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In the days when players were more than just a number, it was George Best who originally made the number 7 a star.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)

I was always going to get behind Antonio Valencia, as the prerequisite for most of my more intense player-crushes tends to be born out of empathy. Tony arrived as the underdog, coming into a team to play the role of punching bag for the fans, as their malcontent with a team recently stripped of two of it’s most swashiest of swashbucklers grew. He was faced with the insurmountable task of replacing the irreplaceable, yet replace he did – and how. The only place people were anticipating seeing Tony’s name was on the envelopes, ‘C/O Old Trafford’, demanding refunds on season tickets for a team that wasn’t as good as it used to be. It ended up in the Premier League’s team of the season.

We all know the rest of his football story to this point: a succesful rise to something near cult-status, via a broken ankle and a change of shirt number. However, it’s at this point, when having fought so hard to establish himself and when we might reasonably expect his legend to be continuing to grow, that instead we’ve witnessed Tony enter his winter of disconnect and it’s not entirely apparent when, or even if, he’s going to come out the other side.

With a player like Tony – a relatively unique kind of player who we actually know very little about – speculating about what might be amiss can prove difficult. One thing we think we do know about Tony is that he’s very ‘intense’ because he rarely smiles, and therefore we can say he’s lost a bit of his ‘intensity’. Another thing we think we know about Tony is that he’s very ‘shy’ (‘cus Fergie told us that he thought he was, and we’ve seen him in interviews and that being shy pretty convincingly) and therefore we can say that maybe he needs a confidence boost (what with being ‘shy’ and all). We don’t actually know though if either of those two things are entirely true. If Tony wasn’t a United player, and we hadn’t seen him in so many interviews and the like, we might be more inclined to speculate that he was in fact ‘moody’ or ‘arrogant’.

We project our own interpretations of players’ behaviour, and then gather up those interpretations we agree with (or the ones from those with the loudest voices) and seek to make the subjective opinions of the many form a quasi-co-opted objective one: one we kind of all end up sharing.  Here’s something: I always assumed United players were Socialists – the Universe having handily colour coded their shirts to reinforce my unfounded surrealist fantasy. I did also used to think that all dogs were boys and all cats were girls. The truth is, until emotion gets the better of a player, and the inanity-mask of their basic media training momentarily slips, we rarely get to see what players are genuinely like. Exhibit A: Ryan Giggs.

One paradox of fandom is that we will always seek out the good in our own players, yet rarely afford the opposition the same courtesy. We vehemently support the baddies in our own team and treat those echoing their behaviour within the opposition with contempt. A dive, or knee-high tackle from one of our own players can be seen, not as tantamount to treason, but as a quirk of their roguish sense of bon vivant. You have to do this, in order to give yourself permission to like a player, so that you can then support them. There is little doubt though, that if the likes of Roy Keane or perhaps Nemanja Vidic had played for other teams, we would view them very differently. To this end, in knowing very little about Tony – even less than the half-truths we know about most other players – I’m presented with something near to a blank canvas to paint loving strokes all over.

In my head, in a ‘modern football’ sense, Tony is the embodiment of the introverted anti-hero: reluctant to take the spotlight, quiet, honest and morally good, a regular poster boy for the ‘Against Modern Football’ movement, and I absolutely love him for it.  I need him to represent this, no matter how little of it is actually based in reality, because I need reasons to keep on loving football where very few exist. The fact that he’s also, when playing at his best, one of the most powerful players to have hugged the right touchline, is secondary, but a nice bonus nonetheless. For me, the potential decline of Antonio Valencia that we’re witnessing represents much more than just a very good player passing through.

I’ve spent the past fifteen years harbouring fantasies of Eric’s return, but however much you really want players to always be there, they won’t. Players can just fade. Players can decide they’ve given all they can to a club and simply move on. Equally – and more likely – the club can take that decision out of the player’s hands. I’d really like it if Tony could make whatever steps necessary to rediscover his form and stick around a bit longer, not for the inconvenience of having to find another potential suitor to hang an identity on, and then in turn to hang my hopes on, but because I’d miss him.

"Sorry, he's gone to training"

If like me you enjoy spending a couple of minutes a week sticking Premier League footballers, or European club names, into Google Translate in an attempt to fill the void in your life created by your lack of sociability, you may have discovered that Torres means ‘Towers’ (one of my personal favourites being Otelul Galati, which translates as Middlesborough).  If you haven’t worked out where this is going yet, the picture is a bit of a giveaway: he’s Faulty.

