The Necessary Failure of David Bentley

Former footballer David Bentley has moved to Russian club FC Rostov on loan. He was 28.

Some have mourned a wasted talent, others have been splashing each other playfully in the fountain of schadenfreude, where football fans congregate to mock the unfortunate. Bentley’s career has finally derailed completely, having teetered on the brink throughout his disastrous spell with Tottenham. This is not to suggest that the Russian Premier League is merely some decrepit backwater. Zenit’s £64m joint purchase of Hulk and Alex Witsel speak of a league that is plainly upwardly mobile, even if it is thanks to petro-chemical lucre. But is this really where anyone had expected Bentley to be when Spurs signed him for £15m in 2008?

There was a time when it was simply assumed that David Bentley would be destined for great things. When Steve McLaren bought his workshopped teeth and publicity-friendly dossier to the vacant England post, he vowed to usher in a new era of youth, the type of thrusting manifesto so often suggested but seldom implemented. As such, David Beckham was jettisoned to make space for fresh talent. A nervous tabloid press wrung its hands nervously as it looked for an alternative superstar entity, and one man looked sure to be the natural heir.

Bentley had been busy winning rave reviews for Blackburn Rovers, and had much in common with Beckham, even down to the matching initials, which ‘Bents’ would unwisely have stitched into his boots in a fate-tempting effort to ape his idol. The similarities didn’t stop there: the cheekbones, the hipster haircuts, the Cockney heritage, the lack of pace, the right hand-side of midfield. McLaren would add further weight to these claims when he gave Bentley his full England debut. Perhaps seeking vindication of his scrapping of Beckham he would say: “I can see that [comparison]. His right foot is pretty similar to David’s. He’s got a great touch, great feel on the ball, and he can deliver that pass.”  He would go on to win seven caps for his country.

The TV channel ESPN Classic shows repeats of ‘classic’ England games, which are preceded by a brief video montage of England stars knocking the ball around in their England kit, being all English for the England team. Amongst shots of the likes of mainstays such as John Terry, Ashley Cole and Frank Lampard was our man Bentley, no doubt selected as the stand-out young prospect that would surely go on to greater things. Today, his presence in this clip is a mere curio, a stark reminder of a time when people operating video cameras genuinely had cause to believe that footage of Bentley in an England kit wouldn’t prove to be a colossal waste of time and resources.

His ascension to superstardom was made official when he was anointed as a columnist for The Sun, which usually reserves its pages for such renowned men of letters as Terry Venables and Ian Wright. That Bentley was proffered such a mouthpiece seemed like a contrived effort to raise his profile to anywhere as close to Beckham’s as possible, the better to augment his celebrity. It’s perfectly feasible that the gilded profiteers riding the Beckham gravy train were actively seeking to fill the void that his imminent demise looked set to create, and so set about fast-tracking Bentley’s way to fame.  Bentley, it seemed, had made it.

Of course now, he is largely remembered for two things. There was the stupendous lob for Spurs against Arsenal, a goal of the season contender, which spoke of his promise and confidence. There was also the moment when a jubilant Spurs dressing room celebrated Champions League qualification, reaching its zenith when Bentley’s cup – full to the brim with both banter and energy drink – runneth over, and was duly dumped over Harry Redknapp’s head. These two contrasting moments sum up perhaps not just Bentley’s time at White Hart Lane, but indeed his whole career: moments of genuine promise interspersed with the bone-headed boorishness of the LAD. It now seems reasonable to suggest that he was no more than a prettier Jimmy Bullard, and perhaps nothing more.

Why has his career ended up this way? The general consensus seems to be that it’s down to a lack of focus and effort, but Bentley has other theories: “He never said anything to my face about it – he didn’t really ever say much to me at all – but I knew I was always up against it after that.” It’s interesting to note his Wikipedia page too, which is most likely edited by someone close to him, and mentions how he “is often talked about as a should-be midfielder, but [he] he is often used out of position as a winger despite lacking the pace of some of his Premier League counter-parts.” The problem with pace is clearly an issue for him, as he alluded to shortly after joining Birmingham on loan in 2011: “They don’t deserve me to come here and think I’m this creative player who doesn’t have to run much. I’m going to have to graft.”

Regardless of these issues, Redknapp would deliver the most telling career appraisal (as well as an embarassing indictment of Bentley’s star worship) after the player had been arrested for drink-driving in August 2009: “He needs to lose that tag of ‘he’s another David Beckham.’ I’ll be honest, the lads call him Becks and I don’t think that helps him.”  Bentley would downplay these suggestions while at Birmingham: “There’s probably a misconception of me. People sometimes get this perception that I’m a big-time Charlie. But that is not the case.” This stab at humility would fall short when revealing his hopes for the transfer: “If I do the groundwork, do the running, I know my quality will come through.” His time at Birmingham, much like last season’s loan to West Ham, would both yield little in the way of quality – 20 games, 1 goal, 1 assist.

