28 February 2009

Exclusive: Inside the shadowy cabal that runs football!


Sport Is a TV Show's crack team of snoopers has managed to swipe this excerpt from the minutes of today's annual meeting of IFAB, the body which decides on the rules of football. Good work, chaps!

(With humblest apologies to the late Alan Coren. Buy the book and see the work of one of the people I steal my ideas from.)

***

The Scottish delegate rose and proposed an amendment to Law 1, concerning the field of play. He moved that it be made compulsory for all fields to be surrounded by digital advertising boards, whose height would be no less than seven feet (2.14m) and would not exceed fifteen feet (4.57m).

The chair enquired of the Scottish delegate as to the purpose that would be served by such an amendment.

The Scottish delegate replied it would be an aid to the efficacious officiating of the game, as studies have shown that the assistant referee's flag is 2% more visible against a moving digital backdrop than against a group of polyester-clad spectators.

The Ecuadorian delegate asked where and when this research was carried out.

The Scottish delegate replied that it was carried out in his living room in front of the television screen last evening. He said that he had raised a flag in front of said screen and asked his nine-year-old son how visible said flag was on a scale from one to one hundred. The delegate had proceeded to repeat this experiment except this time raising the flag in front of his six-year-old daughter, who was wearing a Scotland replica jersey. The delegate was keen for it to be known that the television had a 44" (112cm) screen.

The Ecuadorian delegate said of course, what a sensible idea, what could anyone possibly have against it?

The English delegate asked what brand of television was employed in the study.

The Scottish delegate replied that it was a Sony, a plasma screen, his brother actually works at an electronics shop and was able to get him a pretty tasty deal.

The English delegate expressed his approval at the choice of apparatus and seconded the motion.

The chair called for a vote. The motion was carried unanimously.

The special FIFA delegate rose and proposed an amendment to Law 4, concerning the players' equipment. He moved that a special category be created within Law 4 concerning the women's game. Specifically, he moved that the shorts worn by all participants in official women's games should adhere as closely as possible to the skin and that the leg of said shorts should not exceed 1/8in (3mm) in length. Furthermore, the lowermost part of the jersey should be at least 6ins (15cm) above the navel.

The Northern Irish delegate expressed his concern that such an amendment may contribute to the objectification of female footballers.

The FIFA delegate expressed his sympathy with the Northern Irish delegate, but said that his concerns were misplaced. He said that extensive research undertaken in the laboratory in the basement of FIFA House, overseen by President-of-All-Football-for-Life, Joseph S. (Sepp) Blatter, had determined that such amendments to the apparel of female players would increase the aerodynamic properties of the players, thus leading to a faster and more enjoyable spectacle. Any inference of sexism from such an amendment would be unfounded.

Mr. President-of-All-Football-for-Life Blatter rose and drew the attention of the special FIFA delegate to the final part of the amendment.

The FIFA delegate said that oh yes, he'd nearly forgotten, the new rule requiring the jersey to be no less than 6ins (15cm) above the navel would necessitate the prohibition of fatties from the women's game.

The chair enquired as to how this would be achieved.

The FIFA delegate replied that all female players would be required to present themselves twice-yearly at FIFA House for inspection by the Player Equipment Committee.

Mr. President-of-All-Football-for-Life Blatter enquired as to who would chair this committee.

The FIFA delegate replied that the committee would be chaired by President-of-All-Football-for-Life, Joseph S. (Sepp) Blatter.

Mr. President-of-All-Football-for-Life Blatter enquired as to the possibility that the players should be compelled to wear suspenders.

The FIFA delegate said that it could be trialled at, say, the Women's Under-17 World Cup.

Mr. President-of-All-Football-for-Life Blatter moved that further discussion on the amendment be postponed, as he had urgent need of the bathroom. The motion was carried unanimously.


The FIFA delegate rose and proposed an amendment to Law 7, concerning the duration of the match. He moved that the half-time interval be extended from fifteen minutes to twenty minutes.

The Welsh delegate enquired as to why such an amendment would be necessary.

The FIFA delegate replied that the location of the dressing rooms in certain stadiums around the world is such that the walk from and back to the field of play can take players and match officials much of the current 15-minute half-time interval, for example, at the FIFA delegate's son's school, the players must get changed in the school gymnasium's changing rooms, but the field is a good ten-minute walk away.

The Welsh delegate said that ah, when you put it like that it makes perfect sense, that's a good amendment, is that.

The Korean delegate said that, of course, it would have the added bonus of allowing television companies to broadcast more advertisements during the half-time interval, thus increasing revenue and allowing governing bodies, such as FIFA, to charge more money for the rights to broadcast their competitions.

The chair said oh, the Korean delegate must be the new boy, look here, sonny, ever since it was founded in the 19th century, the International Football Association Board (IFAB) has played a vital role in international football, it acts as the guardian of the Laws of the Game and is responsible for studying, modifying and overseeing any changes to it, how dare the Korean delegate suggest that the Board would sully Its proceedings with consideration of such base matters, and anyway it's just a co-incidence.

The chair called for a vote. The motion was carried with one dissenter.

The Korean delegate rose and proposed an amendment to Law 5, concerning the referee. He moved that the use of certain technologies be permitted to determine whether the ball had crossed--

The chair said no, next.

