“The Greatest film about football ever made!” quotes The Observer on the cover. Don’t think so, Observer. There are episodes of Football Focus more interesting than this.
Why Zidane? And if Zidane, why not in his prime? To be cynical, this ‘film’ is a 90 minute player-cam portrait of a big bald man jogging round midfield looking knackered. Mostly with a large drip on the end of his nose and noodling music in the background.
Zidane adds one moment of genius to the game, weaving between four defenders and standing a cross up to the far post for Madrid’s equalizer. More fun are his on-pitch comments. “You should be ashamed of yourself” he says to the referee after a dodgy penalty decision [he’s right, too]. His other vocal utterances consist of “Ayee” or “Daveed”, the latter followed by a big scowl in Beckham’s direction.
Only when the cameras pan away from the pitch does it become slightly more interesting. Shots of the stadium interior; empty concrete tunnels and stairwells are images that wouldn’t look out of place in a Bruce Neuman video installation. In fact the whole film might work better in an art gallery.
Zidane has a habit of spoiling his moments in the spotlight. With victory all but secured, he gets pointlessly involved in a fight and inevitably, red carded. Alas, no headbutt.
Some films are made to be watched again and again, but I can’t imagine even Zidane would watch this more than once.
Monday, 14 April 2008
Thursday, 22 March 2007
Cardiff Sketch No.2 - Play Off Final 2005
"The most expensive game of football in the world" shouted the hyperactive stadium announcer before kick off.
Relax the players it did not. West Ham had to win this to sustain a recognisable team. The Guardian went one step further, "if West Ham lose, Matthew Etherington will be sacrificed." Impending death spurred him down the wing and he crossed for Zamora to scuff the winner. Not much else happened, Nigel Reo-Coker was the best player on the pitch and Tomas Repka achieved a personal milestone by playing 90 minutes without a single act of violence. The game was very similar to last year's final, but with Preston playing the stage fright role.
At the death, the fourth official held his screen toy up. Seven, it blinked dottily. Christian Dailly looked across and thought he was being substituted. Pardew waved him back. SEVEN MINUTES OF INJURY TIME! We groaned collectively, but Preston looked as if an equaliser was beyond them. Final whistle; pretty bubbles in the air, a whack round the head with an inflatable hammer and time to salute the sixth best team in the Championship.
We veered into a pub. Hammers fans wrapped in flags and drenched in beer were hanging out the window. The bouncer eyed us with disdain. "No smoking!" he said. I had a pint of Brains and we loudly promoted the virtues of East London via the medium of song.
We moved on to an Italian restaurant. Some Preston fans sat scrunched around another table and graciously sent champagne across. We raised a glass to the glory of football. "Are you Burnley in disguise?" they sang, waving inflatable cheer sticks. They attempted to involve the waiter, "which team were you supporting?" "I'm Albanian," he said, to silence. We bought them wine and said see you next season, without specifying a division.
We jumped in a taxi. The driver was an Iraqi. We apologised for the bombs and that, but he said it was alright. "I had that Charlotte Church in here the other day." "What's she like?" we asked. "Nice back," he said, "but her mate's really ugly."
Relax the players it did not. West Ham had to win this to sustain a recognisable team. The Guardian went one step further, "if West Ham lose, Matthew Etherington will be sacrificed." Impending death spurred him down the wing and he crossed for Zamora to scuff the winner. Not much else happened, Nigel Reo-Coker was the best player on the pitch and Tomas Repka achieved a personal milestone by playing 90 minutes without a single act of violence. The game was very similar to last year's final, but with Preston playing the stage fright role.
At the death, the fourth official held his screen toy up. Seven, it blinked dottily. Christian Dailly looked across and thought he was being substituted. Pardew waved him back. SEVEN MINUTES OF INJURY TIME! We groaned collectively, but Preston looked as if an equaliser was beyond them. Final whistle; pretty bubbles in the air, a whack round the head with an inflatable hammer and time to salute the sixth best team in the Championship.
We veered into a pub. Hammers fans wrapped in flags and drenched in beer were hanging out the window. The bouncer eyed us with disdain. "No smoking!" he said. I had a pint of Brains and we loudly promoted the virtues of East London via the medium of song.
We moved on to an Italian restaurant. Some Preston fans sat scrunched around another table and graciously sent champagne across. We raised a glass to the glory of football. "Are you Burnley in disguise?" they sang, waving inflatable cheer sticks. They attempted to involve the waiter, "which team were you supporting?" "I'm Albanian," he said, to silence. We bought them wine and said see you next season, without specifying a division.