This is borne out by the fact that he now finds himself at FC Rostov, when some lower-scale Premiership clubs could surely benefit from his presence. It is plausible to read something into the fact that Mark Hughes wasn’t tempted to give him a chance at QPR, given that Bentley fulfils many of the criteria adopted by the club for several of their summer signings: discarded by his club, past his best, a former charge of Hughes. It’s possible that Bentley is happy to be free of the stigma which he feels he has unfairly accrued. Perhaps he should be applauded for trying to advance his footballing education as part of a different culture when so few English players do. But this transfer has far more in common with the paucity of options reflected by Joe Cole’s move to Lille, or Joey Barton’s to Marseille, than, say, David Beckham (that man again!) joining Real Madrid.

Bentley’s greatest contribution to the game could well be in his ultimate failure, a very modern, paradoxical triumph. In this lamentable age of the cosseted, self-absorbed tosser-footballer, it should be celebrated when someone who appeared to twin arrogance and laziness fails to make it to the top. There is no shortage of wasted talents in the game, and fans of every club in the world can add to the litany of crudely extinguished flames: Sonny Pike, Nii Lamptey, Paul Lake, Sebastien Deisler, Freddy Adu.

There are always reasons why players fail to live up to their potential. When those reasons are clear to see, as they were in Bentley’s case, we should be thankful that this sort of malaise only struck someone such as him, rather than a Leo Messi, Cristiano Ronaldo or Andres Iniesta, as their failure would’ve been a genuine loss, rather than a justified squandering. New players will always remind us of old players. If Bentley had successfully carved a niche for himself as a preening footballing tribute act, that could have set a precedent nobody would wish to see repeated.

This article was originally published on Soccerlens.

England Euro 2012 Bingo – Italy

Introduction

England Euro 2012 Bingo – France

England Euro 2012 Bingo – Sweden

England Euro 2012 Bingo – Ukraine

England have left the party as they so often have in the past, arriving with favour-currying bottles of Grey Goose, only for revellers to gradually discover that they’ve merely decanted Glen’s Vodka into some brand-name empties before leaving, shamefaced and friendless. And so, too, draws to a close England Euro 2012 Bingo. What began as a flippant attempt at cataloguing clichés eventually incorporated a growing sense of subversion, as certain tropes were put to rest by a savvy manager who leaves with his reputation bolstered amongst fans, media and possibly even players who were slow to accept him. Some hardy perennials – the self-destruct button, the futile defiance against the odds, simply not being good enough – can always be relied on to thrive, but the sense of entitlement, of clinging to a fading past, means that the ubiquitous, smothering presence of 1966 and arrogant claims to the game’s heritage have been waylaid. Perhaps not forever, but for the time being at least, they promise hope of something less worthy of jaded cynicism in future times.

False hope was tantalisingly proffered by Riccardo Montolivo’s penalty miss, but it didn’t matter, because once again England were simply not good enough: There were plenty of examples of this, but none more damning than Ashley Cole’s penalty miss. No-one has ever, or will ever, say of a penalty: “He’s caught it well, but the run-up just wasn’t right.” His stuttering run-up was a dismal exercise in studied nonchalance, and it sapped his shot of power and accuracy. Trying to psyche out Gigi Buffon with a tricksy run-up to the ball was simply never, ever going to work given the goalkeeper’s experience. This is something Cole can match him for, and yet the arrogant preamble to his tame kick was something you might expect from someone much younger and greener than a man who, while much-maligned, has quite possibly been England’s most consistent top-level performer since Gary Lineker.

Futile defiance against the odds: Defeat in these circumstances was a lot easier to take than failures of yore given the simple fact that Italy deserved it. England fans and players have bemoaned the lottery of the shoot-out, and the fickle nature of fate, but these traits would never have been more apparent than if Italy had lost on this occasion. There are some positives to take from the tournament though, chiefly the fact that Roy Hodgson has taught his team how to defend again. This was the faint tactical promise that shone not so much like a beacon, but like the functional high-vis coat of a paramedic: serviceable, reliable, dependable, utilitarian. For all the talk of Andrea Pirlo running the show, he still couldn’t quite engineer a goal for his team, which speaks of something positive for England’s obduracy. The odds were already stacked against England before the tournament began, due to a litany of injuries, Wayne Rooney’s suspension, John Terry’s court case, the Rio Ferdinand fiasco, and the overarching fact that Roy Hodgson had to juggle them all in a matter of weeks. The fact that England took Italy as far as they could’ve in spite of the obstacles heralds a restoration of a fighting spirit that had been lamely submissive in South Africa two years ago.

Bad luck! – If it could be said that footballers are responsible for making their own luck, then Ashley Young paid a fair price for a poor tournament by hitting his penalty against the bar. The fact is, pre-tournament brouhaha’s aside, nothing had gone against England on the pitch. There can be no recriminations, no vengeful, skyward fists – England got what they deserved and can blame no-one or nothing for their elimination. Indeed, there is some slither of good fortune to be found in the fact that it was Young that missed a penalty, rather than someone who had acquitted themselves fairly well, such as Andy Carroll. The man whose headed goal against Sweden marks a subtle reinvention from joke-butt to burgeoning Crouch-like cult figure could well have been destroyed by such a high-profile failure. Young, whose four-game disappearance was a source of huge frustration, is more worthy of some guilty introspection, as he seeks to right wrongs in the future.

