing room bogs of lower League football clubs.
Anyway, Mac's 25-min seclusion, my smelly gloves, Spock's shorts and Crack's prayers paid off yesterday when we hit good form in a three-nil victory.
Note the 'nil' in that statement.
Folks, I had a fuckin' blinder. Blocking shots, picking off crosses, catching a long-range volley then holding it and finally diving at the feet of some aspiring young Swedish striker as he steamed towards me thinking "..this is my fucking moment!" (in Swedish of course). I'm telling you, the News of the World couldn't have hacked into my net yesterday.
I mean, I was interviewed after the game by the local daily and I had to spout all that pish about being "delighted for the lads..." and "...more important to win the 3 points than focus on the blank sheet" but, to be honest, I can be a selfish bastard about these things and not conceding a goal had me as smug as Gordon Ramsay.
When your goalmouth has seen more action than Katie Price's mattress and at the end of the game you can still use the word "nil" then it's a satisfactory day all round. Three points and three goals at home, a clean sheet and climbing to fifth in the table are like Ivana and her pals...they don't come cheap!
And finally...on a serious note....I never worked with him, played with him or even knew him but Gary Speed was one of our own and he's left us far, far too early...may he rest in peace.
...well, fuck knows, but he stays there until exactly five minutes before kick-off at which point he emerges, straightens his lucky tartan tie ( yeah, I know, it makes him look like something off a shortbread tin) and then heads into the dressing room to shout his bollocks off at us. He calls it "encouragement".
Nobody knows what goes on behind that locked door for those 25 minutes but of course, we've all speculated. Everything from writing his memoirs, downing a wee 'goldie' from his bottle of scotch, listening to The Proclaimers on his ipod and checking out the Russian porn sites have all been offered as possibilities with the latter option a cause for some real laughs backstage. He turned up at a supporters function a few years back with his 'date', a 30+ Ukranian stunner called Ivana who only knew two words of English one of which was, somewhat disconcertingly, 'cocaine' and cracked a fan on the jaw when he asked if Ivana took paypal or roubles! We never saw her again.
Whatever he does though it's all part of his match-day build-up. We are a superstitious lot in the great world of football. I've already told you about the vinegar on my gloves, Spock always puts his shorts on last and Cracknell chants out a decade of the rosary from the confines of a lavatory cubicle. Which is strange, cos he's not even a catholic and I doubt if the Virgin Mary chooses to hang about the dressing room bogs of lower League football clubs.
Anyway, Mac's 25-min seclusion, my smelly gloves, Spock's shorts and Crack's prayers paid off yesterday when we hit good form in a three-nil victory.
Note the 'nil' in that statement.
Folks, I had a fuckin' blinder. Blocking shots, picking off crosses, catching a long-range volley then holding it and finally diving at the feet of some aspiring young Swedish striker as he steamed towards me thinking "..this is my fucking moment!" (in Swedish of course). I'm telling you, the News of the World couldn't have hacked into my net yesterday.
I mean, I was interviewed after the game by the local daily and I had to spout all that pish about being "delighted for the lads..." and "...more important to win the 3 points than focus on the blank sheet" but, to be honest, I can be a selfish bastard about these things and not conceding a goal had me as smug as Gordon Ramsay.
When your goalmouth has seen more action than Katie Price's mattress and at the end of the game you can still use the word "nil" then it's a satisfactory day all round. Three points and three goals at home, a clean sheet and climbing to fifth in the table are like Ivana and her pals...they don't come cheap!
And finally...on a serious note....I never worked with him, played with him or even knew him but Gary Speed was one of our own and he's left us far, far too early...may he rest in peace.
Monday, 21 November 2011
Good Day Sunshine Part 2
....that the very first thing I had to do on my return from the wilderness, after weeks of being as visible as Shergar, of playing second fiddle to the Spragmaster and frankly being critical of him on occasion and justifiably so...was to stare at the fuckin' ball as it sat in the back of my net within 48 seconds of kicking off.
Now, it wasn't my fault. No, seriously! Cracknell and Spock exchanged passes at the halfway line at which point they immediately lost possession. Straight away we're on the defensive and Hopgood was out of position in midfield because he'd raced off into the opposition half like George Michael fleeing the scene of a car crash in anticipation of an elegant, raking pass from Spock.
Cue the panic in the ranks as the Town forward line surge towards us with a man advantage and the ball at the feet of their useful young striker. He looks a bit of a prick to be honest with his upturned collar and his gelled-to-an-absurd-angle hair and you can only imagine it's this dandy highwayman look that pissed off the England under-19 selectors last season but he can fuckin' play a bit I can tell you.
He drifts past two of our challenges ( and I use that word feckin' loosely) and just as I'm priming myself for the inevitable greedy wee bastard shot on goal, he slips a pass off to the right of our penalty box and the overlapping right-back who, 45 seconds into the game has found himself deep in the heart of goalsville USA, flashes a first-timer past me and into the corner.
I mean, the Triads couldn't have stitched us up quicker. So there we all are standing, staring at each other. Well apart from me of course. I'm the asshole stretched out on the turf who couldn't adjust his feet in time to get down quicker and palm the ball away for a corner.
The Town are jumping about like they've got another week on X Factor.
I remember Ron Atkinson saying once during a Champions League match that it was probably better that Man U were a goal down early on as it would make them come out to play a bit more. Big Ron eh?? Rattle Rattle, jewellery, jewellery...he didn't half talk some pish at times!
