Category: Longform
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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
Gus Poyet was asked about dealing with the media and how to get England scoring goals. The fiery Uruguayan stressed the importance of ’timing when to go’, presumably not referring to his ill-timed public thoughts on when he might leave Brighton that got him sacked shortly afterwards. He then presented a Powerpoint video on scoring goals in which he was the only one who managed to put the ball in the back of the net. 3/5
Alan ‘I haven’t done much coaching lately’ Curbishley failed to answer any questions at all, and just got all bitter and twisted about the time Charlton might have finished two places higher in the league if Scott Parker hadn’t left mid-season. 1/5
Lastly, and perhaps most bizarrely of all, Tony Pulis, not long ago sacked by Stoke City for not playing attractive-enough football, was asked how he would help a team play more attractive football, and focused on lumping it up to the big man up front. 4/5
Sam Allardyce pipped Tony Pulis to the job by virtue of not being Welsh.
Louder than words
We are all consciously or unconsciously re-enacting previous unresolved experiences of loss, or absence, of relationships. These disappointments evoke in us resentment and anger, which control us until we can forgive - to see the victim in the perpetrator.
We remain victims all the while we are unable to forgive, and all the while we are unable to let people into our inner worlds of pain - to protect ourselves from breakdown, but also to protect other people from this part of our experience for fear of what it will do to them, and how they will react to us.
A New Ingerland
I wasn't even born when we won the World Cup
I'm forty-six now and all hope I've given up
My wife asks me now 'Why don't you be a better fan?'
But all the players I loved at school already failed for Ingerland
I loved you then, but I don't love you still
I bet you'd beat Portugal, but it ended nil-nil
I don't feel bad about letting you go
I just feel bad about letting you know...
There's no way we'll win the World Cup
Unless we play like a new Ingerland
And win at penalties
I loved the games in Italia '90
But that was bloody years ago!
I can't survive on the rubbish since then
Every time we go down to ten men...
I saw two shooting stars last night
I looked at them, but they were only highlights
Is it wrong to wish on the BBC?
I wish, I wish, but here's reality...
Whatever happened to... Jimmy Carter?
A little under three years ago I eulogised about Jimmy Carter (the footballer, not the peanut farmer) in a musical response to 20lb Sounds eulogising about Jimmy Carter (the peanut farmer, not the footballer).
I wondered why Dan, the band’s Liverpool-supporting singer-songwriter, had neglected the opportunity to write about a player who is widely acknowledged (from a cursory search of fan forums) as one of Liverpool’s worst ever signings?
Two years later (thanks to the wonder of the internet, and possibly also the wonder of Doug Whitfield and his Music Manumit Podcast), I received a reply:
Around this time, I also received another reply:
(For those of you of a technical and/or inquisitive nature, I’ve posted screenshots of these comments because I lost the ability to link to them as actual comments on the original blog post during one of my many blog migrations.)
Now, I don’t know if this is the real Dan Lynch or if it is Doug Whitfield pretending to be Dan to somehow boost his podcast ratings, but who cares?
I tracked Jimmy down and found a recent interview with him on the Millwallant podcast, in which Jimmy ‘tells us what it’s like to be a professional footballer and also demonstrates his genuine knowledge and passion for the game.’ I found it really quite insightful, all the more so coming from a player who most people have forgotten, never heard of, or so easily disparage based on his ‘failures’ at Liverpool and Arsenal.
If you prefer to read, there’s a similar interview on the Arsenal website.
What got me obsessing about a fairly obscure ex-Millwall, Liverpool, Arsenal and Portsmouth footballer again? Well, Dan’s band 20lb Sounds took five quid off me in time for Xmas 2012 on the promise of an album release in February 2013. Since then there have been a few updates about how the album would be ready ‘next month’, ‘in time for Xmas’ and how much Dan and the boys were enjoying their holidays in the sun. But no album. Until now. A year later. But only for backers, for the time being (see footnote 1). I had a listen this morning, and, really, it sounds great. Well done, to all concerned.
