Ball Ball Ball, Footie Footie Footie.

Like swine flu or SARS, 'World Cup Fever' has gripped the nation. You have a team in the sweep stake at work right? Previously uninterested friends and colleagues now have lengthy explanations and heated opinions on why Ivory Coast are dark horses and how to solve the problem on the left wing, right?

It's like when England won the rugby, but worse - because the England football team don't win anything. They don't come close. But people think they might. People are idiots.

Clarence Seedorf said today on TV that Spain and England were his picks to go all the way. After the USA match this is. He's half an idiot.

Now I'm not the world's biggest football fan - but I do like it. I don't however, like the England football team. As a unit.

I couldn't say I have the same level of hate for every individual player, and I recognise that as players, there are some good ones - but when they come together - and attempt to play together - there's automatic contempt in my heart.

I'll never own an England football shirt, or likely go to a match (unless there's a pretty good chance that they'll be beaten, badly), but I will watch their games in the World Cup - and I'll enjoy it. Last night for example, I didn't get out of work till after 7, with the match starting at 7.30 - so on my way to a pub to watch the game I had the double whammy of 5 live for commentary while streaming TV through my iPhone so I didn't miss anything. Those are not really the actions of a man who hates his own national team, is it?

Why watch the game at all? If I'm so down on the poor bastards why not simply ignore them every time they play? Because I have to watch. I like to watch them score an early, usually flukey goal. Then I like to see them fail to take hold of a match. Then I like to see the equaliser. Then they usually try again for a bit, and a bit more right at the end. There's usually one in-form striker who receives little support, or is marked out of the game. A defender will be routinely outpaced by an opposition attacker. They'll play 4-4-2, because in the past it has worked wonders.

I think I'm waiting for an epiphany. Some moment where the tide turns and they surprise me. It isn't coming.

Why would you take Jamie Carragher? Why would you even ask him? Why not just go into the dressing room and tell your other defenders that although you picked them for your squad, that in fact you don't really think they're up to it and are going to talk to an old slow man and beg him to come back and play with them because that's the level of faith you have in their abilities. Right before the World Cup, potentially the most important run of games in their lives is obviously the right time to do this.

It's a shame he couldn't convince poor blind Paul Scholes to come too - one of the few England players I actually like. He probably would have put him on the left wing though.

I'm ranting like I care, which in a way I do. But I don't want them to win. I'm glad Heskey is there. Of course he is, who else would they send? Someone who can score goals? Someone who can pass? He's good in the air isn't he? Isn't he? No.

He's big. That's about it.

I'm entertained by the way Wayne Rooney is stranded in the middle of the park - constantly having to drop to midfield to get a pass, with wingers punting crosses with the accuracy and thought of a baby calf being tasered while choking on a golf ball.

If I was in charge I'd send half the squad to the Gulf of Mexico with some kitchen roll and a Dyson, where they would be more use.

I've strongly considered the possibility that it's because I can't remember a time when we were good. Italia 90 is the closest I guess, but even then the memory is sketchy - I was 9, and not a big football fan yet. I can remember watching games, but not really what happened. To me they've always been a let down, and the blind optimism of both football fans I know and the sufferers of World Cup fever just sickens me a bit. 1966? Sunderland have won an FA Cup since then but we're not under any delusions when the draw comes back around.

I could rant about tactics and players all day but it's a team I have no real interest in seeing do well, so it feels like a waste of time. I like the World Cup, the range of teams and styles and the inevitably entertaining matches, but to me England are dull, predictable, and without inspiration.

We'll get out of the group, scrape through to the quarters and the inevitable penalties will happen. That's me being optimistic.

The sooner they get knocked out, the sooner things get back to normal. Can you imagine what it's going to be like when the Olympics arrive?

I'm emigrating.

Visual AIDS.

It's damn hot.

I have returned from the trip home to visit the family, my last holiday of 2009, with a great deal of sitting around doing very little and eating too much. In a good way. While there on a uncharacteristic journey out of the house I found a Lens shirt for £10. Bargain, no?

I arrive at football in my fetching new Lens shirt only to be told that the red and yellow hoops look uncannily like the colours sported by Harry Potter's Quidditch team. That's right readers, I've bought a Gryffindor football shirt. Bollocks.

