I vote for David Coote to replace Gary Lineker.

COPD

Last week I received confirmation of a diagnosis of chronic obstructive pulmonary disease (COPD) based on results of spirometry tests back in August (it took that long for my GP surgery to get the results from the test centre, and only after my own intervention after their repeated failures).

My GP helpfully seemed very keen to blame my twenty-odd year history of smoking.

I first smoked at about age 20. My parents were smokers (wasn’t everyone back then?). I was never a heavy smoker. The most I ever smoked was ten a day. It’s also true I smoked a number of other substances that didn’t come with filters. And then there was some vaping. I suspect that might have been the worst of the lot, but who knows? I haven’t smoked for ten years.

In my childhood, I remember several episodes of severe shortness of breath, e.g., when running around the sports field at primary school I collapsed gasping for breath, and unable to continue. I was never diagnosed with asthma. I was told to get up and stop being so weak.

As I got older, whenever the football season started, I could never get through a full game. I put it down to lack of fitness and stamina at the time, but whatever it was, the symptom was breathlessness. I was told to get fit and sent off on cross-country runs.

I had regular episodes of shortness of breath throughout young adulthood that were not triggered by exercise (I’d more or less given up by then, helped by a dodgy ankle). I thought it might be hayfever or a dust allergy.

Fourteen years ago, I needed a thoracotomy on my right lung after a chest infection went wrong. I developed pleurisy, a collapsed lung and an empyema. In the post-op, my surgeon said my lung was “as good as new”.

In the years before covid, I had frequent chest infections requiring antibiotics and time off work to recover. Then and now, I wonder if that was triggered by the Southall Gasworks remediation and air pollution?

I now see that studies show that exposure to volatile organic compounds (including benzene, naphthalene and toluene) is related to COPD.

The good news is that I had no symptoms of COPD, so it’s been diagnosed at an early stage. I’ve started with my new inhaler, and my wife reports that I’ve stopped snoring.

CLEAR AND OBVIOUS ERROR

After watching and re-watching the same three-second clip of nothing happening for so long that here in the UK we had to put our clocks back another hour just to have enough time to finish the game, the match referee (Ross from Friends look-a-like David Coote) turned to face what he knew would be a worldwide audience of millions of armchair experts like me yelling “VAR! WTF!” at the screen in front of us. You could see in his face and his body language that he knew just like us it was ludicrous. Another referee sat in a business park office just down the road from me had told him to review his original decision - that nothing had happened - because the ref had made “a clear and obvious” error of judgment.

The late penalty awarded by VAR and converted by West Ham and England’s Jarrod Bowen should duly result in the termination of the losing manager’s contract. That’s football. This VAR rubbish isn’t, but we have to live with it for now.

This particular fiasco neatly sums up the entire ETH tenure. A clear and obvious error, if ever there was one, and yet we are forced to watch repeat after repeat, week after week of him getting it wrong. Team selections, tactics, transfers, substitutions. A bald man somehow getting balder every time the full time whistle blows.

If only United had a VAM. A Video Assistant Manager. Another (more capable manager) sat in a nearby office watching the game on a screen like you or me, who could intervene at key moments during the build-up to the game (team selection), during the game (tactical changes and subs), and off the pitch (transfers, man-management) to a whisper into Ten Hag’s hairless ear: “Hold on, Eric. I think that signing Antony for £80m is a clear and obvious error” or “Hi Eric, Maguire’s a fucking liability mate” or “Eric, pal. We need to talk. Onana?” I could go on but you get the drift.

Now, I know everyone rightly hates VAR for ruining the game, and it would be unfair to blame ETH for ruining United. But VAM would make it much more entertaining.

PALACE MATCH REPORT

Watched the United game (on my laptop) yesterday, having missed the Southampton and Barnsley games.

A big improvement on the Liverpool debacle, especially in the first half.

Dalot playing as a LB, DM and playmaker/midfield general all at once was as unexpected as it was impressive.

Eriksen starting, to maintain the creative link he made with Mainoo against Barnsley we’re told, was also unexpected, but it too somehow worked. Drifting left to cover Dalot rather undid his link with Mainoo, though.

Rashford benched, supposedly for “rotation”, went against all known football management laws about not changing a winning team and playing players who are in form and scoring goals.

It almost worked as Garnacho (who always looks like he has a goal in him, if nothing else) replaced him, but hit the bar with a thunderous effort from wide of the penalty box.

When the subs came, they undid all our tactical and positional advantage, perhaps as much due to Palace’s positive changes as United’s later nearly self-defeating swaps. Ugarte was a downgrade on Dalot and less of a creative menace or goalscoring threat than the unfairly maligned Casemiro might have been. Rashford, and then Hojlund, couldn’t hold the ball up or link up the play like Zirkzee did. But by then our shape had gone and Palace were on top.

Lucky to come away with a draw in the end, thanks to an incredible double save from Onana and wasteful finishing from Eze, although we should have won the game in the first half an hour.

Strong Irish backbone to this England team.

Pickford (born Logan), Maguire, Rice, Grealish and Kane.

Carsley should have said he won’t sing the English national anthem because he’s Irish.

FUNNY OLD GAME

In the good old days, football was a simple game. You had eleven players and a substitute numbered 1 to 12, no shirt advertising, a referee and two linesmen, a manager, a trainer, a physio, a scout or two, tea ladies, drinking culture, long hair and perms, the club chairman, a board of directors, a club secretary, a groundsman, a stadium in the beating heart of the town or city, fans, standing room only, electric atmospheres, matches on Saturday at three o’clock, live coverage on the radio, match reports in the Pink Final after the game, and highlights on Match of the Day at 10:30 the same night. Tradition and history.

These days, it’s big business. You’ve got a hundred players in the first team squad, shirt number bingo sponsored by online sports betting companies, the reserves, the academy, a women’s team, out on loan, transfer windows, exiled due to poor man-management, five, seven, nine subs to choose from, a referee and a substitute referee, assistant refs, refs sat in an office in a business park (a clear and obvious error), refs at home, refs in the studio, refs in the crowd, a manager, a head coach, a goalkeeping coach, various other specialist coaches, multitudes of doctors, physios, psychologists, data analysts, worldwide scouting networks, dieticians, head chefs, gambling addictions, agents, chief executives, directors of football, technical directors, presidents of business, heads of legal, heads of state, matches at any time from noon to after the last train home, an advertiser’s stadium out of town, sitting room only, live streaming all day and all night. Profit and sustainability.

At one time, a manager of a football club could expect to run all aspects of the club to a lesser or greater degree, or at least have a major say in how it was run. Nowadays, managers, or coaches, are often restricted to, well, coaching players in training and on match days, and speaking to the media before and after games. They are seen as specialists rather than all-rounders, and more specialists from the world of corporate finance are brought in to fire the tea ladies and keep the manager - sorry, coach - fully focused on his job and not get distracted by wheeling and dealing in the transfer market, player contracts, or appealing points deductions for spending beyond the club’s means.