Grown men crying – Well, obviously. ’Twas ever thus. ‘Twas ever fat men smearing face paint with their own salty emotions. ‘Twas ever retired stalwarts choking back the tears of vicarious adrenaline. ‘Twas ever England, England, England…

England Euro 2012 Bingo – Ukraine

Introduction

England Euro 2012 Bingo –  France

England Euro 2012 Bingo – Sweden

“My beaming smile penetrates even the twattiest of image manipulation nonsense.”

Rejoice, for England have triumphed and progressed beyond the group stages, prolonging this farcical nonsense for at least one more game. Is Roy Hodgson pleased? You bet your sweet bippy!

Surely by now you would expect to have at least seen the coquettish, sashaying ankle of bad luck. Quite the opposite in fact. It seems that, for the time being at least, Lady Luck is wearing one of those rubbish we-won-the-World-Cup-once-Ingerlund t-shirts found every other summer in Burton. Against France there was no late goal to break hearts, against Sweden there was no doleful introspection after going behind, and against Ukraine, a perfectly good goal was disallowed. We’ll ignore the fact that Marko Devic was offside anyway, since that seems to be what everyone else (Hello, Oleg Blokhin!) is doing. The point is, some stereotypes are being subverted. And who doesn’t love a bit of stereotype subversion, eh lads?

Stephen Fry’s pompous physiognomy can be stamped all over the square marked with England’s next destination – the quarter finals. This stage represented more a quiet hope rather than the cynicism thickly spread elsewhere on the bingo card, but the fact is that elimination at the hands of Italy would still represent a fine effort. The majority of (sane) England fans would’ve accepted going out at this stage before the tournament, and the fact that this glass ceiling is now considered an achievement illustrates the re-evaluation of expectations that have been a hallmark of this campaign. You’ll note that the semi-finals are not represented on the image above, but, stripping away all the psychological accoutrements of a frenetic campaign, England are one game away from reaching only the third semi-final in their history. Just imagine the size of Roy’s celebratory Waterstone’s bill should we get there! He’d probably buy, like, eight books. Brother be crazy, yo.

False hope has aggressively asserted its presence on the national psyche, like an overly made-up, scantily-clad girl, convinced of her own attractiveness, even though men only stare at her through a sense of curious pity. But stare we do, trapped as we are in a perpetual simulacrum that distorts lowered expectations into something resembling the quiet defiance of naive optimism. This was always bound to happen, but this is a triumph in and of itself; that any England fan has legitimate cause to hope for anything at this stage in the tournament excels even the crazed pre-tournament thoughts a sane man dare not think with another man’s head.

A lack of creativity was evident when news of Wayne Rooney’s terrible pre-match playlist smeared across the internet like a thick turd thrown at a solid surface. Any collection of music that contains the work of James Morrison is barely worth the effort of the big headphones that signify the self-importance of the man wearing them. Terry Butcher used to rouse his team-mates into a state of frenzy by repeating the demented mantra: “Caged tigers! CAGED TIGERS!” The ostentatious expense of the modern footballer’s cans is instantly ridiculed when you find that they are being used to whip him into a pre-match state of mania via the medium of Eric Clapton’s Tears In Heaven.

A final nod, too, for gallows humour. How Wayne Rooney laughed at his hair transplant after scoring, in staunch defiance of the fact that he is dying, the reaper’s hand firmly ensconced on his bonce in solemn reminder of his inevitable fate. No amount of one-yard wondergoals can change that, Wayne. Laugh while you can, for there will be no banter in the grave.

England Euro 2012 Bingo – Sweden

Introduction

England Euro 2012 Bingo – France

England Euro 2012 Bingo continued yesterday, with Sweden the latest team to face the increasingly obdurate yet limited resistance of Roy Hodgson’s men. Would they be able to do so without falling asleep? Would we be able to take notice of them trying not to fall asleep without falling asleep ourselves?  The answer to both questions was no, as a fairly sedate game veered wildly into a screwball clusterfuck that unexpectedly gave cause for some optimism, which many English fans had previously thought was the name of some sort of dietary supplement.

Find out how this affected the latest round of the nation’s new favourite game, as I continue to monitor the England experience with the Englishest thing in all of Christendom – a bingo pen in the image of Stephen Fry wearing a bowler hat and making the sort of expression that signifies the late delivery of a bad crumpet. Also, it’s raining outside and Heartbeat is on telly.

The Gerrard/Lampard axis has been given a merciful reprieve this summer, due to the latter’s withdrawal due to injury. This old chestnut remains clogging up unwanted space on the bingo card in totemistic remembrance of two dovetailing international careers that kept cancelling each other out. Like a Tron race in perpetual re-start, Stevie and Frankie were like two jostling Light Cycles, dangerously accelerating in ignorance of their inevitably doomed plight. But in 2012, finally, Frankie say relax, as now we need only fret about one box-to-box midfield general failing to cut the mustard, as opposed to two. As it is, Gerrard is thriving, providing two assists in as many games. Lampard’s absence could prove to be to Gerrard – and England’s – benefit, so now seems as good a time as any to finally banish this most tedious of conundra.

