The graveyard shift

Whether it is a confused Spanish playmaker being shown around Birmingham or a promising Belgian midfielder taking in the sights of Wolverhampton, the January transfer window represents new beginnings for footballers.

For managers, however, the biting cold of British winter is a harbinger of change for the worse.

Sackings have been typically commonplace this winter, but what has been particularly eye-catching is the funereal manner of these dismissals.

News of Manchester City’s December sacking of Mark Hughes was broken to viewers like a state funeral. Pundits were asked to pay tribute to a “good man”, and other managers were quick to praise a fellow professional who “deserved better”.

Gary Lineker dispensed with his default mode of radiant smugness to glumly announce Sparky’s departure, and Match of the Day ended their usually chirpy closing montage with commentator Steve Wilson’s despairing mention of Hughes’ “lingering wave”.

Even Arsene Wenger, the supposed ray of intellectual hope in the landfill site of Premier League clichés, succumbed to the solemnity by adding that “it is always very sad when a manager loses his job”.

The most sombre of tributes was paid to Alan Irvine, who was fired by Preston. His successor Rob Kelly vowed that the club would “carry on as we did before – it’s what Alan would have wanted.”

He also mourned Irvine as “not just a great manager but a great person”.

Despite his morbid departure, Irvine has since found employment at Sheffield Wednesday. And judging by his immediate success at Hillsborough, Irvine’s move is proving to be a resurrection.

Paul Hart’s exit from Queen’s Park Rangers did not cause such a stir. This managerial casualty was instead brushed aside like one of many incidental fatalities in a gangster film.

The indifference should come as no surprise. Hart (pictured) was the ninth manager to be dispatched by QPR owner, Formula 1 mogul and pseudo-mafia boss, Flavio Briatore.

Wary of Briatore’s fearsome reputation, media coverage of Hart’s demise was muted. Rolling news channels were conspicuously unwilling to expand on the issue, while newspapers were similarly careful not to upset Briatore.

Similarly bereft of sentiment was the end of Gary Megson’s tenure at Bolton. Like Hart, the response to Megson’s demise was underwhelming in terms of sympathy, somewhat like the national feeling of indifference induced by the death of Bernard Manning.

Bolton fans had long been clamouring for his dismissal, and when the fateful moment arrived, it was met with the fervour usually reserved for the gallows.

Linguistically, managerial fatalism comes as no surprise. Each rumoured sacking is met with tabloid headlines and studio chatter of ‘nails in the coffin’ and ‘dead men walking’.

Some managers, such as the gloomy, vortex-eyed Avram Grant, are a step ahead of their peers, appearing to already be half dead as they morbidly prowl their technical areas.

Grant’s club, Portsmouth, have recently had a transfer embargo lifted, and they will be hoping that an influx of new faces breathes new life into the relegation-threatened side.

Amid the chaos of the transfer window’s frantic closure, the end of January at least offers a slither of hope. Spring is a not too distant prospect, and with the almost bearable climes of February, comes the realisation for managers that they may have survived the culling season.

What's the measure of a guilty pleasure?

It was with a considerable pinch of self-consciousness that I recently scolded myself for singing along to every word of a Good Charlotte song that blared from my kitchen radio.

This was not because I was wary of disturbing my neighbours, or because my singing would embarrass the cat sitting in my garden, but because the song was a truly guilty pleasure. Good Charlotte are rubbish, and I really should know better.

Good Charlotte would not, however, feature on a typical 'guilty pleasures' playlist, as they'd undoubtedly be muscled out of the selection by hordes of 70s soft-rock ballads and theme songs from programmes such as Baywatch and Nightrider.

Do not be fooled.

Those who confess to the 'guilty' enjoyment of acts such as Richard Astley or Whitney Houston do so fraudulently, behind a heavy veil of try-hard irony.

Not good. Not even in an ironic way.

Astley and Houston are flag-bearers for all that is bad about music, yet their most offensive efforts, ‘Never Gonna Give You Up’ and ‘I Will Always Love You’ (dis)respectively, are spared the warranted scorn by a scandalous view shared by many that they are guilty pleasures.

These distorted recollections are what James Murphy, a.k.a. LCD Soundsystem, would call the cool kids' “nostalgia of the unremembered eighties”.

Christmas is notoriously synonymous with musical pseudo-guilty pleasures.

Dross like Paul McCartney’s ‘Wonderful Christmas Time’ is hauled from the murkiest depths of music’s sewage systems to be played at office Christmas parties across the country.

Brain-splittingly tortuous efforts like these would be treated with suitable disdain had they been released in May, yet their festive timing affords them a collective shrug of pardon from the public.

Tolerating such drivel is bad, but it is the act of enjoying these as so-called guilty pleasures that is unforgivable. Indeed, there is not enough guilt attached to guilty pleasures. If guilt was adequately appropriated to those found to be enjoying these songs, record collections would be torched and ears severed.