United

Indeed, this is how United plc’s Dan Ashworth keeps Eric ten Hag successful on the pitch. Oh, wait. I’m no fan in particular of Jamie Carragher, but he might have had a point when described United last season as one of the most poorly coached sides in the Premier League. United’s usual set up is a chaotic mismatch of players out of form, out of position, out of confidence, and out of luck. Individual errors rule the day, and most of the players look lost and like they’d rather be in the physio room or gambling rehab. We rely totally on one player - Bruno - to create chances and score. This is a colossal failure of recruitment, of management, of coaching, of captaincy, of teamwork.

Fergie took six seasons to win the title after twenty six years of hurt, and three seasons after winning the cup in 1990. His team often looked like it wasn’t making any progress, but the cup win did see a consistent marked improvement season on season (13th to 6th to 2nd to 1st). Ten Hag produced a masterful cup win against all the odds, although perhaps City’s players were caught off guard expecting an easy win after United’s lucky semi-final win against Coventry. Every season Pep has them playing in a clearly identifiable system and is never afraid to switch players or tactics.

Ingerland

It’s funny to hear Morgan Gibbs-White talk about Ingerland’s new interim manager Lee Carsley and describe his qualities as basically being a father-figure. Most top-level professional footballers are with their clubs from the age of eight, and likely spend more time than most kids away from their families and any normal childhood - living the dream, nonetheless. You can understand why they would value this kind of man-management, someone who will stick up for them no matter what.

Ten Hag hasn’t got that about him at all. He’s lost a whole load of players in one way or another because he didn’t have the heart or the head or the guts to stand by them when they needed him. De Gea, Maguire, Wan Bissaka, Casemiro, McTominay, Sancho, Antony, Martial, Rashford, Greenwood.

The spineless corporate bosses meanwhile took an age to decide the safest bet was to keep ten Hag. Failure is expected and gives them half a season at least to bed themselves in and some new players, too, in time for a new manager. If he does well, then they made the right decision. If they had appointed a new manager he might have failed, too, with the current players, and that would have reflected badly on the corporate bosses.

At least we’re not Chelsea. Telling your captain that he’s not technically good enough. Successfully scraping through the play-off round of the Conference League. Moneyball gone mad (although they could have a decent team in three seasons…).

England. Always different, always the same.

A TRIP DOWN MEMORY LANE

Andy’s post on Kingstonian Football Club losing their home reminded me of the loss of Southall’s football ground, and a chance meeting I had with an old supporter a few years ago.

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Jim had lost his coat.

He remembered leaving it in the Halfway House pub next to the entrance to the Southall football ground on Western Road.

He told me he lived in neighbouring Hayes with his wife, who would be very angry with him if he went home without his coat.

He also had a house in Ireland.

We walked and walked, but we couldn’t find the Halfway House. It was neither here nor there. We couldn’t find the football ground, either. Nothing was where Jim remembered it.

Like his coat, they were very much alive in Jim’s memory, but in the world we walked in the goalposts had literally moved, the final whistle had blown, and everyone had gone home, except Jim (and me).

I felt very confused. Finally it dawned on me that Jim was probably feeling very confused, too. And probably very frightened. He asked if I could show him the way to get the bus back to Hayes, which I did.

We never did find his coat.

CURRICULUM VITAE (AD ABSURDUM)

I spent most of my three years ‘working’ in Manchester down the pub. When I was in my shared smoke-filled office, I was more often than not playing a very early demo of football manager (four free seasons, on repeat), or compiling a regular comedy fanzine for the five-a-side footy team I helped to found and run. They were crazy and fun times.

Every other weekend, I got a train back to Lincolnshire for band rehearsals, recordings and occasional gigs. Although these were more often than not simply excuses to drink to excess.

I forget how much I was being paid, but it seemed like a fortune (it wasn’t, but life was free and easy back then). My boss Terry was a quietly manic Irish gynaecologist who had somehow ended up leading European studies into vertebral osteoporosis. He had more faith in me than I had in myself. He would type things on to the computer screen and ask me to read them. I would say things like, “You need to slow down, mate. Use some spaces and punctuation.”

My main role was to input response rate data, which consisted of reams of handwritten register books from all over Europe containing names, gender, dates of birth, and what kind of fracture they had suffered, if any, and if they responded to our survey, or not. Thrilling work.

On the plus side, I got to go to a couple of conferences (excuses to drink to excess) in Bath and Prague. I remember watching Ireland beat Italy in the 1994 World Cup with a bunch of Italian bone doctors in Bath. And we stayed in a stereotypical concrete skyscraper communist-era hotel-cum-conference centre on the outskirts of Prague, but had enough free time to explore the gothic city centre in the midst of a wintry, thundery snowstorm while drinking Czech vodka.

As what felt like a last resort to motivate me, my boss sent me on a week long working holiday to Athens. My objective was imply to visit one of the research centres there and make sure they knew how to complete the response rate registers correctly. A two hour job, as it turned out. They sent me for a week, as it was cheaper than sending me for a day or an overnighter, flights only, I had to find somewhere to stay when I got there. When I arrived in the heart of Athens and got out of my airport taxi, I stumbled on to the street trying to catch my bearings. A ‘friendly’ local ‘took pity’ on my and asked me where I was from. “Manchester” I said. “Aha! Bobby Chalton! Nobby Sti-les! Come! Come! I have a bar! I will get you a drink!”

I walked into his dimly lit bar just around the corner. I bottle of cold beer was waiting for me. So friendly and welcoming! As my eyes became accustomed to the light, I looked around to take in my surroundings. A group of scantily clad young (and not so young) women giggled at a table opposite the bar. Red lights everywhere! I made my excuses and left!

After doing my two hours work, I spent the rest of the week walking all around the old town and seeing all the ancient sites by day, and drinking to excess in the evenings.

Dreamed I scored a hattrick in the World Cup Final and still ended up on the losing side.

SAME OLD ENGLAND

I've been writing (if that's the right word) about the England football team elsewhere since 2006, and this is basically the theme: (even when we win) England are shit.

If that's not depressing enough in itself, and you are curious for more, here's a little summary of what to expect should you enter the rabbit hole:

The best place to start is my preview of England's ill-fated plan to get to the final of the 2012 World Cup in South Africa under the guidance of disciplinarian Italian capo Fabio Capello.

That post links to all my previous writings on England's proud tradition and long history of international failure, humiliation, and general, all-round shittiness on the football pitch. But in case you prefer a handy list, here you are, in chronological order:

2006: A new Scotland? Why England's football team will soon be as shit as Scotland's

2007: Why we're crap: the problem with English football

2010: Why England don't have a hope in hell of winning the football World Cup in 2010

2010: No future in England's dreaming? Inside the mind of Fabio Capello

2010: The World Cup on drugs: pure-grade heroin cut with shavings of Clive Tyldesley

2012: Why England don't have a hope in hell of winning Euro 2012

By 2014, I got sick of all this, and so turned to music, with my adaptation of Billy Bragg's classic song: A New Ingerland

While I'm at it (self-promotion, that is), and in case you're still with me and wondering what the Jimmy Carter thing is all about (and you have the stomach for more football-related musical adaptations):

2011 (There's Only One) Jimmy Carter (the footballer, not the peanut farmer)

2014: Whatever happened to... Jimmy Carter?

