Welbeck has one ‘L’ of a problem with ‘greedy’ Lallana.

When it was announced earlier this week that both Andros Townsend and Michael Carrick would be returning from International duty to their respective employers, as a result of minor knocks picked up during England training, no-one thought anything of it… but that was one ‘L’ of a mistake…

Tensions frayed, earlier this week, when Danny Welbeck and Calum Chambers were reading the Metro on the bus on the way into training and noticed England teammates Gary Cahill and Adam Lallana were ‘carrying a spare’. The pair were left stunned by the shocking discovery and it proved too much for the young England stars to stomach; as both have been singled out and ridiculed for the overwhelming lack of the letter ‘L’ in their respective names, since birth.

Roy Hodgson has never hidden his preference for ‘Non-‘L’ers’, in handing Wayne Rooney, and before him, Steven Gerrard, the England captaincy, but it was assumed, by F.A bosses and experts, that the appointment of Gary Neville (a Two-‘L’er) – as a balance – had eased any lingering tension. Unfortunately the animosity between the One-‘L’ers, Non-‘L’ers, Two-‘L’ers and Surplus-‘L’ers, is yet again threatening to split the England dressing room in four!

When Michael Carrick a fellow One-‘L’er, and father figure to the young One-‘L’ers in the squad, confronted Cahill and Lallana, Towsend (a Non-‘L’er) stepped in: the violent scenes that erupted left the dressing room needing a really good tidy up.

A source said, “Rooney’s degenerative condition in his knees … no wait, you were asking me about ‘L’s in players names … I’m sorry you’ve lost me. That makes no sense.”

As you list the players that have gone down in the history books as the greatest players ever in the history books of history, it’s clear to see players with ‘L’s come out on top, if you ignore approximately half of them, Maradona, Eric Cantona, Cruyff etc… and just consider the ones that substantiate the theory that this is a real serious issue: Lionel Messi, Cristiano Ronaldo, Pele etc…

Either way it’s abundantly clear, it’s an ‘L’ of a problem for Roy and he needs to learn how to deal with it fast!

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.

If you’re a regular visitor to the site (Hi, Cathy Ferg!) you may have noticed I haven’t been writing much?! Or, perhaps you’re here because you’ve heard about the festival and you wanted to have a little nose around? Maybe you Google searched Bifurcated fan and was expecting to find accessories for your loft conversion, or for your 1980s action movie stunt sequence re-enactment?  Either way, hello – I’ve been organising a festival: www.fofi.org.uk

It’s called the Festival of Football Ideas and it’s a celebration of football through the medium of art, music, literature and film.  The tag line I came up with sums up the spirit of the festival quite nicely, I think:

People who like football are people, just like us. Some of these people have other interests too. Some of them creative ones. It turns out artists like football. Poets like football. Academics, writers, comedians and even musicians; they all like football.
Many of them even love it.
Sometimes they all overlap gloriously. Imagine.
This is the Festival of Football Ideas.

I’m incredibly proud of what my small group of friends and I have managed to accomplish so far. It’s already exceeded any expectations we had when I first put the idea to them. Each one has bought their own individual skills to it – and how! Whatever happens in the next couple of months, whether things run smoothly, or not so much, above all else, this is already a triumph of friendship.

Anyway, I won’t be writing and/or blogging much for a while ‘cus of the festival I just mentioned (keep up), but I will be blogging about the festival here:  FOFI BLOG

So, I thought I’d leave you a handy clickable list of the things that I’ve done recently, to give anyone interested an idea of what I do.

On Rooney (and other stuff):

I Was Thinking: Is It Ever Just About Football?

On Danny:

Danny, Me, and Henry

On Missing Players:

Present Absence

On Our Midfield:

Needing Something Other

Things I (Don’t) Rant About:

Rants That Aren’t Rants

I Draw Things Using Paint:

 Drawings

I also make irreverent animated films over at the YouTube channel:

Bifurcated United YouTube

I also write regular irreverent Post and Pre-Match thoughts along with masters of the art: Ben and Tom. We’re making a very serious comment on the futility of Pre and Post-Match analysis … honest.