There are at least more cliches in football than I’ve had hot dinners, one of my least favourites, not that I’ve introduced a ranking system (YET), being: ‘form is temporary, class is permanent’.  This particular one is used a lot in the defence of Torres.  Form is actually dependant on: the team formation and tactics suiting the player’s strengths, an individual’s specific adaptability to the opposition and their particular formation and tactics, any ongoing contract negotiations or transfer speculation, competition for places, the form of team mates and opponents, changes in home life, relationships, love, the lunar cycle, diet, compulsions, abstentions, whether the player is getting a good nights sleep, and on it goes.  Most of the above could be clumsily grouped  into, and summarised by, the term ‘mental state of the player’.  Class is a subjective measure of a player’s ability, and somewhat dependant on the evolving standard of their contemporaries.  It’s not very snappy is it.

One thing’s for certain, Torres is not the same player who would burst from the rabid jaws of Nemanja Vidic unscathed, triumphantly holding aloft the Serb’s beating heart.  It’s also unfair and fairly inaccurate to say he’s now spent.

Mmmmm tasty.

When Torres joined Chelsea the expectation was world domination.  However, unless the definition of ‘The World’ has changed, and now represents fourth place in the Premier League, we can safely say things haven’t gone to plan.  Chelsea, as a top-flight team, are one of the closest – possibly since Wimbledon’s Crazy Gang – to having a collective consciousness that provides them with a club id and ego.  The process for penetrating this tightly knit structure from the outside appears to involve largely ingratiating yourself with their chief custodians, and to a certain extent aping their personality traits.  Torres’s only real chance of successfully impersonating anyone from Chelsea would be to look at himself whilst standing over a mirror naked.  It’s hardly the most practical of solutions.  Chelsea are also a team in transition which hasn’t helped Torres either, but I personally believe his form could have been described as indifferent way before we can pin anything on John Terry, which is a shame.

Yes, the injuries have robbed him of a bit of the zip from his pace.  Yes, he will never again have the luxury of being the focal point of a team’s attacking endeavours, as was the case at Liverpool under Benitez (facts).  Plus – to develop the points in the previous paragraph – the pressure placed on him by every aspect of the move to Chelsea is excruciatingly palpable.

For me though there is something more profound that has ultimately changed him.  It’s something much more simple (it’s also incredibly twee, and for that I can only apologise).  It’s the events of the 8th July 2009 and the 6th of December 2010, namely: the birth of his children.  He has a family, and for a while now, football hasn’t been his main reason for getting up in the morning.

A.C. Grayling (The Meaning of Things, 2001)

Have it!

In ‘failing’ to replace Scholesy with one of the eleventy squillion midfielders we were in talks with over the summer and in conducting those inhumane maniacal experiments on Hargreaves in the name of franken-science, forcing him to flee our evil clutches, United unsurprisingly created a little plateau of doubt; somewhere for the disgruntled faithful to rest our half-empty flagons of pessimism. With no apparent disposition of the problem, we have no option but to drink down our midfield malaise* with a hot cup of steaming reality.

* For the perfect midfield malaise cocktail:

1. A heavy addition of inconsistent Brazilian Cachaça.

2. A 1/2 measure of weak Scotch.

3. A ‘dash’ of traditional flat English Sloe-lemonade.

4. Occasional infusions of South Korean mild Soju or vintage Welsh fine wine. 

5. And a huge slice of Tom Cleverley (whichever part falls off him during preperation).

But, silly joke aside (sorry if you missed it), laying the blame at the feet of the midfield players in the squad isn’t entirely fair and not something I’m personally partaking in quite yet (besides they probably wouldn’t know what to do with it).

We can admit amongst ourselves, whilst no other fans are listening in, that we no longer employ any of the best midfield players in the Premiership and without doubt this goes for European competition too. Of course we should never utter a word of this to other fans of other clubs, what goes on our blogs stays on our blogs etc. We must maintain our dignity at all times. Game face and all that. It’s not to say that we don’t have midfield players capable of winning matches on their day or midfield players who wouldn’t walk in to 80% of other Premiership starting XIs. It’s just there are others out there who are better (albeit impossible to present as a true argument with the lack of objective evidence there of).