HOW TO BE A TOP FOOTBALL MANAGER

Leaked documents and video reveal the FA’s shortlist and assessment interview questions for the England manager’s job.

Stuart ‘Psycho’ Pearce, who presided over some of the least attacking and creative Manchester City and England U21 sides in living memory, was asked to give some expert coaching advice on how to play more attacking and creative football in line with England’s DNA blueprint. In a rambling and incoherent response, he finished off by reminiscing about how he used to psych out opponents. 2/5

‘I used to be’ Alex McLeish was asked how he would motivate England’s players to perform at the highest level. The dour Scot explained how he reduced all the players he managed to quivering wrecks unable to perform under pressure. All except fellow Scot Barry Ferguson. 1/5

Wife: “I don’t like the words. I don’t like the music. You sound like a hooligan. I couldn’t care less about fucking Jimmy Carter.”

CAREERS ADVICE

“When I grow up, I want to play football for Manchester United!”

For an eight year old boy growing up in rural Lincolnshire in the 1970s it seemed like an honest and rational response to an impossible question. No one else at my school wanted to play football for Manchester United. Leeds, maybe. Liverpool, definitely. Other kids said they wanted to be firemen, soldiers, doctors, and nurses. More of that later. Maybe their parents were firemen? Or maybe not. I didn’t know what my parents were. My dad went out before I got up every morning, and came home after I went to bed. At weekends, he told me stories about George Best, Denis Law (his favourite), Bobby Charlton, and the Busby Babes. About Manchester United and how they had the best team and had the best players. Not any more. That was all before my time. I was born in the year United had won the League for the last time, the year before they went on to win the European Cup. The Glory Days. Now, in my time, United were in Division Two (although I didn’t understand what that meant at the time). What I did understand was that I got to see highlights on Yorkshire TV occasionally, with a young and annoying Martin Tyler commentating on matches against the likes of ‘local’ teams Hull City, Sheffield Wednesday and York City. United were good that season. Stuart Pearson was my favourite then. Stocky and powerful, he played with the passion that I came to expect from United players. He was never the best, but he scored goals and looked like he meant it. I meant it when I said I wanted to be a footballer.

“Think of something realistic,” I was told.

“You’ll never make it.”

“Concentrate on your studies.”

I couldn’t wait to prove them wrong.

I got in to the school team. In games lessons and playtime, I was a stocky and powerful centre forward who scored goals. Our first proper match was against another village school.

Five years later, in big school, I’d had my chips pissed on, but I still wanted to make it. I wrote to East Stirlingshire Football Club (just before a young Alex Ferguson took charge) offering my services. I got a polite rejection letter back.

No one ever told me why. I was too upset to ask.

Later, in Art class, I put together a morbid collage of war and that terrible question in cut-out newspaper headline letters:

“Why?”

“Don’t be so childish!” the teacher scolded me when he woke from his alcoholic stupor.

Well, pardon me. I was a child. Surely I was allowed to ask, and expect an adult answer?

So instead, I told them I wanted to join the Army. Not because I wanted to, but because that seemed to keep them happy.

Later still, when approaching school leaving age, after filling in countless forms asking me what I liked doing and what I was good at, I was told by a ‘careers advisor’ to study chemical or electrical engineering at university. I didn’t know what they were or why they’d been chosen for me. I resolved to go on the dole.

(Has careers guidance gone off the rails?. Was it ever on the rails?)

My back is killing me and I’m practically crippled after being out in the rain all day training and coaching.

Thanks to FA 1st Aid trainer Richard Barnes for relating the story of how he had his left wrist cut through to the bone and dangling off.

Doing homework for the FA coaching course I’m on. Last night I suffered the ignominy of fainting during the bloody bit of the 1st Aid class.

Excellent! Trainer for FA coaching course I’m starting on Saturday is an ex-pro footballer, entrepreneur and Brazilian Jiu Jitsu champion!

WHY ENGLAND DON'T HAVE A HOPE IN HELL OF WINNING EURO 2012

Six years ago I wondered if the lack of Englishmen in Arsenal’s team (and most of the other leading Premier League teams) would herald a new era of Scotland-like failure for the England football team?

Well, thanks in part to Arsene Wenger’s penchant for Saintly youth team players (Theo, The Ox), we’re not quite there, yet, although undercover Scotsman Steve McClaren successfully tried and failed to qualify for Euro 2008.

Mediocre

But perhaps that also explains why there are now six players (Kelly, Johnson, Henderson, Downing, Carroll - and it’s debatable whether any of them would get into the current Scotland team - plus captain Gerrard) from a mid-table, mediocre Liverpool squad in the current England set-up?

Five years ago I blogged about the problem with English football - how our ‘long history and fine tradition of coming up short against the rest of the world’ perversely raises mainstream media expectations for the national side upon the start of any tournament for which we qualify. (Of course, I realise that they can hardly expect to win the ratings war and/or advertising revenue by informing potential viewers that it’s not likely to be New Improved England, but more Same Old England, if we’re lucky. Especially not when we need all the distraction we can get from the grim reality of how useless and fucked up our country is right now.)

Failures

Had Gareth Barry not picked up an injury and had to withdraw from the current squad, England would almost certainly be starting Euro 2012 against France with the same successful central midfield system that ‘Jocky’ McClaren stumbled upon - Gerrard and Barry - just prior to his tactically innovative use of an umbrella as cover in the pissing rain and then being sacked and publicly humiliated for his efforts (which, statistically, were on a par with Sir Bobby Robson’s, and mirrored Sir Alf Ramsey’s and Robson’s failures to qualify for their first tournaments in charge).

Two years ago I successfully predicted (admittedly, not hard to do) that England didn’t have a hope in hell of winning the World Cup in South Africa. The good news this time around is that Joe Hart is in goal and that the ‘lumbering hulk of long-ball fodder who couldn’t score a goal even if you put it in front of him and offered him £50,000 a week’, also known as Emile Heskey, is not even on the standby list (although Andy Carroll does look like a handy replacement).

Left at home

The bad news is that the only English defender we have who has actually proved himself in tournament football, Rio Ferdinand, has been left at home by Old Mother Hodgson because he is a Scorpio.

Our defence, therefore, is likely to be the same as that which kept out the mighty Algeria, and the smallest nation at the finals two years ago, Slovenia, but with Phil Jagielka or Joleon Lescott replacing former England captain Ferdinand (who of course, was himself replaced before the tournament began due to injury by the injury-prone Ledley King, who of course, was himself replaced due to injury in the first game by Jamie Carragher, who of course, was himself replaced in the third game due to being crap by, er, Stoke bench-warmer Matthew Upson) alongside racist philanderer, and former England captain (twice over) John Terry.