So I decided to have another go at my own take on 20lb Sounds’ Jimmy Carter. I could have teased and tormented you all by not releasing it for another two years, and only to people who had given me money to do so, but I’m not like that.
So, without further ado, and introducing MC Jimmy ‘The Cartz’ Carter rapping an intro (footnote 2), and Richard ‘Smash it!’ Keys rapping the chorus-to-verse bridges (footnote 3) as part of his rehabilitation and bid to replace Richard Scudamore as chief executive of the Premier League, here’s my new, updated easy listening version of Jimmy Carter:
- The new 20lb Sounds album is now available to all!
- Jimmy Carter rap intro lifted from the Millwallant podcast interview somewhere around the 49 minute mark.
- Richard Keys, for it is he, smashed and grabbed from Millwall 2-0 Sheffield Wednesday, (old) Division One, 23-9-1989.
Xmas 2.0
Abstract: Not another Festive Fifty podcast. Tags: podcast, jamendo, music, freedom, xmas
Following on, naturally enough, from episode one, I’m pleased to announce that, this morning, I finally got around to knocking out episode two of my much anticipated and eagerly awaited annual Xmas podcast. So here it is, at last, available for the listening pleasure of children of all ages.
As usual, I can’t be bothered to produce any show notes, but if you want to find out more about the songs I played, you can head over to Jamendo where you can listen uninterrupted by my dulcet tones, and even download said music for free.
Lastly I’d like to wish all three of my dedicated listeners a very Merry Xmas and a Happy New Year. On the publishing frequency of this podcast, if you would like me to give it to you annually, please leave a comment below, and I will do my best to ignore it.
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?)
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.
Abducted by aliens
Abstract: Anally probed with a four metre long tube. Tags: alien, abduction, colonoscopy, humour, personal
Last week I was abducted by aliens.
I was woken at dawn by my alarm clock to find a bright light shining in through the window. As if in a trance, I found myself drawn towards the light and compulsively (as I do every morning) drew the curtains.
I felt a presence in the room.
‘Turn your alarm off, for God’s sake!’ said my wife.
I felt a non-human presence in the room.
‘Miaow’ said the cat.
I found myself getting washed and dressed and heading out the door, as if I had an appointment to be somewhere. After a brisk twenty minute walk, I found myself right inside the massive, shiny metallic spacecraft, which appeared to have landed slap bang in the middle of a car park. I felt no fear, although I was a little apprehensive. I entered the craft and was transported up into its upper level via some kind of elevator.
I have blogged before about my experiences of abduction and how aliens harvested my organs and tortured me, so this was nothing new. I felt a familiar apprehension as I caught sight of one of my abductors, a short woman in a green uniform.
‘Would you like an enema before we start?’ she asked. ‘A glass of water would be nice,’ I replied. ‘Do you need to go?’ she asked me rather sternly this time. ‘Well, I’d like to be back in time for the football.’ Now in something of a huff, she handed me a green paper gown to wear, which appeared to have been designed for tailed creatures. I followed her through to what looked like an operating theatre where I was surrounded by three little green men with surgical implements and machines which went ‘BLEEP!’.
They made me lie on a table and paralysed me by injecting something into my hand. One of the aliens stuck his finger up my back passage and said, ‘This might hurt a little bit.’ Then they made me pass out by gassing me. I awoke sometime later to find the aliens withdrawing a four metre long tube from my rear end. ‘Thank you,’ I said, ‘I didn’t feel a thing.’ I was as high as a kite. They handed me back to my wife on a piece of string and told her, ‘Don’t let go of him.’
Somewhat bizarrely, they also gave me a piece of paper describing the contents of my colon - nothing at all in there save a few pesky piles.
What a bloody relief!
A Christmas Cracker
I received some customer feedback.
A Welsh reader writes:
You disgust me!
I’m not at all shocked or surprised. I disgust myself, frequently. Thanks for validating my experience.