I'm not even wearing a bib this week.

I've done drawings this week. I started off doing highly detailed and exact pictures on Photoshop. This was taking ages, like really ages. I could feel myself getting older. The downside of this is you now get rudimentary pictures done on paint. The upside is you get a blog before a week on Wednesday. YAY.

The teams this week were disturbingly similar to last weeks, with the infamous drubbing. Francois, Paine and Brownbill all on the same side - with the return of the not too sluggish Leeming filling in for a V festival attending Egner (apparently they had a Domino's Pizza there - what's the fucking poitn if they don't deliver to your tent?). This team is pacey. Our team which includes Nolan, Shafeie, Watts, Miranda and myself - made up for a lack of pace with aggression and disregard for personal safety. It was all to play for.

It started off as we feared it would. The speedy bibs doing all the running, as well as all the passing, shooting, and having of the ball. Regardless of this they don't tear off into a massive lead, luckily, and the game proceeds tightly.

Want to see a picture yet? Good.
Pretty self-explanatory I think. Ball comes to Blackett, Blackett plays it over the top to Nolan, who with his back to goal spins to volley into the net past Maguire. Who was helpless. As it says, an excellent goal.

The quick team make a habit of attacking down wings, Paine and Leeming making runs and attempting to dribble through before sending the ball into the middle for someone to lash home. Occasionally it works and they begin to build a lead. All too often for both teams defenders are caught short, the rest of their team having gone forwards to join the attack. By the time the rest of the team drop there has either been a goal or the attack has broken up and they have a chance to counter - the below diagram illustrates this...


Usually a misplaced shot will rebound past the attackers and land kindly at the feet of the opposing team, allowing him and his slowly retreating team-mates to turn around and bear down on a lone defender and goalkeeper. It is mainly down to the agonisingly inaccurate finishing of both teams that the scoreline doesn't reel away into the realms of cricket scores.

This is also helped by some astonishing tackling by Shafeie. As has been mentioned before - the boy can lay himself in front of any attack and like pavarotti at a buffet the ball makes a bee-line for his legs/body/face and will rebound to safety. Inspiring.

For me though, the story of the game was a prolonged bout of what I had previously only seen in small doses. Now and again Watts will get a bee in his bonnet, and chase down someone with a tenacity and focus not normally present in his game. This game he did that, but for like ten minutes. It was wierd. It was like watching Ash go nuts in 'Alien'. He was all over the place, chasing everyone down, surging forward, tackling hard, on a mission. Below is but a small example of his tracking during this spell of Joe Pesci-ish ferocity.


He's the red dot. I've coloured too many dots yellow, so it makes the sides uneven - unintentionally. I think the guy furthest to the top left was white too. I think it's Miranda goal hanging. Watts ran around him anyway, probably kicked him too. He was a man possessed. I quizzed him later as to what caused this surge of aggression.

'I was angry. Everytime I passed the ball to someone they scored, everytime someone passed the ball to me I missed. I wanted to score.'

I 'm sure he did score. Final score was 20-18 to the fleet footed bibs, a good close game. But hot. Maybe we could have edged it on another day, and maybe Watts could have put a couple more away, but I'm not going to argue with him - I'm pretty convinced that during his ten minutes of tenacity all he was seeing was...


Which is probably what Maguire sees most weeks. He came out of goal at the end by the way. Had a few shots. Missed the lot. Coincidence?

Carry On Kicking

For fucks sake.

You know how sometimes things just don't go your way? You leave your house to go to work, and as you round the street corner your bus is pulling away from the bus stop. Somebody else got the last chicken pasta thing from Boots that you wanted for your lunch. That girl you like likes your best mate.

Remember when the England football team had to beat San Marino by seven goals to qualify for something or other (I'd know for what but I dislike the England football team so haven't looked it up)? I think Graham Taylor was in charge. About three minutes into that game the normally reliable Stuart Pearce toe poked an atrocious back-pass towards David Seaman, only for an attacker to nip past the gobsmacked Pearce and score past the hapless Seaman.

That happened at football this week. Twice.

I did it once, plus Miranda Fuckwit did it as soon as he arrived ten minutes late.

He'd had a big Sunday dinner about 5. Me and Egner had big Sunday dinners about 4. Turns out big Sunday dinners are the enemy of playing football, as it feels like you're running around with a rugby ball in your gut.