As good a defence, in effect, as that which went on to concede four goals to a proper team, Germany.

Failures

Moving on to the midfield (if we can keep possession of the football for long enough) it looks like England will be starting with the same creative talents as in South Africa, bar the injured Barry and Lampard, who will be replaced by the injured Parker and Gerrard. Milner or Walcott (for footballing reasons, presumably) are likely to come in for Aaron Lennon on the right, with Stewart Downing (for footballing reasons… oh, wait) taking over from Milner/Gerrard on the left. Despite my longing for Downing to score the winning goal in a penalty shoot-out in the final against the Germans, this midfield quartet cannot in any way be described as an improvement on 2010’s fiasco, or even 2008’s failures.

Up front, of course, England will have to play proper teams France and Sweden without Wayne Rooney, our one truly world class player. By the time he’s eligible to play in England’s final group game against the co-hosts Ukraine, England are quite likely to be needing a win to have any hope of even qualifying for the quarter-finals.

Thoroughly outplayed

England’s two warm-up games have followed a similar pattern to those in 2010, although perhaps offering a glimmer of hope where two years ago there really was none. In 2010, England were ‘thoroughly outplayed at Wembley by Mexico, only winning by virtue of having taller players, and then, in Austria, thoroughly outplayed by the equally diminutive Japan, only winning by virtue of two fortuitous own goals’. In 2012, England were thoroughly outplayed in Norway, only winning by virtue of a sublime piece of skill from Ashley Young, and then, at Wembley, thoroughly outplayed by Belgium, only winning by virtue of a sublime piece of skill from Danny Welbeck.

Humiliation

I suspect that England’s tournament will pan out in equally inglorious fashion, beginning with defeat at the feet of the French, put to the sword in a dire draw by the Swedes, and ignominious exit in the rain against Ukraine. To cope with the likely onset of boredom, depression and homicidal rage, I recommend following the same principles as in my guide to The World Cup on drugs.

And if England’s special brand of austerity football means avoiding the pain of humiliation against Spain in the quarter-finals, then it’s surely all for the greater good.

(THERE'S ONLY ONE) JIMMY CARTER (THE FOOTBALLER, NOT THE PEANUT FARMER)

A long time ago, back in January 2010 in fact, Dan Lynch’s band 20lb Sounds released their song Jimmy Carter (20lb Sounds) / CC BY-SA 3.0:

This is our first original release. It’s called Jimmy Carter and as you might expect it’s about… well… Jimmy Carter, the former US president. We didn’t set out to write a song about him particularly, it’s just that someone came out with the line “Jimmy Carter was a peanut farmer”, and it had to be put into song. After a quick trawl of his Wikipedia page we were turning up all sorts of gems. Such as Jimmy Carter is the cousin of Motown Records supremo Berry Gordy, he’s also won a Nobel Peace prize and even a Grammy award. Mad huh?

All those nuggets of trivia found their way into the lyrics. It was originally just the main riff but then other sections were written to make it a bit more interesting as a full song. It’s hard to know what to describe this as, it’s almost country blues, but somehow not. There’s a bit of harmonica thrown in there so watch out for that too. You can’t beat the old gob iron.

This is licensed under CC BY-SA because it’s our own original work. You can download it, share it with friends, give out CDs and generally help us spread this music as far as possible. We need your help to make this work.

Enjoy!

I have been enjoying it ever since. One thing perturbed me, though: Dan is a Liverpudlian and supports Liverpool Football Club. Surely the song should have been about the one time Liverpool footballer Jimmy Carter and not the former US president?

As the song is released under a Creative Commons licence, I realised I could rewrite the lyrics and do my own version. And here it is, my tribute to Jimmy Carter the ex-footballer, based on his Wikipedia entry:

(There’s Only One) Jimmy Carter

Jimmy Carter is an ex-footballer
He made his name in south east London
Signed for Millwall from Queen’s Park Rangers
He ran down the wings in tight short trousers

There’s only
One Jimmy
One Jimmy Carter! 

Jimmy is a man with honours
He won Division Two with the Lions
But the winning stopped when he signed for the Scousers
King Kenny’s dream turned Sourpuss nightmare

So Jimmy signed for his boyhood heroes
But his Arsenal days would soon be numbered
He went out on loan to Oxford United
While the Gunners’ team won three cups without him 

There’s only
One Jimmy
One Jimmy Carter!

Then Jimmy moved and played for Pompey
But they were shit and there were no more trophies
Back at the Den for one last shot at glory
Jimmy hurt his back and it was end of story

There’s only
One Jimmy
One Jimmy Carter!

Whatever happened to Jimmy Carter?
You can still buy his print for less than a tenner
And with the change you can get his football sticker
And sing with me ‘There’s only one Jimmy Carter!’

There’s only
One Jimmy
One Jimmy Carter!

Enjoy!

THE WORLD CUP ON DRUGS: PURE-GRADE HEROIN CUT WITH SHAVINGS OF CLIVE TYLDESLEY

If England’s game against Algeria had been a Wimbledon tennis match, the two sides would still be at it today with the Dutch Master Johan Cruyff declaring it the greatest example of Total Crap Football ever played.

Both sets of players would be awarded (honorary) knighthoods for their part in simulating Barnsley versus Grimsby Town at a freezing cold Oakwell on New Year’s Day in the late 1990s/early 2000s and no doubt the two managers would be encased in marble as a living testament to their obduracy.

And if the first round of group games were like pure-grade heroin cut with shavings of Clive Tyldesley and smuggled past England’s Robert Green at UK border control, I have to admit that I overdosed, taking up to six hours a day for more than a week.

After an early rush of excitement, I fell into a deep reverie induced by triple daily doses of drab defensive displays before finally lapsing into a tactical coma, waking up just in time for this Sunday’s World Cup Final showdown between England and Germany.

Having beaten the USA in the knockout stages, Fabio Capello must be delighted that his masterplan has come to fruition and England are within 90 minutes of lifting the Jules Rimet trophy once more.

A valiant effort, all the more remarkable as we have scored only two goals in the process of knocking out the most powerful nation on earth (truly, an us against US game if ever there was one), the tricky North Africans and then the smallest footballing nation at the Finals, Slovenia.

I take my hat off to Fabio and his men and will go on to eat it for dinner, too, as I was convinced we really didn’t have a hope in hell of seeing this dream come true.

As a tribute, I offer my exclusive guide to The World Cup On Drugs for your viewing enhancement:

Alcohol

Preferably beer and lots of it. Great for encouraging your team’s hard men to go in for dangerous two-footed tackles on opponents. Can really make you feel good for 90 minutes, but then you can start to get heavy-legged and risk missing vital goals while you go for a pee. Can also leave you feeling tired and miserable for days afterwards if you’re over 40.
Undoubtedly the football fan’s favourite tipple, alcohol can make even France versus Uruguay seem like the most compelling game of end-to-end football you’ve ever seen. OK, maybe not even alcohol can do that. Which is why you might consider some slightly more risqué alternatives.