Something else to be offered a reprieve is the creatively bereft brass band, or, to give corporate credit where it’s due, the Pukka Pies England Band. After facing UEFA censure prior to the England/France game, the band failed to make their first England game at a major tournament for 16 years, only to find out (and subsequently ignore) that England fans are apathetic to their plight at best. At worst, YouTube comments have made it perfectly clear what instruments can be shoved in which orifice, rousing a perversely vitriolic sense of unity amongst supporters, who have grown tired of their somnambulant soundtrack to so many feats of sporting misadventure. They returned against Sweden, their sense of self-reverence still intact despite this drubbing of their spirits, and it was fitting to see that they didn’t use the week off to learn any new songs, or to develop their dubious musical talents beyond the level of drugged apes.

The self-destruct button was tentatively fingered, if not smashed repeatedly with sweaty palms of ham as is usually England’s way. A one goal half-time lead was turned inside out before there was time for the neon blue spittle of the English Powerade drinkers to return to a normal colour. Glen Johnson favoured his right foot in an awkward attempt at a clearance, when getting the full weight of his weaker left behind the ball could’ve proven more worthwhile. Olof Mellberg nodded in Sweden’s second goal as he was completely unmarked, and it seemed as if capitulation was on the cards. The introduction of Theo Walcott changed the game, but only because Mellberg’s second wordlessly ushered in a frantic period of shapeless buffoonery, with a lack of tactical structure and discipline opening gaps in both defences, which were spread thinner than wartime margarine.

England Euro 2012 Bingo – France

Tonight, England commenced their Euro 2012 campaign, and with it, England Euro 2012 Bingo. I will be marking off each England Big Tournament Cliché as and when I see them throughout their three group games and/or one (but certainly no more than one) knockout stage game. I will be using my special bingo pen, which bears the image of the most quintessentially English thing ever conceived, which is of course Stephen Fry wearing a bowler hat…

Naive optimism – This took literally seconds to emerge from the woebegone piehole that doubles for Andy Townsend’s pointless mouth. Professional sports commentator and Clive Tyldesley fan Clive Tyldesley asked, as the game kicked off, whether England could win the game. “Of course they can…” Townsend said, anxiously consulting the Post-It note reminding himself not to refer to England as ‘we’. Of course, in the end, England may well have done so, but with Tyldesley later giving it the full “Maybe this could be our year!” schtick when they took the lead, we can safely mark this one off.

England fans in chain mail – But of course. File also under excessive jingoism.

“We don’t see our kids when we want, we don’t see our kids when we want, WE’RE FATHERS4JUSTICE, WE DON’T SEE OUR KIDS WHEN WE WANT!”

Negative cultural stereotyping – Returning from the half-time break, Adrian Chiles gave us one of his match round-up summary things he’s paid literally millions of pounds to pull out of his everyman arse. He talks in his professionally chummy tone about how it started so well “and then the French had to go and spoil it for us.” BECAUSE WE ALL KNOW WHAT THOSE FRENCH BASTARDS ARE LIKE, EH LADS!?! THEY DON’T EVEN HAVE MARMITE, THE SCUM!

Blame the officials - Tyldesley worked himself into a state of tantric apoplexy, with each innocuous foul either given against/denied for England gradually establishing a veneer of resentment towards the referee who was clearly biased in favour of France. “Is he going to give that?”, he squealed conspiratorially, after a minor shove on Danny Welbeck. ”Well I think we know the answer is non.” Oh, Clive, you provocateur, you.

Close, but no cigar – It could yet be argued that Joleon Lescott’s opening goal may well have instilled a sense of false hope. The goal itself was the most exciting thing to have happened to Lescott’s forehead since it played host to SuperBowl XIX in 1985, irreversibly pulverising tissue and eternally changing the contours of his bonce. There was also time for the shock omission of the creatively bereft brass band. For the first time in 18 years, England’s struggles have not been set to the strained sounds of a bugled rendition of The Great Escape, as officials in Ukraine banned them from the ground. They are due to meet UEFA officials later this week, to discuss plans for the forthcoming Sweden game. No doubt they will argue their case with a solemn trumpet voluntary, a pounding arrhthymic bass drum beat, and a horde of fat men bellowing ‘ENGLAND!’ until their demands are met. In the meantime, recreate the ambience at home by shitting in a tuba.

England Euro 2012 Bingo

Hello, England! How are you? You look terrible. Eat more oily fish.

Today I invite you all to join Ruud Gullit Sitting On A Shed in a game of England Euro 2012 Bingo!