“I can do better than that”, “So can I…”

City have Toure and Nasri. Liverpool have Gerrard  (and at a stretch Adam or Adams as he’s known in football circles). Chelsea have Michael Essien, remember him? (and possibly Lampard) Arsenal have Jack Wilshere and Arteta. And Spurs have Scott Parker  and Modric. You, as free thinking members of our wonderful democracy, are welcome to vehemently disagree with any, or all of the above.

Okay, so once you’ve finished putting your fist through your laptop and sent me the bill, here’s where this is going…

Having admitted we no longer have the best midfield players, doesn’t mean we need reach for a bottle of thick bleach, find a quiet spot down a secluded country lane and glug it down sobbing and vomiting, slurring, “it’s not fair!”. For me it’s just means we can put the midfield issues into some sort of real context, starting with ‘The best players don’t equal the best team’ and then followed up with, ‘The best team doesn’t equal the team that wins the Premiership’. Having one of the best managers, with the most experience, equals one of the better teams has a good chance.

SAF having allegedly missed out on midfield summer targets (although never officially substantiated) expressed his excitement at the squad going forward and was also quoted as suggesting our midfield was well equipped to deal with the season ahead. Of course, whether he genuinely believes that we will never really know. I’m not going to bombard you with vacuous cliches, but here’s one: As ever, we can only judge him on this statement at the end of the entire season.

Wesley who? Never heard of him.

Our whole squad has been stretched by injury, in what was always going to be a difficult season with the departure of Van Der Sar and the loss of the likes of Gary Neville and Scholesy from the dressing room. Our defence hasn’t adapted yet to their new Number 1’s ‘style’. Rio hasn’t any form or fitness, Vidic has barely played and we still don’t have a fit recognised Right-Back. Moving up the pitch Tony V’s still not match fit, Fletcher’s long standing problem with a virus has taken its toll and Cleverley‘s had to remove Kevin Davies studs from his calf. Rooney has had on and off-field issues to deal with, Chicha’s already been out injured twice, and having finally been given the chance at United Welbeck has been left isolated due to the circumstances and many more excuses besides. As a whole the squad hasn’t really been allowed to settle, not just the midfielders.

The cliche that the ‘game is won in the middle of the park’ is one I subscribe to and after a couple of poor results: Anderson has reverted to type, tiring after 60 minutes, after losing all discipline. Carrick hasn’t really provided us with any firm evidence that he’s about to enter the world of the living again any time soon. Fletcher has remembered that he was once just a very average midfielder who never got any press attention apart from the odd bit of abuse, and has remembered how safe he finds that place, it’s comfortable like his mothers womb, warm. He likes it there. Cleverley has looked impressive but he seems injury prone. Park can’t run in any direction for more than 15 yards without introducing his face to the grass. Giggsy is 38 years old.

Mummy?

The cliche that the ‘game is won in the middle of the park’ is one I subscribe to and after a couple of good results: Anderson having had a good pre-season is already showing signs of improvement. He needs a bit more work on his fitness and he’s still indisciplined but that’s down to his natural instincts to try and do everything, like a kid in the playground. At just 23 still plenty of time to develop into a player, not least this season. Carrick hasn’t played much this season, but his composure and control of the game can be vital in some games, a solid player to have in the squad. Fletcher has had his injury issues over the course of the last year or so, but as his goal against City showed he’s still got the quality. He just needs the team around him to stabilise to grant him a bit of freedom to maraude around the pitch such is his wont. With Cleverley in the team there seems to be more fluidity between midfield and attack, he’s a real prospect. In Park we trust, one of the most tenacious players United have had and on his day a match winner. Giggsy can go on till he’s 48 years old

48? 58!

We don’t need to panic after every bad result. We have to remember that everything has a context. We should try and be fairer to our middle men. It’s a shame that all goes out the window when I try to do it myself.

FEAR NOT! The house band has been on a recruitment drive since ‘In a Word’ and replaced the ‘Dubemeister’ with Hip-Hop/Garage legend faux-Andrew Cole and faux-Peter Schmeichel…

The downloadable audio version of the song was destroyed by the production company as much to their annoyance faux-Peter Schmeichel refused to restrict his performance to anything less than 17 continuous piano and guitar solos.

