I was asked a couple of years back which other player Danny reminded me of the most and, without pausing for breath, I replied: “Henry” because he did … a little bit. It was met with such unexpectedly high levels of derision that, to save face; to pretend I wasn’t wounded – and that in fact I felt I should be the one laughing at them, not the other way around; that they were the ones who’d gotten it so catastrophically wrong – I had no choice: no choice but to forego my usual equanimity.  From that point onwards, where Danny was concerned, I went dark; darker even than that: fluorescent dark, I’m talking real messed up. I trained myself to make reference to Danny’s similarities with Henry whenever there was the slightest hint of one, and especially where there wasn’t; the obscurer the better. I was the saline drip (Oi! Who said without the saline?!) of the Welbeck Trust, slowly administering the comparison into their bloodstream. The problem was, these other people were armed with antibodies and things; things like facts and evidence and strong opinions and relatively well articulated arguments, not to mention bitterness, bad manners and I’m pretty sure I saw all of them steal from the ‘dogs for the blind’ box at the bar – and so you see, being as I am, oil to their water – armed with only love and hope – I had no choice.

If anyone so much as owned, let alone raised, an eyebrow when Danny was unfortunate enough to have mistimed an attempt on goal on account of all that overt dynamicness (“scuffed a pea-roller harmlessly wide from eight yards”), they’d have me coming at ‘em like a distressed seagull (only with a beard and therefore more handsome): “YOU REALLY THINK HENRY SCORED EVERY TIME HE TOOK  A SHOT?! WELL DO YOU?! ANSWER ME?!” I’d say, but cleverer than that and with some longer words in it, I don’t remember which ones, it’s not important. Friends. Family. Children. Pets. Inanimate objects. Objects. Lists of objects. No-one or nothing was gonna have a bad word to say about Danny with Henry getting away with it. All the time I was crossing my fingers under the table – hoping that I just had to wait it out.

Loving Danny is easy, ‘cus he’s beautiful. I love Danny to bits. Loads of United fans do. Some don’t, but that’s something they’ll grow out of, so long as they can outrun the released hounds. It’s a no-brainer. He’s stockpiling boxes for us to tick as we speak. However, it’s not traitorous to note that his finishing has lacked the consistency we’d all perhaps wished he’d have by now and that when in full slalom, the ball occasionally intertwines itself betwixt his feet more by happy accident than design. When you’ve fallen in love with someone though, these little things are nothing more than adorable idiosyncrasies: “It’s no biggy Danny, we still love yer,” we whisper into our cups of tea.  Besides, we’ve all seen enough of Danny’s finishing, when it is more instinctive, or of confident mind, and enough penetrating runs with the ball absolutely in control, to recognise these as mere wrinkles that he’ll iron out over time, rather than something terminal.

Those people I used to hang out with have since moved on to sit at a different table in the pub, and so with Danny in the ascendancy, and receiving praise from all corners this summer, I thought I’d reiterate my feelings regarding the Henry comparison on Twitter, to see if I could recruit some digital allies. The abuse was swift, stealth like; amongst it a couple of death threats (hastily retracted) and some jip from United fans: “#Idiotz lik u giv us a bad gnome…”, etc. My tweet went something like this (actually, this is it verbatim): “Danny is better than Henry was when he first moved to Arsenal. Henry moved to Arsenal when he was 22 years old.”  The implication being, that, in my opinion (already implied in being posted from my Twitter account), Danny is better than Henry was – and this is the key part – when Henry FIRST moved to Arsenal. Also implicit in the comparison, is that the two players’ ages are the same, at the point of their respective careers being referred to: Danny now, Henry then.  So it’s not entirely impossible for me to stretch my imagination and picture Danny getting somewhere close to achieving the amazing things that Henry has. It was a compliment to Henry. Of course, we don’t see tweets as they are, but as we are.

Inevitably I was also inundated with more of those ‘things’ – all up in my chops again. The things like facts and that. So, I thought I’d try some of that there research myself; yuck. And yet. And yet…

Y’know, it turns out, Henry scored just three goals in sixteen games for Juventus, the season before he joined Arsenal, after being asked to play ‘out of position’ as a winger (sounds familiar). Combining this with his scoring record for Monaco – and therefore encompassing his professional career to that point – his goals tally was just above one in every five games. So, if we then cross-reference this with Danny’s goal tally up to this point (not including the two against Swansea) it’s … oh … wait … just above one in five. There’s more … the internet stores this stuff – who knew?! Just before moving to Arsenal, Henry had broken into the French national side and, on his first appearance at a major tournament, finished as their top scorer. Danny happened to make the ‘step up’ to international level much earlier in his career than Henry, relatively speaking, and … oh … wait … also became his national side’s top scorer in his first major tournament. Hey, that wasn’t so bad.