I run Bifurcated with David (who’s also helping me run the festival), who isn’t around on here much.

Aside from perhaps in the physical and visceral sense, football has a problem articulating itself.  99% of managers, players, people running clubs, and them lot running the whole thing, talk without saying anything 99% of the time. That’s how they prefer it. The less actually said the better. The contractual obligation to talk about football is merely an obstacle eating into the time set aside for the doing of the football, which they navigate with non-words, retrograde lip-service, stock sentences, tired rhetoric, and GCSE misdirection, labouring under the misapprehension that ‘media training’ refers to an improvement in communications, when what in fact it appears to refer to is a process whereby the brain is removed and replaced by a house brick (incidentally an object that they would prefer to take and use to caress their gluteal fold). But that’s not to say football is entirely to blame.

Football has no pre-ordained narrative although – as I’ve written before – we often think of a season as having a narrative retrospectively (and talk about it in narrative terms), in order to help piece it together, make sense of it and consign it to memory. We categorise points which were crucial, the events which conspired to create outcomes we weren’t anticipating, and so on. However, as there’s no such thing as fate, football narratives are created in real time, as they are in real life. They’re real things happening to real people, or at least that’s how it might be if the media weren’t complicit in its narrative creation.

It’s left to the journalists, writers, commenters and ‘the general media’ to give football its meaning; it’s allegories and narrative. It’s their job to do this, and to this end it’s understandably in their best interest to manipulate it, where possible, to supply the demands of their audience. So, the media feeds managers and players very narrow questions, with very narrow answers. Not satisfied with this alone, they speculate between the lines, meddle with the context, or just make stuff up. Football is hyper-aware of this: the press’ attempts to trip them up, to make them say something … anything, which results in an impasse.  Then, when football thinks it should be saying something, it’s so entrenched in the not saying anything, that it usually comes out wrong. However, it would be remiss to suggest that it’s this alone where the break down in genuine communication is manifest.

Another reason football has a problem expressing itself is that it has an unhealthy sense of dressing room loyalty, which only serves to further stymie real communication. This has its roots in the unwritten codes of in-housism – at club level and within the football fraternity at large – in turn fed by a ‘what-goes-on-tour-stays-on-tour’ stag-do mentality, which facilitates the harbouring of all kinds of wrongdoers, from rapists to racists, and affords the likes of Andy Gray a career. One way we could perhaps effectively shift away from this current situation would be through the introduction of a more measured, authentic exchange of thoughts and feelings through the careful consideration of the opinions of individuals: through something often referred to in real life as conversation.

Pre and post-match press conferences would become pre and post-match press conversations, where the respective managers and appropriate representatives from the playing staff (and matchday officials) ask each other questions, talk to each other, and in some way take ownership of the narrative. Thus affording players and managers and the other lot something nearer to the autonomy they should be entitled to when attempting to explain away and justify their version of events, relative to their clubs and their own careers.

Though perhaps Football would still try and get away with saying very little and The Media would still try and get away with murder. Shame.

*Brett donated his fee to the ‘Mute Moyes Foundation’.

Translator’s note: I’m not fully fluent in Spanish and Brett’s writing style is very unique (and occasionally hard to fathom even in English).

Yo no veo mucho fútbol *¡un sobresalto! – ¡qué horror! – ¡decapitáme!* así que, cuando estaba de vacaciones en España, en un bar, El Clásico apunto de comenzar, no era seguro como comportarme.  Para decir que los ojos estuvieron pegados a la tele, sería idealizar la escena un chiquitín porque, de verdad, pasé el primer semestre del partido subrepticiamente raspando desde mi plato, el estofado de ternera que mi novia y yo habíamos pedido por equivocación (ser vegan en Europa nos da estos retos) y no tenía ganas de parecer descortes, qué Británico soy.  No obstante, lo pasaba bien y al medio tiempo un péaton, quien echó un vistazo al tele, me preguntó el resultado. Hablo Spanglish y contesté: “Yo soy un helado”. El hombre le gustó esta respuesta y asintió con la cabeza.  En retrospectiva, claro que sí, él había notado que soy tonto.