When you're one down and only two players in your team have touched the ball then it's a bit of a bummer Ron. The lads looked a bit shell-shocked. Christ, it had only been one week since Ninegate so they had a right to be but they picked themselves up and created a couple of chances in a first half that appeared to be over in under a minute.
It felt like that fireworks display I saw a few weeks ago on You Tube. You know, up in Scotland when a technical fault released 20 minutes worth of a display in under a minute. Carey said it reminded her of our wedding night!! Me too...but I didn't want to say it.
The second half wasn't much better but Mac had ripped into Cracknell and Spock at half-time as was expected and they did seem to lift it a bit. Which would explain our equaliser on the hour mark. Jason Herberts, he's our precocious wee fancy dan complete with waxy barnet and upturned collar, got himself a yard in front of his marker deep in enemy territory. He tried a one-two with Spock but the ball cannoned off a defender and into Cracknell's path. Cracks wasn't hanging about. In my day we called it a blooter and I doubt if the Town goalie smelt it let alone get anywhere near it.
1-1...30 to go...all out war, right?
Well, not quite but there was a fair bit of cutting and thrusting and as we closed into the last 5 there was a collective nervousness palpable on the pitch. The Town hadn't drawn or won away since August and we were still smarting after the 9-0 humping (except me natch...I wasn't playing in that one!) so everybody just kept passing the grenade back and forth to each other shitting it in case the bugger would go off.
Had there been a commentator and of course there wasn't cos football at our level appeals to Sky as much as a Swiss Chess Tournament, then he would have been pishing on about " a goal now for either team will be the winner."
It wasn't to be.
As comebacks go it wasn't exactly '68 and Elvis but bugger me, it felt good to be out there again.
I was so pleased about it that I took Carey for a curry afterwards...try saying THAT with a drink in you!
In fact the only thing that pissed me a bit was the fact we wouldn't have another game until the 26th. Right now, I'd play every day!!
Now, it wasn't my fault. No, seriously! Cracknell and Spock exchanged passes at the halfway line at which point they immediately lost possession. Straight away we're on the defensive and Hopgood was out of position in midfield because he'd raced off into the opposition half like George Michael fleeing the scene of a car crash in anticipation of an elegant, raking pass from Spock.
Cue the panic in the ranks as the Town forward line surge towards us with a man advantage and the ball at the feet of their useful young striker. He looks a bit of a prick to be honest with his upturned collar and his gelled-to-an-absurd-angle hair and you can only imagine it's this dandy highwayman look that pissed off the England under-19 selectors last season but he can fuckin' play a bit I can tell you.
He drifts past two of our challenges ( and I use that word feckin' loosely) and just as I'm priming myself for the inevitable greedy wee bastard shot on goal, he slips a pass off to the right of our penalty box and the overlapping right-back who, 45 seconds into the game has found himself deep in the heart of goalsville USA, flashes a first-timer past me and into the corner.
I mean, the Triads couldn't have stitched us up quicker. So there we all are standing, staring at each other. Well apart from me of course. I'm the asshole stretched out on the turf who couldn't adjust his feet in time to get down quicker and palm the ball away for a corner.
The Town are jumping about like they've got another week on X Factor.
I remember Ron Atkinson saying once during a Champions League match that it was probably better that Man U were a goal down early on as it would make them come out to play a bit more. Big Ron eh?? Rattle Rattle, jewellery, jewellery...he didn't half talk some pish at times!
When you're one down and only two players in your team have touched the ball then it's a bit of a bummer Ron. The lads looked a bit shell-shocked. Christ, it had only been one week since Ninegate so they had a right to be but they picked themselves up and created a couple of chances in a first half that appeared to be over in under a minute.
It felt like that fireworks display I saw a few weeks ago on You Tube. You know, up in Scotland when a technical fault released 20 minutes worth of a display in under a minute. Carey said it reminded her of our wedding night!! Me too...but I didn't want to say it.
The second half wasn't much better but Mac had ripped into Cracknell and Spock at half-time as was expected and they did seem to lift it a bit. Which would explain our equaliser on the hour mark. Jason Herberts, he's our precocious wee fancy dan complete with waxy barnet and upturned collar, got himself a yard in front of his marker deep in enemy territory. He tried a one-two with Spock but the ball cannoned off a defender and into Cracknell's path. Cracks wasn't hanging about. In my day we called it a blooter and I doubt if the Town goalie smelt it let alone get anywhere near it.
1-1...30 to go...all out war, right?
Well, not quite but there was a fair bit of cutting and thrusting and as we closed into the last 5 there was a collective nervousness palpable on the pitch. The Town hadn't drawn or won away since August and we were still smarting after the 9-0 humping (except me natch...I wasn't playing in that one!) so everybody just kept passing the grenade back and forth to each other shitting it in case the bugger would go off.
Had there been a commentator and of course there wasn't cos football at our level appeals to Sky as much as a Swiss Chess Tournament, then he would have been pishing on about " a goal now for either team will be the winner."
It wasn't to be.
As comebacks go it wasn't exactly '68 and Elvis but bugger me, it felt good to be out there again.
I was so pleased about it that I took Carey for a curry afterwards...try saying THAT with a drink in you!
In fact the only thing that pissed me a bit was the fact we wouldn't have another game until the 26th. Right now, I'd play every day!!