With regards to Henry: I wasn’t that convinced by him at first, and I know that Arsenal fans I was friends with at the time (reluctantly and probably under duress and certainly never in public places), felt the same. He was seen as something of a ‘poor man’s’ replacement for he-of-the-upside-down-smile, who was Real bound having burned Wenger’s cookies once too often. He proved me, and a lot of other people, wrong. That first season he went on to score 26 goals, no mean feat; especially in light of the fact that he initially took time to settle. The rest is Premier League history. I think, scooched in next to Eric, Scholesy and Giggsy, Henry rightly takes his seat in the pantheon of Premier League stars.  I would have absolutely loved him at United. The point being though (it’s in here somewhere), that a career viewed retrospectively, with the benefit of hindsight, does not my comparison quash.

Course, it’s not that I really think Danny is the new Henry: Henry is Henry, Danny is Danny. When I first made the comparison, it was to do with something about the way they both collected the ball – with a similar physicality – and shifted it on; something about the positions they took up; something about the runs they made; something about the types of shots they shape for. But more, it was something about wanting Danny to realise his potential and become one of the best players the Premier League has ever seen, and that is what it’s always been about.

I’ve put a bet on Danny winning Player of the Year, not because I necessarily think he will – though I do necessarily think he will – but because he makes me feel giddy; he gives me hope. As I’ve written before, hope is seen by some as a negative, as delusional, but I see hope as a catalyst, a stimulant, that inspires to better things, and so, I really hope that in fourteen years time we’re talking about Danny Welbeck in the same breath as Thierry Henry.

"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”.

*Group hug*

If you want your team to do well in the face of adversity, football snobs will inevitably label you an imbecile – an unreasonable and unpleasant supposition. Unfortunately, they are loud and assertive, and generally armed with facts, statistics and logic to back up their conceited taunting. But that still doesn’t mean you have to listen.

Cynical football fans paint hope as a negative; an evil that distorts reality. They readily accuse fans who were hoping for better as delusional. It’s a wholly unsavoury way of attacking people they see as inferior to themselves. Yes, delusional behaviour is largely ignorant, and yes, hope isn’t necessarily aligned with truth, but in the context of football – an entertainment business, as it now exists – does it really do any actual harm to enjoy getting lost in the moment? Does the Universe irrevocably collapse if you allow yourself to be swept along by the euphoria of exultant shared joy?

When you’re feeling great, hope is the catalyst to better things. When you’re feeling terrible, it offers you a crumb of comfort. It’s emotions like Hope and Love that stimulate and inspires us to act. Reason and rationale have their place in the grander scheme of things, but in relation to football they will have us seated, contemplating defeat and expecting very little, if not nothing: an altogether unhealthy way to approach things.

Whether anyone genuinely believed England had a chance of competing in these Euros (or in any major tournament), is irrelevant in many ways. It still doesn’t make it clear why it becomes necessary, or fair, to piss on anyone else’s chips. As individuals we are all free to create our own realities, as long as we are sincerely considerate of the effects it may have on others. I haven’t been on Wikipedia to check this out, but I’m quite confident that very few people (if any) have suffered unbearable hardship from an over-exposure to misguided enthusiasm.

Some people’s enjoyment of football is based largely around the ridiculing of others, which I think is really sad (in both senses of the word). There’s also a lot of people who want to “own” football, well listen up,  you can’t have it. Not my bit anyway.

If you’re not enjoying football, hoping beyond hope and all expectation, that your veteran striker might still have that one big performance left in his creaking knees; or that your questionable second keeper might actually be able to keep out the league’s top scorers; or your team can reverse the four goal deficit on the last day of the season and avoid relegation; or that your national team can forget all that’s gone before and finally win a damned penalty shoot out, then in my eyes you’re the ones doing it all wrong – not those that have the audacity to dream.

*Insert England player of your choice here*

I was the penalty taker for my team, when I used to play. Before you start, yes, there is a huge difference between the lowest rung of the F.A league ladder and international football (some of the time), but I’m not sure there’s much of a difference between the relative psychologies; everything within its own context and all that.