Here’s a version we recorded while faux-Peter was distracted by his own reflection…

This message goes out to my main man Tony V,uh. My analogue monologue, uh. Peace!

*The looped sample to the opening bars of Dire Straits's
Money For Nothing fades in...*

I want my…I want my…I want my…I want my Man, T.V…

*After the guitar lick builds a Hip-Hop beat

kicks in and loops over the top.

The Money for Nothing sample continues to repeat

as part of the backing track (If you can tell I

haven't got a clue what I'm talking about then hush,

you're ruining it for everyone else).

The guitar lick has sampled quotes layered over

the top as the tension builds towards the verse.

The O.T stadium announcer, "Number 25, Antonio Valencia"!

Rooney, "It's great to have him in the team".

Jeff Stelling, "What a cross, from that young man".

Ecaudorian commentator "Gooooal Valencia"!*

If I had the cheddar, I’d buy me a…

Delorean!

(Together)

Takin me back, when my favourite…

Ecuadorian!

 (Together)

Owned the…

Touchline!

(Together)

Twerkin it…

Fine!

(Together)

                                                           Wha?

(My)P.O.T.Y, 200 and…

9!

 (Together)

Reminisce on those days when you silenced the…

Hacks!

 (Together)

 For you I’d pay astronomical…

Value added tax!

 (Together)

A gentleman, a freak, a monster…

A Thinker!

 (Together)

And nuff respect due for replacing…

The ‘Winker’!

 (Together)

It’s T for…

Trouble!

(Together)

.

and V for…

Vendetta!

(Together)

.

He’s…

Not arrogant…

(Together with United Fans)

.

He’s…

Just Better!

(Together with United fans)

*The sampled chorus thumps back in...

punctuated with freestyled Ad-libs*

You get your Money for Nothing…

Uh!

I want my,I want my,I want my,I want my Man, T.V…

Money for Nothing…

It aint all about the Benjamins!

I want my,I want my,I want my,I want my Man, T.V…

Money for Nothing…

T.V, Uh!

I want my,I want my,I want my,I want my Man, T.V…

Money for Nothing…

And the checks on me!

 (Together)

                                             (?)

*The guitar lick builds again and again the

Hip-Hop beat kicks in and loops over the top.

This time interspersed with sampled quotes from

SAF "He's a great lad".

Alan Hansen "Unbelievable"!

Guy Mowbray "What a finish by Valencia"

and Sir Bobby Charlton "He's some player"

dipping in and under the drum beat as it

builds to the second verse*

Never heard more harsh words…

Spoken!

 (Together)

Your ankle was just like my heart…

It was broken!

 (Together)

When you returned, I was all out…

Maxin!

(Together)

Tellin my homies, textin…

And faxin!

 (Together)

Now it seems, your bench or right…

Back!

(Together)

And this is why we lay down…

This track!

(Together)

My message to playaz, my message to…

Nani!

(Together)

.

.

.

Try being consistent and not such…

.

.

A Fanny!

 (Together)

We’d be so much better with T.V in…

.

Our armies!

(Together)

All y’all haterz, choke on your…

.

.

Prawn sarnies!

 (Together)

He’s aint just your box standard…

T.V!

(Together)

.

He’s a…

Giant!

(Together)

.

Dynamic!

(Together)

.

.

HD READY!

(Together)

*A sample of 'Dream Warriors - My Definition

of A Boombastic Jazz Style' cuts in above

the backing track momentarily, repeating the line

"My definition, my definition is this..."*

*The sampled chorus thumps back in...while

Faux-Andy Cole and Brett Burgers have a dance off with

Tony V himself*

You get your Money for Nothing…

I want my,I want my,I want my,I want my Man, T.V…

Money for Nothing…

I want my,I want my,I want my,I want my Man, T.V…

You get your Money for Nothing…

I want my,I want my,I want my,I want my Man, T.V…

Money for Nothing…

I want my,I want my,I want my,I want my Man, T.V…

You get your Money for Nothing…

I want my,I want my,I want my,I want my Man, T.V…

Money for Nothing…

I want my,I want my,I want my,I want my Man, T.V…

*Repeats to fade...and the distant sound of a
telephone can be heard...*

Woah!! That’ll be ruddy PRS again!  Better make a move.

Okay, on the subject of legalities, any likenesses of the characters in this post to real Andrew Cole’s or Peter Schmeichel’s is purely coincidental.