The rules are simple: watch England fumble their way through their latest major tournament seizure, and during the broadcast of each match, tick the boxes as and when each cliche is dusted off like so many dreadful party pieces by spoilt cousins at family functions when you (YOU) were a child. Post your comments here, blow the RGSOAS bugle on Twitter, or simply nail a handwritten note to a beloved family pet and hurl it into a policeman’s face. IT’S YOUR GAME!

My hope is that this bingo card will go viral, and boozed up men-on-the-shag will print them off at work before going to ‘Spoon’s to indulge their already-bloated WKD sides, Laughing Out Louding as the Three Lions bumble inadequately like Hugh Grant in a rom-com of which even he would feel rightly ashamed. This bingoesque japesheet will be the equivalent of the sort of plastic tat that The Sun pumps out by the square ton every year at Wimbledon, as Waitrose shoppers fop their way around Henman Hill with tabloid-sponsored non-biodegradable novelty hats.

I shall post updates after each game, so you can see just how I keep all nine of my fingers on the pulse.

THERE WILL BE NO PRIZE FOR THE WINNER. GO AWAY.

Paul Ince’s Reminiscences: Baddiel and Skinner, 2006 World Cup podcast

In 2006, David Baddiel and Frank Skinner recorded a series of podcasts for The Times during the World Cup. The comic duo and longtime friends travelled to Germany for the tournament, recording their observations live during games, as well as in their hotel rooms. The shows were a mixture of live reaction and post-match analysis, with the two riffing on various comic tropes, and offering their opinions on England’s stuttering form.

There was a sudden shift in tone for one particular episode, which has become a valuable resource to me whenever England flatter to deceive, which is often. It is something that I have returned to in the past, and expect to turn to again this summer, despite the best intentions of one Roy Hodgson at the European Championships.

The podcast recorded on July 1st, the day of England’s elimination at the hands of Portugal, deserves greater recognition for the way it transcends itself, becoming more than just a knockabout comedy show. As David and Frank mourn England’s latest failure, they pick over the bones of the corpse with the same confused heartbreak of someone lamenting a former lover. They spend half an hour discussing not merely a football match, but a broken relationship. Sven-Goran Eriksson is the lover that they collectively puzzle over, as they balefully consider the state of his legacy and his imminent departure.

The podcast is effectively a time capsule that condenses the Eriksson era. Sven is the aforementioned ‘lover’, with Baddiel and Skinner musing over every last gesture, every last word, desperately trying to decipher meaning amid the chaos. The show is, from the stand-point of an England supporter, gut-wrenching, rueful, cynical, optimistic, existentialist, and plenty more besides. Above all, it is essential listening. It offered strange comfort not just in 2006, but in 2008 and 2010 too. I expect it will offer the same dark solace this summer, when I break the emergency glass for this, the best available remedy for England’s failures…

The podcast begins as the match does in Gelsenkirchen, Baddiel and Skinner audible in the foreground as they join in singing the National Anthem. The nervous optimism of the live match recordings is intercut with a more despondent post-match inquest, as joviality and hope is gradually eroded by the advancing reality of England’s elimination. The two timelines intertwine, offering a similar timeshift as if watching Memento, with Guy Pearce’s insomniac, memory-deficient cop replaced by an acerbic Brummy and a neurotic jew. This non-linear dynamic cultivates that nagging sense of ‘what if?’ that haunts you after your team has lost a crucial game. Baddiel, post-match, says that’s he’s already getting over it, and you wonder if he’s being honest. He asks himself how long he would’ve been joyful for had England won: “About…two hours?”. It seems like he’s just kidding himself, compromising the integrity of his hopes with emotional bargaining. He jokes that he would still be pissed off that the show’s producer has a bigger hotel room than him, even if England had won. Skinner disagrees, saying that an England win would be “the gift that keeps on giving”, that he’d remember it in the shower the following morning and feel great again, rather than just remembering “Ah shit, we’re out of the World Cup.”

When we cut again to the ground, the two continue joking, perhaps just to allay their nerves, but it’s akin to the early scenes in Titanic when the poor people party below decks, unaware of the disaster that awaits. Our hosts compare the two managers, with “wily old fox” Felipe Scolari likely to be on the lookout for weaknesses to exploit, while Eriksson is more likely to see “a woman with big tits in row G”. You don’t know whether to laugh or cry at this point, until a drained post-match Skinner cites Elvis Costello: “I used to be disgusted, now I try to be amused.” It is worthy advice, and Skinner embraces it with enthusiasm. Baddiel tells of how he bumped into Victoria Beckham at half-time, and heard her say “Cheryl, can you take the boys to the toilet?”, with Skinner quipping that the Cheryl in question (the nation’s favourite cuckold and forgotten racist, Ms. Cole née Tweedy) would be the worst person to do such a thing.

Even a flippant story such as this carries some weight, representing the distraction and excess of the ‘WAG’ enclave at that tournament. It seems appropriate that the players’ wives would somehow feature in this podcast, despite having no direct impact on events on the pitch. That tackily-tanned harem with long legs and longer hair extensions made for fitting symbols of the attention-grabbing sideshow that served as an unwanted footnote to England’s risible campaign.