I could score a penalty in training no problem. My natural kicking technique with the instep of my right foot allowed me to find the inside of the left hand post every time, low and hard. Even if the keeper stood as close as he’d allow himself to, I could still do it. If he went too close, I’d just pass it into the empty net towards the right. I could score penalties with the Ronaldo-style back-flick where you bring your striking foot around the back of your standing foot, but my absolute favourite was a disguised chip that clipped in off the post in the top left corner. Enough about me though. How are you doing?

When it came to a real match, however, the psychological conditions altered dramatically. The tension, even in games where we were winning comfortably, was right there, slapping me in the face as I placed the ball down on the spot. The tension was not just typified by the weight of expectation amongst my team-mates, although there was invariably enough of that, there was also the tension created by the tangible will of the opposition, collectively sucking the ball out of the onion bag, and then there was the tension created by the anticipation of the crowd (not as if we ever really had more than a handful of spectators, until you got a penalty of course, then everyone wanted to watch). These external tensions served as unhelpful additions to the intensely stronger tensions created by the inner turmoil of my own id, ego and super-ego.

The application of super glue can also be a factor

There are four penalties I remember above all others, from a particular period of time, for differing reasons: two I scored, just;  two I had saved, comfortably (I’d like to add that I was by no means an arrogant player, contrary to my tone – this is me attempting to be matter-of-fact about it all). Here they are:

Penalty 1: The first was during a game against the top team in the league (*TENSION*), a not particularly nice bunch (although we had played worse), a team who we had never beaten (*TENSION*), with the biggest (*TENSION*) and best goalkeeper in the league by a country mile (*TENSION*). We were 1-0 up, when one of our players went down in the box. It wasn’t really a penalty (*TENSION*), but the referee gave it. They were very unhappy about that (*TENSION*) and some of them suggested that if I were a sporting type, I’d miss intentionally (*TENSION*). We had our tiny army of travelling fans (*TENSION*) with us who began chanting my name (*TENSION*). I placed the ball and then wrestled with my conscience (*TENSION*). Part of me wanted to make sure I scored to extend our lead. Part of me wanted to do my favourite disguised chip for a “Big Waaaah” in their face, so they’d wish they were me. Part of me was considering missing it (*TENSION*). I decided to go with the first option, so I gave the keeper the eyes and put it low and hard to my favourite corner, bottom left, trusting my technique, the safe option. It went in, but nowhere near the corner, more central. Luckily the keeper had dived to his left. I’d been so physically affected by the mental tension that I’d involuntarily mis-hit the ball entirely. I’d had no control over my physical reaction to the surrounding tensions; the fear of that stuck with me.

Penalty 2: I’d had a cracking game having already lobbed the keeper with virtually my first kick of the game; a sweet first time half volley with the outside of my right foot if you’re interested. We were 3-0 up and cruising when we were awarded a fairly straightforward penalty for a deliberate handball and I was on a hat-trick. There was no tension from the external sources, as described above during Penalty 1: there was no crowd, the other team had already given up and the keeper was awful at best. The memory of Penalty 1 was still haunting me (*TENSION*). The fact I’d never scored a hat-trick for this team, and as a Midfielder may not get a better chance, was in the back of my mind (*TENSION*). I thought there would never be a better opportunity, so I gave the keeper the eyes and went for the disguised chip. The keeper just kind of awkwardly stumbled forward off his line and grabbed the floating wet fart of a shot out the air, and glared at me with the most degrading of looks on his face. We only just won the game in the end, 3-2. I didn’t complete the hat-trick, and never did.

Penalty 3: We were playing our biggest rivals (*TENSION*) and so had our rent-a-crowd down to watch (*TENSION*). The rain was hammering down and the pitch was barely playable (*TENSION*), especially in the areas around the goal (*TENSION*). We were short of defenders so I’d been earmarked to fill in, and of course obliged, although I absolutely hated playing defence (*TENSION*).  Our opposition weren’t playing very well and we got ourselves 1-0 up and were controlling the game by the time we were awarded an obvious penalty. I stepped forward with the memories of my two previous efforts now not just haunting my match day thoughts, but my daily ones too (*TENSION*). The other team, who we were very familiar with, started spouting (*TENSION*). I had all sorts going on in my head and the wind had picked up, so the ball wouldn’t stay on the spot. I could barely keep my footing as I tried to replace it. (*TENSION* *TENSION* *TENSION*). I had to go low and hard, trust my technique. As I started my run up, the keeper drifted to the right and before I’d even processed the information, I’d instinctively gone for the disguised chip again. The result was the same as Penalty 2, apart from this time the keeper let out an involuntary laugh as he plucked the ball out the air. Fortunately, we went on to win.