The Ghanaian delegate said that this was ludicrous, what kind of way was this for the Laws of the Game to be determined, how ridiculous was it that the four UK associations had half of the votes on the Board--

The chair enquired, quite loudly, as to how the Ghanaian delegate dare bring this august body into disrepute?, knows he not of the Wisdom of the Ancients? The chair gestured in the direction of the Northern Irish delegate.

The Northern Irish delegate stared into space as he pondered the issue and finally suggested that perhaps they could make the goal line out of icing sugar, and if the referee is unsure as to whether the ball crossed the line, he could lick the football and if he detected any sweetness, he would not give the goal.

The motion was seconded by the Welsh delegate. The chair called for a vote. The motion failed to gain the necessary three-quarters majority.

The chair moved that the meeting take its mid-session adjournment for the first five courses of the annual Board dinner. The motion was carried unanimously.

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Intermission



This has nothing to do with sport, and not much to do with anything but the facts that I mentioned it a few days ago and that it's glorious. It's the greatest Beatles song you've never heard, unless you've heard it before.

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25 February 2009

The this post of Arsenal-Roma match reports


Once again, "Tapping into the market for day-old recaps of games you couldn't care less about". This time, Arsenal 1-0 Roma in a mixture of outlandish metaphors (as promised), similes and "X is the Y of Z" constructions. One day, all match reports will look like this.

Emmanuel Eboué making a run is like a person telling a joke with a really great set-up, but then forgetting the punchline.

Denílson is not the Shane Battier of central midfielders, but he may be better than you think.

That last sentence was the mother of all optimistically hedged bets.

Robin van Persie taking possession of the ball eighteen yards out is the first childhood glimpse of a pristine snowfield.

Robin van Persie is the last four tracks of A Hard Day's Night of footballers.

OR

Robin van Persie is the 'Hey Bulldog' of footballers. (Whichever works for you.)

Nicklas Bendtner's first touch is like getting your two questions wrong on your long-dreamt-of appearance on Fifteen-to-One.

Watching Arsenal is like watching a new episode of The Simpsons.

Arsenal-Roma is the political debate between members of two fringe political parties who you and -- if they'd admit it -- they know will have exactly zero effect on anything of import but still retains the potential for some entertainment, partly on its own meagre terms and partly for the realisation that the two sides have not quite grasped the occasion's insignificance, so it at least has the illusion of substance of the first knockout round.

Arsenal are the way you can't quite scratch that itch on the part of your back you can't properly reach.

Arsenal are the Mexico of the Champions League.

Arsenal are The Zombies of football.

Arsenal are the Arsenal of football.

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23 February 2009

Accidental workplace injury


You're walking down the street. You're minding your own business. Everyone else is minding theirs. Suddenly, for no apparent reason, you accost a pedestrian travelling in the opposite direction. You swipe the closed brolly from his hand and start beating him with it. You use it to club him repeatedly about the head, before starting on the ribs. You aim a perfect blow to his kneecap and, as a coup de grace, you stab him through the heart with the umbrella's tip. He falls backward, his body hideously contorted. It twitches once, and he dies.

Unfortunately for you, you carried out this attack within sight of a police officer. He rushes over, and though unable to reach you in time to save the life of the innocent passer-by, he immediately arrests and handcuffs you.

"What, me?" you plead. "Are you serious? It's not my fault! I was just swinging that brolly around and that bloke got in the way! I mistimed it, that's all! D'you hear me? I mistimed it! I mean, how dare you!"

At trial, you probably get community service or something.

You are Kevin Nolan. You are a prick.

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22 February 2009

Sport is a load of TV shows

Here's a heads-up for anyone who can receive BBC Four. The station has a bunch of football programmes in the next few days. Some of them are repeats but are well worth catching again.

On Sunday night/Monday morning at 0050 is Communism and Football which, as the title cunningly implies, is about the effect the eastern bloc regimes had on the game with specific reference to -- if I recall correctly -- the cases of Nikolay Starostin and Eduard Streltsov.

Monday has a terrific line-up. First up is Maradona: In the Hands of the Gods, a film about five freestyle fotballers' quest to meet the great man. The words "freestyle footballers" don't exactly do anything for me; and, inevitably, "[a]long the way they find that it wasn't just Diego they were searching for, but something inside themselves as well", so I'm not too hopeful about this one, but you never know.

And anyway, there are three great shows to follow. Barça - The Inside Story is a behind-the-scenes look at Joan Laporta's first season as president of Barcelona in 2003/4. I can't recall another film that had such access to the higher levels of such a huge club, and it's terrific stuff. We even get to see the beginnings of the rift with Sandro Rosell, the shadow of which still looms.

After that is Gods of Brazil, about the contrasting fortunes of Pelé and Garrincha. It's wonderful, but you probably guessed that. As well as being a compelling story, we get to see some of those wonderful clips of Garrincha in action. Yes, I know you can get that on YouTube, but this time you'll get to see it on an actual television screen for a change. Anyway, if you can, make a special point of watching this one.

Then comes Football and Fascism. This companion to Communism and Football deals with the death of Mathias Sindelar, Italy's hosting of the 1934 World Cup and the tug-of-love custody battle between Barcelona and Real Madrid for Alfredo di Stefano. (Stockard Channing held sway.)*

Just one offering on Tuesday, but it's a good 'un: a documentary about North Korea's exploits at the 1966 World Cup called Football Worlds: The Game of Their Lives. If you somehow find yourself bored by the Champions League action, you could always watch Early Doors at half nine. Nothing to do with football. Just a cracking show, is all.