We jumped in a taxi. The driver was an Iraqi. We apologised for the bombs and that, but he said it was alright. "I had that Charlotte Church in here the other day." "What's she like?" we asked. "Nice back," he said, "but her mate's really ugly."
Cardiff Sketch No.1 - Play-Off Final 2004
I think it must have been about 40 seconds into the first game of the season when I realised West Ham wouldn't get automatic promotion. Preston North End looped a hopeful ball into the area, Christian Dailly fell comically onto his arse and Tomas Repka booted it vertically into the sky. We survived for another minute before Preston finally scored. Things didn't bode well.
I detested the whole season. When you get relegated certain things happen; your best players move on, the skill level drops, Brian Deane joins. We sat in and around the top six for most of the season and consolidated a play-off spot on the final day. A last minute equaliser made no difference to our plight, we were already guaranteed fourth as other results went our way. But it did make a difference for Crystal Palace, it allowed them to slip into sixth at Wigan's expense. Little thanks we ultimately received for that.
The semi-final play-off was tense, but we edged it past Ipswich. I was determined to go to Cardiff, but not being a season ticket holder at the time, had no chance of a ticket. A bloke from work came good in the end. On the Thursday night I was given an address in Essex and told to ask for Steve. Steve would gladly hand over a ticket if I crossed his palm with silver. Lots of silver. It was a bit cloak and dagger and Essex isn't the greatest place to walk around with lots of silver in your pocket. Anyway, I worked out the economics and reasoned that if I didn't eat for a fortnight I would be fine. I went to sleep poor and happy.
It took me six and a half hours to drive to Wales the next day. Most of that was sat on the North Circular hoping the engine wouldn't overheat. I had vague directions to a B&B in Chepstow I'd found online. It turned out to be in a village five miles from Chepstow. A sign above the bar said Vegetarians are usually catered for. My phone signal said searching. I ate three packets of cheese and onion and slept surrounded by chintz.
I woke up early Saturday morning. Excited as an eight year old. I asked about a bus service into Chepstow to get the train to Cardiff. "There aren't any buses." Taxi? "They tend to ignore us." The owner of the hotel dropped me into town in the end, "I'm not racist or anything, but..." he said. It was something to do with 200,000 Romanian gypsies moving to Chepstow. They must get the Daily Mail out here.
I made a pledge with myself. I was going to enjoy today, no matter the result. This was partly based on the fact that Cardiff is a great city, but more to do with the economics of paying excess silver for a ticket. So I did the usual football big day things. I bought beer. Loads of it. I sang anti-Chelsea songs with blokes covered in tattoos. I pissed in a toilet sink.
I had a great day. Apart from the period between 3 and 4.45pm. That was the crap bit. It wasn't a good game. The other Premiership teams were probably slapping themselves on the back at the prospect of six easy points. The best team won. Well, the less bollocks one to be truthful.
After that, things went a bit blurry. I took the disappointed train back to Chepstow. Sat in a pub garden by the castle in the last of the light. Got my fingers trapped in the table. Dunno how that happened. Ripped two knuckles pulling them out. Found a taxi to take me back to Chintzy Towers. It was driven by a middle-aged woman who told me all about her son's holiday in Portugal, "It was lovely, they had proper beer and everyone spoke English." I said it sounded like England but she didn't think so, "No, not really."
I had two packets of salt and vinegar for tea. Some Palace fans came into the bar, singing some shit song. I slipped off to bed and slept the sleep of the dejected.
I detested the whole season. When you get relegated certain things happen; your best players move on, the skill level drops, Brian Deane joins. We sat in and around the top six for most of the season and consolidated a play-off spot on the final day. A last minute equaliser made no difference to our plight, we were already guaranteed fourth as other results went our way. But it did make a difference for Crystal Palace, it allowed them to slip into sixth at Wigan's expense. Little thanks we ultimately received for that.
The semi-final play-off was tense, but we edged it past Ipswich. I was determined to go to Cardiff, but not being a season ticket holder at the time, had no chance of a ticket. A bloke from work came good in the end. On the Thursday night I was given an address in Essex and told to ask for Steve. Steve would gladly hand over a ticket if I crossed his palm with silver. Lots of silver. It was a bit cloak and dagger and Essex isn't the greatest place to walk around with lots of silver in your pocket. Anyway, I worked out the economics and reasoned that if I didn't eat for a fortnight I would be fine. I went to sleep poor and happy.