And we love Nani really (mostly).

Respect!

**********

Other music related ‘analogue features’ available on the Bi-player:

Fairytale of (name removed on legal advice)

Before players were introduced to pasta (how fancy pants!) and vitamin shakes (oh, you’re spoiling us) their diet consisted of lager and whiskey chasers and a half-time fag – so the story goes. The games were, thus, slower, as were the players (although no less entertaining) … this was of course, at least in United’s case, for one man … Bryan Robson.

When we talk of players with ‘engines’ now we are in the most part referring to what is, in effect, a highly trained athlete. Football in the 80s didn’t have dieticians, with computer generated and calibrated fitness programmes. If you were to recreate the scene from Rocky 4 with Robbo as Rocky and A.N.Other Premiership footballer playing the part of Dolph Lundgren, the outcome would be the same. Robbo on the mountain top. Premiership player legs akimbo at the foot of the treadmill.

His heart and desire were there for all to see. His all-action style was the envy of players and fans the world over. But this belies another truth about him: behind those attributes more readily observed of him, was a very talented and technically gifted footballer. His combative style was almost like a highly evolved smokescreen for a deadly finisher, and extremely proficient user of the ball. He seemed to score every week, although statistically he was a roughly a 1 in 4 man – still not bad for a midfielder.

Howaay!

If ever any player epitomised the footballing cliche of leading by example, then Robbo was that player. He was simply an irresistible force. He didn’t need to intimidate players with big tackles (not that he shirked them, or was shy of the odd one or two), he intimidated them with his unwavering drive. I remember watching some games and feeling like we were a man up on the opposition, such was his wont. If a professional footballer isn’t inspired by a player like Robbo in their dressing room, then they should probably consider a different vocation. As a team player there can probably be no clearer an example of his selflessness than when he turned down the opportunity to score a hat-trick in the final of the F.A cup in ’83. He was and will remain ‘Captain Marvel’.

His influence carried through and was arguably the catalyst for the generation that spawned the most successful period in the club’s history. When a player shows so much of the character that Robbo did, and the tangible response from the fans is there for all to see, it’s only natural for the players coming up through the club to strive to emulate that. Becks worshipped Robbo; he claims it was in fact Robbo who inspired him more than any other player. All of the youth players who came through in the early 90s earmark Robbo as a stand out influence on their career. It’s fitting that he was able to help lead the club to its first title in donkey’s years, and in turn lay down the foundation for things to come.

You two have got no chance.

Being installed as ambassador for the club, speaks volumes of his legacy at the club. Rarely does a player embody the spirit and passion on the pitch of the archetypal captain like Robbo. It’s these things that will live long in the memory of the fans. He would now, had his initially promising managerial career not curtailed off in a downward trajectory, be considered a natural successor to SAF (although it’s convenient to say this ignoring an infinite count of ‘ifs’ and ‘buts’).

I imagine that people would argue that it’s difficult to talk about Robbo’s legacy and reputation in light of the recent Dispatches documentary footage, without mentioning it. Well there you go I just did. Put it into a search engine if you missed it entirely. I rarely concern myself with player’s off-field affairs, that’s not to say I ignore them, but to me they exist as heroes and villains within the confines of the football pitch first and foremost and sometimes within the tunnel and then sometimes within the press rooms. How they really are when the insipidness and cliché of media training peals away and they turn out to be just as human as the rest of us is no more interesting, as it is unsurprising. (Yes. I’m aware of all the stories of footballers in the press and enjoy them and cringe at them in equal measure to a point.) Nothing can change how much of a hero Robbo was to me growing up, because he was just that at that time. That’s how I will remember him.

More telling of his legacy, is that he was recently voted the club’s greatest ever player by United legends themselves in the new book 19. He was THE United player of the 80s. His name will be forever woven into the fabric of our club. I fell in love with football because of Bryan Robson.

Armed with two (TWO!) sheets of graph paper, a permanent marker (Yes I said permanent. This study will be a PERMANENT record. You can not erase it.) and our wits we embarked on a 2 minute study of the main Man City lot.

The results are bewilderingly astounding and prove conclusively, beyond a shadow of a doubt, with absolutely no need for recourse, that Owen Hargreaves just doesn’t and will not fit in.

See for yourself. We have included the results of the study below for your perusal…

Part 1: As you can see the main body of the squad are 'Baddies'.