Finally, to Wednesday. There's Zidane: A 21st Century Portrait, which I haven't seen, but it seems like the kind of thing one should watch at least once. Then there's a couple of other films which are new to me: an episode of the Time Shift series about a week at Swindon Town in 1963, followed by a 1968 Ken Loach television play called The Golden Vision which, according to the Beeb, is "about the relationship between fans and footballers, for which he obtained unprecedented access to one of the top clubs of the era, Everton."

So make sure there is plenty of space of your recording medium of choice. And if you can't get BBC Four -- gee, I'm sorry...

*That one's especially for you, HMHB fans.

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E equals &c.


Dear all,

Hi! Hope this finds you well. What an eventful day it's been round our way. You know that old tree in our front garden? Well, it only went and toppled over and crashed into our sitting room! Yes, yes: I know you told me it was dead and that the diseased roots would surely rot away. I probably should have got it cut down last summer, but things are always so busy, you know? You never get to do half the things you want to do. You know how it is. Anyway, the window is smashed and the wall and roof have been damaged terribly. And you should see the state of the furniture! Plus, the rain's got into the electrics and shorted the whole house. It's all a right dog's dinner. Still, it gives me a chance to spruce things up. Lick of paint and a new armchair and it'll be right as rain. Probably won't be quite as it was, mind, but one must be grateful for small mercies. It'll turn out right in the end.

Arsenal drew against Sunderland. They were at home and everything! This after Villa lost to Chelsea earlier. D'oh! There goes fourth place. You know something? Things seem bad, but it's like my nan used to always say: Every cloud...! Of course, she was senile and would say "Every cloud!" every five minutes, apropos nothing. But that doesn't mean she wasn't right. Look at it this way: Arsenal will be part of the inaugural Europa League next season. They'll go down in history as pioneers, helping to steer European football to new frontiers. That's a warm thought to keep in your heart next September when they're facing a Montenegrin team whose previous best performance in Europe was reaching the Intertoto Cup second round in 2004, isn't it? The excitement of those Champions League nights just gives me the hiccups, anyway.

My wife left me today. She took me aside -- well, she kind of stood in front of me and spoke a bit more loudly and clearly than usual. She said that she'd been having an affair for the past nine years. Some fella from work, I wouldn't know him. She had been deeply unhappy with our marriage for a long time before that, and she couldn't keep living this double life, so she was leaving. Took the kids as well. Says she never wants to see me ever again. That was a turn-up, eh?! I must say, I didn't see that one coming. It's not something you want to see happen, and it's not the most pleasant feeling, I'll grant you that. But I don't know, maybe it was for the best. I mean, if she was that unhappy, what good was there in continuing? She needed to do it. I suppose. And I'll be alright. Maybe the new start will be good for me, too. Having everything you trust and believe in instantaneously blown into smithereens is tough, but who knows what good could come of this? The only way is up! Every cloud...!

Anyway, that's it from me. Hope your day was as exciting as mine. Talk to you soon!

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21 February 2009

®ebranding the Premier League

Last week, The Offside were contacted by a body representing the Premier League informing them that unless they removed the team crests from their site, they would "disappear" in the middle of the night, or some such.

Now, some may see this threat as a bad thing. They may point out that clamping down on an operation which is essentially giving them free publicity is more than a tad heavy-handed and risks alienating the very fans on whose custom the league depends. Others would argue that an organisation that charges for the reproduction of their fixture list has things a bit out of perspective.

But, in fairness, perhaps the league has a point. It's time they were given the right to reply. And seen as they are far too honourable to engage in mature, reasoned discussion, I have taken the liberty of presenting their case. As I'm already on a rebranding kick, I have created some new crests which present compelling arguments for why you should Do As You're Told™.

So, bearing in mind that--

* I used the exceedingly crude Microsoft Paint;

* I have the artistic flair of a raw ham;

* I didn't do crests for all Premier League clubs (I'm a genius, not a machine);

* When it came to Manchester United, I couldn't compete with this:


* Yes, smartarse long-time reader: I know that the Chelsea crest is based on an idea previously expressed on these pages (fear not: I have instigated legal proceedings against myself);

* The Blackburn and West Ham badges are pretty much gratuitous Neill- and Big-Sam-bashing, but think of it like this -- you're paying their wages;

--enjoy. Tell my family I love them.

UPDATE: Man City crest amended: key underlining added as aid to proper emphasis.

UPDATE THE SECOND: I forgot to mention that the inspiration for this post was a comment by Run of Play reader cjp, so a big and belated thank you is due.



















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The Agüero-Maradona child is born



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19 February 2009

Eleven lads who didn't quite shake the Wirrall

There was a very good edition of BBC Radio 4's The Long View strand the other day. It examined the idea of football-club-as-business in the light of the story of New Brighton Tower F.C. New Brighton Tower were founded by the owners of a Blackpool Tower-esque attraction on Merseyside, who needed to attract visitors in the long winter months. The club started out in the Lancashire League in 1897 and were elected to the Football League a year later. Things, however, didn't go quite as planned...

The programme aired on Tuesday morning, and the Beeb usually keep their shows available for streaming for a week. So listen while you can.

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Alan Green and Mark Lawrenson commentate on a trans-Antarctica expedition


Alan: Let's see how much time will be allocated for stoppages to replenish their bodies with much-needed nutrients...Five minutes? Where on earth are they getting five minutes from? Yet another atrocious decision. (Exasperated) They'll never learn, will they?