Wednesday, 16 November 2011
Good Day Sunshine
How was your Saturday?? Saturday, 12th November 2011.
Mine? Well, I woke up, got out of bed and the carpet felt, well, just that little bit softer on my feet, the towels in the bathroom smelt like a cuddly Lenor advert, the bacon butties tasted so good I wouldn't have cared if Jamie Oliver had been round my gaffe and accepted sexual favours from Carey in return for horsing my frying pan and by 11.30, my good lady was telling me I was brighter than Mary feckin' Poppins in the morning.
Funny the difference a bit of good news brings isn't it?
The Euro's in meltdown, unemployment's on the rise and that Celebrity Jungle pish is back on the 50" 3D job but..but...I'm back in the team!
Mac called me up on Friday night. Okay, it had taken him nearly a week since the 9-0 humping to do so which I thought was a bit of a liberty but the ol' bastar' called me anyway to say that I was in goal for the home game the next day.
Fuckin' right I was. I mean, how slapped would my 42 year-old coupon have been if he'd decided to stick with Spraggsy after last week??
I feel a bit for Spraggsy but, you know, he must have been like John Lennon all week...having #9 Dream every time he shut his eyes. That sounded better in my head than it looks on paper but I never said I was Jack fuckin' Dee, did I?
Anyway, Saturday was (Just Like) Starting Over ( see above) for the Cat.
Christ, it felt good to be...to be...to be...preparing for a game again.
Polishing me boots, spraying vinegar over me gloves ( picked that trick up from John Burridge, ex-Villa etc), and not least of all, clearing me bowels before leaving the house. John Wayne never considered a day started unless he'd crapped so you know, for better, for worse.
Got up to the ground an hour before kick-off and met Spraggsy getting out of his car. You couldn't make it up. Had Mac told him I wondered? The cheesy grin and the hearty slap on the back I got soon told me...he fuckin' knew I was in and he was out but he wasn't going to let me see it was hurting.
That's Rule No. 1 in our code by the way. Mainly cos every 'keeper goes through it during their career. You gotta have the balls of Zeus and the poker face of Studs Lonegan to be the last line of defence.
All the lads were in the dressing room when I got there. A few of them grinned at me and some even punched me on the shoulder which I thought was a bit off as Spraggsy had followed me in. I tell you what, he's a fuckin' cool one that Spraggsy. Just sat there getting changed going through his "routine", cracked knuckles, arm stretching and deep breathing before stroking his knob 6 times! I'm not fuckin' making that up btw! He looked as relaxed as Harry Redknapp's tax returns.
There was that wee moment when Mac come in to announce the team. You know that blip when you think it's all been some fuckin' wind-up that the lads are all in on and he's going to say Spraggsy's name instead of mine but it passed and that was us, ready to go.
The Beavers are a good side. Stupid feckin' nickname right enough, but a decent mid-table lot so I knew I wouldn't be standing about checking my lottery numbers over the 90 minutes.
Carey would say it went like that Celeb Jungle shit. The first hour was pish but it starts to heat up when the contestants get a bit anxious in the last 30 minutes and nerves start to fray.
I'd like to tell you I had a blinder. That news had reached greasy Fabio and that he wanted me in the England set-up but haven't you learned fucking anything??
I told you way back at the start of these blogs. This isn't some Hollywood pish with leading men, half-hour heroics and last-minute dramas. Escape To Victory! A Shot At Glory! Harry Potter and the Cup of Carling! It's football at the wrong end of the scale. Blood, sweat and snotters as Mac's always saying so you shouldn't be surprised that...
( to be continued)
Mine? Well, I woke up, got out of bed and the carpet felt, well, just that little bit softer on my feet, the towels in the bathroom smelt like a cuddly Lenor advert, the bacon butties tasted so good I wouldn't have cared if Jamie Oliver had been round my gaffe and accepted sexual favours from Carey in return for horsing my frying pan and by 11.30, my good lady was telling me I was brighter than Mary feckin' Poppins in the morning.
Funny the difference a bit of good news brings isn't it?
The Euro's in meltdown, unemployment's on the rise and that Celebrity Jungle pish is back on the 50" 3D job but..but...I'm back in the team!
Mac called me up on Friday night. Okay, it had taken him nearly a week since the 9-0 humping to do so which I thought was a bit of a liberty but the ol' bastar' called me anyway to say that I was in goal for the home game the next day.
Fuckin' right I was. I mean, how slapped would my 42 year-old coupon have been if he'd decided to stick with Spraggsy after last week??
I feel a bit for Spraggsy but, you know, he must have been like John Lennon all week...having #9 Dream every time he shut his eyes. That sounded better in my head than it looks on paper but I never said I was Jack fuckin' Dee, did I?
Anyway, Saturday was (Just Like) Starting Over ( see above) for the Cat.
Christ, it felt good to be...to be...to be...preparing for a game again.
Polishing me boots, spraying vinegar over me gloves ( picked that trick up from John Burridge, ex-Villa etc), and not least of all, clearing me bowels before leaving the house. John Wayne never considered a day started unless he'd crapped so you know, for better, for worse.
Got up to the ground an hour before kick-off and met Spraggsy getting out of his car. You couldn't make it up. Had Mac told him I wondered? The cheesy grin and the hearty slap on the back I got soon told me...he fuckin' knew I was in and he was out but he wasn't going to let me see it was hurting.