A Mr Tim Savage of Stratford Jobcentre writes:
Get a job!
I wasn’t at all shocked or surprised. My doctor had been signing me off sick (not fit for work) for a while. So long, in fact, that my ex-employer, quite rightly, gave up on me ever returning to ‘my’ hot desk. In employment legalese, I was dismissed through being incapable of work.
Meanwhile, Big Tim had helpfully been sending me enough money to live on every two weeks for a while, and in return I kept sending him my sick notes from my doctor.
But I guess Tim’s goodwill was running out. He asked me to fill in a questionnaire about my health and asked me to visit Norman, a nurse, so that two months after losing my job because I was incapable of work due to ill health, Norman could assess my capability for work.
Norman asked me lots of questions and asked me to move my arms about as if I was directing small aircraft in to land. He was ever so nice about it. It felt a bit like being interviewed by that very nice SS-Standartenführer Hans Landa chap off the telly, except no one came rushing in afterwards to brutally machine gun to death the people downstairs after we were done. Which was nice.
Anyway. As a result of Norman’s niceness and despite me failing to safely land any aircraft due to my two frozen shoulders, Tim decided that I was capable of work after all, and told me so. And although Tim recognised that I have an illness or disability, he wasn’t going to send me any more money to live on unless I appealed, actively started looking for work, or appealed.
All of this made me feel rather like a terrible burden on society and that society might be just a whole lot better off without me around dragging it down. And I had been feeling really pretty suboptimal anyway.
So I went back to my doctor, who signed me off sick again and gave me some anti-depressants and painkillers, and decided that of the three options given to me - appeal, look for work, or appeal - I would like to appeal. Tim wrote back straight away saying that he would send me some more money to live on as long as I send him my sick notes from my doctor. Seems fair enough.
It’s quite a difficult juggling act. On the one hand trying to get better, to get well again. On the other, remaining ill enough to be eligible for handouts. The last few months I’ve been rapidly deteriorating, hitting a new low, barely able to speak to anyone even online. Most of the time, I simply don’t feel like I have anything to say.
That said, I have some good days, and I have now almost completed my assessments for psychotherapy and expect to start in a group sometime in the new year. At my last session, the therapist said it seemed like I’d been depressed all my life, but only now (well, two years ago) asked for help. Thanks for validating my experience.
I had a good day yesterday, a good morning, at least, and decided to put it to use. So I carefully crafted for you, my dear reader, a veritable Christmas cracker of a musical podcast. Perhaps a cracker that doesn’t crack and contains no party hat or plastic toy, but only a lame joke, but a cracker nonetheless.
And here, containing my best charidee radio DJ voice, it is:
Just A Ride, Episode 1: Xmas Stocking Filler (29:15)
Sorry, couldn’t be arsed with show notes. Here’s the playlist instead.
Merry Xmas everyone. That is all.
No onions, but plenty of fireworks with bier
Abstract: Gertcha by the wiener. Tags: fireworks, photos, video, bier, Chas ’n’ Dave, hot dogs
Last night, eight of us from Enfield Clubhouse went to Alexandra Palace to see London’s largest and most popular fireworks display. Here’s a video I took. The fireworks were pretty and spectacular - worth seeing, if you like that kind of thing!
After the fireworks, we climbed up the hill to the Palace itself and queued to get into the German Bier Festival. To call it a Festival is really a big overstatement. It’s a few years since I went to a beer festival and it was most likely Up North in deepest, darkest Bury, Lancashire, or somewhere like that. Maybe they do them differently Down South, but this was a bit of a let down. One tiny little bar, like you might find in a marquee at a modern marketed music festival. One brand of German Bier - Paulaner - and only two varieties: Munich and Weiss. The Weiss was off by the time I had been pushed and shoved forward by the ten deep bar queue. If you didn’t fancy Paulaner Munich, you could have that old Bavarian favourite, Foster’s. And they insisted on calling it Bier, which makes me wonder how authentic it really was. Not that authenticity seemed to be high on the agenda as it was all served in the obligatory health and safety plastic beakers.
