The Premier League could soon be left drowning its sorrows, as Water threatens to put the freeze on their long standing relationship.  

Well, Well, Well: Bottle of water leaves Warnock hanging for the second time in a week.

The world was left to drink in the shock waves this week, as images emerged of highly acclaimed, and universally renowned The Premier League manager, Neil Warnock, being left humiliated by a bottle of water, not just the once, but the twice. However, the facts were only just bubbling to the surface…

High and Dry: Warnock can’t hide his disappointment at being left hanging the first time round.

When the original picture of Warnock was splashed across front pages and social media in mid-October, it was presumed a one off; something between Warnock and the bottle, but it soon became crystal clear that it was merely a drop in the ocean. The relationship between Water and The Premier League has been heading towards rocky shores for some time.

It wasn’t long before evidence of other The Premier League and The Other Leagues high-profile managers’ run-ins with Water resurfaced, highlighting the icy relations between the two superpowers:

Water-Shoot: Neil Lennon kicks some water.

Water-Gunner: Arsene Wenger kicks some water.

Water-Mark: Mark Hughes kicks some water.

Water-Powell: Chris Powell kicks some water.

It is rumoured that the clouds originally formed over the alliance, when ex-professional footballer John Barnes was secretly filmed, in a busy dressing room while on England duty, claiming that a rival brand “got to your thirst fast”, with the implication that they took sport more seriously than Water.  The tension from this video, that went viral at the time, has remained, simmering just below the surface.

Years later and Sepp Blatter stirred up these tensions when he unwittingly reneged on a promise to supply Water with a lucrative contract, after plans he had originally drawn up for the Women’s game weren’t seen thru. A spokesperson for Water at the time claiming “Blatter’s deal just evaporated; it was all hot air.”

It isn’t just managers who have found themselves embroiled in the feud. The Premier League’s Frank Lampard was forced to leave Chelsea, to save face, when a bottle of water left him hanging live on television – ironically the particular bottle of water was sponsored by the rival company:

Water way to go: Lampard was forced to leave Chelsea.

And one of the The Premier League’s legends, David Beckham, was given no option but to leave the MLS and return to Europe, when American extremist bottles of water singled out the soccer star for some particularly humiliating treatment:

Water disgrace: David Beckham was singled out for some particularly humiliating treatment.

Water-Proof: More proof David Beckham was singled out.

Water-Front: David Beckham on the front-line of the ongoing battle between Water and The Premier League.

The latest fall out is thought to have sprung from leaked documents suggesting The Premier League are keen to tie up a big money deal with the rival company to Water, who now claim to ‘hydrate athletes better’. A water source said, “The founders, the H Brothers, and O [one half of the entrepreneurial siblings who formed ‘Air’, who was forced to consider personal bankruptcy when faced with the threat of liquidation] are waiting for the Premier League to come up with a solution. Behind the scenes they’re steaming!”

Claude O’ Zade: representative of the organisation and family behind the French-Irish competitor was unavailable for comment.

It’s clear, when it comes to Water and The Premier League potentially navigating these stormy seas, it’s glass half-empty, not glass half-full.

Ben (Benglorious):

When Mr Bifurcated (I don’t know his real name) asked me to contribute to his website, I immediately asked about the remuneration package.  After getting some very evasive responses, I finally realised that I was supposed to do it for free like all the other “writers”. This struck me as odd, particularly with regard to @tom_mcghee as I know him in real life and he charges me a Queenhead every time he texts me (it’s a plumber thing); but if that corporate shill does it for nothing then I suppose I can give it a go.  Until something better comes along.  Or I get bored.  But what if they don’t do it for free?  What if I’m being mugged off and they’re all laughing at me for being such an idiot?  Oh well, just like real life, then.

I thought I’d start by doing some research on the site, and came to the horrifying realisation that I would be expected to write about football; in particular, MAnchesTA United (pun #1).  I did not see that coming.  Particularly because I know for a fact that I’ve never said anything serious on Twitter about the beautiful game.  Or any other topic.  Ever.