Aparte de los blogs que leo de vez en cuando, escrito por William Abbs (@WilliamAbbs), no sé nada de La Liga *¡Decapita el resto de la cabeza! (el muñón sangriento)* pero lo que me noté más durante diferentes estancias en España – a pesar de las diferencias culturales entre España e Inglaterra – es la ubicuidad de los fans.  Las hinchas en un bar, el camarero, un grupo de hinchas por la calle, los niños jugando fútbol en un parque, o por la playa, todos reflejan los gestos y el comportamiento de los aficionados del fútbol de vuelta a casa – son casi idénticos.  Ni son las similitudes exclusivos a los aficionados.  El tratamiento del fútbol por The Media Española, también refleja algo de nuestro Media.  Cuando estuve en Espana, la noticia de ‘La Tristeza de Ronaldo’ hace poco se había escapado y todos los medios de comunicación no dejan de hablar y hablar y hablar de Ronaldo y su tristeza.  Me parecía muy familiar.  Pero, no somos los mismos y el fútbol Español y el fútbol de Inglaterra, por cierto, son distintos.

Se habían escrito mucho sobre la escuela del fútbol en España, de tiki-taka y todo lo de eso, y, sin duda, cosas como esos han influido mucho el éxito de los equipos de La Liga.  Pero yo quiero sugerir que – tal vez – la cultura Española se haya ayudado también.  No quiero generalizar, pero por toda España – en general – hay un sentido de la comunidad más fuerte que en Inglaterra.  Todos somos seres sociales por la naturaleza humana, y no quiero decir que los Ingleses son totalmente introvertidos, pero por comparación con los Españoles, sí.  Los Españoles dan la bienvenida al concepto de la sociabilidad.  Se gusta la compañía de otra gente (lo sé, son locos, no?!)  La mayoría de la gente almuerza con la familia y con los amigos, comienza la noche con El Paseo con la familia y con los amigos, y luego toma algo en un bar o en un restaurante con la familia y con los amigos, hasta la madrugada.  Esto no es de vez en cuando, esto es la vida Española jubilosa.  Además, el gobierno se dice que cada agosto es fiesta y también en España hay diecisiete días de festivo (variaciones locales equivalen a más) en comparación con los nueve de Inglaterra.  Mira – ¿quién crees tú se hace la vida más buena? Y, qué sabías ¡no he hablado del clima!

Sin duda, hay muchas razones, por las cuales el fútbol Español gobierna.  En muchas no he pensado, considerado, o discutido aquí.  Sin embargo, yo creo que, si la identidad nacional de tu país enfatiza la importancia de las cosas importantes verdaderas – como pasando un rato con los amados y deleitándose con una actitud de “trabajar para vivir, no vivir para trabajar”, vivirás bien y con la salud psíquica más fuerte y a su vez – con menos contaminación de la mente – tendrás más potencial para desbloquear la creatividad.

Hay una escena en The Mighty Boosh (bueno, lo más inteligente de los puntos de referencia, no, pero vaya conmigo) donde Howard y Vince se hace naufragar. Están en una isla y Howard (el pesimista) acusa a Vince (“el chico hecho del sol”) – quién se disfruta el sol y se comporta asi como el naufragio es una parte de la vacación – que “se cae en la trampa”.  La idea es que Vince, el chico más optimista del mundo, se enceguece al terror de lo que Howard es tan consciente.  El pesimismo de Howard resulta en una situación donde Howard no puede comprender como la situación pudiera ser nada otra cosa que una lucha terrible.  “Qué trampa?” contesta Vince “La trampa de la alegría de vivir?”