Penalty 4: We were playing a cup game against some shifty looking knuckle-headed morons (*TENSION*) and I’d been picked up-front, my preferred position, where I rarely got to play (*TENSION*). We were on fire and by half time were 4-1 up. I’d only scored a fairly standard header, but was playing out my skin. At 6-2 up we got a penalty, I offered it to my strike partner who was on a hat-trick but he didn’t fancy it (*TENSION*). Their keeper was okayish and had made some good stops (*TENSION*) and they were mouthing all kinds of ridiculous things as I went to place the ball down (*TENSION*). The penalty spot was painted on the edge of a sharp angled dip in the ground and the ball rolled off the spot as I turned to start my run up (*TENSION*). The opposition started up again (*TENSION*). After replacing it a few times, the referee settled it half in and half out the dip (*TENSION*). I was never going to try the disguised chip in a match again, so gave the keeper the eyes and went low and hard, trusting my technique. The contact with the ball, if you could call it that, would best be described as “a waft”. The ball was more in the dip than I’d anticipated. The keeper, who had originally been going the other way, was now readjusting and squirming towards the barely goal bound ball. It somehow managed to piffle beneath his grasp and in *PHEW!*

My intention in going through those scenarios was, of course, to show off, but secondary to that I wanted to iterate and illustrate from my own experience the psychology of general penalty taking. If I hadn’t already broken my rule over keeping posts below 2000 words, I could have highlighted further areas of tension. For every other team I’d played for I had usually been the penalty taker and had always scored. But things, often out your control, can conspire to make you miss. Trusting your technique is always by far the best policy and usually yields the best result, but not always.

*Orbit*

As a rough estimate I think  you could probably times the tension factor at the top level by at least a thousand. There are so many extra external and internal factors at play, because there is so much more at stake. In a game, I think generally the penalty is roughly 80-90% in favour of the taker, compared with the goalkeepers chance of saving it. Having not been in a shoot out, I can’t say for sure, but I’d guess that the percentage during one shifts to nearer 50-50.

As a slight aside I’d like to just talk about Becks; a good example of a player with a superb kicking technique, who, with all due respect, put himself forward for England penalties, but was terrible at them. Aside from attempting to take them like free-kicks, an entirely flawed concept, his main problem was that he was taking them for the wrong reasons. He presented a wholly misguided idea of what taking responsibility was all about: making the right decisions for the team and not attempting to decorate yourself in glory is usually a good start. Lampard and Gerrard, regular takers for their respective club sides, were in and around the England team at the same time (however, in Beck’s defence, in their absence he was probably the only viable option). He wasn’t a penalty taker, but took the penalties?! What’s better – someone willing to take one who can’t? Or someone who can, who doesn’t want to? I’m not sure there’s a right or wrong answer. Beckham’s penalty against Argentina at the World Cup 2002 was technically dreadful, it was the equivalent of a hit (it as hard as you can) and hope, but it went in and won England one of their biggest games in recent times. For the most part, his other penalties, that he missed, cost England dearly (p.s I still love you, David).

To say a player “should” score from a penalty, for me, is unfair. People readily forget that goalkeepers are professionals too and it doesn’t take much homework to figure out which side of the goal Player X prefers, which type of disguise they use on their run up, etc. Yes, there are a lot of  great penalties from skilled takers, but their are also a lot of really poor ones that go in and a lot of technically flawless penalties that are saved, and everything in between.

I have, elsewhere on this blog, already vented my general dislike of the inference that a player “should” have done something. To me, the inference of the word ‘should’ is that certain elements of the sport are regarded by some as nothing more than the automated actions of a football-kitted vending machine. In dehumanising certain aspects of football, what those deviants using the word ‘should’ are in fact doing is depriving many of us (or possibly just me) of the much valued relatedness we find implicit in our love of the game. I want the players I support to be susceptible to all facets of the human condition: paralysed by self-doubt, enraged yet empowered by injustice, driven by their own narcissism, corrupted by the temptation to deceive, revelling in exacted revenge, foregoing their professionalism to embrace the inherent propensity in all of us to behave like a child – because it’s those things that make football brilliant.

Some misses are more beautiful than others

When the inevitable shoot-out rears up to deny us our passage to the latter stages, I won’t be the one lambasting players for not being good enough to stick one away despite being paid blah-blah-blah etc, but I might be the annoying one making sure everyone in the pub refers to them as “kicks from the penalty mark”, cus that’s correct, and I can be a real jerk sometimes.