Cannabis and marijuana

If you smoke or otherwise consume enough of this, you won’t care who wins as long as you have plenty of chocolate and crisps. Not a good idea to try ordering a Chinese takeaway while watching either of the two Korean sides, either, unless you want bean curd noodles with prawn cracker soup and a meat cleaver in your head for being a cheeky bastard.

You may find yourself laughing uncontrollably at the little Mexican and Japanese players (but see LSD, below) and at some of the many comedy commentating double-entendres and other funnies such as:

Bougherra goes in hard on Butt!

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He’s got Eggiman on the face, there.

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Messi leaves Shittu trailing in his wake.

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Pantsil’s off!

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Bong.

Amphetamines, ecstacy and cocaine

In theory, you might think any of these stimulants would be great for staying alert during the opening round of games, but as your brain processes information faster so these interminable games begin to last forever and - as we all know - you risk irreversible catatonia. Try explaining that to your mum and dad when they come to visit you in hospital with tubes coming out of your every orifice and some new ones you didn’t have before.

If you must, make sure you’re down the pub with your mates and you should have a great time spoiling everyone else’s enjoyment of the game with your incessant yabbering. This is what all BBC and ITV commentators take before live games. You have been warned.

LSD and magic mushrooms

Hallucinogens. Watch football and expand your mind. Sounds too good to be true! Discover the meaning of life during the national anthems and spend the rest of the day communicating with the God of the Vuvuzelas or hiding in the cupboard under the stairs fearing that you are about to be abducted by giant lizard-men disguised as tiny insects working for your local council’s refuse collection team.

Either way, it will be a life-changing experience. When watching Japan or Mexico, be prepared to spend the entire game marvelling at how small their players are and how big the opposition is. Whatever you do, you will need to read the sports news the following day in order to find out what really happened.

Heroin, morphine and other opiate derivatives

Can make you feel like you won even when you lost. I try to stay away from these as a general rule, at least until the latter stages of the competition. Then, as an England fan, they can be useful to sustain your enthusiasm in between games after the first knockout round and the quarter finals and before the final itself.

Long-term use is best left until after the tournament is completed or avoided all together. Warning:
death is a likely outcome whether you use heroin or not.

Well, that’s it. Please remember that none of this is to be taken seriously and do not try this at home, children, even if you’re an adult.

NO FUTURE IN ENGLAND'S DREAMING? INSIDE THE MIND OF FABIO CAPELLO

Fabio Capello’s master plan to take England to the World Cup final is finally taking shape.

On the evidence seen so far, truly it is something of a fantasy.

The sorry bunch of posers (Wayne Rooney, our only hope and Sid Vicious-like talisman ready to self-destruct at any moment, excepted) that represent our once proud nation may fail even to qualify for the ‘It’s A Knockout’ stages let alone reach the final for what would be our finest hour-and-half (plus extra-time and penalties, if needed) for 44 years.

If by some bloody miracle we do reach the final, I just hope we don’t live to regret not thinking about a master plan to actually win it.

But our preparations - highlights of which include being thoroughly outplayed at Wembley by Mexico and only winning by virtue of having taller players and then today in Austria being thoroughly outplayed by the equally diminutive Japan and only winning by virtue of two fortuitous own goals - are now over.

Even if he won’t be singing God Save The Queen, at least Capello now knows who his 23 will be. Here, I can exclusively reveal who they will be and why.

In goal

In reverse order, building from the back as all England teams do, Capello already knew who his three goalkeepers would be.

David James, who has made something of a career littered with often hilarious yet calamitous mistakes (which must give hope for the future to Ben Foster), was first choice until his injury at Portsmouth allowed Rob Green, who seems to be compiling his own personal back catalogue of often hilarious yet calamitous mistakes, to take over.

Ironically, the best of the lot could be the young but inexperienced third choice Joe Hart.

While I think Capello must have been tempted by James’s much greater experience, I think he will stick with Rob Green to start knowing that he has capable back up if needed due to loss of form, injury or suspension.

1 Robert GREEN

At the back

Lazily rolling the ball out to the defence, Capello knows his preferred back four of Glen Johnson, captain Rio Ferdinand, John Terry and Ashley Cole, the two Chelsea players competing for the role of Johnny Rotten.

The question is, how does he balance the ideal of having like-for-like back up while making sure he has enough options to cover for lack of form and fitness after injury?

That will depend to some extent on Gareth Barry’s injury as he would be the natural choice to cover for Ashley Cole and a better option, if fit, than the specialist left back Leighton Baines, who has looked out of his depth at this level.

2 Glen JOHNSON 3 Ashley COLE 4 Gareth BARRY 5 Rio FERDINAND 6 John TERRY

In the middle

Calmly passing the ball out to the midfield, again Capello knows his first choice is for Frank Lampard to partner Gareth Barry in the middle, with Steven Gerrard and Theo Walcott out wide.
With Barry’s injury it’s likely that Gerrard will be asked to fill in centrally in preference to an out-of-sorts Michael Carrick or the impressive but still inexperienced James Milner, who will be trusted to take Gerrard’s starting place on the left in England’s first game against the USA.

7 Theo WALCOTT 8 Frank LAMPARD

Up front

Desperately hoofing the ball up to the forwards now and giving the ball away, bizarrely we once again have the lovely Emile Heskey as our first choice centre forward.

It’s like being back in 2002 all over again, except that back then Heskey was just a lumbering hulk of long-ball fodder who couldn’t score a goal even if you put it in front of him and offered him £50,000 a week.

Heskey’s England career, like Gareth Barry’s of course, was reconstructed by former England manager and still object of derision (mostly for being so wet, despite sensibly opting for an umbrella to keep the rain off while his England team failed not to lose their must-not-lose game against Croatia) Steve McClaren.

Even so, Heskey is believed to be Rooney’s preferred strike partner, presumably because he makes him look even better.

9 Emile HESKEY 10 Wayne ROONEY 11 Steven GERRARD

Left back at home

I think Capello must have been tempted to take only three specialist, but versatile central defenders as cover - King (who can also play a holding role in midfield), Jamie Carragher (who can cover both full-back roles as just as badly as centre back) and Matt Upson (who could conceivably cover at left-back if needed).

The advantage of taking Baines as well is that even if we had three players out with injury or suspension we would still have a defender on the bench.

But Capello must surely think that better options, in the unlikely event they are even needed, are the versatility of Michael Carrick, who has played a central defensive role a couple of times for United and James Milner, who can fill in on either flank as a full-back. Christ, I’d rather have Gerrard and Rooney at full back than Baines.

Stephen Warnock and Michael Dawson are untested alternatives, and I don’t see the point of Leighton Baines, so I don’t see how Capello can either.

12 David JAMES 13 Jamie CARRAGHER 14 Ledley KING 15 Matt UPSON

Passed out

The other benefit of not taking Leighton Baines is that it frees up a place for a more attack-minded player.