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)

In the pub, at half-time that other Tuesday, I returned to my seat after a visit to the bar to find that three twenty-somethings had materialised. I hadn’t gone out of my way to notice them, it’s just that in a relatively large room with literally no-one else in it, they had decided to park themselves right in front of the table that me and a friend were sitting at. I asked them politely if they wouldn’t mind moving ever so slightly, so that I could see the screen. Their mixed reactions, as they turned to address my request – ranging from disgust to utter indifference – almost prompted me to check the mirror, just to make sure I hadn’t accidentally returned to my seat as one of the many hate figures of popular culture, or perhaps to see if I was there at all. As someone who occasionally likes to encourage the best in people, I was unperturbed by their rebuke, presuming that maybe I’d caught them off-guard, so I suggested that instead of sitting so as to obscure the screen, they could fetch themselves some of the comfy seats from around the corner and use those instead. This was met with the same response. Without even clocking the second-hand clothes I was wearing, or the holes I’ve had in my shoes since January, they’d already decided I was ‘Other’.

In contrast to their antipathy towards me, I could – to an extent – empathise with them.  In my twenties, I myself might well have viewed some people over the age of thirty as as good as dead.  I can also clearly recall my excruciating post-adolescent insecurities, mixed with a wholly misguided sense that I was the first person in the world to be doing whatever it was I was doing. Without a doubt, though, I was always aware of my own sentience in relation to others and theirs. I have always believed in cliches like, ‘people not like us, are people just like us’ and ‘it’s nice to be nice’ and these, and others like them, have always underpinned my values in a social context.

Now I had noticed the three twenty-somethings, it became apparent that all of them were wearing identical clothing brands and sporting slight variations on the same box-fresh haircut. All three gestured and postured in the same affected way and after the initial excitement of initiating their intimate banter circle, they all took out their smart phones and proceeded to watch the whole match through the medium of Twitter, only occasionally lifting their heads to acknowledge one other; the disconnect, all too apparent.

This isn’t your regular, nihilistic, we’re-all-going-to-hell-in-a-handcart-beware-the-coming-insurrection-dystopian type forecast, common with the reflexive impotent. I’m not going to take it upon myself to start expropriating smart phones, I don’t want anyone to start hugging trees and I’m not even asking you to reject capitalism: you are all free to create your own realities (with the usual caveat of not being mean to others attached with an asterisk). I just want to know that people are participating in their experience and experiencing their participation because it’s the insistance on placing so much stock in the superficial that’s propogating bigotry in all it’s forms.

Engage.

If I were to make New Year’s resolutions, this year mine would be to watch less football, or – more specifically, to no longer watch Sky Sports.*

*It would have suited the narrative flow of this post to have started the previous sentence with ‘My New Year’s resolution is to watch less football”, a slight alteration in the construction of the paragraph, which in the scheme of things would have no bearing on anything; people adapt and edit their opinion to suit the narrative in this way all the time, apart from in this case, with regards to the salient point I’m hoping to raise in this post, it wouldn’t have represented the truth.

Football has no pre-ordained narrative, although we often think of a season as having a narrative retrospectively (and talk about it in narrative terms), in order to help piece it together, make sense of it and consign it to memory. We categorise points which were crucial, the events which conspired to create outcomes we weren’t anticipating and so on. However, as there’s no such thing as fate, football narratives are created in real time, as they are in real life. They’re real things happening to real people, or at least that’s how it was until television – largely in the form of Sky* – began to interfere.

