Peter Crouch, Spurs’ less-than-secret weapon, self-destructed on board the good ship Spurs before Admiral Redknapp had a chance to launch it at Madrid’s formidable armada last night.
Crouch, Tottenham’s experienced striker with over 40 England caps and Champions League experience from his Liverpool days, allowed adrenaline and the enormity of the occasion to affect his judgement, made two rash, needless lunging tackles while Madrid were in possession in harmless areas of the pitch, and was sent off for two yellow cards after just 14 minutes.
Tottenham’s best footballer, Rafael van der Vaart, was deemed surplus to requirements at Madrid, which demonstrates the gulf in class between these two sets of players, one which Spurs aimed to bridge by launching balls towards their ship’s mast.
The tactic had served Tottenham well so far. Despite scoring just two goals in 27 Premier League appearances in the physical Premier League this season Crouch had hit seven in his nine Champions League appearances before last night. As in the San Siro in the last round Spurs immediately looked to pump diagonal balls into crouch from deep.
Perhaps Crouch knew that his height was one of the only, if not the only, way of scoring the hallowed away goal in the Bernabeu. Maybe he was too fired up. He was obviously not himself. As a television pundit remarked those were the only two tackles of that manner he had ever seen Crouch make.
It would have been interesting to see how much of a threat Crouch would have been against a centre-back and coach who know him well. The element not so much of surprise, but of inexperience was a factor in Crouch’s healthy European goal haul. Riccardo Carvalho limited the big man to just two goals in their thirteen meetings in English football, and Jose Mourinho knows how to deal with the direct approach from his Chelsea days.
The sending off was devastating for Spurs fans, of course, but also for neutrals such as myself, who had watched several rousing displays from a courageous Spurs side that threw themselves into unknown waters and had reaped the rewards. With ten men Tottenham’s uphill battle was nigh-on vertical. Their simple game-plan had been undone and with one man less and chasing possession for long periods, Spurs were simply too tired to provide any manner of comeback, as could be seen by the usually indefatigable Gareth Bale going down with cramp with some time left to play.
In truth the game, and indeed the tie, finished after 14 minutes. What a shame for all except relieved Madridistas, who were almost handed a bye in their first quarter-final appearance since 2004. “Tonto” they chanted as the lanky, disconsolate silhouette of Crouch left the field without so much as a glance of acknowledgment from his manager. Stupid indeed. How ironic that the hero of so many games before let his head, the weapon that his side relied on, get the better of him. Ultimately the hero became the villain in this Spanish tragedy.
Without sounding smug…OK, sounding smug, I wrote before the January transfer window of Chelsea’s need to bring in one or two players who would add youthful vitality to a somewhat tired and familiar starting eleven, but who already had the necessary experience that would allow their bedding in period to be as short as possible.
Yesterday the inspired new signing David Luiz scored his second crucial goal against teams above Chelsea in the table – the Manchesters United and City – and was joined by fellow Brazilian Ramires, whose deft turn, dribble and finish announced his delayed arrival at Chelsea.
The ‘forcing’ of Fernando Torres on Carlo Ancelotti by Roman Abramovich is reminiscent of the ill-fated signing of Andrei Shevchenko, but given the Spaniard’s Premier League record it is destined to have a happier ending, whether that happens later rather than sooner or not. Torres, Didier Drogba and Nicolas Anelka, at a combined cost to Abramovich of £89m, have scored just one goal between them in the six games since Torres’ arrival yet Chelsea have made progress despite this.
In my opinion the arrival of Luiz has been the, and not just one of the, reasons for this. Goals aside, this frizzy-haired bundle of energy has produced a tangible reaction in the determination and work-rate in his team-mates, helping to exorcise the ghost of Christmas lethargy that haunted the club around the tune of the year. I could even speculate that the arrival of a familiar face and fellow compatriot has been beneficial to the mentality of Ramires, whose increased confidence as he waltzed through Joleon Lescott, Aleksander Kolarov and Petr Cech to score Chelsea’s second yesterday afternoon was there for all to see.
Luiz has also produced a positive reaction among the Chelsea fans. He has the flaws we Europeans expect of Brazilian defenders, being relatively attack-minded, positionally suspect and rash in his challenges at times (just ask Alex Ferguson). He also goes about his game with complete conviction and a never-say-die attitude that lifts the fans; already a terrace hero for his goals, he has influenced the Stamford Bridge faithful perhaps more than they themselves realise.
With Luiz in central defence alongside John Terry, Chelsea’s defence is much more versatile and capable of handling an array of different styles of attacker. Although Alex is an excellent defender, he won his starting place by default with the departure of Ricardo Carvalho, and he and Terry are of a similar mould, too similar to be one of the world’s best partnership. Terry has the calm head and leadership to Luiz’s mobility and hyperactivity.