As things stand, however, we are left with halfwits who choose to dedicate club nights to ‘the best of the worst of the 80s’ and opportunities to ‘dance like your dad’ (or, more accurately, like the ‘totally random’ prick dancing next to you).

Irony is bludgeoned all over these events like a bloody axe, to such an extent that the term itself is left gaunt and empty; a bastardised phoneme shunned to the cringeworthy corners of our darkest mass culture.

So I’m going to listen to Mariah Carey’s ‘All I Want for Christmas is You’. In an entirely un-ironic fashion.

The Football League Show Blog. Show.

The Football League has undergone numerous facelifts and rebranding projects to rid itself of old pre-cursors such as the ‘basement’ or ‘the graveyard of ambition’.

The Championship (formerly the second division) is no longer solely associated with the top division’s title chase, and League One and League Two are deceptively elevating pseudonyms for what are actually the third and fourth tiers of British football.

Whereas the Football League has been innovative with its reinventions, though, the BBC’s coverage of it has been a little less than imaginative. The catchy name for its weekly, post-Match of the Day slot? The Football League Show.

And while the BBC’s coverage, despite its less than eye-catching branding, has still increased viewing figures for the divisions in question, its peculiar underground studio does create a basement feel.



Every Saturday night, we’re taken into the depths of a cold, bare warehouse, with only presenter Manish Bhasin and an analyst, usually Steve Claridge, for company. Claridge, having played for most, if not every one, of the football clubs in the United Kingdom, is the ideal man to guide you through the efforts of Gillingham’s John Nutter or Morecambe midfielder Emmanuel Panther.

Meanwhile, another of the BBC’s (un)memorable creations is the title of its League Cup programme… The League Cup Show.

This competition has also had its image tarnished by indifferent managers and belittling media coverage but, like the Football League, it has consistently reinvented itself as, among other things, the Milk Cup, Worthington Cup and now the Carling Cup.

It may only have rebranded itself for financial reasons but attendances are up, big clubs are all taking it seriously and, judging by the BBC’s decision to call in the big guns (well, Mark Lawrenson) for its coverage, the Carling Cup appears to be in rude health.

There is viewer interactivity in both programmes, with Jacqui Oatley and Lizzie Greenwood-Hughes fielding emails from fans. Although a little tedious, it does spare us the aural ordeal of a radio phone-in ‘debate’ between Alan Green and ‘Dave from the Wirrall’.

One facet of the footballing media circus the BBC has disappointingly overlooked is Andy Townsend’s Tactics Truck, last seen on ITV’s ill-fated Premiership highlights package. The nearest thing we’re treated to is the expert Leroy Rosenior chatting excitedly about the ‘total football’ on display at, erm, Huddersfield Town.

The BBC also has coverage rights for football’s truly unfashionable competition, the Johnstone’s Paint Trophy. It remains unconfirmed, however, whether there are plans to broadcast The Johnstone’s Paint Trophy Show.


As written for Leeds Student 30/10/09

Window of opportunity nears chaotic closure

Ankara’s rammed Esenborga Airport was an unlikely scene of mass hysteria earlier this summer, and it wasn’t a visit from the Pope or an Elvis comeback concert that the Turkish capital was staging, but a feverish welcome for quite a different hero.

Darius Vassell may be a striker with a less than handy knack for not scoring – best known for missing a penalty in England’s Euro 2004 quarter-final exit – but, at his new home, he has been embraced like a messiah.

Described as ‘more than a player’ by Ankaragucu fans’ placards, the former Manchester City misfit looked understandably surprised as around 3,000 supporters let off flares and chanted his name.



And it is this maniacal response to new arrivals that embodies the world’s undying thirst for the circus of the transfer window, which comes to a frenzied close today.

Whether it is a Bosnian wonder-kid heralded as Man United’s new favourite son, or an unattached journeyman going through the motions at a trial match in Grimsby, football transfers capture the essence of a British summer like the sight of a binge-drinking 16-year-old girl lying face down in a puddle of gravy and vomit outside Oceana, just hours after collecting 27 A* GCSEs.

The closure of the window, however, is as much a harbinger of the summer’s end as a chilly autumnal shower, and it is accompanied by chaotic ‘wheeling and dealing’ all over the world.

As 5pm nears, tanned and bejewelled agents across Europe will be frantically trying to explain why their Lithuanian utility defender is worth a last-minute multi-million bid, while managers will jostle for the signature of an aging forward whose ‘dream’ it has always been to join an underachieving Championship club.

And our friends at Sky Sports News will be there, anticipating every routine medical or rumoured trans-continental swap deal with the sort of excitement Carlo Ancelotti feels when he enters Greggs’ bakery.