That's Rule No. 1 in our code by the way. Mainly cos every 'keeper goes through it during their career. You gotta have the balls of Zeus and the poker face of Studs Lonegan to be the last line of defence.
All the lads were in the dressing room when I got there. A few of them grinned at me and some even punched me on the shoulder which I thought was a bit off as Spraggsy had followed me in. I tell you what, he's a fuckin' cool one that Spraggsy. Just sat there getting changed going through his "routine", cracked knuckles, arm stretching and deep breathing before stroking his knob 6 times! I'm not fuckin' making that up btw! He looked as relaxed as Harry Redknapp's tax returns.
There was that wee moment when Mac come in to announce the team. You know that blip when you think it's all been some fuckin' wind-up that the lads are all in on and he's going to say Spraggsy's name instead of mine but it passed and that was us, ready to go.
The Beavers are a good side. Stupid feckin' nickname right enough, but a decent mid-table lot so I knew I wouldn't be standing about checking my lottery numbers over the 90 minutes.
Carey would say it went like that Celeb Jungle shit. The first hour was pish but it starts to heat up when the contestants get a bit anxious in the last 30 minutes and nerves start to fray.
I'd like to tell you I had a blinder. That news had reached greasy Fabio and that he wanted me in the England set-up but haven't you learned fucking anything??
I told you way back at the start of these blogs. This isn't some Hollywood pish with leading men, half-hour heroics and last-minute dramas. Escape To Victory! A Shot At Glory! Harry Potter and the Cup of Carling! It's football at the wrong end of the scale. Blood, sweat and snotters as Mac's always saying so you shouldn't be surprised that...
( to be continued)
Tuesday, 8 November 2011
Bittersweet Symphony.
Ahhh, the comfort of the crowd on their feet applauding your efforts. Can there be a better embrace than to look around and see the appreciative response to your work...it makes it all, well, worthwhile.
...And if you believe that pish then you'll be telling me that Greece has a robust economy and that Jimmy Saville was a very tasteful dresser.
For "the crowd", read "audience"...for "the efforts", read "speech". Basically, that's all I've been doing for the last three months since I last blogged...bloody after-dinners. I've eaten everything from consomme through to cajun alligator and onwards to baked alaska as I traversed my way around the south rattling on about my career and doing impressions of Jose Mourinho, Alan Shearer and that Italian wanker from Strictly whose name escapes me. Don't get me wrong, the bread's been mighty fine, the craic good and they bloody know their way around a Merlot or Shiraz at the top tables but it's three months when the nearest I've come to live football was going down The Manor for a couple of pints and watching the Champions League with the guys.
I could tell you that I'm delighted with the possibility of a burgeoning career on the circuit and to be fair, I upstaged Tom O'Connor one night recently at a Businessman's do when I told him I could name that tune in three and then said " Get To Fuck!" - brought the bleedin' house down - but I'd be lying.
Truth is, I miss the football...REALLY miss it.
All I've been doing is putting Spraggsy through his paces before a match and then scratching my arse as Mac and Riv shout from the touchline for 90 minutes. I thought I'd have had a chance by now cos, believe me, nobody's changing their underwear before playing us. Twelve games into the season and the lads are struggling to stay mid-table and already been knocked out of a cup.
I can't say Spraggsy's been responsible for everything tallied up in the "goals against" column but, Jeezo, there's been at least half a dozen occasions when his indecision has cost us dear. He's not overly fond of the cross ball, struggles with the passback rule and generally seems as reliable as Michael Jackson's doctor.
Bitter? Me?
'Course I fuckin' am!
To be honest, and I know this is rich coming from me, I've genuinely thought of giving the whole thing up. I KNOW!! Mr it's-my-last-ever-season-anyway!!
But, I just never realised how much I would miss it all and I need to be involved.
So, there I was, picking the plastic out of my arse last Saturday for the home game against that shower hovering two points above us when the roof caved in....fuckin' big style an' all.
3-0 down in 11 minutes!! 5 at half-time....7 with 10 to go and 9 ( NINE?? FUCKIN' COUNT IT!!) at full-time.
Now, I've done a lot of wacky shit in my time, been on the end of some right doings but I've never, ever, not even in a kickabout with me mates, lost nine goals in a match.
The dressing room looked like the aftermath of a terrorist atrocity. The lads all just sat there, stunned. I wondered what they'd made of it. Somebody said Jeff Stelling had been pissing himself on Gillette Soccer Special and that Paul Merson, Charlie Nicholas and that scouse twat who played for his beloved Liverpool were running a sweep on the final score.
It wasn't meant to be like this for these boys...not with their future in the game. They saw themselves strolling off a bus at the Emirates, big as fuck headphones stuck to their heads, Adidas bags slung casually over their shoulders as they made their way towards the dressing rooms, the cameras following their faces as they prepared for Super Sunday...and now everybody on Sky were wetting their pants at the 9-0 humping.
I suppose I should have felt sorry for Spraggsy. It's unfair. They have to get past 10 other pricks before him. He wasn't responsible for all nine but...but...but as I saw him, slumped in his seat, dazed with the consequences and close to vomiting, I kept thinking one thing.....
....I'm BACK!
...And if you believe that pish then you'll be telling me that Greece has a robust economy and that Jimmy Saville was a very tasteful dresser.
