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.

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 (Hocus Pocus)

Inevitably, my time as a Manchester University player came to end, and I left the club by mutual consent when my contract ended.

Somewhat bizarrely, looking back on it, I joined what appeared to be an obscure and tiny religious cult in the middle of nowhere (deepest, darkest Lincolnshire), dabbling in some rather questionable therapy / witchcraft.

My role was primarily as Administrator with responsibility for making sense of the almost entirely lacking paperwork, contracts, and financial arrangements of the company (?) / sole practitioner / lead sorceress. Bed and board were included in my pay, which meant I didn’t get paid much at all, and had to do a lot of household chores on a strict rota, along with the other, er, residents.

I got kicked out about six months later for dropping acid at the weekend. Somehow, with a couple of band mates, we cleaned ourselves up and managed to persuade a friendly estate agent to rent us out a four-bedroomed semi-detached house that had one careful previous owner (the local vicar), that was ideally located opposite a big pub and just up the road from the local drug dealers.

We spent eighteen months there, mostly on the dole, getting our musical act into gear. Completely by chance (we put up a card in the local Spa shop window asking for a “chilled out lamppost”), we met a nomadic (on the run) alcoholic junkie who could actually sing, write songs, and also played a mean guitar. We rehearsed every day in that house (pity our poor neighbours), recorded a couple of decent demo tapes (got to number one in the local newspaper charts), and played some wild gigs that were generally pretty well received.

The end was nigh, though, as it always is. I’d got a job to help pay for gear, and fell madly in love with one of my new co-workers. Euro 96 appeared, and we all took a break from music to enjoy Ing-er-land’s latest heartbreak efforts. Our junkie friend wasn’t into football, or staying around, and one day he was gone. My love interest left, too.

This was the catalyst for me to focus on work for the first time in my life, as a coping mechanism for loss, as much as anything else. The more I worked, the less loss I felt. I couldn’t get enough of it.

I started at the bottom. Literally. The job I applied for was Personal Carer in a Residential Home. I assumed that it meant psychological care, and didn’t pay much attention on my first morning shift when I shadowed another carer who was wiping bottom after bottom (and more) of all these frail, elderly folks.

Anyway, I got into it (and my new co-worker), and found that, yes, there was a quite a degree of psychological care involved, too, if you had the time, skills and inclination. Unbelievably (or so it seemed to many in the industry at the time, when frail, elderly people find they have something worth living for (a friend to talk to, something fun to do, something like a day out to look forward to), they’re much more capable of getting themselves dressed, feeding themselves, staying continent.

Of course, many carers had none of those things, and in fact, got very little psychological care themselves in their own lives. Often it was just a continuation of the sadistic brutality from their school days.

But I found myself actually enjoying the job despite the low pay, and often quite unpleasant working conditions. I enjoyed the people - the camaraderie and comradeship of the staff and residents. We really were all in it together

That said, there was only so much arse wiping I could do before I got fed up with it. I’d done everything and more I’d been asked to do and applied to be a Senior Carer and even a Care Services Manager (responsible for running the shifts, and the home in the absence of the Home Manager). But I wasn’t successful - too little experience, I was told. Which might have been true. I’d only been there a year.

But I suspect it might also have been because I was too much of a threat to the darker side of what was going on. The manager was taking money from at least one of the more severely demented residents, and some of the staff were in on it, too. At least, that’s what I’d been told.

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?