Mark: They've gone soft. What a bunch of jessies.

Alan: Incredible. Absolutely incredible. What d'you reckon they're feeding the dogs?

Mark: Probably some specially-made stuff for the tough Antarctic conditions. Tell you what -- it's not Pedigree Chum, that's for certain.

Alan: It's not like it was in your day, is it, Mark?

Mark: They'd have been lucky to get the crust from my chicken curry pie in my day. They'd have been lucky to get any of your pie any day.

Alan: I've lost weight, I'll have you know. Been on the Atkins Diet.

Mark: More like the Ron Atkinson diet.

(Pause as Mark basks in his own comic genius.)

Alan: Oh, now one of them has gone down clutching his hand...

Mark: It's his finger, I think.

Alan: (Sarcastically) Yeah, I'm sure he's at death's door alright. Looks like his finger has fallen off.

Mark: Look at him pretending to be in agony. Just gaffer-tape it back on and get on with it.

Alan: He was the same way earlier when he took off his sock and three of his toes didn't come out. Disgraceful. You don't know you're born, son.

Mark: I'm telling you Alan -- soft. They've all gone soft.

Alan: Too right. What's the world coming to? And would you look at that: they're all wearing gloves! Every single one of them! Typical!

Mark: I'll tell you what: if Bob Paisley had caught me wearing gloves, he'd have made me eat them, there and then in front of the rest of the team. And if I hadn't finished by the time the lads were showered and dressed, he'd have driven me to my house, made me watch while he slaughtered my first-born and then urinated on my begonias.

Alan: Quite right.

Mark: (Disbelievingly) Is that a scarf? (Angrily) Is that bloke actually wearing a scarf?!

Alan: Lord, give me strength...

Mark: Tell you what: in my day...

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18 February 2009

"As Lee Harvey Oswald may have said...": The Masal Bugduv Hoaxer Interview


Some of you may be aware of the Masal Bugduv story, in which your correspondent played a small role in recent weeks. If not, read this and this before continuing.

In the aforelinked Slate article, Brian Phillips wrote about his email exchange with somebody claiming to be responsible for the hoax. Our 'Galwaygooner' detailed the process by which he supposedly went about the scheme. Shortly afterwards, the would-be duper confirmed that he was an, um, was duper. (And maybe a still-is duper...of which more later.)

After that, myself and Galwaygooner engaged in quite an interesting conversation for several days, shedding new light on the tale. And here I present it for your curiosity.

A few notes:

* As you'll see, the hoaxer has asked me to preserve his anonymity, so you'll have to take this on trust. I know the name of the person, but I ain't gonna divulge it. Hey, if you wanted to know his name, you should have spent a few hours uncovering all this in the first instance. But you didn't, did you? No: it was me, me, me, &c.

* The correspondence ended abruptly when Galwaygooner stopped replying for reasons unknown. This could have been twice as long, but hopefully what's here will be worth your time.

* There is a possibility that this person is himself pretending to be the hoaxer. The chance is slight; as far as can be reasonably ascertained (oh, the lengths that have been travelled in trying to ascertain this...) he's our man. If he is having me on, the level of detail of such a hoax-on-top-of-a-hoax would be so impressive that it would be an honour to have fallen victim to it. And I'm an idiot. And he should probably get a hobby or something.

* Last but not least, a huge thank you to Brian, who got enthusiastically and tenaciously involved, and allowed himself to be driven halfway to madness in the process. He also supplied many of the questions for the interview. I would heartily recommend his site, The Run of Play, but knowing the kind of intelligent and beautiful people that make up my readership, I suspect you're way ahead of me on that score.

So: to the main event.




Do you want to be identified by name in all this?

Not really keen on naming myself yet, if you don't mind because the possibilities for this are endless and I wouldn't want to out myself too early in the entire process. It's been a ball but bugduv may be only the tip of the iceberg.


So you're planning some more shenanigans, then? Will there be more Massi stuff or have you some new characters up your sleeve?

Some new ones are already there, sleeping, although not all necessarily in the field of football. The few Massi stories are the sting of a dying wasp. He's pissed off at not existing, which as you can imagine is a bummer, especially in Moldova where people view non-existence very dubiously. He had a lash at Arshavin (that fat Russian) who he feels has stolen his dream move, but in the main, he's resigned to a life of drudgery. And Arshavin got his work permit too! The Times did this to him. If they hadn't named him at No 30, he would have rumbled on there in the background.


So were you responsible for the Great Galway Donkey Sex Hoax of 2007 as well? Is there a donkey theme running through all this or was that just a coincidence?

Yes, the donkey case was totally devoid of any sexual reference at all. It was only when you added all the evidence together that there was any suggestion of sexual impropriety. The presence of a donkey in a hotel room, the latex outfit, the handcuffs suggested that they weren't just watching TV. It was written as a totally straight court case in typical Irish court case style, with albeit some unbelievable characters such as the receptionist Ms Irina Legova and the much-believed Unlawful Accommodation of Donkeys Act 1867. It crashed the website having a million hits in two days, and crashed the hosting company. It also featured as the "and finally" story on some networks in the US.

We had another soccer one which did the rounds which had dogging aficionado Stan Collymore being tempted out of retirement to join local team Galway United because Galway city council had just introduced a new park and ride scheme.