Unfortunately me, and Egner, and Miranda Fuckwit were all on the same side - we were all wearing red y'see. We also had Nolan and Watts, luckily they weren't playing as utterly shit as us three. Still two against five isn't really fair - and the lack of our usual silky skills told. It told hard. It told like a blind granny in handcuffs being beaten by Jason Statham with nun-chucks on red bull.

22-6 I think the final score was. This is bad. To call Miranda 'out of sorts' is doing the term 'out of sorts' an injustice. Fucking diabolical liability sounds more like it. At least me and Egner were trying to..er..try.

It's an odd experience to describe - being worse at something you're not very good at to start with. The feet feel heavier than usual. Each change of direction is more effort than it should be, running anywhere takes ages, when you do finally get the ball and kick it it doesn't go where it's meant to. In your head you're not doing anything differently from normal - not that everything goes to plan normally - but it's not usually a case of every single thing going wrong.

I scored a goal too. What's with that? By fluke I intercepted the ball, try to go forward. In my cack handed haste I knock the ball too far in front of me, so far in fact I have to sprint to try and retain control of it. My original plan is to pass it to the waiting Nolan to the left, but somehow my right big toe tips it past the defender, and I miss-hit it as hard as I can (which isn't as hard as I can, because obviously that goes wrong too), and it somehow squeaks past Maguire into the net. Fucked, barely any of it intentional.

The highlight of Egner's game is a deliberate nutmeg on Maguire, but he too shares my disappointment in being a useless bugger for an hour.

The opposing team has the pace this week. Paine, Francois, Brownbill - all fast - plus some guy subbing for Shafeie who is a childhood friend of Paine's. I can't remember his name but he was a striker. So quick, and seemed to enjoy shooting. From anywhere, literally. Half-way line? Too close, bit further back please. Pain in the arse.

Taking your turn in goal was like being in front of a firing squad. I felt in real danger of having the ball booted at my testes, perhaps with such velocity that one/both could be burst - leaving me needing both an ambulance and of course the police.

Maybe a fire engine too.

My first touch bounces off my foot as if it was a brick. Tackling or cutting out passes happens seldomly, and randomly. I feel like I'm in some kind of 'Carry On' version of Sunday Night Football - only horrifically, less funny. Lame.

Next week I'm not eating anything. I will however be sitting on train beforehand for a few hours and then lugging a large rucksack around London for a bit - I feel it will prepare me well for the main event at eight. Better than a large Sunday lunch will anyway.

Hello. I missed last week. I'm a cunt.

Or, 'an absolute cunt' who 'everybody hates more than usual' and who is a 'fucking fuck'.

It's a good thing I'm dead inside or it would nearly hurt my feelings.

I manage to get there this week, with kit and everything. It's the busiest I've ever seen it. There are big gangs of people all around the sports centre - there's music playing - children laughing. I have no idea what is going on. The main thing going through my mind is 'I've got red shorts and socks with a blue and yellow shirt - I'm going to look like a twat walking to the pitch form the changing room.' Bugger.

Luckily on exiting said changing room the crowds have localised slightly and I can slip past undetected.

As we start two members haven't yet turned up = Rush keepers.

Teams, they line up.

Team A (Bibs, yet to turn up)

Maguire
Paine
Blackett
Egner

Team B (Wouldn't be wearing bibs even if we had them)

Shafeie
Nolan
Francois
Watts

Despite the usual occurrence in rush keeper games of the keeper doing a Schmeichel to the opponents 3rd and leaving his vulnerable area unprotected - leading to many, many goals - the game starts out tight. Tackles are working, passes being cut out, shots blocked. Maguire takes it upon himself to go on a couple of jinky runs forward and apart from quickening his teammates heart rates to dangerous levels no bad comes of it. Weird.

Soon enough Brownbill and the terminally late (but strangely untouched by swineflu) Miranda show their faces and Maguires brief role as an 'attacking minded goalkeeper' is over. Miranda with Team B, Brownbill donning a bib.

It stays tight.