Both Terry and Luiz are dangerous from set-pieces, and have scored three goals between them since the Brazilian’s arrival (or three times more than the aforementioned trio of strikers). Rather than being led from the front by the £50m investment of Torres, Luiz has sneaked into Stamford Bridge through the back door to make the difference from the back.
Three crucial wins in the last three league games, and Chelsea have climbed up to third place with Arsenal and Manchester United still to face each other, with just six points to make it up to the summit should they win their game in hand on United. Suddenly things are looking up at Chelsea, and this is by no small part due to Luiz’s arrival. Luiz is the light, and he has finally guided his team-mates from their dark days.
While Serie A fans have been aware of the talents of Udinese’s Alexis Sanchez for some time now, it can’t be long before he becomes a household name a la Cristiano Ronaldo and Lionel Messi. Another mesmeric strike from the Chilean at the weekend and two assists for striker partner Antonio Di Natale make his performance in the 4-0 drubbing of Cagliari just the latest in a string of outstanding performances for the Bianconeri, who are sitting in fourth place and have a good chance to qualify for the Champions League for the first time in six seasons.
Sanchez’s raw pace, silken skills and creativity are reminiscent of Ronaldo, as is his love affair with the step-over. Indeed his evolution as a player has taken a similar path to that of the Portuguese, in that he has become a much more effective, direct weapon since his manager shifted him into a central striking role. At the start of the season Sanchez was starting either on the right wing or even on the bench. Then, on Halloween of last year, he was played up front with Di Natale and scored in a 2-0 win – his first goal of the season on his tenth performance.
Although that was a promising start, Sanchez was moved back to the wing. The presence of fellow strikers Bernardo Corradi, German Denis and Antonio Floro Flores kept him out wide, where his pace and trickery made him a constant threat, and at the half-way point of the Serie A season he had completed more dribbles than any other player in the league. In the next few games head coach Francesco Guidolin rotated Sanchez and Floro Flores in the central role alongside the prolific Di Natale.
Ironically it was a 3-2 loss to Lazio on 19th December that changed the fortunes of Udinese’s season for the better. Sanchez started up front, scored, and started on a red hot streak of form that has seen him score 11 goals in his last 12 games. He impressed so much in the role that the club allowed Floro Flores to join Genoa on loan for the rest of the season with the option of an 8.5 million Euro transfer in the summer, making way for Sanchez and Di Natale to gel into a highly effective partnership. He has now scored 12 goals in 26 Serie A performances so far this season, more than twice as many as he managed from the wing last season and exactly the same number as he has scored in his 32 appearances for Chile.
It is almost certain that Sanchez will make the big-money transfer his talents demands in the summer. Udinese are a selling club, making progress by buying young, developing and selling talent on for an increased transfer fee which they then use to buy more youngsters. In past seasons players such as Italian internationals Fabio Quagliarella and Vincenzo Iaquinta have been bought and sold in this manner. Di Natale has broken that mould by committing himself to Udinese for the remainder of his career, but while Sanchez is no doubt grateful for the progress he has made in Udine as a player, there is no doubt he will be keen to make a move to one of the biggest clubs in the world.
Barcelona’s scouts were present to watch Sanchez score four as Udinese demolished Palermo 7-0 in Sicily last month, a result which ended the tenure of Delio Rossi as Palermo’s head coach and which earned Sanchez a place in my11’s weekly Golazo video (56 seconds in):
As a winger-turned-striker Barca’s 4-3-3 would suit Sanchez perfectly but as with any player who joins Barca, irrespective of their class or reputation, he is not guaranteed regular first team football. Just ask Javier Mascherano.
Sir Alex Ferguson is well aware of Sanchez’s ability, saying: "He's a young player with a very promising future. Sanchez has so much talent that if he continues his progression, he could reach the level of Cristiano Ronaldo." Sanchez need only to look at Ronaldo’s progression from a lanky show pony to a ripped goal machine and the highest-paid player in the world to see how Ferguson could help develop him as a player but then nobody, not even the man himself it seems, is sure how many more years he will remain at Old Trafford, and what will happen to the club after that point. Any offer United were to make would of course be limited by how much money the Glazer family make available.
If Sanchez is motivated by money, it is likely he will be tempted by Manchester City, who have the financial clout to outbid any other club. If City qualify for the Champions League for the first time in their history it is likely that they will be able to make signings of Sanchez’s quality, but then the player might want to stay in Italy, where his career has flourished so far.
Although he did not score in this particular match (but did provide an assist), Sanchez’s stunning performance against Inter Milan in a 3-1 win over the treble winners towards the end of the January transfer window led to widespread rumours that Inter were going to swoop for him in January, and also that Chelsea were lining up a £26m bid, but Guidolin said (to Italian TV station Rai Due): "I know Udinese is a serious club. The club have reiterated that Sanchez will remain at Udinese until the end of the season and I have no doubts on this matter.