Oh, bugger.

The 1990 World Cup: a significant tournament in the bookmarking of some of England’s enduring imagery. Penalties, tears and John Barnes rap aside, one incident inparticular, during the semi-final against Germany, has, I think, been the one to have cast the darkest and spindliest of shadows over subsequent national players. But, oh how we larfed, until we cried; and then we were just crying.

Andreas Brehme was tired of being pigeon-holed as a “free-kick specialist”, he was much more than that he thought to himself, and so decided to just petulantly hoof the ball at one of the England players for lols. He didn’t want the ensuing scrap to ruffle his beautiful hair (GHDs weren’t invented back then), so he picked out Paul Parker, the littlest player on the pitch and took aim. Veteran, Peter Shilton (ever the opportunist), chose this moment to trial part of his stand-up routine, and more specifically, his walking down the comedy stairs backwards and drunk, gag. The ball looped in. A nation hung it’s head. A curse was birthed?!

(*huddle-in* Some people trace this “curse” back much further, to a Peter Bonetti error in 1970.  I suppose in some way claiming the “curse” had been laying dormant since then; maybe in a pair of discarded gloves, or in nail clippings down the plug hole at Wembley perhaps, waiting to lay claim to it’s next victim. However, that kind of nonsense can only get you in the loony bin.  If we’re really seriously talking about me talking about “curses” in the mainstream, you have to let me do it my way. I need to place them in a context a bit more plausible … namely, psychology *fall-back*)

Since the Shilton bomb dropped, we have witnessed a succession of England Number Ones apparently paralysed on the bigger stages by this hand-me-down trauma. David Seaman was the only one that almost got away with it. Despite having serial cutlery-molester, Uri Gellar watching his back (he who moved the ball from the penalty spot against Scotland at Euro 96 with his mind), eventually he succumed, against Brazil, during the 2002 World Cup, when he was already well on the way to retirement. His “mistake” almost echoing Shilton’s. The psychosis gathered pace and before long was ruthlessly dispatching Paul Robinson, Rob Green and Scott Carson from the England set up. Whether we can really count David James as one of those apparently mugged of  his international ambitions by this virulent “catatonia” is questionable, he was more than capable of doing that all by himself, he was certainly a host.

What a…

Enter Joe Hart. Who doesn’t love Joe Hart? You? At the back there? *releases the hounds* What is there not to like? Okay, he plays for THEM, I’ll give you that, and yeah he quite obviously waxes his eye-brows, but let’s not let the superficial cloud our appreciation of one of the best players to happen to the England team in yonks. He SHOULD be captain. What Joe Hart’s talent makes patently clear is this: our goalkeeping crises of the recent past haven’t been ones of hex and hoodoo, they’ve been ones of a basic lack of real quality. The better goalkeepers we’ve had relatively recently, Seaman and Shilton, have been maintained in goal for much longer than they should have because there was no one considered good enough to replace them; no-one with the mental strength to match the physical requirements – and we’ve paid a heavy price.

Goalkeepers have it pretty tough. They will make BIG mistakes. If they make a mistake, the ramifications are generally much more severe than those of their team mates. They don’t simply surrender possession, or give away a cheap free kick; they give away a goal or a penalty. The footballs that make fools of goalkeepers are designed by scientists who supply parts for NASA. Their job is literally a constant battle with Rocket Science. Peter Cech has to wear a head brace just to stop his mind boggling every time he is faced with a shot from distance.

Joe Hart may well fumble one into his own net, or misjudge a cross that could cost us in this tournament.  He could do the same in the World Cup qualifiers, or in the next World Cup. It’s something he will have to deal with. The difference is, his mistakes will be exceptions, not rules. You get a strong sense with Joe Hart that he has the strength of character and capacity to move on. Only when Joe Hart is considering hanging up his gloves, and we’re still expecting him to be our Number One, do we need to start worrying about anything like “curses” again.

Check out those brows!

(Before you start, I at no stage promised I was behind any of that curse nonsense.)

“What do you mean you “dozed off”?!”

We knew it was coming, and we all (I thought), after some initial kicking and screaming, had come to accept the inevitability of it. Yet, still Roy Hodgson’s overtly pragmatic approach to the  game against France has shaken awake its fair share of detractors. What were these people expecting?