Eventually the bibs start to make breakthroughs - grab a few goals in succession and develop a lead. Maguire is doing save type things and Paine and Brownbill are dribbling more than a boxer dog after a stroke. Egner supplies support and pressure - like a sports bra with a ponytail. Blackett, of course, stays behind. Then goes forward and kicks the ball as hard as he can at Shafeie's face when he's on the floor. Like a cunt would.

There is controversy around where exactly the keepers area begins and ends. If the keepers arse is still inside the line, is the keeper inside the line? If the ball is moving and within touching distance is it legal to touch/kick it? Who knows? Not me. we don't play full 5-a-side rules or nothing would happen without a stoppage - maybe there is room for a full 'Sunday Night Football Book Of Rules And Regulations' to be drawn up. Stuff like the rules surrounding the box, what is a legal challenge, if someone forgets their kit how many times/different people should call them a cunt, etc.

Nolan twice breaks down the right hand side and toe pokes the ball through Maguire's legs and into the net from the tightest of angles. After that when Maguire goes to close down a player his legs are shuffled together like Siamese knee twins or something. So people start shooting around him. He resorts to his initial method of flailing and charging, ending up on his arse at the VERY EDGE of the area. It sounds like I'm making fun but fucking hell it doesn't half work.

Team B have made inroads into the Bibs initial lead, and both teams are still competitive, still pushing. It's too hot and legs are starting to go but neither side will give in. Team B are pulling back more and more - Watts, Nolan and Francois are outnumbering the bibs defence and spreading the play past the defenders.

Egner, Brownbill and Paine combine for a zig-zagged one touch route to goal - Brownbill and Paine persistently finding the corners.

Miranda has been gone for two weeks, and it shows. Normally a goal-hanger extraordinaire - he is off the pace. Without his usual touch and eye for goal he is a less effective component in his team than in other weeks - who needs a goal hanger who isn't scoring?

I forget the score, but I don't care. I think the bibs won, but I'm not sure - plus it doesn't matter. It was good, very good. So good that if I was a squirrel it's possible my guts may have exploded out of my chest from the sheer awesomeness of it all. But I'm not a squirrel. I'm a cunt.

Tackling is a simple business. They have the ball, you want them not to have the ball anymore, you go get it. Incredibly simple.

It can however, go wrong. You might not get the ball. You might get the ball and a bit extra. You might miss out the ball altogether and get a lot extra. But this is what happens in football. If everybody did everything perfectly all the time there would be a lot of nil-nil draws - or ten-ten draws. Either way, in reality there is the occasion where somebody will win and somebody will lose. Somebody scores more goals, somebody makes more saves, somebody gets tackled and someone else successfully tackles more often. But it can be close.

I'm late for football - by arriving five minutes early.

The teams have already lined up.

Team A (Bibs)

K. Maguire
J. Brownbill
B. Watts
B. Francois
D. Blackett (in Jr size bib, like a walrus in a boob tube)

Team B (rocking the no-bib look for summer)

R. Paine
S. Leeming
D. Nolan
C. Egner
H. Shafeie

No Diego Miranda this week, luckily Leeming steps up to the plate - even after two hours earlier in the day of 'playing on the swings' and 'skipping'. Even sides. Wahay.

It starts tight - neither side creating much in the way of a clean cut chance. Blackett and Francois take up station in front of Maguire, Watts and Brownbill leading the charge. Nolan as ever starts forward - Shafeie at the back - Leeming and Paine in free roles either side, tracking and pushing. Finally the Bibs start to pull into a lead - Brownbill's dribbling earning him space and opportunities against Egner in goal.

The early part of the game in dominated by either ineffective attacking or half decent defending depending on your point of view.

Speaking as one who spends most of his time wandering left and right behind the half-way line, I tend to rely on luck and past experience more than anything else. I'm the slowest there, pace and footwork wise - so can't really recover when mistakes are made - unless the attacker takes too long. I've been playing with the same people for a long time, I know some of their tricks, which way they would like to go, how often they'll try and drag it back or muscle past me. Or simply run around me - which works a disturbing amount of the time. I try to be a pain. I try to block off avenues and nick at the ball even if I know I'm not going to gain control of it, just to try and make them uncomfortable. My feet aren't fast enough to wait for them to make a move and react - I have to predict, or play the odds. The overall strategy is to get in the way as much as possible and be an annoyance. This should be a surprise to no-one I play with.