It took me six and a half hours to drive to Wales the next day. Most of that was sat on the North Circular hoping the engine wouldn't overheat. I had vague directions to a B&B in Chepstow I'd found online. It turned out to be in a village five miles from Chepstow. A sign above the bar said Vegetarians are usually catered for. My phone signal said searching. I ate three packets of cheese and onion and slept surrounded by chintz.
I woke up early Saturday morning. Excited as an eight year old. I asked about a bus service into Chepstow to get the train to Cardiff. "There aren't any buses." Taxi? "They tend to ignore us." The owner of the hotel dropped me into town in the end, "I'm not racist or anything, but..." he said. It was something to do with 200,000 Romanian gypsies moving to Chepstow. They must get the Daily Mail out here.
I made a pledge with myself. I was going to enjoy today, no matter the result. This was partly based on the fact that Cardiff is a great city, but more to do with the economics of paying excess silver for a ticket. So I did the usual football big day things. I bought beer. Loads of it. I sang anti-Chelsea songs with blokes covered in tattoos. I pissed in a toilet sink.
I had a great day. Apart from the period between 3 and 4.45pm. That was the crap bit. It wasn't a good game. The other Premiership teams were probably slapping themselves on the back at the prospect of six easy points. The best team won. Well, the less bollocks one to be truthful.
After that, things went a bit blurry. I took the disappointed train back to Chepstow. Sat in a pub garden by the castle in the last of the light. Got my fingers trapped in the table. Dunno how that happened. Ripped two knuckles pulling them out. Found a taxi to take me back to Chintzy Towers. It was driven by a middle-aged woman who told me all about her son's holiday in Portugal, "It was lovely, they had proper beer and everyone spoke English." I said it sounded like England but she didn't think so, "No, not really."
I had two packets of salt and vinegar for tea. Some Palace fans came into the bar, singing some shit song. I slipped off to bed and slept the sleep of the dejected.
Maradona #2
It was interesting to hear opinions on Maradona's recent heart attack. There was an e-mail doing the rounds with a distorted photo and something along the lines of Get well soon, you cheating fat midget. 20 years on from that goal and it still seems to bother us.
On one hand, there is the footballer who scored one of the greatest goals in world cup history and the other hand? Well its five fingers are clenched into a fist as it punches the ball over Peter Shilton. There is the innocent 10 year old doing ball tricks at half-time during Argentine league games and there is the wild-eyed 34 year old running to the camera after scoring against Greece, his muscles taut and his face snarling (and his body full of drugs of course).
If any footballer has had more impact on the game in a single season than Maradona did in 1981 I've never seen the footage. He took Boca Juniors to the title, scoring 20 goals along the way and creating countless more. It is an absolute joy to watch, the way he spins off defender, those perfect passes. His European career was sweet and sour, he never really took off at Barcelona or Seville, but in Italy he was integral to Napoli's renaissance.
So, what is his legacy? In his homeland he is up there with Eva Peron and Carlos Gardel. In Naples he's part of the folklore, Here, he's a pariah. OK, so he's now a bloated disagreeable character and he's never going to wear Pele's ambassadorial shoes, but to appreciate football, well, you must appreciate Maradona too.
Originally Posted 2004
On one hand, there is the footballer who scored one of the greatest goals in world cup history and the other hand? Well its five fingers are clenched into a fist as it punches the ball over Peter Shilton. There is the innocent 10 year old doing ball tricks at half-time during Argentine league games and there is the wild-eyed 34 year old running to the camera after scoring against Greece, his muscles taut and his face snarling (and his body full of drugs of course).
If any footballer has had more impact on the game in a single season than Maradona did in 1981 I've never seen the footage. He took Boca Juniors to the title, scoring 20 goals along the way and creating countless more. It is an absolute joy to watch, the way he spins off defender, those perfect passes. His European career was sweet and sour, he never really took off at Barcelona or Seville, but in Italy he was integral to Napoli's renaissance.
So, what is his legacy? In his homeland he is up there with Eva Peron and Carlos Gardel. In Naples he's part of the folklore, Here, he's a pariah. OK, so he's now a bloated disagreeable character and he's never going to wear Pele's ambassadorial shoes, but to appreciate football, well, you must appreciate Maradona too.