Mining the zeitgeist further, Baddiel laments the absence of Michael Owen, whose tournament ended after a knee injury against Sweden. He talks about how England made chances against Portugal, without having anyone available to take them, opining that we “still miss that type of player”. The type of player that Gary Lineker was for England, always popping up to score when a goal was required. Six years on, and England are still missing that type of player. Such a void will stretch ever larger this summer, when Wayne Rooney sits out the first two group games of Euro 2012 through suspension.

Rooney has previous when it comes to international red cards, of course, and the response to his stamp on Ricardo Carvalho makes for riveting listening. Skinner, like most England fans would have been at the time, is apoplectic: “And fucking Rooney’s been fucking sent off for fuck all!” he spits. “I can’t fucking believe it! What did he fucking do though? We’re being cheated out of this!” Skinner is the more emotional and impulsive of the two comics, and appears to have more in common with the archetype of the England fan. The assumption that England were being cheated is something that was likely to have been echoed in pubs across the land that day, even with the benefit of TV replays. Skinner ticks off another square on the England supporter’s bingo card by defiantly declaring it “time for the courageous England performance. Ten young men of England taking on Portugal and the fucking referee.” Several clichés that come with the territory of England at a major tournament are referenced, but the show doesn’t suffer for this triteness. It is oddly comforting to hear the thoughts such as might proliferate in the head of so many England fans.

The subsequent conspiratorial wink from Cristiano Ronaldo is addressed by Baddiel after the game, suggesting that he “Can’t see how [Ronaldo and Rooney] can go on playing together for Manchester United ever again.” The fact that they would, winning three Premiership titles, an FA Cup and a European Cup, makes for an effective reminder that sometimes things are rarely as melodramatic as they might seem immediately after a game, especially when that game is a World Cup quarter-final (Recently the Carlos Tevez situation at Manchester City has further proven that no bridge is every truly burnt). Baddiel goes on to discuss ethics in the game, and suggests that “Any chance of [young players] ever thinking in terms of something [being] okay to do ethically on the pitch is completely gone now.” Since then we’ve seen such incidents as the Luis Suarez handball against Ghana, Thierry Henry costing the Republic of Ireland a place at the World Cup, and countless other high-profile instances of cheating that suggest that Baddiel, sadly, may well be right.

The reign of Sven is summarised by Skinner, who complains that the Swede only ever picked the players that the papers demanded, as if the squad was decided by a press vote. Rather than concentrating on finding the right blend of players, Skinner continues, he stuffed the team with Galacticos that never looked like a proper team. I remember when he picked unheralded Charlton Athletic defender Chris Powell in his very first squad. This singular thinking was rarely to be seen throughout the rest of a tenure which can perhaps be surmised by the albatross that was the Steven Gerrard/Frank Lampard conundrum. Warming to his theme, Skinner extemporises by comparing the England team to a greatest hits CD. He says that he prefers proper albums as they represent the band’s creativity over a specific period of time, and that, while there may be a few fillers, it works better as an overall product. The England team of 2006, as through Sven’s entire reign, was England’s greatest hits album, without the unity, focus or vision required to transcend the sum of its parts. Baddiel agrees, saying that no-one ever picks a greatest hits collection as their best album, and by that same logic, few will ever hold Sven’s perennial losing quarter-finalists in any great esteem.

As Baddiel and Skinner prepare for the shoot-out, they adopt the “penalty stance” – arms around each other, heads bowed in grim anticipation. There is still time for some gallows humour, as the two men embrace with faces smeared red with melting face paint. “Since our face paint has made us look red,” Skinner says, “People are looking at us saying ‘Look at those two blokes from the dermatitis clinic showing a bit of unity.’”

I have seen the key moments of that penalty shoot-out several times since, but no amount of repeat views can recreate the sinking feeling of imminent collapse as well as Skinner’s guttural reaction to Lampard’s missed penalty. “Oh…he’s….Oh no, not again. Please not again. Please not again.” It’s a reaction that is almost lewd in its rawness, and it perfectly captures the horrors of a penalty shoot-out. In some ways, Skinner’s reaction to the first Portugal penalty miss makes for even more distressing listening. The optimism and elation of the moment is retrospectively recast as the cruelty of false hope. Portugal’s second miss is even more vindictive. Skinner doesn’t say as much, but you can read his thoughts clearly: nobody misses penalties against England, but for a team to miss two? England are going to win, this is our time. When I listen to this moment again, I ask myself whether I could’ve ever felt that myself at the time, watching at home. I’m certain that perhaps I did, but it seems impossible.

Skinner takes a turn for the maudlin when he tells how he had tears in his eyes at the thought that he doesn’t think he’ll ever see England win a major tournament in his lifetime. “I’m 50 next year and I honestly think time is running out, I just can’t see it happening.” Baddiel reminds him that he said the same thing after leaving the Stade De France after the 1998 World Cup final, before suggesting with all sincerity that a healthier lifestyle could be the way forward – “If you live a bit longer you might have more of a chance.”, he says, with no hint of irony or sarcasm. Unwittingly, Baddiel sums up the desperation of the England fan with some genuine, wholesome advice. Rather than hoping for a more tactically astute manager, or a brighter crop of young players to emerge, it seems that yoga and a macrobiotic diet offer a more likely route to triumph (Possibly heeding this advice, hydrophobe Skinner completed a swimming challenge for Sport Relief earlier this year).