For "the crowd", read "audience"...for "the efforts", read "speech". Basically, that's all I've been doing for the last three months since I last blogged...bloody after-dinners. I've eaten everything from consomme through to cajun alligator and onwards to baked alaska as I traversed my way around the south rattling on about my career and doing impressions of Jose Mourinho, Alan Shearer and that Italian wanker from Strictly whose name escapes me. Don't get me wrong, the bread's been mighty fine, the craic good and they bloody know their way around a Merlot or Shiraz at the top tables but it's three months when the nearest I've come to live football was going down The Manor for a couple of pints and watching the Champions League with the guys.
I could tell you that I'm delighted with the possibility of a burgeoning career on the circuit and to be fair, I upstaged Tom O'Connor one night recently at a Businessman's do when I told him I could name that tune in three and then said " Get To Fuck!" - brought the bleedin' house down - but I'd be lying.
Truth is, I miss the football...REALLY miss it.
All I've been doing is putting Spraggsy through his paces before a match and then scratching my arse as Mac and Riv shout from the touchline for 90 minutes. I thought I'd have had a chance by now cos, believe me, nobody's changing their underwear before playing us. Twelve games into the season and the lads are struggling to stay mid-table and already been knocked out of a cup.
I can't say Spraggsy's been responsible for everything tallied up in the "goals against" column but, Jeezo, there's been at least half a dozen occasions when his indecision has cost us dear. He's not overly fond of the cross ball, struggles with the passback rule and generally seems as reliable as Michael Jackson's doctor.
Bitter? Me?
'Course I fuckin' am!
To be honest, and I know this is rich coming from me, I've genuinely thought of giving the whole thing up. I KNOW!! Mr it's-my-last-ever-season-anyway!!
But, I just never realised how much I would miss it all and I need to be involved.
So, there I was, picking the plastic out of my arse last Saturday for the home game against that shower hovering two points above us when the roof caved in....fuckin' big style an' all.
3-0 down in 11 minutes!! 5 at half-time....7 with 10 to go and 9 ( NINE?? FUCKIN' COUNT IT!!) at full-time.
Now, I've done a lot of wacky shit in my time, been on the end of some right doings but I've never, ever, not even in a kickabout with me mates, lost nine goals in a match.
The dressing room looked like the aftermath of a terrorist atrocity. The lads all just sat there, stunned. I wondered what they'd made of it. Somebody said Jeff Stelling had been pissing himself on Gillette Soccer Special and that Paul Merson, Charlie Nicholas and that scouse twat who played for his beloved Liverpool were running a sweep on the final score.
It wasn't meant to be like this for these boys...not with their future in the game. They saw themselves strolling off a bus at the Emirates, big as fuck headphones stuck to their heads, Adidas bags slung casually over their shoulders as they made their way towards the dressing rooms, the cameras following their faces as they prepared for Super Sunday...and now everybody on Sky were wetting their pants at the 9-0 humping.
I suppose I should have felt sorry for Spraggsy. It's unfair. They have to get past 10 other pricks before him. He wasn't responsible for all nine but...but...but as I saw him, slumped in his seat, dazed with the consequences and close to vomiting, I kept thinking one thing.....
....I'm BACK!
Tuesday, 30 August 2011
How's The World Treating You?
Right, apologies.
I haven't blogged in a month....and what a month. You had to laugh at all the shellsuits and hoodies slicin' sand to get down to Tottingham ( as Ossie put it) and ripping off Primark in the name of revolution. " Oh yeah, this is about the difference between have and have-not. About a Britain divided...about hatin' wealth and what it represents..."
Uh huh....which is why the " yoof team" nipped over to White Hart Lane and trailed Luka Modric for turning down a million grand a month with Spurs so that he can hang out on the Kings Road, kicking a ball around the Chelsea midfield 9 times a season. Anyway, there goes the politics.
What about the Cat & Spraggsy?
Well, I'm warming the bench so much I've got splinters up my arse and I've more chance of catching herpes as I have of catching a cross ball from the opposition.
I've done porridge before but that was my salad days when I was happy to sit in the dugout and listen to the manager and coaches lamenting the lack of purpose and ability whilst changing the formation on the hour. Once upon a time I thought it was part of my education. A chance to hear a game spread out in front of me...dissected by the "experts" in the boot room....every pass, flick, high line defensive manouvere, counter-attacking option and the ebb and flow of the 90 minutes.
I was young, eager....fuck it, interested.
Now I couldn't be more bored if they stuck the Loose Women omnibus on at half-time.
Fuck me...does Mac even know what's going on out on the pitch? I always thought he did but on the opening day of the season, in what should have been a routine fixture for a team who got to the third round of the cup a few years ago, he decided, after 10 minutes mark you, that we should revert to a 5-man midfield with Spock playing the lone striker role. ( fascinating captain)
Inevitably, they bypassed our cunning plan by producing what SkySports call " Route 1 tactics" sticking high balls over the back four until some unknown Belgian striker with less fat than a corn beef sandwich rolled the defence and rifled a first-time drive low and left into the corner of the net.
To be honest, I thought Spraggsy should have had it...christ, 10 years ago I'd have HELD it but he misread the speed and direction and so his debut fixture required him to pick the ball out of the net.
I'm not going to deny a slight warmth across the loins when I realised it was his mistake. Trouble was...I was the only one. Mac and Riv thought "...the bounce was deceptive." I tell you, if Spraggsy owned up to the Bible John killings, Mac and Riv would make up some excuse for it.
