I’m surprised by the sheer indifference that I now have towards even a televised England game.
I’ll start to watch. But I no longer bother with the build up, the pre-match twaddle expressed by the tired old ex-pro’s, back slapping and media familiar; the first footballing mafia, all sat with Adrian, with the latter gurning his way through the coverage like the overweight first former asked to hang out with the cool kids, the ‘jocks’.
It might be his and ITV’s pleasure, but it isn’t mine. I don’t care for expressions of the footballing obvious, everyone and his hi-def TV knows that Scott (‘Scottie’? Per-lease, only his Mother calls him that!) Parker ‘works hard’; that John Terry ‘sweats blood’ and that Steven Gerrard is ‘so important’ to England. We’ve heard it all before. Yadda yadda yadda. Nothing changes under The Sun.
At least one thing in English football is always evolving, always changing, modernising, adapting itself to current styles and formations. The shirt. Variations on a theme, naturally, but they all look the same to me. White. Three Lions. Umbro. Take it or leave it quite honestly. It’s a pity the football doesn’t evolve so efficiently.
Some relief. Thank all the god’s in footballing heaven that Keith, Ian and bloody Andy have cleared off for the Summer. The FA Cup brought not only the pain of the ad breaks, but the added one of the sponsors plug beforehand. Don’t let them go to any England games ITV, you have no i’KIA how annoying they are.
Then there’s Clive Tydesley. Brian Moore’s crown sits uneasily on his head. What’s Tydesley’s immortal phrase, his Andy Warhol moment? Armchair fans will still be mistily recalling “they think it’s all over…it is now!” in another fifty years; Moore stopped time as well. It was Liverpool versus Arsenal, 1989, Michael Thomas, “…it’s up for grabs now”. It still sends tingles down my spine and I don’t support either club. But Tydesley? His is “…that magical night in Barcelona”. I’m sure he gets paid each time he trots it out. It doesn’t matter what the occasion is; he could be out with his wife, nice romantic meal, here it comes; “…that magical night in Barcelona”. Now, if Mrs Tydesley has never been to Barcelona, she might end up asking some serious questions of Clive.
I’ll still watch the game and the game only. Once all the pre-match grind has worn its weary path through the teams, the national anthems, the kick off. Once the ball is in play. But I can’t get excited about what I’m seeing. Gareth Barry losing possession, there’s enough repeats on TV as it is. Wayne Rooney; snarling, seething and playing at right back; a 10 year old in the playground, chasing after the ball, anywhere and everywhere. I pity the dog walkers near Wayne’s home; whenever they throw a mouldy old tennis ball for their hounds to chase, look, there’s Wayne, running it down, picking it up, looking for a pass, a teammate. England’s centre forward looks frustrated, bored even. Is he running around just to have something to do?
Mind you, is there such a thing as a centre forward in the game today? Fabio Capello would probably say ‘no’. His massive footballing brain can comprehend all of the intricacies in today’s game, he probably knew what a Trequartista was before the word had been invented. But he’s a rose amongst thorns at the FA. Fabio Capello, England Manager? It’s like putting Stephen Hawking in charge of the Physics third formers at Bogford Comprehensive, baffled faces and blank expressions all round.
England games have become an exercise in personal schadenfreude. I no longer care that I‘m not bothered about the national side. Given the choice, I’d take three points for my club in their opening game next season over England winning the 2014 World Cup. My Three Lions are sprawled under a tree- fat, indolent and oblivious; gap of tooth and complacent. It would appear that their time has been and gone. Still, at least Clyde will try to whip up some life in them-though I suspect their magical nights are long, long gone.
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Excellent summary.