Originally Posted 2004
Football Against the Enemy - Simon Kuper
It's over ten years since Simon Kuper's book was first published. The decade since has witnessed a huge increase in football literature and nearly all reference Football Against the Enemy.
The task Kuper undertook was to add context to football by travelling the world and examining the game's impact on a country's culture and politics (and vice versa). The Enemy took many forms, military juntas, team rivalry, history and that well known international unifier, religion.
Kuper's timing was impeccable. The implosion of Communism created new countries whose football culture was little known in the west. Kuper was living in Eastern Europe and had contacts. He made the most of them. At times I fear for him, a Dynamo Kiev official speaks off the record. Kuper ignores this and boldly states the club are a mafia front for the sale of nuclear weapons. Good copy, but bloody risky.
What elevates it above other football books is the writing. You could reasonably argue, Football Against the Enemy is a travel book with a football theme. His descriptions of towns and people are so much more descriptive than standard football writing. The message isn't always clear. He attempts to unravel the hatred between Holland and Germany, but fails to clarify why it lay dormant for so long and the chapter on Paul Gascoigne is a case of stating the obvious which goes against the grain of the book; reinforcing the myth rather than debunking it.
The book has dated badly in places. Kuper believed Brazil to be on the wane and defines dull, workmanlike football as the 'Arsenal style'. Not on recent evidence. The text is infused with humour, often understated, and laced with menace. He befriends two Dynamo Zagreb hooligans who tell him, "If you say fuck off, sure thing I will kick you in the head". He compliments them on their English.
It's not just a football book, but a book about a changing world filtered through football. Plenty of football books have appeared in the last ten years and many others have used football as a pivot. Football books never used to include bibliographies. Now they wouldn't be seen without one (Kuper is usually first name on the team sheet). There's the legacy.
The task Kuper undertook was to add context to football by travelling the world and examining the game's impact on a country's culture and politics (and vice versa). The Enemy took many forms, military juntas, team rivalry, history and that well known international unifier, religion.
Kuper's timing was impeccable. The implosion of Communism created new countries whose football culture was little known in the west. Kuper was living in Eastern Europe and had contacts. He made the most of them. At times I fear for him, a Dynamo Kiev official speaks off the record. Kuper ignores this and boldly states the club are a mafia front for the sale of nuclear weapons. Good copy, but bloody risky.
What elevates it above other football books is the writing. You could reasonably argue, Football Against the Enemy is a travel book with a football theme. His descriptions of towns and people are so much more descriptive than standard football writing. The message isn't always clear. He attempts to unravel the hatred between Holland and Germany, but fails to clarify why it lay dormant for so long and the chapter on Paul Gascoigne is a case of stating the obvious which goes against the grain of the book; reinforcing the myth rather than debunking it.
The book has dated badly in places. Kuper believed Brazil to be on the wane and defines dull, workmanlike football as the 'Arsenal style'. Not on recent evidence. The text is infused with humour, often understated, and laced with menace. He befriends two Dynamo Zagreb hooligans who tell him, "If you say fuck off, sure thing I will kick you in the head". He compliments them on their English.
It's not just a football book, but a book about a changing world filtered through football. Plenty of football books have appeared in the last ten years and many others have used football as a pivot. Football books never used to include bibliographies. Now they wouldn't be seen without one (Kuper is usually first name on the team sheet). There's the legacy.
Us vs Them – The World’s Greatest Football Derbies [Giles Goodhead]
The premise of the book is simple. The author picks eight of the world's biggest football derbies and slants it as a travelogue. Most of the derbies are geographical; two teams, one city, polarised support. Woven within each story is the history of animosity between the sides, some autobiographical musings and a dusting of context.
The scramble for tickets in Istanbul captures all the confusion and passion of the lead up to a big game. Scams and tension on the streets, colour and noise in the stadium. In Prague the language barrier is impenetrable and he misses the game altogether, cursing his luck when he discovers it finished 4-4.
Where the book works well is in those instances where the absurdity of the situation is exposed; young Spurs fans arguing that Arsenal should never have been admitted to the first division after the First World War or the frightening sectarian vitriol of Rangers versus Celtic.
The chapter on the Spanish Superclassico is poor and all the more so as it fronts the book. A shame, the scene was set up with Figo’s first return to the Nou Camp since his switch to Madrid. Goodhead’s inability to speak any language other than English limits his own insight and he fails to grasp sufficiently the concept of morbo.