From what I've seen Shafeie's tactic is to be everywhere at once. More than anyone else he'll fling himself to the ground to get in the way of a shot or to cut out a pass - frequently it works. He doesn't know when he's beaten and is forever stretching a leg out to hook the ball away - and it's very effective. In this match he is pretty much single handedly cutting out or breaking up any early counters from the Bibs. They're in his pocket.

Obviously though it 'Sunday Night Football' so the goals do come - at both ends. Nolan breaks from the left and scores a mirrored copy of his first time volley into the far bottom corner from a couple of weeks ago. Watts hits a swerving side foot shot into the top right. Brownbill dribbles from his own left hand side, jinking past pretty much the whole Bibless team and finishes from the right hand side of the goal. Nolan in denied a header from a pinpoint Paine cross - who himself was denied a shot from range by the post at the top right. Later he will dink the ball over Blackett before bustling past Brownbill to knock the ball past Maguire for a well taken goal - only marred slightly by the sight of Maguire somehow launching his boot off the side of the pitch, hitting a floodlight post in his attempt to deny Paine his moment. Leeming is rewarded for his persistent work down the right with a shot slotted into the far left corner of the goal off the outside of his left boot - of course outpacing Blackett to get the opening. During the course of the game Blackett manages to influence the ball with his face, arse, balls, stomach, and hand. Less so with his feet, although he does manage to kick the ball into Paine's face - and nearly lose his knee up the same players anus. Sterling work from Maguire helps to keep Team B at bay - and despite a late rally it is the general opinion Team A came out on top - with no official final score line available.

An incident reminiscent of the old days of Sunday football rears it's head at the end of the game - with a player taking exception to the manner in which he has been tackled in the game. Not the atmosphere you hope to finish such a closely fought game with, and an unfortunate end to an otherwise highly enjoyable night. Hopefully the video tape from the fourth official will clear it up and all will be well next week.

Near (Post) Dark

Dear Keith.

Do you think I enjoy this? Do you imagine each Sunday I drag my arse across London in the hope that after an hours worth of football I can come home and write about a hissy fit or a sit down huff? You dominate these weekly blogs in a way no-one else can - you command the drama and influence the mood of the game - you have all the power, Keith.

It starts in the warm up. Recently we have started a game of piggy in the middle before the game starts proper, very simple. Someone in the middle, everyone else passes it around them until they get a touch, then the last person to touch it before them goes in the middle, incredibly simple. Obviously this usually involves people running around trying to close down the player in possession, cover angles, that sort of thing.

Not you Keith.

You refuse. You'll stand dead in the middle of everyone. You won't close down. You won't move. Usually you won't even unfold your arms. You ruin it.The ball comes to you and you punt it past someones head at velocity, no direction, no thought. The game has to stop, it ceases to have function. Before the game has even begun you're making enemies, not playing for the team, doing what you like.

Teams this week - 4 on 5 - Shafeie is away moving house, no sub. On your team you have Francois, Egner, Blackett, Miranda. A full team - against Nolan, Watts, Brownbill, and Paine. They have rush keeper, gaping goalmouth most of the time. I'd keep you all in suspense but it isn't really worth it. 35-28 final score. In an hour. 63 goals in an hour. You won Keith, your team did it - in an hour you let in 7 goals less than no goalkeeper at all would have - this is a success.

But no, you're right - it's a team effort. It's our victory too. Without our sterling efforts in defence it could have been much worse.

I'd recount some goals but it's difficult - after 63 of them they kind of all meld together.

Last week I talked about the waiting, the when and not if of the implosion of your temperament that changes the atmosphere and signals your mental defeat. It happened at 20:09 tonight, and I don't think we started playing properly till 5 past. It was that one goal that is innocuous and justified in the eyes of everyone else - yet manages to snap through some barrier in your head that separates the guy who tries and gets back up, determined to make saves and play the game, and the guy who will sit down after every goal, crouch in the middle of his goal until the last second, and start attempting to save one on ones in the manner displayed below.

Honestly, this is what it looks like. Before the ball is struck your head turns away, one leg is cocked and the body twisted, turning away from the attacker. It confuses me. I know you're capable of good, even great saves. I've seen you stretch and palm away shots heading for the top corner. I've seen you rush out and be brave in one on ones, spreading yourself, getting low, covering angles. I remember a game where Miranda repeatedly was getting behind the defence and you were saving everything, for about ten minutes - then one goal - and every time after that by the time he hit the ball you'd jumped in the air and twisted away from him. It's bizarre.