As Owen Hargreaves successfully puts his penalty away – the only England player to do so – Baddiel and Skinner talk afterwards about how their perceptions of him had changed after the tournament. It has long been my contention that, had England beaten Portugal, that his performance in this match would have deserved the same canonisation as David Beckham’s against Greece in 2001. If anything, it would’ve warranted additional merit – England were expected to beat Greece in front of home support, whereas a team of ten men in a World Cup knockout match had far more to do. Beckham’s performance against Greece, full of apparently selfless running, may have provided a problem of its own that day. By seeking involvement in order to grab the game by its scruff, Beckham dispensed with positional sense in a way that may well have made it harder for England to form cohesive attacks on goal. Hargreaves would have covered similar ground against Portugal, but it was absolutely essential with ten men on the field, in a match where survival was paramount.

Skinner damns him with faint praise by lauding the typically English decision to name him man of the match “for basically just running out of his skin”, and not for anything technically cultured. “It’s alright, but it’s not going to win us the World Cup”. One might well adopt this maxim for Scott Parker this summer. Parker has made “running out of his skin” the bedrock of his game, and is the long-awaited successor to Hargreaves, but Skinner is right – more is required to win tournaments. This is not to downplay the importance of Parker in 2012, nor the importance of Hargreaves in 2006, but the point is valid. Either way, it is staggering to consider that, in all likelihood, this was the last a major international tournament would ever see of Owen Hargreaves.

“Hmm…perhaps if I steal his knee while he’s busy weeping?”

Skinner offers another theory concerning English football, by suggesting that the national game was irreparably damaged by Brazil winning the World Cup in 1970. Prior to this, England were a major power by playing English football, with “big stopper centre-halves, big, strong centre-forwards, some skill, but a lot of hard work, sweat and guts”. Then, after seeing Brazil in ’70, England underwent a shift in ideology. “We basically turned our back on our inheritance to try and play like continentals or South-Americans. You have to keep true to what your football self is.” Roy Hodgson, with his penchant for pragmatism, may well agree with such a philosophy.

There is further tactical insight from Baddiel, who says that, after five years, he couldn’t say what Eriksson’s style of play was. They discuss the misperception that England endeavoured to play defensive football when, in Skinner’s view, really it was just “failed attacking football.” Baddiel is angered by Eriksson’s assertion that he wouldn’t mind if England won playing ‘bad football’, arguing that teams never win playing ‘bad football’. “Greece played tight, dull defensive football in Euro 2004, but it wasn’t ‘bad’.” Take Chelsea’s Champions League elimination of Barcelona this season; some derided Roberto Di Matteo’s allegedly anti-football tactics, ignoring the fact that defensive football is a tactical discipline with its own intrinsic qualities and nuances. England could only dream of such accomplishment in Germany. Baddiel provides a fitting epitaph for the 2006 campaign: “We gave the ball away, we constantly looked frightened at the back.” ’twas ever thus.

Skinner closes the podcast with an almost apologetic tone, confessing “We couldn’t be bothered sitting here trying to be funny, I’m pissed off.” This is something that the ubiquitous ‘Toby Jug full of hot piss‘ Adrian Chiles would do well to take note of. Sometimes it’s right to be morose if it captures the moment. In the wake of a defeat, you don’t want to be laughing and joking about it. You can’t force yourself to stop agonising over it. It might not be the right thing to do, like picking at the scab of a grazed knee, but even if it is painful, you just want to feel that something is being done to heal the wound.

To my mind, the appropriate tone at such a time is the one captured in this podcast – unashamedly dejected, bleakly conciliatorial, strangely cathartic. I’ll listen to this again at some point this summer, seeking consolation by reminding myself that this is just the way it has to be. The FA should make this available on their website as dejected England fans nurse their grief. If you’re an England fan, I suggest you do the same, using the links below.

DOWNLOAD – Baddiel and Skinner – 1st July 2006

SOUNDCLOUD – Baddiel and Skinner – 1st July 2006

 

A Fraction Of The Whole: Paul Merson

Celebrating the game’s minutiae, one tiny fragment at a time

Past Michael Owen raises the bar impossibly high, while Present Michael Owen watches on YouTube for the millionth time on another one of his days off, lamenting the fact that Twitter hadn't been invented yet in 1998, as this would've made for a cracking tweet.

It was the day of my thirteenth birthday when Michael Owen scored a career-defining goal against Argentina at the 1998 World Cup. I remember every glorious detail without needing to consult a replay. The brief look up from David Beckham as he plays the ball in-field. Owen’s first touch with the outside of his right boot. The dip of the shoulder that fooled the Argentinean defence. The onrushing Paul Scholes arriving in vain. Owen’s expression of assured disbelief as he runs away with energy still to spare.