Anyway; football.  I’m supposed to preview the Cardiff game but I’m refusing as I feel that a Welsh team shouldn’t be playing in an English league.  Not for nationalist reasons, mind you, but purely based on travel complications.  Why should we have to take our passports for domestic league and cup games?  They should be saved for those special occasions when we tour the Far East or the States on important shirt-selling missions.  Champions League?  Not a league and far too many non-champions playing so that’s irrelevant.  The upside of this Welsh segregation is that, in my mind, we’ve never played/never will play Cardiff or Swansea and so results against them don’t Mata (Boom! That’s #2).  I’m still outraged that United are out of the FA Cup due to an administrative error/lost ball during the ITV draw.

I imagine that Mr Bifurcated (note to self: find out his name) is pulling his hair out at my “short match preview” so I’ll wrap it up and do the only bit that will actually make it online…

Prediction: 3-1 to United, with a brace for RVP, both set up by our new number seven EIGHT who also bags the third before being subbed off to a standing ovation so he can get suited and booted for the press conference.  Romantic, eh?

About the author: I’ve never been to Wales.

Dislcaimer: All puns contained herein remain the intellectual property of @PaulGunning1.

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Brett:

Mata.

As for Cardiff…

Ole has breezed into the Premier League with the assurance of a man who’s never attempted to exit a coffee shop by pulling the push door. No doubt, as a child – “the foetus-featured, L-plated sniper” – he’d mastered potty-training well before his teens. What?!

Tis, on the surface of it, a strange job for Ole to have taken. But the reality is, the expectations of the fans are relatively low, he’s got money to spend, and if it goes wrong everyone’s going to blame that bloke wearing the massive baddy outfit, with the massive baddy face, who behaves like a massive baddy, with a massive baddy neon sign bolted to him reading ‘MASSIVE BADDY THIS WAY’, and not Ole.

When we played them earlier in the season – when everybody’s favourite spoonerism Malky Mackay was still in charge – we couldn’t beat them then, even with the away advantage. So, I wouldn’t be at all surprised to see them limit Mata to just two brilliant goals.

Prediction: 2-1. Having received the signal, Ole to suddenly get up from his seat and calmly make his way towards the centre-circle, where he begins removing a patch of loose turf, revealing the rusty box where he’d some time before stashed his Remington Model 700 rifle. It all now becomes clear: *flashback waves* the incident with Rob Lee was a carefully orchestrated distraction. Haven’t you always wondered what Ole was doing as last man back? As Rob Lee had made his way over the halfway line, Ole had been busy burying an object – we now know to be the rifle – but the onrushing conventionally attractive footballer had disturbed him; and thus threatened to give the whole game away. Thinking on his feet, Ole gave chase, and brought GQ chops down, just outside the area, creating a hive of activity well away from the middle of the pitch. Ole was, of course, sent off, but as Newcastle prepared to take the free-kick, Ole, having now disguised himself as a discarded crisp packet (a costume he’d had on under his kit, in the event of something like this happening), returned quickly to the pitch, finished hiding the fire-arm, replaced the turf and disappeared on the next zephyr… *flashback waves* Ole (now back in the present – keep up!) loads the rifle in two slick movements (which gets a round of applause from the Old Trafford crowd, which he acknowledges), and with one shot he takes down his target. Meanwhile, Chris Woods and Phil Neville have removed their masks, to reveal they were themselves all along.

Danny to give his permission for Mata to score his customary two for him.

I was in bits at the opening sequence. I managed to just about hold it together for the rest. I fell in love with Eric more (even more)(I didn’t think it was possible, either). And much goosebumps ensued.

Do you like being wrong? I like being wrong. Do you like being wrong? I like being wrong. Love being wrong. Love it. Yeah. It’s great being wrong, isn’t it? Yeah …  I like being wrong. Really like being wrong. Really, love being wrong. Yeah. Yeah. Love IT! Yeah, really, REALLY love, love, LOVE being wrong. Yeah … you know the best thing about being wrong? The best thing about being wrong? Yeah, the BEST thing about being wrong? The best thing about being wrong is when your friends remind you, you were wrong. Yeah, LOVE being reminded when I was wrong. BEST THING! LOVE BEING WRONG!!

When I first heard this documentary film was being released, I was expecting a Christmas cash cow, and was happy to tell anyone within ear shot how it would inevitably take the form of a thrashed-out slash straight-to-video slash regurgitated montage off all those familiar clips; a pre-prescribed emotional mugging. It unequivocally is not that. The production spec is proper; this has been taken very seriously, by proper film-makers. But that’s not even the half of it.