So, while your dividing your time between the Sopranos boxset, checking your online banking, horsing a pizza and reading through this reverie, bear in mind that some of us are welding our arse to the plastic and praying for the chance to play a game of football.
I haven't blogged in a month....and what a month. You had to laugh at all the shellsuits and hoodies slicin' sand to get down to Tottingham ( as Ossie put it) and ripping off Primark in the name of revolution. " Oh yeah, this is about the difference between have and have-not. About a Britain divided...about hatin' wealth and what it represents..."
Uh huh....which is why the " yoof team" nipped over to White Hart Lane and trailed Luka Modric for turning down a million grand a month with Spurs so that he can hang out on the Kings Road, kicking a ball around the Chelsea midfield 9 times a season. Anyway, there goes the politics.
What about the Cat & Spraggsy?
Well, I'm warming the bench so much I've got splinters up my arse and I've more chance of catching herpes as I have of catching a cross ball from the opposition.
I've done porridge before but that was my salad days when I was happy to sit in the dugout and listen to the manager and coaches lamenting the lack of purpose and ability whilst changing the formation on the hour. Once upon a time I thought it was part of my education. A chance to hear a game spread out in front of me...dissected by the "experts" in the boot room....every pass, flick, high line defensive manouvere, counter-attacking option and the ebb and flow of the 90 minutes.
I was young, eager....fuck it, interested.
Now I couldn't be more bored if they stuck the Loose Women omnibus on at half-time.
Fuck me...does Mac even know what's going on out on the pitch? I always thought he did but on the opening day of the season, in what should have been a routine fixture for a team who got to the third round of the cup a few years ago, he decided, after 10 minutes mark you, that we should revert to a 5-man midfield with Spock playing the lone striker role. ( fascinating captain)
Inevitably, they bypassed our cunning plan by producing what SkySports call " Route 1 tactics" sticking high balls over the back four until some unknown Belgian striker with less fat than a corn beef sandwich rolled the defence and rifled a first-time drive low and left into the corner of the net.
To be honest, I thought Spraggsy should have had it...christ, 10 years ago I'd have HELD it but he misread the speed and direction and so his debut fixture required him to pick the ball out of the net.
I'm not going to deny a slight warmth across the loins when I realised it was his mistake. Trouble was...I was the only one. Mac and Riv thought "...the bounce was deceptive." I tell you, if Spraggsy owned up to the Bible John killings, Mac and Riv would make up some excuse for it.
So, while your dividing your time between the Sopranos boxset, checking your online banking, horsing a pizza and reading through this reverie, bear in mind that some of us are welding our arse to the plastic and praying for the chance to play a game of football.
Monday, 25 July 2011
The Cat Without The Cream
His name is Ricky Spraggs. He's 22 and as keen as the Met on a drugs bust. I get it. I remember it. I'd have cut the first-choice 'keeper's fingers off for a game when I was his age. ( Just ask Neville Southall!) In any team you can have 4 defenders, 3-4 midfielders, 2-3 strikers but only one goalkeeper. Short of injury, 6-goal humpings and substance addiction, you don't change goalies. Unless you're Ron Greenwood of course and that bizarre policy he had about alternating Clemence & Shilts during the '80s and look how THAT worked out!
Mac took me aside. He was very nice about it. Well, as nice as the grumpy ol' bastard could be and he did get the jibe in about me telling him every year that this was my last season but the decision was to go with the new guy at the start. " This will give you more time to concentrate on the after-dinners." he said, which was true if not a little bitty below the belt.
I'd started that last year. The supporters club organised a Player of the Year gig and as the senior player in the squad as well as being the only one who'd ever been interviewed by Sky Sports, I was asked to say a few words.
I'd rattled the free Chianti by that point. Good bottle and a half I reckon but I staggered to my feet and started talking about the career and, it has to be said, it was pretty funny. They even lapped up the impressions. Mac, natch, but a bit of Fergie, Clough, Jimmy Hill and a more than passable Alan Brazil had them pissing themselves before the coffee and mints arrived.
Anyway, before you could say " Ballotelli's bonkers" I was getting calls from the local cricket club, golf clubs, welders federations and even some posh bib & tucker event an hour's drive from here. It's been going so well, I'd even picked up an agent but, fuck me, I didn't think it would be taking me away from what I do best.
DID best as now Mac's wants to give Spraggsy ( 5 minutes in the door and they've given him a nickname altho' it's hardly the work of Charles Dickens, is it?) my gloves on his hands and my balls on a plate.
Still...no hard feelings. Mac also told me the boy would need a mentor but given that Carey says that I'm not even responsible with the remote for the telly in my hand, there's not much chance of me taking a rookie under my armpit.
Still...I'd better talk to him.
Mac took me aside. He was very nice about it. Well, as nice as the grumpy ol' bastard could be and he did get the jibe in about me telling him every year that this was my last season but the decision was to go with the new guy at the start. " This will give you more time to concentrate on the after-dinners." he said, which was true if not a little bitty below the belt.
I'd started that last year. The supporters club organised a Player of the Year gig and as the senior player in the squad as well as being the only one who'd ever been interviewed by Sky Sports, I was asked to say a few words.