However, the donkey theme is merely coincidental, it was never my intention to cause mass hysteria with the donkey court case, and the manner in which it spread showed just how gullible many people are.


How did you find out about Massi being "outed"? What was your reaction?

I was at home a few weeks ago when a mate called to say that the Off The Ball football show on Newstalk radio station was all about Bugduv. At work, the lads knew that I had invented him and we had the odd laugh about how his Google count w as doing, or when he'd pop up on screen as a possible transfer target on Setanta Sports News, but the Times list just sent the ball rolling. At last count, he had 108 million google mentions on that day. That's better than Paris Hilton. Who needs a sex tape. I knew than that his life as we knew it was about to come to an end, that his "dream move" to (take your pick) was in jeopardy and that for him, a life of sheep tendering on the hills of Moldova was the most likely option. I can still imagine him in ten years time, fat, balding and managing the Moldovan national team. He will probably be a chain smoker at that stage, having kicked a coke habit that he could ill afford and having being kicked out of his home having bedded the runner-up in Miss Moldova. He will speak with a husky voice ( Can huskies talk?) and his eyes will be filled with regret forever that the Times have ruined his life. I have visions too of Bugduv coming to Ireland to seek revenge on his creator, a footballing Frankenstein.


Did you have any more plans for Massi before the whole thing was rumbled? How long would you have persisted with it? How would Massi's story have continued?

Oh Massi was going to prostrate himself before the top clubs in Europe for another transfer window. Like Arshavin (almost), he would once again go through another transfer window unsold. He would react to this with disdain and insults. He would lash out at fat Arshavin. He would attack Chelsea for having no charisma (or Quaresma). He would have provoked his way into a move to some minor French club from where he would hope to leap the Channel come summer time. He was to have a wild social life. There would have been the night with the woman who came second in Miss Moldova. There would have been an incident in a Balti bingo hall. He would have attacked Blatter and tried to force a new Webster or Bosman ruling. Massi was going to have an exciting spring and summer, but it was not to be. And so it falls to his successor to have that fun, to challenge FIFA, to become widely know for things other than on the pitch.


Why invent Massi in the first place?

Basically, it was done for the craic. (Irish fun) As Lee Harvey Oswald may have said, it just seemed like a good idea at the time. I did it to see how far it would go, to see just how gullible some people may be and to have a laugh. It is a model that will be used in many other spheres of public life. I see that there have been several Bugduv copycat postings since he was outed, the linking of some player to Hoffenheim. People will be wary for a while, but their guards will fall again in a few months.

It also begs the question. What is real? Is it real because we have read it on the net, if it can be googled, or do we have to touch it? I am in the news business and have been for 25 years. I've also written five novels and a series of plays so I just see this as an extension of my fiction writing. I was a sportswriter for a decade of that so sportswriting can be a case of joining the cliches, so you find out how to write in a style that people will believe. When you have that, you can virtually deliver any message and get away with it. If we had just tweaked the donkey sex story a bit, it would have been very believable. As it was, its style had thousands wondering. And that is where the future of this project lies.
I am busy on three other writing projects at the moment, so it will be a month or so before that really takes off.

And Masal's successor has already passed the 1,000 mentions mark on google. He is cooking nicely, his life story is developing and at some stage, some journalistic fish will come along and bite the hook. His name is a phonetic play on an Irish word as well, so in a way, I'm doing my bit to preserve the Irish language. The guy who wrote M'Asal Beag Dubh, Padraic Ó Conaire. A statue of him used to be 50 yards from my office in Galway, but has since been moved. Yet, his stories never got as much mention as they have done in the past month.

So that is why Massi was born and why his legacy will live on.

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17 February 2009

Emotive forces shape the gestalt of the brand identity, or: new gown, same hospital

The investment in our DNA leads to breakthrough innovation and allows us to move out of the traditional linear system and into the future.

The vocabulary of truth and simplicity is a reoccurring phenomena in the brand’s history. It communicates the brand in a timeless manner and with an expression of clarity.

BREATHTAKING is a strategy based on the evolution of 5000+ years of shared ideas in design philosophy creating an authentic Constitution of Design.

Yep, Pepsi have a new logo.

I, on the other hand, Googled "blogger templates" and found this. Nothing too radical, just a bit more legible. And you're less likely to see dots wherever you look for about half an hour after clicking away from this site.

As you can see, I couldn't bear to part with the Ripping Yarns screenshots, so I fashioned them into a rudimentary header.

There won't necessarily be any major shift in direction accompanying this tarting-up exercise. However, I will endeavour to:

* Employ more outlandish metaphors and use punctuation in such a way as to annoy the type of people who get annoyed about that sort of thing. (Hyphens. Lots of hyphens.);

* Mine songs for essentially meaningless lyrics that, when used as a post title, continue to give this blog the pseudo-profundity you've come to expect;

* Have at least one person leave an angry comment calling me a "pretentious twat".

There will probably be some tweaking here and there in the days to come. Frankly, I have little idea about what I'm doing with all this CSS and HTML stuff, so doubtless I've made a catastrophic error somewhere along the way. If you see something I should know about, or if you have any suggestions, do leave a comment or email me at fredorrarci[at]gmail[dot]com.

Now, let's dimensionalise -- exponentially.

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Eduardooooooooo!!!!!!!



That is all.