While Capello has a had a good look at Tom Huddlestone, who has played well for Spurs this season, I think he will miss out along with Scott Parker who was the injury reserve, and stick with the experience of Michael Carrick, despite his fairly miserable recent run of form.

Aaron Lennon is the preferred like-for-like replacement for Walcott.

16 Aaron LENNON 17 Michael CARRICK 18 James MILNER

Bent over

Peter Crouch and Jermain Defoe were always certainties to go and Darren Bent never really had a chance.

19 Peter CROUCH 20 Jermain DEFOE

Tossed off

Joe Cole, who must think he looks more and more like a fat Joe Cole with every pie he eats, offers experienced and creative cover in any attacking midfield role.

That leaves exciting new boy Adam Johnson fighting for a place with his little big-club team-mate Shaun Wright-Phillips, who, like Glenn Matlock, can feel a little hard done by.

Just like at City, expect Johnson, who can genuinely play on either wing, to get the nod in the potential-matchwinner-who-won’t-even-get-on role.

21 Joe COLE 22 Adam JOHNSON 23 Joe HART

So there you have it, to put you out of your misery two days early.

Thank me in the comments.

CONFESSIONS OF A THORACOTOMY PATIENT

Abstract: Lung-form blogging at its cheesiest.

Tags: thoracotomy, empyema, decortication, cheese, collapsed lung, chest infection, pleurisy, NHS,

Last week I met a beautiful young Hispanic woman and we spent the night together. She cared for me deeply and carefully, and I gazed upon her lovingly as the morphine (d)ripped through my veins. She checked me out and made sure that everything seemed to be in working order.

‘Hi, I’m Sofia,’ she said.

‘I’m going to be looking after you tonight.’

Thanks to the morphine, I carried on smiling and Sofia carried on with her job of nursing me through my first night after my thoracotomy on the high dependency unit of the five star NHS hospital I was staying in.

I had quite a good time despite drinking nothing but water the entire evening. We shared a few bottles together - Sofia would hand me an empty one, pull the covers around me and I would half-fill it and hand it back to her so she could measure and record, discard and disinfect. She checked my tubes and drains to make sure they weren’t getting clogged up with ‘cheese’ or any other unwanted dairy products. She made sure that my drains were working properly and that I was getting enough suction (stop it!). In the morning, she washed my back. My only regret is that half-way through the night somebody much more attractive ill than me was trolleyed through and Sofia spent more time with him than she did with me.

A good swing

So, Sofia had taken over from Gilbert, a beautiful young Chinese-looking man who I woke up with after my general anaesthetic. Gilbert was every bit as diligent and caring as Sofia and I don’t think this is just the drugs talking. I was amazed by the level of care I received throughout my stay, with one or two relatively minor exceptions, which I’ll come to later. And it’s not just because I was probably quite a good patient - I was calm, polite, not in any great pain or discomfort, doing well - eating, drinking, breathing, coughing and I had a ‘good swing’. Most of the other patients around me appeared to be quite a lot older than me and if not older then certainly in more pain or experiencing more problems after their operations. They were cared for with equal if not more time and attention as far as I could see and hear.

Who else do I need to thank for treating me so well? On admission to the hospital at 7 am on Friday morning I was met by nurse Martin, who seemed more nervous than me, but who handed me over to the highly organised Lindsay. Lyndsay wasted no time in getting me half-naked on to the bed so that she could attach clips and cables to my chest and stomach to run an ECG. Then she made me strip completely and wear a flowery dress. To complete my humiliation, she had me walk down to the diagnostic testing department in full public view where I had an x-ray. When I got back she wanted me to wear some thigh-high stockings, too. How could I resist her helping hands to put them on for me? Thank you Lyndsay!

Thanks also to Rick, the porter, for your sense of humour in wheeling me up and down and up and down again to the operating theatre where I’m sure everyone had a good laugh at me in drag. No doubt the pictures are all over the internet by now. And thanks to Dorcas, the clinical nurse specialist who spoke to me on the phone before I went in to tell me how bad it was going to be and who greeted me in the hospital before the operation with her hands - literally a nice touch, and one repeated by Lyndsay, Rick, Gilbert and Sofia later. A quick, simple touch to the hand, the shoulder, arm or elbow is extremely reassuring I find. Thanks for your humanity.

The cheese factor

Pre-operation, I also spoke to several doctors/surgeons/registrars or whatever they call themselves. They may even have had first names, but somehow if they did those names haven’t stuck. All I can really remember is being told that the operation would take 90-120 minutes rather than the 30-45 minutes I was expecting. This was due to the fact that they would be doing a conventional ‘large’ incision of about 10 cm rather than the keyhole 2 cm cuts I’d been told I was going to have. The change of modus operandi was because of the ‘cheese’ factor - they needed to scrape the rind off the lung, not simply drain fluid. I signed the consent form. By this time they had me where they wanted me and I had resigned myself to my fate. What else could I do but submit? Yes, there’s a risk with everything, but carrying on with a lung full of cheese didn’t seem like a good bet.

Finally, Rick got me into theatre again after an aborted first attempt because my blood results weren’t back in time. This also meant a delay of an hour and a half, which didn’t affect me too much. I was kind of in a semi-meditational state I reckon. Either that or just frozen with fear. Now it was the turn of the anaesthetists to do things to me. Thanks to Belton (not Ben Elton) for painlessly finding my veins first time and inserting the cannulas that would feed the juice to knock me out and sustain me with fluids. All I can remember is a bit of aimless chit-chat, breathing deeply into the gas mask that was placed over my face and….

Chris the Crafty Cockney

Less than two hours later I woke up on the high dependency unit with Gilbert looking after me. At some point I remember my surgeon coming round to tell me, quite madly in his Chris the Crafty Cockney way:

‘You’re fixed!’

---

‘Thank you!’ I said.

Thank you, thank you, thank you!

After Gilbert and Sofia, I was handed over to Tara, who was a bundle of fun in our short time together. Tara couldn’t wait to get rid of me, though, and pushed the wheelchair herself to get me on to the main ward so that she could go and have lunch or something. I had been looking forward to moving wards actually. The high dependency unit was a bit noisy and a bit dull and now I would have access to my belongings that I brought with me - mp3/video player, internet, email, phone, etc. But when I was shown to my room (it’s on old private hospital bought by the NHS) I felt strangely disheartened and lonely. On the high dependency unit, Gilbert, Sofia and Tara were always within eyesight or earshot, but on the ward my new nurse Nas and everyone else was gone within seconds. I was still attached to two drains and my morphine drip, so I couldn’t go anywhere. I felt as helpless as a baby.

At least I was on the ward in time for the Manchester derby, the most important game since the last one. And my mum and step-dad John were visiting at 2pm. Lunch was forgettable - one of my few complaints is that the food was largely very poor quality. As I discovered on my discharge from the hospital, there is a very good coffee bar and staff/visitors' restaurant in the hospital, which I believe is managed by the same company that provides the patients' meals, yet the comparison is dreadful. I didn’t have much of an appetite due to the morphine, but it doesn’t help when you are served up slop that is worse than school meals of thirty-odd years ago.