Part 2: As City continue to be 'Baddies', Hargreaves quite clearly is shown to be a goody.

The conclusion from the results we drew was that despite the fact that the move is really, really unfair *best said fighting back tears and stamping both feet on the ground, whilst adding “I’m not crying, you’re crying”*, in being a goody Hargreaves is mathematically predisposed to fail if he moves there. Throughout football history we have examples of ‘goodies’ moving to ‘baddies’ teams and it not working out. Look it up if you like.

We have no need to concern ourselves with this whatsoever. We can quite happily return to putting our fingers in our ears and humming while City harp on about this and other nonsense.

I believe I can fly…

Is it a Bird?… No, he’s just got braided hair you bigot! Is it a plane? … Well, he’s carrying a bit of extra cargo. and in some areas he’s first class (?!) … NO! It’s Anderson Luís de Abreu Oliveira. Anderson. Ando. Player of the season 2012. My hero *swoon*.

I tried calling Paddy Power (If ever anyone was destined to become the proprietor of a bookmakers based solely on their birth certificate alone then Paddy’s your man. Possibly only eclipsed by Bet Fred) to place a wager on Ando becoming Player of the Season for 2012 but they refused to take it. Not because it was a forgone conclusion, I just owe them a lot of money (Lies! I was actually addicted to gambling as a teenager, but now cigarettes and alcohol have filled the void). Anyway, where am I going with this waste of a paragraph? Anderson may not be the first name that springs to mind when people propose their suggestions for heirs to the POTY mantle but I’ve been banging on about Ando now since half-way through last season so I’m sticking with him.

Did you know that since his arrival in 2007 he has never completed a full pre-season programme due to injury. That’s his whole United career to date, going into the season not fully prepared. Longer term injuries aside, including the potential career threatening cruciate ligament he ruptured, it’s no wonder he’s been susceptible to niggles and struggled with fitness. Let’s be honest about it he has never really had an athletic frame. Or to put it in a more sympathetic way he doesn’t appear to be a player who is ‘naturally fit’ like say a Becks or a Giggsy. He struggles with fitness.

It was that last Scotch egg…

There is a ground swelling of growing admiration and hope for Ando. A lot of it genuine. But also a lot of it coming from a position of  “Well this is all we’ve got without Scholesy and with no ‘big signings’, so let’s get on with it”. But I think that that absolutely undermines Ando’s potential to be our new ‘big’ player. I think he’s the midfield player we’re missing. But great news, we’re not missing him, cos we’ve already got him. That fella who wears the number eight.

He’s a bundle of tenacity, all action, hungry, wants the ball, gives the ball, master of little triangles, big triangles, competent finisher, creative spark, fearless, hard and soft in equal measure, has a passing range of note,  exponent of the spectacular, capable of the subtle and he also has proven form in one of the requirements from my personal worthy of worship tick list – he likes to ham up his goal celebrations, check.

Look at his face…just look at his face.

(One weakness: He has an apparent problem with heading, can anyone provide evidence of him heading the ball?)

This picture should be in brackets. PROOF!

The problem he has had has been with his relationship with this ugly word that in football circles is a thing of beauty as it harnesses success … consistency. He’s young and still learning his trade in one of the toughest divisions in the world. The team can’t wait for him for ten games to find his range of passing. When you’ve had the likes of Paul Scholes who need ten minutes to find theirs it’s even harder. But now in the best condition he’s been in, his time I think is now. He will still try and do too much, because he’s hungry and still learning. He will run to each end of the pitch forgetting which position he’s been earmarked to hold and when the ball finally comes to him he will kick it like his legs are made of concrete with balls of blu-tack for feet. As he matures he will develop this aspect of his game. For now we should enjoy his willingness to do it all and not berate him, because with a little bit of patience, like SAF is showing him, we will have some player.

Ando…I can’t breath!

I confess I don’t actually think that this will be the season that Ando gets POTY, but that’s not because I think he can’t. I think this season has come to soon in his development. 2014 is a more realistic target. I’m still sticking with my prediction for him for POTY, because at heart I’m still a gambling man and sometimes the outsider comes up on the rails. (Feel free to substitute that last line for any racing cliche of your choosing) I predict the plaudits to come thick and fast for him as the season barrels along towards the business end. He’s just completed his first full pre-season. Premier League beware.