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12 February 2009

Achtung

I've half-decided on a kind-of whim that I may be sorta fed up with the look of this here site. So if things look a bit strange over the next few days, it's because I'm messing with code and templates and whatnot. If I find a look I'm happy with, hooray. Otherwise, I'll decide that I really love Dots Dark after all, and we'll forget this sorry episode ever happened.

Of course, if anyone wants to come up with a bespoke design in return for nothing but gratitude, my email address is elsewhere on this page...(Hey, it's worth a shot.)

If, as is worryingly likely, I rip a hole in the fabric of the internet through which appears the digitised ghost of Rudolph Valentino singing lines from Dadaist poetry to the tune of your favourite Motown classics, say hi.

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Ireland 2-1 Georgia: Gump brace seals win


Tapping into the market for day-old recaps of games you couldn't care less about.

When Trapattoni faces Cúper, the game could probably do with something to liven it up, lest the tension -- the kind of tension that defines a perfectly silent room, until you fall asleep -- becomes too much. Thankfully, Stephen Kelly took less than a minute to display his fine appreciation for the nuances of dramatic theory; or, in footballese, to fail to get the ball the bloody hell out of the area. 0-1.

Thus was shape given to the match: Georgia defended and tactical-fouled; Ireland tried to attack, the way I would try to re-attach your renal artery to your kidney. The ennui was broken briefly when a Keith Andrews shot was deflected past Giorgi Lomaia and in. The Finnish referee, however, as befitting a man who speaks a language with an aversion to voiced consonants, had become attached to the growing melancholy. He invoked the little-known "Gravitational Pull" clause of the interfering-with-play bit of the offside rule, feeling that the powerful atomic processes that drive Kevin Doyle had had a tidal effect on Lomaia's brain juices.

Keith Andrews ran around, quite effectively. The half ended.

Ireland woke up in the second half and did anything -- had a bowl of cereal, watched a SpongeBob SquarePants quadruple bill, cleaned out their bedside locker for the first time in months, had another bowl of cereal (this time without milk), sent emails to themselves -- but study for their big history test the next day. When, with half an hour to go, panic set in (it was even marked on their study planner: 60' PANIC!!!), they opened their textbook on the World War I chapter, upon which inspiration struck. So, as Gavrilo Princip surely would have done had he played central mid, Glen Whelan started playing fifteen yards further forward. Aiden McGeady joined in, deciding to stop pretending he'd forgotten how to play football. Things started happening. Even the ref cheered up a bit, deciding to play the scamp by awarding a penalty to Ireland for that old favourite, the Dubious Handball.

In a sport like, say, basketball, there is a relatively efficient transition between consistent good play and a favourable outcome on the scoreboard. Football, on the other hand, is screwy. Robbie Keane exceeds his quota of screwiness. He had as much impact on the game as you did, yet had the biggest influence on the result. He converted the penalty, and scored the second with a magnificent shoulderer from six yards. He's Ireland's record goalscorer, dontcha know.

In Trap, Ireland have found someone whose ideas chime with our own. Once ahead, he replaced Damien Duff with Stephen Hunt and cranked up the power on the player magnet attached to Ireland's goal, dragging them deeper and deeper. This time, though, there wasn't enough time to throw it away. The table doesn't look right, but like I said, we have Robbie Keane. Ireland win, world saved, until March 28th.

DUNPHY UPDATE: Still a dickhead!

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I am the scourge of referees and the selector of killer choons

See me foment revolution in my latest Soccerlens post, whose titles's unintended ambiguity I make sport with in the title of this post. What japes!

Also, I had the pleasure of assisting Webbie in selecting the songs for the latest, Ireland-themed post on the ever-marvellous Football and Music. Needless to say**, I chose superbly. Head on over and have a listen.

**Why is the phrase "needless to say" always followed by precisely what is supposed to be needless to say?

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09 February 2009

Ray Wilkins' downward trajectory

Ray Wilkins may have won 83 England caps, won trophies at Manchester United and Rangers, had a spell at Milan and been appointed interim manager of Chelsea, but let's not kid ourselves as to what the pinnacle of his career was:



Also, when I think of Butch (and who doesn't, daily?) I can't help but think of this:

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Falling into fancy fragments

As I intimated in my half-baked Soccerlens piece (though the Party of Five line was pretty sharp, I feel), the Arshavin deal is stupidly exciting to me, even if beyond reason. You can spin all manner of pretty webs out of it, all ready to snare the idiot fly. You could take his first two games at the European Championships and transplant the damn-near-transcendent spectacle to your future hopes for the Arsenal. You could see it as a furthering of Arsenal's New Tradition. You could see it as a bold new departure, buying the finished product instead of the half-assembled one. You could look at it in simple military terms: we got a new toy, motherfuckers.

Honestly, the main reason the transfer makes life effervesce so is because it's a good thing. That is -- for all that Arshavin is but a thought experiment for now -- it stands in contrast to the rest of Arsenal's season. (I know -- dry those tears.) The comedown from the first two-thirds of last season has been brutal and is still being endured, which means that something like this feels like opening the curtains. (Amy Lawrence wrote in the Observer, "Not since Dennis Bergkamp walked into Highbury in 1995 has a transfer been so important to the fabric of Arsenal", and though she was talking about the off-field Arsenal, it may turn out to be true on the pitch as well. Or Arshavin might be the next Alex Hleb. Who the hell knows?)