As the six players eloquently talk us through their story (joyfully abetted by the two Erics: Harrison and Eric), we’re reminded, not only of how special their story is, but of just how integral to it their relationships with each other were and are. It’s no surprise then that the moments when the film really excels are when the players are gathered together over their tea. It’s they themselves who tell this story best and the creators of the documentary provide them with the perfectly understated platform to pitch it from here.

A couple of little things: I understand there’s a formula to documentary film-making and key to this is providing a social and political context for the main narrative, but (just throwing it out there) perhaps one or two of the external talking heads accepted the invitation primarily to indulge in some professional self-serving – I’m definitely looking at you Tony Blair (Boo!). For my personal taste, the film could have done without these asides – not you Mani, you’re alright – as the television and media footage that was interspersed throughout did the job more than adequately. I also thought we might find out what happened to a few of the other graduates. I’ll shut up.

Though it’s really hard for me to watch this film any way but subjectively, I think there is enough in the relationships of the players, and in this new take on their real-life fairytale, for fans of other clubs, and non-football fans to get behind. For United fans it’s a no-brainer – you have to see this film.

To coincide with the release of the new Class of ’92 documentary film (@classof92film, Class of ’92 DVD) we’re taking six familiar faces, with six all too familiar names to Canvey Island: Giggsy, Scholesy, Butty, Phily, Gary-y and Becky. What?!

For this special trip, our Canvey Island family will be sharing the song that defined 1992 for them.

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As they were boarding the train, the conductor stopped them for a second to ask “if we’ll get to find out what happened to the other 86?! Hey?! Hey?! Lads?!” (Hey! That’s my joke.) and then helped them aboard, in silence, ‘cept for a distant death knell.

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There was only one train waiting to depart, there was only one destination …

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Canvey Island!

They stepped off the train and were ushered, like the others before them, towards the car park where they found the car-boot sale and the stall run this time by someone who looked suspiciously like ex-Manchester United player Eric Cantona. He always rotas himself in for the good ones.

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Eric had a message for them: “Bonjour mes petits amis spéciaux préférés … Hey! Je me demandais si nous pourrions obtenir pour savoir ce qui s’est passé à l’autre 86? Non! Attendez une minute … qu’est ce que c’est cloche pour? Quoi qu’il en soit, s’il vous plaît jeter un oeil à ce que la famille Canvey a choisi pour vous…”

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…And this is what the Canvey Island family members picked as the song that defined their own 1992, and why (in their own words)…

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Estranged by Guns ‘n’ Roses

Picked by Paul Ansorge

Harvest Moon by Neil Young

Under The Bridge by Red Hot Chilli Peppers

Picked by Paul Gunning

“I was only eleven years old in 1992. So, my first year in high school, a year of first, awkward, taking-an-age-to-build-up-the-courage-to-slip-my-arm-round-a-girl’s-shoulders dates at cinemas, first kisses with tongues, terrible clothes and ‘curtains’ haircuts.

It’s fitting that this song should be a love letter to a city, as 1992 was also the year that I truly fell in love with Manchester and began to feel the first flutters of melancholy and aloneness within my soul, perfectly encapsulated in this heart-rending track.

It’s such a powerful, evocative song that brings back flooding memories of important loved ones in my life, and a time of awakening and possibility as I embarked on the first, faltering steps of my teenage years.”

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Would I Lie To You by Charles & Eddie

Picked by Tom Pattison

“In my ninth year on planet earth it was ALL about Charles & Eddie Would I Lie To You and it basically still is.”

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Brothers In Arms by Dire Straits

Picked by our very own David

“When I was 11? Probably Brothers in Arms by Dire Straits!”

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End of the Road by Boyz II Men

Picked by our very own Brett

“One of the best things about this song – and there are lots of best things about this song (apart from perhaps the second half of the talky part, that goes on a bit) – is that it can be sung in a key that means anyone can proper belt it out, irrespective of singing ability. It also lends itself really well to the fist-clenching-grabbing-of-that-lingering-hope-and-anguish-and-pulling-it-in-close-to-your-chest move.