*Sky is evil – nothing new in that. It’s the default standard for News Corp products (to that end this post could take any number of routes). People like to be lead and marketing departments know this. It’s a lesson learned from history, primarily through religion. Repeating messages and reaffirming them in a prescribed manner to people in need of guidance informs their dependency, thus they become indoctrinated. There’s a science to this: if you repeat a message X number of times, eventually it permeates the relevant part of the brain and sticks (don’t watch Sky. Don’t watch Sky. Don’t watch Sky. Don’t watch Sky. Don’t watch Sky. Don’t watch Sky. Don’t watch Sky). When a market becomes so aggressively cornered by A Brand – in this case Sky – it’s very difficult to counter it’s omnipotence. It’s incredibly strong market position allows it a self-perpetuating growth. People in marketing prey on insecurity (another lesson learned from religion) and know that people need to follow through fear of “missing out” and so the brand’s power grows exponentially: repeating messages, reaffirming beliefs, preying. It’s stranglehold on English football television rights creates the cycle that many people are predicting will lead to the inevitable death of the game and to a phrase I’ve heard repeated a lot recently: “Football will eat itself”.  Though perhaps I think it’s more accurate to say that: “Capitalism will chew on football and tear everything of value from it, then spit it out when it’s done”.  Just as it has done to industries, cities and communities. This was only supposed to be a footnote of sorts to the observation I was going to go on to make so I think I’ll save the, ‘profit = corruption, money = debt, flaws in Neoclassical economics debate and issues with infinite systems being arrogantly super-imposed over the finite ones that exist’, for another post on the twelfth of never. Though, as I mentioned marketing, it wouldn’t feel right, as a nod to Bill Hicks, to not ask any of you marketing people out there who might be reading this, to – if not kill yourself – at least give yourself a really nasty Chinese burn. Thanks.

(back to the point…)

These last couple of football seasons have been bulging with narrative and extremely entertaining, but I’m under no illusion: they’re becoming impostors. What we are witnessing are the affectations and pseudo-behaviours of generations who have grown up under the shadow of BSkyB. Players who have grown up so immersed in the culture of modern televised football broadcast, created by Sky – with a narcissistic image of themselves – and funded by Sky – that their actions (playing out like a dramatic montage on ‘Super Sunday’) are nothing more than a superficial aping of how they see themselves. Players kiss the badge, but not because they love the club. Players run to the fans, but not because they love they fans. Players are quiet after a goal against an old team, but not out of respect. They’re all affectations, one dimensional motifs belonging to the modern egotist who wants to be perceived in all dimensions, but can’t be bothered to put the time in. Perhaps the most honest of all aped celebrations is the one where the player points to his own name. Players have become hyper-aware of themselves as a product and that in itself is enough to manipulate their individual role in the narrative, so altering the whole. Sky created this, with money, and the hype they heap on top of the money, which they see as necessary to make them yet more of it. Hyperbole injected into our eyes with hyperbolic needles.

What’s the problem though, if it looks like a season and not only that, it’s more entertaining, more engrossing? The simple answer is there isn’t one – we’re all free to create our own realities.  I saw a quote this week saying that, “Wilshere knows what playing for Arsenal means”. Rhetoric of this nature means nothing to me, it never has since I’ve been watching football.  I understand the principle underpinning such a perception, but the way I personally perceive the way Wilshere plays, for example, is that his ego drives him on to want to be better. Both work. Wilshere is still doing the “right thing” on the pitch – the things we “expect” of him.

When we allow something (like football) to strongly inform our identity, it has to have meaning that we value, or it devalues our meaning: we become meaningless. We must search for, and give the things that define us, our own meaning. In the tale of The Emperor’s New Clothes, the con men have taken everything for themselves, stripping the Emperor and leaving him naked so that the community that serves the Emperor are left staring at his naked body. No-one, either the Emperor or the community, wants to admit that there’s nothing there, so instead they convince themselves of it’s existence. They give it it’s value, because if they don’t, they have to admit that they’re stupid.

We will always say football isn’t how it used to be because we have the misfortune to have developed the ability of seeing things through the eyes of an adult. But it’s more than that – football is losing it’s truth. I’ve taken Sky’s own tag-line, ‘Believe in Better’ to it’s logical conclusion: a place where Sky doesn’t exist, not for me anyway.