The writing comes alive when he ventures further afield, America vs Guadalajara at the Azteca and the Buenos Aires derby at Boca’s crumbling stadium. The latter is nicely done, set against the backdrop of an Argentine economy on its knees, all tickertape and punch-ups. A tangible class divide separates the supporters and for once a local accompanies him to interpret the chanting and banners. At other games he brings along disinterested mates or relatives to act as a rational foil against his enthusiasm and hammers the point too bluntly.
In the Milan chapter he looks back to his schoolboy experiences of playing football and the derby-like games of his childhood. Bizarrely he is from the same small town as I am. He was in the line up of the fee paying school's eleven, I played for the local comprehensive team. He describes the friction of the local derby game and how much it meant to beat us. God, we hated those posh kids.
The scramble for tickets in Istanbul captures all the confusion and passion of the lead up to a big game. Scams and tension on the streets, colour and noise in the stadium. In Prague the language barrier is impenetrable and he misses the game altogether, cursing his luck when he discovers it finished 4-4.
Where the book works well is in those instances where the absurdity of the situation is exposed; young Spurs fans arguing that Arsenal should never have been admitted to the first division after the First World War or the frightening sectarian vitriol of Rangers versus Celtic.
The chapter on the Spanish Superclassico is poor and all the more so as it fronts the book. A shame, the scene was set up with Figo’s first return to the Nou Camp since his switch to Madrid. Goodhead’s inability to speak any language other than English limits his own insight and he fails to grasp sufficiently the concept of morbo.
The writing comes alive when he ventures further afield, America vs Guadalajara at the Azteca and the Buenos Aires derby at Boca’s crumbling stadium. The latter is nicely done, set against the backdrop of an Argentine economy on its knees, all tickertape and punch-ups. A tangible class divide separates the supporters and for once a local accompanies him to interpret the chanting and banners. At other games he brings along disinterested mates or relatives to act as a rational foil against his enthusiasm and hammers the point too bluntly.
In the Milan chapter he looks back to his schoolboy experiences of playing football and the derby-like games of his childhood. Bizarrely he is from the same small town as I am. He was in the line up of the fee paying school's eleven, I played for the local comprehensive team. He describes the friction of the local derby game and how much it meant to beat us. God, we hated those posh kids.
Tor! Ulrich Hesse-Lichtenberger
I knew I was the target market for this book by page 10, "have you ever wondered why TSV Munich have 1860 as a suffix when the German game didn't exist until the 1880s?" It's precisely the sort of thing I have pondered on and off for about 25 years.
Tor (meaning Goal) is an evenly written, chronological account of German football history. It's similar to Phil Ball's book on Spanish football and no surprise that both writers contribute to When Saturday Comes. The book is undercut with humour and demolishes stereotypes with teutonic efficiency.
Sometimes he jumps onto a detail and weaves a story around it. The Adidas / Puma chapter was almost Chatwinesque and even when the realisation dawned before the end of the story, it didn't detract. It was all in the scene setting.
The GDR has its own fascinating chapter. The notion that success would reflect well on the local Communist officials led to whole teams being uprooted in the dead of night. You need a decent Berlin team? Bring that one from Dresden over. Stasi informers were everywhere; in the stands, on the bench, playing the holding role in midfield. East Germany first crossed swords with their neighbouring capitalist dogs in the 1974 World Cup, beating them 1-0. They heroically defended this record by refusing a rematch. East Germany sounds awful and amazing and it was only, like, just over there. Excellent stuff.
Tor (meaning Goal) is an evenly written, chronological account of German football history. It's similar to Phil Ball's book on Spanish football and no surprise that both writers contribute to When Saturday Comes. The book is undercut with humour and demolishes stereotypes with teutonic efficiency.
Sometimes he jumps onto a detail and weaves a story around it. The Adidas / Puma chapter was almost Chatwinesque and even when the realisation dawned before the end of the story, it didn't detract. It was all in the scene setting.
The GDR has its own fascinating chapter. The notion that success would reflect well on the local Communist officials led to whole teams being uprooted in the dead of night. You need a decent Berlin team? Bring that one from Dresden over. Stasi informers were everywhere; in the stands, on the bench, playing the holding role in midfield. East Germany first crossed swords with their neighbouring capitalist dogs in the 1974 World Cup, beating them 1-0. They heroically defended this record by refusing a rematch. East Germany sounds awful and amazing and it was only, like, just over there. Excellent stuff.
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