My only experience of music before my early teens (I was 13 in 1992), was via the medium of Atlantic 252 and the telly (Top of the Pops and The Chart Show). Naturally I was into some pretty dark stuff: Michael Jackson. Take That. Simply Red. NKOTB NKOB. MC Hammer. Jimmy Nail. And Boyz II Men. Though I do think End of the Road is one of the best pop songs of the past twenty-five years, it’s not the song in and of itself that marks it out as defining my 1992. It’s the memory attached to it (yes, there is more)…

It was the ‘Christmas Variety Show 1992′ at our school. The Christmas Variety Show at our school was really just a vehicle for the posh and confident and “talented” and popular kids to show off, as teachers and parents fawned over them. Meanwhile, the rest of us were supposed to watch on, gratefully. Paradoxically, we despised them all, yet (for no good reason) longed to be one of them. This year the headline act was to be a duet performed by the two school ‘hunks’ (I forget their names) and it seemed everyone was restless with anticipation – everyone, but me.  As the familiar slow drum roll from the backing track tumbled in and hunk #2 sloped towards the front of the stage and began to speak in a low voice whilst hunk #1 caressed himself, it soon became apparent that this was very much not cool. I’m not sure if I’d ever experienced the frisson of cringing on someone else’s behalf before that moment; certainly not to that degree; nor for that long; nor that intensely. 

I might have been achingly shy and tragically unpopular and a bit rough (themes that have stuck), but at least I wasn’t that. And I didn’t stroke my groin in front of the whole school, with the minimum of self-awareness. I went home from the Christmas Variety Show 1992 feeling comfortable in my own skin – happy I wasn’t one of them. Happy to be me.”

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And then we dropped them off back home, but not before asking if we’d be finding out what happened to the other 86… 

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To get your hands on a copy of the DVD > Class of ’92 DVD

To keep up-to-date with all the news about the film > @classof92film

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Remember, to see the original musical picks from any of the lovable members of the Canvey Island family simply click on their names.

If you want to become a member of the Canvey Island Family, then please refer to the train timetable at selected stations, or easier still, drop us an email.

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Also available in the series (see below)…

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There’s also a ‘directors cut’…

For the first time since Michael Owen, Manchester United are starting a season without a player wearing the number 7 shirt. In the end it took a neat side-step from Antonio Valencia (which is funny, ‘cus he doesn’t do that anymore) to consign the shirt to Albert Morgan’s sewing box for the foreseeable future. There it lays in unexpected, sacrosanc hibernation, all set to rise forth from it’s tomb into Albert’s thimbled grasp, thence to be emblazoned with the name of a maverick superstar of mythical repute, when the transfer window next creaks ajar (which is funny, ‘cus that won’t happen) (none of these things in brackets are funny).

Fans of certain clubs, like certain numbers: Newcastle fans like 9s because of the finest player to wear the shirt, Andy Cole and some others – much less interesting – I’ve never heard of. Southampton fans like 3s because of Franny Benali. And Liverpool are just way too easy a target for these shirt lols.  The list goes on and on, I’m sure – if you can be bothered to look. At United though, all of our shirt numbers have been worn by the best players that have ever played, so all are special: all could be retired in honour of any number of players. However, provided we conveniently forget the number 22, it’s the number 7 with which we are most enamoured.

In the days when players were more than just a number, it was George Best who originally made the number 7 a star. No longer would it represent a point in a numerically ordered list of names selected to take to the field for their club on a given match day, and simply denote the position traditionally referred to as outside right, and then latterly right winger, which eventually became more commonly regarded as the right midfielder –  it now was George Best, a metaphor of sorts, or is it an anthropomorphism? (as long as there’s long words in here, the accuracy of the meaning is perfunctory – I’m a blogger, that’s what we do)

Via lots of other players that no-one mentions, and Steve Coppell and Bryan Robson, the number 7 completed its spiritual journey when it came to rest on Eric’s changing room peg. The timing of this celestial alignment – as sweatshop polyester entwined with dark, steely tendrils of gallic chest hair at just the same time as the Premier League first introduced the squad numbering system – meant Eric would become the first player to officially claim ownership of the number, and own it he did.