As an England fan I have become more than accustomed to the tragedies played out in tournaments. I’ve derived great pleasure from the drama and suffering of others at our hands, but never readily come to terms with the situation when the roles have been reversed. I have never learned to properly rationalise the emotional turmoil that the major tournaments evoke* and so I have never fully experienced the catharsis that the tragic ending of the great tragedies is purported to impart. This, I believe, is because England teams and managers never appear to learn from their mistakes. No-one, fans included, is nourished by the valuable lessons learned along the way.

(*To a degree, emotional immaturity is an intrinsic part of being a football fan. The cyclical nature of football – “resetting” at the start of seasons and tournaments – means we are presented with a lot of the same repeating obstacles, issues and themes throughout; we never really tire of them (maybe some), or learn to deal with them in the “grown up” way we might do were we faced with a persistent problem in “the real world”)

Whatever Roy Hodgson has had thrust at him to this point, he has articulated himself in an assured and (as) dignified (as possible) manner seldom seen by an England manager in recent memory. As every manager, not just those entrusted with managing the national team, has come to expect, he has had to face a barrage of attempts to claim his scalp; more so as the memory of the last time the press successfully stuck his decapitated head on a spike, at Liverpool, still lives relatively fresh in the memory. He’s been sternly tested, having to field difficult questions on subjects from Apartheid, to the exclusion of players, such as Michael Carrick, who had already declared themselves unavailable before he even got the job. He hasn’t appeared overtly ruffled by any such attack as of yet. However, the palpable discomfort of the continued questioning over the selection of the defence has seen him look more vulnerable; in my eyes he has remained relatively calm and collected. He will, no doubt, regret using the words “footballing reasons” (a term he has used in the past) whilst attempting to address the issues surrounding the Rio/Terry selection pantomime, but having successfully navigated that particular distraction (sticking to his very plausible version of events) he has got on with what he has always made patently clear throughout is his priority: preparing his team, physically, and just as importantly, mentally, for what lies ahead.

“No, that’s your elbow, John, your arse is round the back, remember?”

It’s not my intention to suggest that Roy will (or needs to) attempt to ape the mildly maligned achievements of the Greece squad, that grasped victory from the jaws of football in winning Euro 2004, but having them as a reference point for what is attainable with very little, can surely only serve as an inspiration of sorts. The similarities with that Greece squad and this England squad is for me in the very apparent awareness of it’s own capabilities (strengths and weaknesses), as impressed on it by the management. The harshest of England critics would struggle to suggest, with sane mind, that that Greece squad weren’t technically inferior to even this England squad.

After just one proper game under Roy, I’m feeling positive that wherever this particular tragedy ends, it will prove vitally important in the development of the younger players in the squad: the next generation. I have never known an England team so existentially aware and I’m captivated by the possibilities that presents. We know we can’t win a tournament during the group stages. Conserving our resources and energy is valued over empty triumph early on. We know we can’t simply throw everything we’ve got at a team and cross our fingers that their superior players have an off day. We don’t have to attend every on-field battle we are invited to during the early posturing of the tournament.

When Roy started attending public engagements with a giant England flag and badge attached to his back, the F.A found him hard to ignore

Unfortunately for Roy, as he’s fully aware, injury (and the long Premier League season) has perhaps robbed him of the overall quality you need when it really matters – this time around. Also, having spent such a short time with a squad, still carrying a shadow of its former ego, he has to deal with what appears to be, from the general body language of some, a serious lack of alacrity.

When Hodgson and his team come face to face with their tragic end, I will feel satisfied that we’ve applied ourselves correctly and that we have genuinely learned something of value that we can take forward to the World Cup qualifiers. However, having said that, despite believing as the teams kicked off that we would be lucky to be still in the damned thing by the time we had Rooney back available, as daft as it sounds, I now think that if Roy can super-impose a fully engaged Rooney over what I’ve seen so far, then the final act of this particular tragedy may see Roy, against all odds, emerge triumphant.

*Hero claxon*

If you were to x-ray the skulls of England’s finest during any major tournament (ignoring the fake turds and paper cuttings of themselves), I imagine all you’d find would be the black and white clips of Bobby Charlton crashing one in from 20 yards, or Bobby Moore perfectly timing a tackle, or Gary Linekar reeling away, or David Platt pulling off the most incredible of last minute volleys, or Nobby dancing, or Gordon Banks denying Pele – all on loop. The same tackles, saves and shots, over and over again, not lots of different tackles or shots, the same tackles and shots. The rest of the time (in the footage not endlessly repeated), the players they idolise are generally doing the simple things really well, cus that’s what the best players do and did. They’re not infinitely searching for their hero moment, theirs came about because of their ability to do all the other stuff really well a lot of the time … and sometimes, they just got extremely lucky.