Back to the footy. My mum proudly explained that my brother would be texting her with news of any goals.

‘That’s great, Mum. But I’m getting text updates from the BBC every few minutes on my internet tablet.’

BBC text updates on one of the most uneventful ninety minutes in the history of football aren’t much fun, but sustained conversation more than my brother’s updates.

BLEEP!

Crikey, a text from my brother to my mother.

‘15 seconds left. Scholes header. Game over.’

My mum read the text out loud.

‘What does that mean?’ she asked.

Oh, christ.

‘It means,’ explained ever-patient John, who is not a football fan:

---

‘United have won the game with a last minute winner yet again.’

---

‘Oh.’

---

‘What do you think it means?’

This remote victory barely raised a smile on my dry lips and hardly registered an increased pulse according to Nas when she took my blood pressure. It is surely my least celebrated United goal ever, although I did manage a laugh and a cheer the next morning watching the highlight on Match of the Day.

Sunday I had three separate visitors morning, afternoon and evening and I suspect I was fairly grumpy/tired during at least one of those, so apologies certainly to my dad. I have to say, though, that visits are extremely tiring and quite emotional. It’s no wonder hospitals advise no more than two visitors at a time. And when you’re in that state of post-op pain or discomfort, lack of mobility, tiredness, feeling sick etc., you’re really not much company. It’s great to see people, of course, but as a visitor you can’t expect too much from your relative or friend. And thanks, dad, for leaving me with the advice to get a hair cut and a shave so that I don’t look so much like Frank Gallagher!

A quick thanks also at this point to some more lovely nurses - Sarah, Yvonne, Nadia, Esther - sorry if I missed anyone.

Minor complaints

I mentioned earlier a couple of minor exceptions to the high level of care I received while in hospital.

One would be that the cannula on my wrist became loose, swollen red and painful. I asked one of the nurses about it and she said it was ok and bandaged it up (after dropping the bandage on the floor!) to hold it in place. Later another nurse came to use the cannula to inject my antibiotics. Now this can usually feel a little uncomfortable, but nothing more than that. This time I was screaming in agony. I pointed out the problem again and she said that it was ‘unacceptable’, removed the cannula, patched me up and fixed the cannula in my hand so that it could be used for both the morphine drip and the antibiotics, painlessly.

My second minor complaint would be that the same nurse who dropped the bandage came in gloved-up to remove my second drain, then went out again touching the door handle to call for assistance (two nurses are required - one to pull the drain out, one to tie the stitch, the painful bit). I asked her to change her gloves, which she did so willingly and acknowledging that she should do so. The point is that she should be taking the initiative not waiting for patients to prompt her. It’s fairly basic stuff.

My only other quibble is that I was discharged on Tuesday morning (four days after my op), barely able to walk more than a few yards without getting out of breath so basically forced to book a taxi home. They gave me some paracetamol, ibuprofen and dihydrocodeine for the pain, but for three out of the five days I’ve been home so far that hasn’t been enough to control the pain. It’s really been quite distressing for me and for my family to see me in so much pain and to be able to do nothing to help. I’m seeing my GP on Monday so maybe I’ll get some extra help with that.

The drugs didn’t work

I’m not sure how long it’s going to take for me to recover and go back to working full-time. As far as I know, I’m expected to make a full recovery, although I was a more than a little perturbed to read that post-op pain from a thoracotomy can take months or even years to go away.

I’m still not sure how this all happened. In January I had a chest infection and pleuritic pain similar to that which I’d had in March 2009 when I had a really acute episode of shortness of breath, fever and a consolidation on the same lung. That cleared up quickly with antibiotics and an inhaler. This time around, the drugs didn’t work, so my body responded by sealing off the infection in my lung by surrounding the lung with fluid.

Unfortunately I tried to work through this in February, which left me feeling too exhausted to go get an x-ray right away. Once I got the x-ray I was admitted to Accident and Emergency immediately where they did some tests to rule out heart problems, I think, before sending me home. Then I had to wait five weeks before seeing a chest specialist and another week or two before getting the results of fluid samples and a CT scan.

Hard cheese

As luck would have it, all of these tests were negative (ruling out the likes of cancer and smoking as possible causes, as far as I know). But the build up of fluid had continued and I had progressively felt more and more physically and mentally tired. My surgeon was certain that I had what is known as empyema (the hard ‘cheese’ as he called it and that I talked about earlier) and this required decortication (scraping the rind off the lung) via a thoracotomy (an incision along the underside of the shoulder blade).

As it turned out, I was told that the scraping bit wasn’t required, which is great news as that would likely have damaged the tissues of the lung. I’ll be seeing my surgeon again in a week or two I think and the chest specialist next month. I’ve been told it’s still possible that I could have tuberculosis, although there is no evidence of that yet (it takes a while to show up apparently). Meanwhile I’m taking antibiotics for pneumonia - if I don’t breathe deeply and cough well enough I’m at risk of getting a chest infection. And, despite the lovely nurses, I don’t want to go there again!

WHY ENGLAND DON'T HAVE A HOPE IN HELL OF WINNING THE FOOTBALL WORLD CUP IN 2010

• We don’t have any goalkeepers who are not proven to be accidents waiting to happen. James, Green, Foster, Robinson. OK, so there is the untested Joe Hart.

• We don’t have any defenders who are fit or in form. Johnson, Ferdinand and Cole all injured. Terry playing like he has his pants down around his ankles half the time. Replacements (based on Capello’s selections so far) would be Brown, Lescott, Upson and Baines (since the useless Bridge has withdrawn). Other possibilities for left back from the squad might include Barry or Milner. Slightly more left of field, literally as well as metaphorically, would be Warnock and Phil Neville.

• I’m not convinced by our midfield or our formation and tactics playing two wide players and two central midfielders. Lennon is injured, Walcott is recovering from injury. Beckham is fit only for 15 minute cameos. So, Milner looks like he will start on the right and has shown lots of energy and drive. Gerrard seems to be the notional left-sided midfielder now. Barry is the holding midfielder and he has played well for England in that role over the last two years since Steve McClaren put him there. But he looks a shadow of that player now. Lampard is our ‘creative’ attacking midfielder. The same player who can disappear for an entire 90 minutes despite his massive size.

• Although we have one of the best centre forwards in the world in Wayne Rooney, Capello seems to insist on pairing him with one of the worst centre forwards in the world in Emile Heskey. Sorry, but likeable as Emile is - and he tries, I know he tries - he is not up to it. If we are to play with two up front then I’d stick Gerrard in there. Rooney has proved this season beyond any doubt that he can play alone up front provided he has:

1. Service from wingers who can get to the byline and cross the ball on to his head.
2. Support of two midfielders who - in addition to their defensive and creative duties - can bomb forward to give Rooney the space he needs.