Once this line was drawn, the number 7 became a strong motif for a new generation of football fans and David Beckham was keen to deflect in this glory: he took the number 7 after having decided the ’10′ he swapped for his ’24′ wasn’t the right fit for his pretensions. What David Beckham understood though, as a fan of the club, was ‘what it was’ to wear the number 7, and that made it alright. Fergie also understood the thing about the ’7′, and also understood that the CR7 branding would work less well in the future if Ronaldo would insist on wearing his preferred ’28′, and so shoved him into the shirt kicking and screaming (that’s funny ‘cus, etc…).

On the flipside, Fergie also oversaw Michael Owen’s sullying of the scared garm (perhaps pointing to an expectation that Fergie had in Owen that was never realised) and Valencia’s self-appropriated failure to live up to expectations – real or imagined.

There’s something, I think, that all the players who played in the number 7 shirt under Fergie have in common: Eric, a player with a disruptive reputation, joined off the back of a chance phone conversation; David Beckham was one of the collective youth that Fergie put his faith in; Ronaldo, a ‘light-weight show-pony’, was bought hurriedly after the United players wouldn’t shut up about him and other clubs had got wind; Michael Owen was a punt (I said punt) on an out-of-contract, out-of-form, ‘has-been’; Valencia was a relatively little known player from ‘lowly Wigan’, charged with replacing one of the best players in the word. In one way or another, they all represented something of a gamble (beyond the usual risk involved in the transfer of players). The successful outcomes though far outweighed the not so, and as Fergie himself recently noted (in the Harvard interview), his gambling instincts have played an integral part in his success at the club.

And so, when Moyes – coming a little out of leftfield – offered Nani a new long-term contract, I was excited. Not because of any lingering affection I have for Nani particularly (though I do have a bit), but because to me it represents a risk; taking a chance on a player whose bags were already in the taxi, backing a player who kicks all the right notes, just in the wrong order, a player – it would appear – Moyes has boldly chosen to believe in (at least for the immediate future). It’s a positive move, and at odds with some of the less inspiring (bordering on maddening) manoeuvres Moyes and the club have made during this, the gestation period of ’the new era’. Moyes has certainly not been given the job off the back of his reputation to roll the dice, and it’s hardly cause to ‘strap ourselves in’, but I think it provides an indication, a shaft of light, that he’s not entirely risk averse – which I was beginning to wonder about.

For now then, the number 7 needs some bedrest, some time to erase the trauma of the last few years. Then, when Moyes has got a season under his belt and developed his card game sufficiently, he can continue the legacy of the number 7 in the proper manner … by handing it to Adnan (that’s Januzaj to you non-United lot. Get used to hearing that name. Yeah, that told yer).

This post was originally featured on By Far The Greatest Team

I decided almost immediately, at first sight, that David Beckham was out of place at United. He was riding on the coat-tails of others coming through at the time, hiding his unnatural, awkward playing style – which was littered with the embarrassing affectations that were sneaking in to the game – and getting away with someone else’s career. However, it didn’t take long for me to note his infectious enthusiasm and, aided by his knack of scoring decent looking goals, my opinion thawed fairly rapidly (what can I say? I’m fickle). It’s hard to admit when you’re wrong though and it wasn’t until he became a hate figure, after the World Cup in ’98 (told you I was fickle), that I came out as a proper Beckham fan, which isn’t to say it’s been easy (even as I’m writing, my walk to work has been spoiled by a ten-foot Beckham, grinning hokily in the new advert for Sky).

I project that newer fans (those who started following football towards the end of the nineties) are more likely to get on-board with Beckham than those who were around earlier, as they’re more comfortable with how things are in football now. The game has changed: a change that Beckham, without a doubt, has been seen (and used) as a strong motif of (and for). However, I think it’s important when talking about specific players, and their acceptance of the inevitable extra-curricular monetary rewards, that we debunk the myth that the majority of other footballers all make ethically led decisions with regards to how they’re marketed, how they’re exploited, and how they welcome that exploitation. The likes of Best, Charlton, Cantona, Zidane, Pele, Maradonna, Messi, even Scholesy, have all “sold out”, which isn’t to say it makes it right.