The endlessly repeated dialogue between rival fans, where the same clichéd ”bantz” are regurgitated … ahhh, see what I did there? No? Well, let me remind you … (repeat to fade)

"I'm an Ice-cream"

I don’t watch much football *SHOCK – HORROR – ORF WITH MY OWN HEAD*, so when I found myself on holiday in Spain, in a Spanish bar, with El Clasico about to start, I didn’t really know what to do with myself. To say my eyes were glued to the small telly in the corner would over romanticize the actual events somewhat, as  I spent much of the first half surreptitiously scraping the beef stew we’d mistakenly ordered (travelling through Europe as a vegan provides these challenges) from my plate, into a paper hanky – so as not to look unappreciative (how very British); but it was nonetheless exciting. At half-time, I was asked who’d scored by a passer-by, who’d stuck their head in the door, and I replied in my best spanglish (something I’ve since learned to be the equivalent of): “I’m an ice-cream”! This pleased the passer-by and he gave a knowing nod. In hindsight he’d clearly noted and concurred that I indeed had a soft head.

Apart from the occasional post from William Abbs (@WilliamAbbs), I read through Twitter, I’m oblivious to much of the goings on in the Spanish leagues *ORF WITH THE REST OF MY HEAD (the bloody stump bit)*, but what I’ve found apparent (whilst visiting the country) – despite the cultural differences between Spain and England – is the ubiquity of fandom. The football fans in the bar, the barman, the groups of fans in the streets, the kids playing footy in the park, or on the beach throughout the holiday (and previous trips to Spain), all mirroring the gestures and behaviour of football fans back home – it’s almost identikit. The similarities aren’t exclusive to the fans either; the nature of how football plays out in the media also echoes our own. The ‘La Tristeza de Ronaldo’ (The Sadness of Ronaldo) story had just broken and the oppressive way that the TV channels, radio phone-ins and papers endlessly referenced (and endlessly repeated) the story to death was all too familiar. But we aren’t the same are we … Spanish and English football are definitely very different.

Much has been written on the schooling of Spanish football, on tiki-taka (and all that), and without question these things have a great influence on the output of their teams, but I’d argue that it’s also aspects of their wider culture that feed into their success. In Spain – without intending to generalise – there is ‘generally’ a much stronger sense of community. We are social beings by our nature, and while not suggesting we’re entirely introverted here, comparatively we very much are. The Spanish absolutely embrace the concept of sociability. They genuinely seem to enjoy being in other people’s company. I know – crazy isn’t it? For the majority of Spaniards, lunch (the main meal of the day) is spent, practically without exception, with a group of friends or family. The evening will start with a walk (el paseo) again with a group of family and friends, before heading somewhere, all together (a bar, restaurant or a neighbours’) until the early hours. This isn’t a once-in-a-while ‘little treat’, this is their joyous life.  In addition to this, the Spanish government decree a public holiday throughout the WHOLE of August and they have seventeen bank holidays (with local variations equalling more), in comparison to our miserly nine. Now … who’s doing life right? And whadya know? I haven’t even mentioned the weather.

Fortunately I wasn't arrested for taking this photo ... this time.

There are, without doubt, many reasons why Spanish football rules. And a lot of them I haven’t even thought of, or ever even contemplated, let alone mentioned here. However, I really do feel that if your national identity – which (as much as you might fight it) informs your learned personality – places emphasis on the truly important things like spending time with your loved ones and revelling in an attitude of work to live (not live to work), your mental well being will be so much the better for it, and in turn you will – with less mind pollution – have a greater potential to unlock your creativity.

There’s a scene in an episode of The Mighty Boosh (okay, not the most intellectual of reference point granted – but go with it) where Howard and Vince become shipwrecked on a desert island and Howard (the perpetual pessimist) accuses Vince (“The Sunshine Boy”), who’s treating their predicament like an extension of their holiday, of “falling into the trap”. The inference is that Vince’s enduring optimism has blinded him to the potential terrors that Howard himself is hyper aware of. Howard’s pessimism means he can’t fathom how this situation could be perceived as anything other than a torrid struggle. “What trap?” replies Vince, “The trap of enjoying your life”.