The window won’t re-open until January the first, so make the most of Sam Allardyce’s latest pursuit of a fading former ‘Galactico’, ’Arry Redknapp’s bid of £3m and a bag of chips for David James, or Phil Brown’s failure to attract a confused Argentine playmaker to Hull.

Cullinan and cakes: Cricket's culinary treats

Despite the efforts of various radio DJs to ram La Roux’s faux-80s synthesized squealing into my brain, Test Match Special absolutely remains the soundtrack of my summer.

While Australia humiliated England at Headingley, the TMS team cheered its audience with an altogether jollier alternative subject to a batting collapse: food.

It took Geoffrey Boycott less than five minutes to add his input to the mix. Asked what he thought of Matt Prior’s injury sustained during a football match, Boycott boomed in overtones of Yorkshire dissatisfaction: “Daft. You’ll get more brains in a chocolate mouse.”

Boycott’s comment paved the way for a deluge of confectionery-related chatter in the commentary box. Jonathan Agnew waxed lyrical about cakes and sweets, sent in by the truckload by adoring listeners, while Matthew Hayden, the gargantuan Australian, licked his lips at the prospect of tucking into a selection of toffees, just as his former team-mates were devouring their feeble English prey.

What's for tea, Bumble?


A little further along in the media area, David ‘Bumble’ Lloyd kept Twitter followers updated not only with the cricket but, most importantly, the snacks available in the Sky studios.

One message read excitedly: “Pies and Branston have arrived and a HUGE cake. Beefy in business.” Beefy, of course, being Ian Botham – a talisman not only for his all-round cricketing ability but for his insatiable hunger.

Shane Warne may be a new addition to the Sky commentary team but the Australian is well acquainted with cricket’s healthy relationship with food. Renowned for his cutting remarks at the crease, there were often dietary references when he sledged opponents.

When bowling to the full-of-figure Arjuna Ranatunga, Warne was encouraged by his wicket-keeper, Ian Healey, to “put a Mars bar on a length”, to tempt the batsman out of his crease.

Warne’s own sizeable build, however, did not go unnoticed during his playing career. When welcoming Daryll Cullinan to the wicket, Warne remarked that he’d been waiting two years to bowl at and torment the batsman once again (Cullinan had supposedly seen a psychiatrist since their last meeting). The South African’s retort was short but sweet: “Looks like you spent that time eating.”

One wouldn't necessarily have to rummage through Bumble’s picnics or Warne’s mind games to find further foodie association.

Batsmen playing against Durham can actually be dismissed caught (Phil) Mustard, bowled (Graham) Onions. Proving to be a hit for reasons other than wickets and a comedy surname, England seamer Onions can now list Lily Allen as an admirer. It has not yet been confirmed whether Amy Winehouse has professed to her Twitter followers about an Ian Bell crush.

In fact, with Alistair Cook opening the batting, the England team has never been so pun-friendly, especially where culinary wordplay is concerned.

And should Rob Key win a recall to the England side for the decisive Oval Test, you can bet that food will once again be a feature of conversation at the crease.

Lions' roaring redemption song draws series of great and gruesome to an enthralling end

Pride is a term tossed about too often in sporting cliché, but the Lions restored theirs with a stirring 28-9 victory in the final match of an absorbing tour of South Africa.

Smarting from an agonising 28-25 defeat in the previous Test, the tourists were galvanised by a collective pain and feeling that a golden chance of a series win had been missed.

As the dust settled on the Ellis Park pitch, there was a buoyant feeling rare for a losing side, perhaps underlined by the sense of records set straight, a little justice regained.

Mike Phillips gets to grips with Heinrich Brussow

The series showcased the best and worst of a sport magnificent and brutal in equal measure. The second Test in particular will be remembered for years; a titanic battle lifted to stratospheric heights by both teams’ attacking prowess, whilst simultaneously dragged into the gutter by disputation and cowardice.

Despite the brilliance of Rob Kearney and Bryan Habana’s tries, even this humdinger will be tainted by Schalk Burger’s gouging of Luke Fitzgerald’s eyes in the first minute. That linesman Bryce Lawrence could only recommend “a yellow card at least”, and that referee Christophe Berdos could not summon the bravery – no, just the common sense – to show a red card, only compounded the debacle.

Controversy abounded in the final Test too. South Africa’s decision to sport white ‘justice’ armbands (in support of the banned Bakkies Botha) was an ignorant statement, belligerently rich for a team whose infantile siege mentality continues to erode an already damaged reputation.

If their support of Botha smacked of insecurity, their coach’s apparent toleration of Burger’s actions was just stupid.

Peter de Villiers proved a PR disaster for South African rugby. Claiming that gouging is “part of the game”, he showed himself to be not only myopic but woefully out of touch. If de Villiers still feels that his side were not given enough credit for their series win, a good starting place for him to find reason why would be the mirror.