So, we all got beer and seats in the Great Hall by which time a bunch of Cockney Irish fiddlers and banjoists started murdering Pogues’ classics, much to the delight of the mostly student audience who I’m sure were out of their minds by now. Not that it stopped one of the thieving little tykes nicking my beer when I laid it down to rest and turned my back for five minutes.
What followed is a little hazy - maybe the bier was real, after all.
I fear that I may have danced to Chas But Not Dave or Chas And His Band or whatever Chas ’n’ Dave are now known as. I was a little disturbed by the large, bald bass player, especially when he kept repeating ‘Gertcha!’ like an overly loud belch, totally drowning out scrawny-looking Chas on vocals.
To make matters worse, on leaving, I stopped for a Hot Dog.
‘Sorry, no onions’ said the serving assistant.
‘Oh, that’s a shame. I like onions on my Hot Dog. So. They are £3.00 with onions, right?’
‘That’s right, sir, but we don’t have any onions left.’
‘No, you don’t. So, if it’s £3.00 with onions… how much is it for a Hot Dog without onions?’
‘It’s £3.00, sir. With or without onions.’
By this time I was already in full Basil Fawlty mode.
‘I’d like a discount, please. If it’s £3.00 for a Hot Dog with onions, then I’d like 20% off for a Hot Dog without onions.’
‘It’s £3.00, sir. With or without onions.’
‘How can it be the same price, with or without onions?’
‘It’s £3.00, sir. With or without onions.’
‘So, can I have a discount, then or not? I’m willing to pay £2.40 for a Hot Dog without onions. If only you’d removed the empty onion trays and not told me you had no onions I’d never have known. Or you could scrape up the remaining slivers and let me have those….’
Now, I felt like Yossarian in Catch-22 trying to get out of the Air Force by being crazy, but being told that he couldn’t be crazy because he wanted to leave. And only a sane man would want to leave.
‘I’m sorry, sir, there’s nothing I can do. I can’t give a discount. I just work here. It’s £3.00, sir. With or without onions.’
‘You could give me a discount if you wanted to. I’m sure you could.’
The guy (no pun intended) behind me piped up, offering to call the Office Of Fair Trading. I suggested that they might want to consult the Sale Of Consumer Goods Act.
‘I can’t give a discount, sir. It’s £3.00, with or without onions.’
‘OK, I give in. I’ll have a Hot Dog without onions for £3.00.’
‘You have to pay first, sir.’
‘What?! But you just gave him one! He hasn’t paid yet!’
‘I’m sorry, sir. You have to pay first and then I’ll give you the Hot Dog.’
A young American woman approached me.
‘Please stop harassing my staff, sir.’
‘What?! Harassing your staff?! You’ve got to be joking?!’
‘No, sir. You’re harassing my staff. Now, please stop it or I will have to call Security to come and remove you.’
‘All I want is a Hot Dog with onions for £3.00 as advertised. If you don’t have onions, then fine, I’ll buy a bareback Hot Dog for £2.40.’
‘Sir, you can buy a Hot Dog without onions for £3.00 or go without.’
‘Why can’t you give me a discount?’
‘I only work here, sir. I can’t give you a discount.’
‘Hang on. I thought you were in charge? Surely you can use your discretion and keep your customers happy? I just spent plenty of money tonight on donating to the cost of the fireworks display and buying beer for me and my friends.’
‘What’s your problem, mate?’ asked a student grumpily and who looked like he had dyed his original wiry ginger hair black. ‘It says Hot Dogs £3.00. Doesn’t say anything about onions.’
‘No, I know it doesn’t say anything about onions. That’s a very good point. And that’s why I’m not going to engage you in any further conversation. Enjoy your Hot Dog! Thank you all and goodnight.’
Thanks also, to Lee, Gemma, Michael, Atul, Dan, Raheem and Angelina for making it a fun night out. And my apologies for any offence caused to the Hot Dog stand workers.