The jingoism (and xenophobia) the tabloid press and (although I’m loathed to say it) “general media” impresses on the nation, and our players, in the build up to international matches reinforces those largely superficial, yet highly seductive notions of us needing heroes. Our players are, by no stretch, above falling for these romantic advances, if anything the nature of their existence within a wider cultural context sees them courting it.

The latter part of John Terry’s career has been one endless slow motion montage of him chucking himself in front of stuff. Shame there are no moving trains scheduled through Stamford Bridge on match days *Gasp – that means he’d be deaded* Maybe he could consider something  more meaningful, like holding position and defending? Fellow defender Ashley Cole, has foregone man-marking detail in favour of his last-man-back-death-defying-clearing-off-the-line routine. Glen Johnson – poor thing – thinks the general duties of the right back are spelled s-h-o-o-t-o-n-s-i-t-e-f-r-o-m-w-h-e-r-e-v-e-r–t-h-e-f-u-c-k-y-o-u-l-i-k-e. Martin Kelly looks a tiny bit like Clark Kent – if you squint – you’re not telling me that’s not intentional?

*Hero claxon*

Up the pitch: Steven Gerrard – does he have something against the football? Why does he have to kick it so damned hard? “Oh, and it’s fallen into the path of Steven Gerrard, 20 yards out” *ALMIGHTY THWACK* “Oh, and it’s dropped to Steven Gerrard 12 yards out” *ABSOLUTE SMASH* “Oh, and it’s Steven Gerrard two yards out” *EARTH SHATTERING BLAST* Scott Parker navigates the pitch with an air of someone who wants the audience to believe he’d detach his limbs and disperse them evenly throughout the pitch, in order to be everywhere at once, if only science would allow it.  Stewart Downing prefers to put all his efforts into that “one shot”, every other game, as opposed to anything as degrading as a consistent performance throughout those 180 minutes. Wayne Rooney couldn’t relinquish his super powers even if he wanted to (and he’s been trying his hardest for United this season), we simply wont allow it, and Ashley Young can fly.

In recent years, a reference point on the pin-board of sporting achievement for England’s perpetual under-achievers, that without doubt helped fortify their valiant pretensions, would have been David Beckham’s display against Greece to qualify for the World Cup 2002.  He was everywhere wasn’t he?! Tackling back in the opposite full-back position, in his own six-yard box, and eventually scoring a fairytale free-kick with virtually the last kick of the game. The imagined stuff of footballing folklore, playing out in front of our eyes, really happening. What they wouldn’t have noted was that Beckham’s performance that day was, at best, disruptive and at its worst, emphatically immature and detrimental to the overall output of the team. As I said in my post on penalties, what Beckham actually presented as captain was a wholly misguided idea of what taking responsibility is all about. Making the right decisions for the team and not decorating yourself in glory is a good starting point (as with the penalty post I’d like to add, again, that I love you David)

The only recent result of note in a major tournament, against a proper team, was the 1-0 win versus Argentina in the 2002 World Cup. The footnote to that victory was the happenstance inclusion of Nicky Butt in midfield. He wasn’t the preferred option, far from it. Injury after injury had nudged him, albeit reluctantly, up the pecking order. What Nicky Butt did that night was truly inspirational. He denied any instincts to play headline grabbing passes, or indulge any propensity for misadventure (he was a bit naughty on occasion) and instead he did exactly what was required tactically of him by his team. In putting the team first, the ultimate sacrifice in any players case, he received universal acclaim. He won England the game that night. Interestingly, in getting the basics right, he created a platform for himself, a position within the game to dictate from. Nicky Butt controlled the midfield, against Argentina, for more than his fair share of the contest and began to create openings. What the papers concentrated their reporting on, however, was Beckham’s (god-awful) penalty, which apparently was “what won us the game”.

*Nick Butt claxon*

With the opposition we invariably face during tournaments being both tactically and technically superior to ourselves, England needs more Nicky Butts versus Argentinas, and less David Beckhams versus Greeces.  What we all want, and wish for more than anything, is the opposite.