After defending the indefensible, de Villiers then backtracked and reiterated his comments with dizzying confusion, before concluding with an unconvincing homage to the tourists: “I always said they were a brilliant Lions team.”

The class of 2009 may not be heralded in the same way as their 1974 predecessors but their fiercely competitive displays will have helped quieten doubts about the viability of Lions tours.
The victory will also have eased worries on a personal level. Phil Vickery, battered by fans and press alike after his mauling at the hands of Tenda ‘The Beast’ Mtawarira, rose to the occasion admirably by overwhelming his tormentor in the scrum.

There was catharsis for Shane Williams and Ugo Monye as well, with the two wingers scoring between them three crucial tries of real class.

Such a bright ending points to 2013, and springs hope of a triumphant series in Australia. With Alun-Wyn Jones, Jamie Heaslip and Tom Croft likely to be present, the pack will be a hardened, formidable proposition. Meanwhile, backs Mike Phillips, Jamie Roberts and Kearney will already be thinking about piercing Wallaby defences.

With reputations restored and the foundations laid for an encouraging future, the atmosphere among and around the Lions is an understandably positive one.

And this wave of optimism is epitomised by arguably the most redeemed of all tourists, Vickery, who summarised the lasting core values of a Lions tour: “I can honestly say I have never been on a tour with so many good men. We’ve put a huge amount of pride back into the Lions shirt.”

Centre Court: Celebrity Sanctum

Wimbledon’s Centre Court is as much a British establishment as Pimm’s or talking about the weather, and it has recently proved to be the centre of attention for more than tennis reasons alone.

As well as boasting the most talked about roof since Michelangelo’s Sistine Chapel (or maybe the ceiling on which Lionel Richie danced and sang about), the venue has also become a celebrity attraction during the past fortnight.

Andy Murray’s progress has been enlivened not only by his imperious serving and cheeky drop shots but by the legion of stars present at his matches.

Ewan McGregor, Miss Scotland and Clive Woodward have all been spotted, but perhaps the most eye-catching spectator was the young supporter sporting a Hassidic Jewish hat and synthetic curls during Murray’s win over Stanislas Wawrinka.

From Bruce Forsyth appearance in the opening round to Kate Winslet at the quarter-finals, there seems to be a gradual rise in stardom at Centre Court as the tournament nears its climax. We wait with bated breath for today’s attendees but it has been rumoured that the Queen will be present if Murray reaches Sunday’s final.

Kate Winslet applauds Andy Murray's, erm, 'Titanic' quarter-final win

Wimbledon, with traditionally glitzy visitors such as Cliff Richard and, er, Jimmy Tarbuck, is far from being sport’s only star attraction. Away from the baseline rallies and strawberries and cream, other sports pride themselves on their glamorous clienteles.

Football can now even be considered chic. A far cry from meat and potato pies on crumbling old terraces, Flavio Briatore, QPR’s wealthy and vibrantly orange owner, has pledged to introduce ‘boutique football’ to Championship crowds.

Whether Briatore can attract friends such as Naomi Campbell to a home match against Scunthorpe remains to be seen, but his plans are certainly lavish enough to make Roy Keane choke on his prawn sandwiches when he takes his Ipswich Town side to Loftus Road next season.

While the hardened fans of sides outside the Premier League may need some convincing, Briatore can count on a growing number of fair-weather supporters to subscribe to his new brand of the game.

Sylvester Stallone famously paraded an Everton scarf before seeing them play Reading, Tom Hanks is supposedly an Aston Villa fan, Dr Dre has been rumoured to respect Liverpool as ‘cool cats’, and the late Michael Jackson once attended an Exeter City match with Uri Geller.

On a par with the aforementioned names in terms of fame but on a different scale entirely of commitment is Jack Nicholson, who is a partisan fixture at LA Lakers games. NBA courtside seats are as likely to excite the readers of Heat as they are basketball followers, with Ben Affleck and Denzel Washington among the spectators at the recent play-offs.

If the pomp of major US sport is matched by its audience’s star-quality, so too are the social and cultural traditions of the UK’s other main sports. In England, rugby union is as synonymous with public school as games of ‘soggy biscuit’ and boys’ names like Oscar, and matches at Twickenham are often attended by Prince Harry.

Somewhat differently in Wales, where rugby’s origins are rooted in mining communities, you’re likelier to see Joe Calzaghe or a former Big Brother contestant cheer the national team.

Like rugby, cricket’s fanbase has a more regal feel, and its stiff-upper-lip reputation is amplified by the prominence of former Conservative leader John Major at test matches played at the Oval.

Even with their aristocratic traits, however, both these former symbols of imperial Britain trail in Wimbledon’s wake, where an invitation might be issued to Buckingham Palace should Murray overcome Andy Roddick later today.