It’s also important – if we purport to be “against modern football” – to take our share of the responsibility. We’re sold the myth that capitalism is consumer led, and whilst that may once have had a grain of truth in it; it’s now definitely a lie.  It is, however, hard to argue against consumers being complicit in driving consumerism forward. So, before we bemoan the likes of Beckham for conspiring to ensure we’re all lusting after cans of carbonated death, shouldn’t we be throwing down our Sharpies and taking a good look at ourselves, the reflexive impotent? Is it that simple? The simple answer is, ‘yes’ and ‘no’, which isn’t to say it makes it right.

As a supplementary point: it’s also impossible, when moralising, to allow each individual the unique circumstances that their life inhabits and the experiences engendered through such circumstances. We can’t possibly expect to interpret accurately why an individual – whom we barely know – behaves the way they do via a catchall judgement. Though that’s not to say it doesn’t make us feel better about ourselves.

What’s different about David Beckham’s ‘fame’ (why he’s so prominent and also why he’s so vilified), I think, is that his arrival as an “idol” was inextricably intertwined with the arrival of the modern celebrity, bursting out at us from the tabloid domain, replacing the real news as the new real reality news. Lifestyle magazines – in all their guises – mostly, if not all, funded by parties with more than a passing interest in where and why the readership parted with their hard-earned; corrupting and co-opting subjective opinions, to suit editorial, in order to help create collective, constructed ‘objective’ ones which their readership could in turn share and spread, which in turn has given rise to the situation in which we find ourselves now: a new age of narcissism. Much of David Beckham’s monetary value rests in the part of his footballing anatomy he has probably used the least: the twenty-five centimetres or so above his neck.  It provides his family with everything they could possibly want, and the things they can’t possibly want, must-have belongings; the things that currently, it would seem, provide status and meaning. Again, that’s not to say it’s right.

There are other points I’d like crowbar in before I’m in danger of breaking my 1400 maximum word-limit rule: the way he scowls and pouts on and off the pitch with the precision of a person who has spent more than enough time rehearsing scowls and pouts on and off the pitch in front of any available reflective surface, a bathroom mirror, a shop window, or a teaspoon, coupled with, what from the outside appears to be an apparent courting of attention, is crude to some of us. But then, the culture of the tabloid press to build ‘em-up-to-knock-‘em-down, along with the misogyny with which the media treats Victoria because she periodically declines their invitation to take part in their recreational sexism, is hardly for the weak. To remain open and demonstrative in the face of all that takes a strength of character – from both Victoria and David, whatever their motivation may be – that I’m not sure I have. The way all of the above impacts on the way his footballing ability is judged, is definitely unfair.

While still playing, his enthusiasm for the game, his will to win, his work ethic, were at times incredible, matched by very few players I’ve watched. Sometimes his own idea of himself got the better of him (you all saw the Greece game right?) but again, whatever his motivation, it’s hard – I think – to deny he was an inspirational, positive force for good on the pitch and it’s also unfair to suggest he was nothing more.

There have been few sights on a football pitch that have regularly brought me more pleasure than the gentle waft, or mighty thrust, of that right foot. No player with the ball at his feet on the touchline has had me lunging forward in anticipation like Beckham. If I was asked to build my ultimate footballer – because it’s only a matter of time – Beckham’s right foot would be the first extremity on the design sheet (the left one, not so much).

He could create, he could score, deceive and disappoint. He brought elegance, excellence, petulance and arrogance. In short, he brought drama however it was dressed up. And he could do that acknowledging the crowd by putting your hands repeatedly together over your head thing – the silent showy clappy thing – as you walk off the pitch, really, really well. All the things that entertain, amuse, infuriate, leave us aghast or crying into our pot-noodles. All the things … all the things that make football, football – well, a lot of them, let’s not get carried away.

Yes, he happens to have a sufficiently inoffensive, symmetrical, healthy face and body, not too unobtainable to appear unobtainable so you didn’t spend money, yet not too obtainable to appear obtainable without spending money. And yes, his charm and modesty mean the products he’s charged with pushing in his obtainable/unobtainable way make their way onto shelves in homes the world over, before the smile has even settled on those stubbled dimples. He’s the devil – there is no question. But if Beckham the footballer were the paradigm from which new footballers were created, I think we could be happy with our lot.

I’m going to miss that handsome paradox.

(Video thanks to @AntonAlfy)