The whole Premier League season has been a washout. Note that: not just Arsenal's season, but the whole wretched thing, because to me, they are one and the same. My favourite football season is 2001-'02: a properly glorious Arsenal Double, with a Cup Final win against Chelsea and a league-clinching win at Old Trafford (and a Champions League exit too pathetic to spoil things). In 2002-'03, the football was often just as astounding, but the season was defined by the 2-2 against Manchester United at Highbury. Again, not Arsenal's season -- the season; because that is ultimately how I see the Premier League. When you're paranoid about Man Utd and Chelsea, it's hard to derive any pleasure from their brilliance. (Liverpool just make it hard for anyone at all to derive pleasure from watching them.) And, as we all know, the rest of the league may as well have been a different league altogether for much of the last decade, meaning that for the too-hardened partisan, it's shut off from the fevered reality of the Exaggerated Parallelogram, serving as so many attendant lords. Relegation battles become knife fights between recently unemployed stockbrokers: gleefully compelling, but still knife fights.

Last week, following the furthering of the Federer-Nadal myth (the good kind of myth), I noted: "who wins is now only a part of the matter; it almost seems a shame to reduce it to a simple zero-or-one question." The problem with seeing sport by way of the travails of a particular team is that it shifts the balance so far towards the binary that it overshadows everything else. The whole thing becomes about the outcome; process, with all it entails, be damned. Almost everything gets stripped away bar the catharsis of victory or the dejection of defeat. The teams you despise exist solely for the extraction of ill-earned schadenfreude or bitter frustration. It's like getting your kicks from a coin flip.

This blog was fortunate enough to be born in time for last summer's Euros. Though we were too callow to properly make hay with the tournament, it was a beautiful thing to be allowed to behold. The key to this -- besides the majesty of the football itself, which was kind of important, like -- was being able to just sit back and allow the thing to happen without fretting about how a certain team was going to do. I don't even mean Ireland, in this instance. It's easy to be wrapped up in Ireland's progress through a competition and know that it's not going to affect the fabric of reality too much. (Case in point: Ireland 1-0 Italy in Giants Stadium in '94 didn't prevent Italy reaching the final.) More's the point, England's absence freed up the time otherwise set aside for angsting about the possibility of 'Three Lions' being played on a loop on all BBC stations forever, and instead allowed it to be used to just drink in the goodness. It showed that angst up for the silliness it is. Similarly with the Wimbledon final: it was too big and too good for it to be about tying your enjoyment solely to the success of one participant. For me, the Premier League doesn't have that.


It's not that results don't matter. The hours I've lost here, wading through tables from leagues I have no connection with, are innumerable. To quote myself again, shamelessly, "the beauty may be in the struggle but the struggle is for victory, after all." But stressing the payoff dismisses the rest of the sketch which, as any Monty Python fan will tell you, is often the best part. The fetishising of the result is strengthened by each game being isolated and transformed into apparently universe-defining events. Each moment -- each contentious decision and scuffed shot and questionable substitution -- is magnified beyond its rightful significance, beyond its place in the narrative. It is significant, but modestly so. When a well-turned out yet discernibly smarmy gentleman knocks on your door and tells you he's conducting the Last Judgement, something ought to tell you he's lying. Whatever the truth is in sport, I'd wager that I saw more of it at Melbourne Park last week or in Austria and Switzerland last year than I do on any given Premier League weekend.

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05 February 2009

Football + Half Man Half Biscuit = a post on this blog

The latest issue of Tranmere Rovers fanzine Give Us An 'R' contains an interview with Nigel Blackwell, Half Man Half Biscuit's singer and chief songwriter, Tranmere fan and Greatest Living Englishman (if a foreigner such as myself may make so bold a claim). The feature has been posted on the terrific hmhb.co.uk for the benefit of the rest of us. Sample questions and responses:

What’s the funniest thing you’ve ever seen at the match?:

...I also recall a time when we experimented at free kicks by placing a wall of our own in front of the defending wall but then crucially forgot to part it when we took the kick resulting in the ball simply striking our own men. That was when we were REALLY shit.

Which Club do you most dislike?:

Omonia Nicosia. Predictable perhaps but what can you say....


Also, a couple of months ago, BBC's Football Focus confronted Brad Friedel with a HMHB song, 'I Went to a Wedding...', which mentions the great man (he said, trying to be amicable in the face of Villa's usurpation of a top-four spot). This rare instance of HMHB surfacing in the real world is the type of thing which excites us fans.



For a football-themed example of the Bards of Birkenhead's work, go here.

UPDATE: As pointed out below by the proprietor of the excellent Football and Music, said website has its own collection of HMHB football songs. It's also full to the rafters with all sorts of other football-related songs (as you could probably guess from the title) -- there are far more than you ever thought possible.

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The Wizard of another kind of Dribble



Prompted by what, I don't know, but I've been enjoying myself immensely these last couple of days watching Pete Maravich videos. He was before my time, and I don't know much more about him than his basic life story, but I adore watching these clips. The above is my favourite, and comes from an instructional video (from which there are many more clips available). Below are a couple more: the first comprises every field goal from his 68-point display for the New Orleans Jazz against the New York Knicks in 1977; the second is a tribute to his stellar college career, in which he averaged 44.2 points per game in the pre-three-point-line era. Enjoy.


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Transfers, boredom, dreams, robots, mystery, hope and laughter!