I don't think this (blog) is going to help. I don't think the ridicule and 'cyber-bullying' does you any good - so part of the blame is ours. But encouragement doesn't either. No-one cares as long as you're attempting to make saves, it doesn't matter if its a horrendous blunder of a goal. It's the near post trickler, the bobbling miss-hit that you languidly wander towards - no hurry - no dive.

To be fair the game this week was, well, weak. Uneven sides never help, and the whole thing had an air of pre-season friendly. Maybe in a more competitive environment it would be easier for everyone to keep going for the full hour - tighter game, harder fought. It might feel like it matters more.

You bummed me out Keith. I felt like I was wasting my time. I still am now. I'm tired of writing about what wobbler you've thrown. Sort it out. I don't travel an hour and a half each way on a Sunday to play football with people who give up after ten minutes. I want you to be good Keith, I want you to enjoy Sunday nights, so I can too. You ruined this one.

Shafeie too. Moving house bastard.

Hello. I've been on my holidays. I have sunburn and everything. The tops of my forearms have a very nice tan and the bottoms of my forearms are the usual white/translucent blue colour. As it should be. The backs of my hands have started to peel also but that is just minging.

Anyway.

The teams line up.

Team A (Bibs)

C. Egner
H. Shafeie
J. Brownbill
D. Blackett
D. Miranda

Team B (minus Bibs)

D. Nolan
K. Maguire
R. Paine
B. Francois
B. Watts

It's like a ticking clock. It just hangs there in the air, unspoken and impending. It's a matter of when rather than if - and everybody knows it. At some point Maguire is going to have a wobbler.

Remember Gallas doing his little sit down protest? Like that but repeatedly - over and over again. This is how much the goalkeeper cares about the game. Every game. Every goal.

Luckily his team starts well, better than well in fact - before long they are 6-2 up, and making the Bibs look silly. Blackett has missed the last two weeks and nearly managed to pass out during the warm up, he doesn't start well. Nolan is holding the ball up and laying off to Paine and Watts - Francois cleaning up at the back.

Nolan bustles past two defenders on the right hand side next to the wall, the ball badonking up into the air to fall in front of the attacker, who promptly volleys it low into the far left corner. Watts and Paine down the wings are frequently unmarked and consequently in possession, in front of goal, with time. Goals happen. It's going very well.

Yet slowly but surely the Bibs start to claw their way back into it - helped mainly by the teams inability to recognise when they are being soundly beaten. Miranda is working the corners, and Brownbill's spaghetti legs work their way through defenders, dragging back and weaving on a regular basis.

They know. They know it only takes a certain type of goal. It doesn't have to be a good goal, or a particularly bad one - just one that on Maguire's head he should have saved, then the walls begin to crumble.

Team A get some tenacity. Shafeie seems to be in the way of everything - usually horizontally. Francois has started to drift forward to join attacks, leaving Miranda and Brownbill free to break with little cover at the back - another nail in the coffin of Maguire's mindset. When he does retrieve the ball he often launches it forward in slightly random directions. Like over the fence and off the pitch.

Brownbill breaks forward and toys with the keeper, dummying until he falls on his back like a drunk kitten - then simply lifts the ball over his flapping into the net.

Team B are feeling the effects, and begin to rush passes - or run into multiple defenders before finding another option. Egner and Shafeie are cutting out passes and joining Miranda and his massive hair up front. Blackett somehow finds himself forwards but manages to shoot over the goal, fence, and a building outside - the ball finally coming to earth via the window of a mini-van. A short while later he will lift a back-heel across the pitch to Egner for him to calmly slot home past Maguire - the rotund defender will likely never have a finer moment.

The ball becomes stuck at the top of the fence over the Bibs goal courtesy of Francois. On retreiving it he 'accidentally' throws it into the face of Egner while he swigs some water. Hilarity ensues.

Maguire has all but given up, destroying the morale of his team and doing nothing but encouraging the Bibs. They won't win by a large margin, but win the Bibs do - through persistence and not a small amount of self-sabotage.