I'd rattled the free Chianti by that point. Good bottle and a half I reckon but I staggered to my feet and started talking about the career and, it has to be said, it was pretty funny. They even lapped up the impressions. Mac, natch, but a bit of Fergie, Clough, Jimmy Hill and a more than passable Alan Brazil had them pissing themselves before the coffee and mints arrived.
Anyway, before you could say " Ballotelli's bonkers" I was getting calls from the local cricket club, golf clubs, welders federations and even some posh bib & tucker event an hour's drive from here. It's been going so well, I'd even picked up an agent but, fuck me, I didn't think it would be taking me away from what I do best.
DID best as now Mac's wants to give Spraggsy ( 5 minutes in the door and they've given him a nickname altho' it's hardly the work of Charles Dickens, is it?) my gloves on his hands and my balls on a plate.
Still...no hard feelings. Mac also told me the boy would need a mentor but given that Carey says that I'm not even responsible with the remote for the telly in my hand, there's not much chance of me taking a rookie under my armpit.
Still...I'd better talk to him.
Wednesday, 13 July 2011
Back in training
Hello Hello, tell all of your friends, I'm back, I'm back, as a matter of fact...I'm back! Gary Glitter's pre-paedo classic pretty much sums it up as I arrived for the first training session of the new season. Mac's there. Gruff Glaswegian who thinks that the word " bastard" is a form of affection. He's been managing the club for five years now and has seen us though a couple of promotions as well as a visit to the third round one year away to Blackpool.
I remember we pissed ourselves at them. I mean, it was so feckin' ridiculous! The trams, the karaoke, that tower...the Pleasure feckin' Beach! This was a club that lived in the past more than The Monkees. Ooh, Stanley Matthews....ooh the duck at Wembley and yet...last year, the Premiership!! Didier Drogba asking Ancelotti if he could have a shot on the Waltzers and a candy floss before getting back on the bus!!
Anyway, we weren't pissing ourselves when they duffed us up 4-1. Even then, our counter was an own-goal. I could hear the laughing policeman at the Pleasure Beach as I went left and the ball right from a free-kick for the fourth. Still, we got a decent bag of chips on the way home.
Anyway, Mac didn't seem too upset after that one altho' old Chuzzlewit the chairman wept when the Tangerines drew Man U in the next round.
It could have been us! he wailed for a week and only started to recover when we went to the top of the division the following Saturday.
So, Mac's here and Jimmy Rivers as well.
" Riv" had no close season. He just wandered around the training pitch mourning the lack of training until it all started again.There he was, setting up the traffic cones with all the eagerness of the 40 year-old virgin on his wedding night.
And the lads were there.
Cracknell, Hopgood, Herberts, Spock ( you gotta check his ears!) etc etc etc. I'll introduce you to the rest of them as the season unfolds.
There's a new guy as well. I didn't recognise the coupon although everybody else seemed to know him.
Mac was doing that face-to-face-with-the-new-boy routine that he always did at this time of the year....
I've brought ye here cos ye kin dae a joab fur me ya bastar'. We dae the work doon here, oan the training grun'...blood, snotters....
It's the pish he doled out to me on my first day..
...guts 'n' glory...
like he's been watching Al Pacino in Any Given Sunday..
show me second an' i'll show ye the loser...
and then the piece de resistance...
...we're a team, we play as a team, talk as a team, eat as a team...if needs be, wank as a team...
I was loving it until he said...
...so git yer arse in goal ya bastar' and we'll chuck in a few cross baws!
And that's when I learned he'd only gone out and signed another 'keeper!!!!!!!!!
Bastar'!
I remember we pissed ourselves at them. I mean, it was so feckin' ridiculous! The trams, the karaoke, that tower...the Pleasure feckin' Beach! This was a club that lived in the past more than The Monkees. Ooh, Stanley Matthews....ooh the duck at Wembley and yet...last year, the Premiership!! Didier Drogba asking Ancelotti if he could have a shot on the Waltzers and a candy floss before getting back on the bus!!
Anyway, we weren't pissing ourselves when they duffed us up 4-1. Even then, our counter was an own-goal. I could hear the laughing policeman at the Pleasure Beach as I went left and the ball right from a free-kick for the fourth. Still, we got a decent bag of chips on the way home.
Anyway, Mac didn't seem too upset after that one altho' old Chuzzlewit the chairman wept when the Tangerines drew Man U in the next round.
It could have been us! he wailed for a week and only started to recover when we went to the top of the division the following Saturday.
So, Mac's here and Jimmy Rivers as well.
" Riv" had no close season. He just wandered around the training pitch mourning the lack of training until it all started again.There he was, setting up the traffic cones with all the eagerness of the 40 year-old virgin on his wedding night.
And the lads were there.
Cracknell, Hopgood, Herberts, Spock ( you gotta check his ears!) etc etc etc. I'll introduce you to the rest of them as the season unfolds.
There's a new guy as well. I didn't recognise the coupon although everybody else seemed to know him.
Mac was doing that face-to-face-with-the-new-boy routine that he always did at this time of the year....
I've brought ye here cos ye kin dae a joab fur me ya bastar'. We dae the work doon here, oan the training grun'...blood, snotters....
It's the pish he doled out to me on my first day..
...guts 'n' glory...
like he's been watching Al Pacino in Any Given Sunday..
show me second an' i'll show ye the loser...
and then the piece de resistance...
...we're a team, we play as a team, talk as a team, eat as a team...if needs be, wank as a team...