Unless Capello surprises me and changes his tactics, formation and line-up I just can’t see it happening.

UNITED, BORN AND BRED: SUPER GLUE MACARI

The only United match I’ve been to in recent years was last season’s FA Cup tie at home to Spurs, courtesy of E.on’s sponsorship and their Family Football initiative. I went with a couple of my ‘clients’ from work, had a great road trip and fantastic all-round experience. One’s a Spurs fan, and I know he felt a mixture of joy and anxiety sat in amongst all the United fans (even in the Family stand) when Spurs went 1-0 up. But both were amazed by the genuine friendliness and good-natured humour of the locals as we mingled around outside the stadium before kick-off. I’m pleased to say that both are working or about to start work now. I really believe that going to this match (and we also went to Wembley and White Hart Lane) helped to put a bit of the spark back into their lives, to begin to believe and to hope again. The Theatre of Dreams, indeed!

I went to a few games in the ’90s when I was working in Manchester, mostly European nights, which then weren’t that well supported. I remember seeing David Beckham play one of his first games and you could see right away that he was a special talent. Before that, I saw Roy Keane when he was still at Forest. I think he scored a hat-trick at Bolton (where I was studying) and he was another one that you could see was on another level, right away. My favourite game in the 90’s, though, has to be Sheffield United away in a midweek game. We won 3-0, fabulous counter-attacking stuff and fantastic goals from Cantona, Hughes and Sharpe!

Back to the late 70’s again, my dad took me to see United get walloped 4-0 at OT by Cloughie’s Forest and I saw the 3-5 thrashing we received at the hands of West Brom, not to mention the 0-0 versus Wolves with George Berry. We were frigging crap a lot of the time, occasionally brilliant, but never consistently good enough.

I have a lot to thank my dad for. Thanks, Dad! He got me a Subbuteo set one Xmas and meticulously painted on the United colours, numbers and even facial hair of the players. I was gutted when my ickle Lou Macari broke both legs and he was never the same player again despite being able to return for the next match thanks to a tube of superglue!

The best thing about all of this, though, is being able to immediately rebut all the ABUs1 who, when I tell them who I support, start their tired old accusations of glory-hunting, London Reds, etc. I started watching United when they were at their lowest ebb (in terms of league status) since they became popular worldwide. I’ve personally endured almost twenty of the “years of hurt” growing up watching those other reds (funny how so many of the kids I went to school with in Lincolnshire were Liverpool fans) win year after year with just a few crumbs of comfort coming our way in the FA Cup. Both my mum and dad were and still are ardent United supporters and if it wasn’t for them I’d probably be a Mariner or worse!

So, thanks, mum and dad, for uniting and ensuring that I was born in Stretford General!

WHY WE'RE CRAP: THE PROBLEM WITH ENGLISH FOOTBALL

It’s often the case that what in one sense is an undeniable strength can at the same time also be a real or potential weakness. English football’s great history and tradition raises everyone’s expectations, yet the English football team must compete on an increasingly commercialised and sophisticated international playing field. We have more fans, more money and more foreigners in our game than any other country, so it’s no surprise that when things don’t go to plan, everyone feels quite upset and let down. And the media does its best to blame anyone and everyone.

There’s such a lot at stake, now. It was only sixty years or so ago that the Football Association, which is now grieving over the financial loss of failure to qualify for Euro 2008 and stating that qualification for Euro and World Cup Finals is a minimum requirement of the team manager/coach, actively prevented the national team from taking part. It’s only forty years or so since we won it. As it happens, Sir Alf Ramsey, like Second Choice Steve McClaren also failed to qualify for his first Euro Finals in 1964…. We have a long history and fine tradition of coming up short against the rest of the world, so it’s not as if it’s anything new or that we should be surprised about.

The problem with English football has been documented in the press as being anything from too many foreign players, too much money, expectation of fans not matched with reality, players and coaches not good enough, not enough passion or care, too much passion and not enough technique, too much pressure and fear, too much drinking and not enough team spirit. The reality is probably that all of these factors are important to a lesser or greater degree.

Too many foreign players

As Sven-Goran Erikkson points out, managers often buy overseas players because they are cheaper on average than their English or British counterparts. That’s also why so few of our players play abroad - because there isn’t the money to pay them, not necessarily that they aren’t good enough. Beckham was and arguably still is good enough to play for Real Madrid. That’s why there are too many foreign players.

Too much money

So part of the problem may be that the players get paid too much? But that is not the players’ fault, just market forces, mainly to do with Sky TV money and, er, the FA, who contract with them for Premier League (the same FA which hijacked the Football League) and England rights. What this means is that the very best English players - who are on a par at least, with the very best players in the world - are paid significantly more. This is why Arsene Wenger has so few English players in his squad, not because they aren’t good enough, but because they are too expensive.

The new Scotland

Maybe I’m wrong, but it seems to me that we are repeating what happened in Scotland during the Graeme Souness era at Rangers - he bought lots of foreigners in, Celtic and others later followed suit and the Scottish national team suffered as a result. I’m not the only one who thinks that England are the new Scotland.

The recent Scottish revival has surely been due to Rangers and Celtic developing a core group of home-grown players to complement their foreign signings. And I’m sure that a lot of their England based players can’t wait to get a game for Scotland after watching too many games from the stand or playing for less successful clubs!

Overpaid English players

At club level, Arsenal are successful in part at least because they have a salary structure which prevents them buying overpaid English players, but keeps team spirit up - see how much better they are doing without the overpaid Henry! Same with United to a different extent. Fergie’s discipline is what he buys by paying top wages and Ince, Kanchelskis, Beckham, Van Nistelrooy and Keane are all examples of players who reached their sell-by dates, for the team’s eventual benefit. Chelsea pay everyone top wages, of course, while my guess is that the likes of Liverpool, Newcastle, Spurs and any other under-achievers get the balance wrong between wages and value.

Too much pressure

But there’s more to it than that. Michael Owen says that the players can’t cope with the pressure of playing for England now, not that they don’t care. Although at some point we have to admit that other teams are sometimes better than us, that would certainly explain some lacklustre performances and results. Where does the pressure come from? The fans? The media?

My opinion is that the fans want England to win, or - if they can’t win - to play well, trying. The media just want to sell stories, and their marketing strategy is the time-honoured sensationalism of even the most mundane non-news (Steve McClaren under an umbrella. OK, so he looked a bit daft, but, if he kept dry and we’d won…).

So, we lost to Croatia. What we should all have been saying was congratulations to Croatia on a deserved victory and let’s support McClaren in rebuilding for real this time instead of picking on every little thing and waiting for him to fail. Things looked good against Russia and Israel, he stumbled across a “system” (Gerrard and Barry) that worked. He was unlucky with injuries, but should have been given longer.

A NEW SCOTLAND? WHY ENGLAND'S FOOTBALL TEAM WILL SOON BE AS SHIT AS SCOTLAND'S

Is an all-foreign Arsenal bad for English football?

But if all our top teams are made up of non-Englishmen….