Another detail swept up in the drama of the moment is something I recall just as easily, and it comes from the substitutes’ bench. Synonymous with the memory of that goal is the reaction of one Paul Merson, who rises with the rest of the squad to celebrate Owen’s strike. As he leads the applause, he turns around to be captured by the camera as he says something to Teddy Sheringham. It’s too quick to be lip-read, much less heard, but you can see everything you need to know in his face. A mixture of incredulity and wonder at what he’s just seen, transmitted to a global audience as everyone else marvels at what’s just occurred.

The reason I recall Merson’s face with such fondness is because of the way it communicates so much in such a short space of time – he is seen for a mere second before the picture cuts back to a breathless Owen jogging back to resume the game. At such a young age, I felt as if this was the commencement of some exciting new dawn. I had watched my first World Cup four years previously, when England failed to join the party in the USA. Even at the age of eleven I could acknowledge the patriotic power of home advantage offered by Euro 96.

But Owen’s goal was something I had never seen before. England had just shown that they had something no-one else did, a weapon that could cause whatever damage was necessary, as long as it was deployed in the right direction. It seemed so easy, as if England had just discovered a cheat code on a video game. It seemed so incomprehensibly fortuitous that suddenly we had someone that could just do whatever he wanted, and he just fell into the lap of every future England manager that would be able to select him. My mind, swamped as it was with nascent hormones and birthday cake sugars, could not process the significance of this goal. It was more than just one goal in one game. This was something seismic and I knew that straight away.

That brief moment, where Merson giggled and shook his disbelieving head for the world to see, was like looking into a mirror. Merson looked the way that I felt, and it would later offer succour in the face of England’s eventual elimination. To see an actual professional footballer react just like I had… that meant that it wasn’t just youthful naivety on my part. It meant that I was right and that eventually he would elevate beyond the prescribed heights of the England team, and together they would do something amazing.

Of course, it wouldn’t quite work out that way. The goal would weigh heavily on Owen’s shoulders, and the intrinsic declaration of promise would unwittingly taint public perceptions of his career (Click here to read more on Owen’s dubious legacy). For all that, the excitement, shock and joy I felt at that moment, mere hours into my teenage years, is something I will always remember, because Paul Merson is there as a totemistic reminder of the chemicals that rushed through a brain yet to be sullied by hormones, adolescence, and the crushing reality of being an England supporter. And I shall forever be thankful that Owen did not hit, to use Merson’s Soccer Saturday parlance, the ‘beans on toast’.

Joey Barton’s Alternative Lifestyle Choices #4

This week I decided to start taking pilates classes. We have an instructor at the club, and she says it will help me become bendy. If it’s good enough for Ryan Giggs then it’s good enough for me. Funny how I can’t say the same of the treatment we’re both given by the press though – I get in trouble and I’m crucified for it, Giggsy Wiggsy is naughty and has an affair and he’s everyone’s hero. Sure, a lit cigar in someone’s eye is one thing, but what was that if not a Freudian phallic symbol, trying to penetrate the wider public consciousness in a cry for help? At least that was symbolic, while Saint Ryan was literally poking his #helmet where it shouldn’t have been. Anyway, if it’s helped him play until 38 then I guess I should give it a go. I’ll need to play until I’m at least 40 if I’m ever going to play for England again, which I definitely don’t care or think about, despite me mentioning it again just there. #englandrubbishatfootball

Wayne Rooney – well done!

Lovers of irony, sarcasm or cynicism, let this headline not fool you. For all the brickbats hurled at the newly hirsute Mr. Rooney since his petulant red card against Montenegro, RGSOAS arrives in time to hurl itself bravely before the salvo of abuse, and selflessly take said brickbats in the balls on Wayne’s behalf. But why?

Yes, it was a deserved red card. Yes, it now creates problems that extend to the rest of the England team as a whole. Yes, it was another episode of dark shame for the bootiful game, which England is the best at.

But. The response immediately after the foul was committed should rightly impress us, if only a little. He didn’t contest the red card, he didn’t malign Montenegrin play-acting, he didn’t swear at the referee.

Well, of course, you might say. It’s the least he can do in the wake of such an undignified act. We shouldn’t be thanking him for not digging the hole any deeper. As one of England’s more experienced players, he shouldn’t be acting like this in the first place, much less inciting further trouble.

The stock defence for Rooney’s hot head has always been that, if you remove that fiery temperament, you neuter the essence of the man, the player that can win games single-handedly. If the price to pay for such a talent is the odd misdemeanour, then so be it. It’s the way of the single-minded maverick, and separates the Maradona’s, the Zidane’s and the Cantona’s from the rest.

There are those that will look at the red card as a portentous lapse back into old habits, but there was a refreshing nature to this misdeed. He knew the jig was up, and instantly got on with the business of accepting responsibility. This time, you feel that there might not necessarily be a next time.

And anyway, the biggest scandal of the game was this fucking monstrosity….