I was loving it until he said...
...so git yer arse in goal ya bastar' and we'll chuck in a few cross baws!
And that's when I learned he'd only gone out and signed another 'keeper!!!!!!!!!
Bastar'!
Sunday, 26 June 2011
Pre-season AGAIN!
This is my last season.
Definitely.
I've only been saying THAT for about 5 years. But, here it is. I'm nearly 42 for feck's sake and I'm still playing professional football. Well, kind of professional and kind of still playing. I'm a goalkeeper so apparently I'm like insurance salemen...I can stay in the game til I'm in my 50s but I've been telling Carey for the last 5 years that this is it. It's always the same stuff. We get to the pre-season. She rakes up all that pish about me quitting the game and how I'm too old and how I could be the father of half the first team which actually was the truth last year. The average age of our midfield was 23, my back four averaged at 22 only because we had Tony playing centre-half and he's 34 and the guy upfront, a cocky wee prick called Jason, is barely 19.
Football's not a game for pensioners but fuck me, I'm pissed off listening to these wee dicks asking me if my heating allowance has kicked in every time we're warming up before a match. What do they know? Have they frozen their balls off in Leipzig with a Swiss referee who thinks the Geneva Convention means that East German teams should have a penalty within the last 10 minutes of the first-half of their home leg in a UEFA Cup tie?
Have they faced down Alex Ferguson when he's nipped in to "congratulate" our plucky obstinacy for denying Mark Hughes and Ryan Giggs up until the 82nd minute of an FA Cup game even when he KNEW the Welsh wizard had gone down softer than a Rowantrees fruit pastille for that penalty? Fergie, eh? One of the immortals until I told him Giggs was a a cheatin' bastard. ( Which, to be honest, a lot more punters outside of footy have discovered!)
But I was sitting there a few weeks ago, stuck on the old beige leather 3-seater, a cold one in my hand, the remnants of rogan josh soiling the plate, Carey watching some arsehole thinking he's George Michael on Britain's Not-In-Any-Shape-Or-Form-Got Talent wondering for like the four millionth time about quitting the game and then it happened.
It was like Mark Lawrenson appeared out of the sky on a flaming pie and asked me...
" What the fuck are you doing this for?"
So that was it.
Simple.
This is my last season ever in football and I'm now going to record it on a blog.
When I started as a pro there were no blogs, no mobiles, no e-mail. That's mainly cos nobody gave a shit but now we tell everybody everything even if they don't want to hear it sooooooooo
............stick with me as I take you through the last season of my career.
Just to be sure though, I'm not Premiership...not even Coca-Cola but I love football and I've spent more time on a pitch than I have with Carey in Tescos so if you're interested in what it's like to stick the boots and gloves on and stand tall against every wee shite who thinks he's the next Messi then...
come along! There's a full moon shining bright and...
...this is my last season...
...ever!
Definitely.
I've only been saying THAT for about 5 years. But, here it is. I'm nearly 42 for feck's sake and I'm still playing professional football. Well, kind of professional and kind of still playing. I'm a goalkeeper so apparently I'm like insurance salemen...I can stay in the game til I'm in my 50s but I've been telling Carey for the last 5 years that this is it. It's always the same stuff. We get to the pre-season. She rakes up all that pish about me quitting the game and how I'm too old and how I could be the father of half the first team which actually was the truth last year. The average age of our midfield was 23, my back four averaged at 22 only because we had Tony playing centre-half and he's 34 and the guy upfront, a cocky wee prick called Jason, is barely 19.
Football's not a game for pensioners but fuck me, I'm pissed off listening to these wee dicks asking me if my heating allowance has kicked in every time we're warming up before a match. What do they know? Have they frozen their balls off in Leipzig with a Swiss referee who thinks the Geneva Convention means that East German teams should have a penalty within the last 10 minutes of the first-half of their home leg in a UEFA Cup tie?
Have they faced down Alex Ferguson when he's nipped in to "congratulate" our plucky obstinacy for denying Mark Hughes and Ryan Giggs up until the 82nd minute of an FA Cup game even when he KNEW the Welsh wizard had gone down softer than a Rowantrees fruit pastille for that penalty? Fergie, eh? One of the immortals until I told him Giggs was a a cheatin' bastard. ( Which, to be honest, a lot more punters outside of footy have discovered!)
But I was sitting there a few weeks ago, stuck on the old beige leather 3-seater, a cold one in my hand, the remnants of rogan josh soiling the plate, Carey watching some arsehole thinking he's George Michael on Britain's Not-In-Any-Shape-Or-Form-Got Talent wondering for like the four millionth time about quitting the game and then it happened.
It was like Mark Lawrenson appeared out of the sky on a flaming pie and asked me...
" What the fuck are you doing this for?"
So that was it.
Simple.
This is my last season ever in football and I'm now going to record it on a blog.
When I started as a pro there were no blogs, no mobiles, no e-mail. That's mainly cos nobody gave a shit but now we tell everybody everything even if they don't want to hear it sooooooooo
............stick with me as I take you through the last season of my career.
Just to be sure though, I'm not Premiership...not even Coca-Cola but I love football and I've spent more time on a pitch than I have with Carey in Tescos so if you're interested in what it's like to stick the boots and gloves on and stand tall against every wee shite who thinks he's the next Messi then...
come along! There's a full moon shining bright and...
...this is my last season...
...ever!
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