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.
Tuesday, 30 August 2011
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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