It’s possible that, with all these elements, we have created a warped incarnation of “hero syndrome”. The desires, fears and intentions of our collective ego (that of the F.A, players, fans and media) have conspired to create our own ever more desperate set of circumstances. We wallow in the fact that our problems run that much deeper than those of our “enemies”, so that if we were to emerge triumphant from them, we would appear that much more gallant, and the victory would be that much sweeter. Perversely, it’s those desperate circumstances, that we ourselves create, that actually conspire to ensure that we will consistently fall short of our heroic aspirations.

Who’s bad?

I stopped sulking just in time to watch both England games this past week after a self imposed exile that stretches back to when the F.A, Capello, or whoever, reinstated John Terry as captain after he’d not actually apologised for all the bad stuff he’d done back in March of this year. I hadn’t missed much in those few halcyon months. Players and managers come and go, England remain the same.

I have always supported England since watching Bryan Robson tear around the pitch (and himself apart) with all the other considered best players from English football, Peter Beardsley, Gary Crisps and Glenn Hoddle during the World Cup in ’86 – one of my first real memories of watching a huge football event on telly.  However, during a few seconds of weakness, whilst watching the John Terry press conference I viewed the national team, via the F.A, without the aid of my usual footy filter … The countless missed opportunities by the F.A to make examples of players and staff who bring the game in to disrepute. The governing bodies general inability to govern effectively. Why aren’t THEY capping wages? Why aren’t THEY policing the investment in clubs? Why aren’t THEY limiting the impact on smaller clubs? Why do THEY allow the likes of The Daily Mail and The Sun to stamp their brand of fascism all over the game, ban them from the press conference and grounds. Ban them from covering matches. What are THEY doing! Careerists THE LOT OF EM! The corporate sponsorship adorning the walls – Mars, McDonald’s, Budweiser, the gambling adverts, Aaarrrggghh! And that was that. I’d had enough.

For one year I was a ‘Big’ England fan. Here I am then with an old friend, Matt. I’m the one on the right complete with ginger hair dye(!!!!)and curtains (I don’t know why). This was taken in a photo booth just after the England vs Scotland qualifier for Euro 2000 (exactly 12 years ago to this day, November 17th). What a tool. Previous to this delightful pictoral contraceptive, I was a fat Northerner on a fine-art course in a little southern city drowning in a small pond of  peers who all had pretentions of making it in London. I’d needed an identity and after losing about three stone one summer, I came back to University a new man (well, just the same really but painfully thin and with ginger hair dye). My new housemate Matt was a big footy fan, although he hid that behind his support of Southend United (Get on board, the jokes don’t get any better than this). He was the first proper footy fan I’d met in Bristol, a kindred spirit of sorts. Admittedly, Matt’s love of England trumped mine, he wasn’t a thug, but I excused a lot of people for presuming he was. I cringe to think of us drunkenly slurring chants in packed quiet bars and rampaging down leafy suburban streets waving an England flag from the pound shop. At the time though it provided me with something valuable, something comforting.

I moved out of the house with Matt the next year and into a shared house with some of those pretentious peers. I definitely didn’t become one of them, but the nights of re-editing the England team before all night PlayStation, with a couple of boxes of Carlsberg, were replaced by Connect 4, some film with no proper ending, and Hummus. Wait a minute … am I just retelling the James McAvoy film Starter For Ten? Of course I continued to watch England games with Matt, but not in the same way.

The difference between me and Matt is a simple one, Matt is proud to be English. I am in some respects proud of individual achievements by various fellow country folk and I am very proud of many aspects of our culture. I am definitely English. But proud in the true sense, no. I am embarrassed by the way in which our country has behaved historically, not to say I carry that burden with me throughout my daily life, there’s more important things to worry about like why my cat Casey has started doing really wet mess in her litter tray, or what’s on the telly later. That’s also not to say I think our country is any worse than any others. Saying I’m proud just isn’t something I would say. As is always the case someone has summed up my feelings better than I ever could, this time Neil Hannon off of the Divine Comedy in the song Sunshine…

I feel very strongly that the ills of football are very detached from my own relationship with it. I like football for the reasons I have always liked it. My heroes beating the villains. Triumph in the face of adversity. Happy Endings. Goals. Fun. The comfort of it’s different language. My friendships that  have formed through it and more importantly sharing it over and over again with those friends. The magic. It’s just footy isn’t it?

David Platt?

So, I sat there watching England on Tuesday with my best friend Rob just enjoying watching an England game with my best friend Rob. Enjoying making stupid comments on the scarcity of the arm tattoo and repeating the in-jokes we share during most matches we watch together. Supporting England like I’ve always done, occasionally looking the other way and whistling.