Read my latest post on Soccerlens, which deals with how the tedium of the transfer window was redeemed by the Andreiyiyiy Arshavin deal, at least in the eyes of this Gooner. The piece was written before but published after this on the Run of Play, which also discusses Arshavin but is much, much better. Do read it, but only after reading mine first, so that mine doesn't suffer too much in comparison.

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02 February 2009

Just seen Bob Dylan on a motorbike


The temptation is, as temptation always will be, there. So let's get it out of the way first.

This was like the Wimbledon final in reverse, Roger Federer starting strongly before somehow going backwards late on, or perhaps standing still while Rafael Nadal kept a steady pace. Someone on the BBC likened the first four sets to Ali-Frazier. Wimbledon was more like a duel on a life-raft.

Wimbledon was washed by the confluence of all sorts of strangeness and fascination. Rafa was on the rise, looking more likely to break definitively out of clay specialism than ever. The French Open final -- in which Federer, still suffering from the effects of glandular fever, rolled out the Frightened Kitten Defence in the face of Nadal's bombardment -- was just a month past. Federer lost the first two sets, the second after having been a break up. He was on the precipice, and we know what happened next. There were also the rain breaks, the gloaming, the camera flashes and Gwen Stefani managing to look more bored than anyone has ever done before and striking a comic contrast with every other soul watching.

What that match also had was a couple of special moments: a half-smile and a knowing nod that guided it past the velvet rope inside the other velvet rope. The rally at 7-7 in the fourth set tie-break which ended with Nadal's improbable winner, and Federer's even more extraordinary backhand passing shot on the very next point (while match point down), were what turned the match from hors catégorie to hors hors catégorie. (See the two shots in question here, from about 3:15.) For all of yesterday's consistent excellence -- How consistent! How excellent! -- there wasn't a pair reality-quaking doozies like that. Yes, it's partly symbolism. It is kind of silly to pick those few minutes out of almost five hours of play, especially when there were so many turning points and barely credible plays. But they were critical in truly feeling the gravity of the match, and even the entire Federer-Nadal rivalry -- they were like the moment it hits you that you are helplessly in love, or when you realise that you've just listened to 'I Am The Walrus' for the twentieth consecutive time and that the Beatles are the greatest band ever. Regardless of how sudden or gradual the process is, there is always that moment. The Australian Open final didn't quite have that.


But here's the thing: it doesn't matter. At least, in this context, in this great big scheme of things with Raf 'n' Rog silhouettes on it, it doesn't matter. It's not fair to compare this match with Wimbledon, not least because the blue sky and the birdsong and the sound of children's laughter are all meagre next to Wimbledon. For one thing, the Aussie final was great for its own sake, on any halfway sensible terms. For another, this has, by now -- since those two shots -- gone beyond each mere atomic match. Nadal-Federer has been elevated to a point where it's taken on its own identity. It's an entity of its own that is more than just a series of individual encounters. The two players bring out the best in each other and push each other further than anyone else can go. And because they occupy the top two places in the world rankings, their meetings are invariably in finals, which lifts it higher still. This is a story which is unfolding in all its intricacy as we watch.

With no disrespect to Nadal, Federer not having it all his own way anymore is the main part of the story. I think it's wonderful -- not, understand, that I begrudge Federer a single jot of his success (and if you do, reader, then perhaps we should start seeing other people). Nor have I ever been bored by the way in which Federer has amassed his success. It's just that the arrival of Nadal -- this alien invader, not just occasionally engaging in minor skirmishes on the outskirts of Federer's greatness but sending missiles into its heart -- added dimensions to the top of the men's game. The lack of competition for Federer was adequately compensated for by his style, but to see someone storming the barricades was still most welcome. Suddenly, there was some delicious tension. Instead of it just being a question of exactly how fabulously Federer was going to win, we now wondered whether he would win at all, and exactly what the new chaos would wreak.


There's something else, maybe more important and more glorious, which could be read into all this. Yesterday was a hinge. Federer could well have seen his best days recede into history (though remember that his next-to-best days are pretty fantastic). But he now has a chance to take his greatness to a level above even where it is now, that is more than just (!) a Samprassian record. Nadal is Federer's key to whatever the closest thing is to immortality in sport.** He has never had so persistent a foe, and if he can rise up and fight him, he will have surpassed even what we imagined him to be a couple of years ago. I don't think I'm even talking about winning, necessarily. As far as Fed-Nad goes, who wins is now only a part of the matter; it almost seems a shame to reduce it to a simple zero-or-one question. Not that it's unimportant; the beauty may be in the struggle but the struggle is for victory, after all. But I don't think that the identity of the victor is going to bring us any great revelation -- not in this rivalry, not anymore. The journey is where the truth lives now.

I'm damn sure that Federer isn't thinking about it these terms; it would take a strange athlete to do so. Honestly, I'm not even sure I totally believe what I've written. Hey, if you read this looking for cold hard certainty, I'm sorry. If you can hew some from out of the dust this rivalry is throwing up, then you're better at that type of thing than I am. All I know is that this is where my head is at right now. This is the best that sport has to offer today. Savour it and pray for more.

**It could also be argued that Federer is Nadal's key to whatever the closest thing is to immortality in sport. Certainly, Federer is the planet whose gravity Nadal has used to slingshot himself into greatness, at least as perceived by the spectator. As I said above, "The two players bring out the best in each other and push each other further than anyone else can go". But I've written more than enough already so I'll leave that thought with you...

UPDATE: The BBC on a similar wavelength, albeit in less hysterical fashion.

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