"Of course, if a tempting offer would arrive it would be right for the club to evaluate it but I believe that Alexis can still grow from here on until the end of the season if he stayed with us.
"After that, he is destined, considering the quality he has shown for some time, to join a top club."
It is understandable for Udinese to want to wait until the summer so that they have more time to build up a bidding war, and to use the funds they receive to replace Sanchez with one or probably two new players. They will be sad to see him leave but, there is every chance his goals will have secured Champions League football and revenue for them next season, and they stand to make a profit of, at the very least, ten times the three million dollars they paid for him as a 17 year old.
Whether he will line-up next to Messi, Fernando Torres or Wayne Rooney next year, one club will have a player who already has many star qualities and looks set to improve as he continues to flourish in his new central role. If he continues at this rate his star is set to explode.
A glimpse of what Alexis Sanchez will bring to his future club:
Having had two experiences of cubes - men who are as wide as they are tall - in the past few days, I felt compelled to question the reason for their existence.
Firstly there was a contestant on the game show ‘Take Me Out’. Before you ask I went to school with one of the contestants and watched it in the hope he’s make a complete tit out of himself. He did of course, but was overshadowed by the contestant before him: a short personal trainer, with crazy hair and an opaque shirt revealing his bulging muscles beneath.
For those that haven’t seen the show, thirty women are lit up, and have to turn their light off if the single male contestant doesn’t turn them on. The man then chooses which of the remaining contestants to take on a date. This little chap was doing alright until they ran a VT of him oiled up, flexing and growling. All thirty lights turned off. In short, a decent looking man who spends hours every day perfecting his appearance could not persuade even one of thirty slappers to go on a free holiday with him for this very reason.
The second was a trip to the gym yesterday. I dread the rush hour gym even more than my commute home. It’s as busy as a train but infinitely more painful, and of course you have that nagging knowledge that you don’t really have to be there. As unbearable as the sea of sweaty, pumping flesh is the conversation. Usually I put my ipod on full blast and get it over with, but today was different.
My ipod was nicked on the weekend for one, but earphones of any strength would not have protected my ears against the guy I unfortunately encountered. “NINE, TEN, ELEVEN!…TWELVE!! RAHHH!! He threw his massive weights to the floor, looking around for admirers before flexing at his angry red reflection in the mirror. No more than 5ft 4 in height; veins bulging; testosterone leaking from his eyeballs, here was a prime example of the cube in his natural habitat.
With no headphones to save me, lying on my back, pinned to a bench with weights I could barely lift, I was easy prey. “Here we go,” I thought, at his little sweaty hands grabbed my arms. “EIGHT, NINE, TEN…ONE MORE!!...ELEVEN…ONE MORE!!!” Just fuck off. I was in enough physical and mental pain before you arrived to alert the whole gym to my struggle. What then followed was a lecture on arms, or core strength, or some other mindless crap that contributes to the endless flow of gym changing room bollocks heard on every visit.
I digress. The point is that no woman on earth would have wanted to be crushed in this human vice of self-consciousness and not so well hidden complexes. Having little man syndrome is understandable, but by gaining more and more muscle and becoming increasingly wider these testosterone-fuelled shorties merely make themselves appear even shorter. One of the golden rules of fashion is that horizontal stripes make the body appear shorter as they draw attention to width and not height. Thus small men, while they do not want to appear skinny of course, do not do themselves any favours by becoming too wide.
Personally, I go to the gym to avoid being labelled as lanky and to make myself more attractive to women, so I suppose I have similar motivation. But there is a limit between keeping fit and self-obsessed vanity; between cuboid and cube, and unfortunately the shorter you are, the lower that limit is. If anyone passes this limit, like the two men above, to a level at which most women no longer find them attractive, are they doing so for themselves, or to impress other men? Are they unaware of the limit in the first place? Either way it’s not doing them any favours. For their own sake these cubes need to look in the mirror, as I’m sure they often do, and tell themselves that enough is enough.
Another feast of goals; the best from around the world in the past week.
Featuring some household names and some you will have never heard of. Watch out for Ruud ter Heide putting Wayne Rooney's 'wonder goal' to shame, and a cracking top corner job from a 16-year-old!
Real visionaries don’t pay much attention to the crowds; Arsene knows. Yet Arsenal have been exposed once again by a problem that everyman from pundit to pub expert has known about for years – a lack of experience at central defence. Laurent Koscielny may well develop to be a better player than Roger Johnson or Martin Jiranek, he may even already be more technically adept than his opposite numbers yesterday, but experience breeds calmness under pressure and yesterday Koscielny’s lack of both of these qualities cost Arsenal their first taste of silver and champagne for six long years.
Anyone can make mistakes, but the top teams around Arsenal who have been winning trophies would have been greeted with a far more assured combination of defender and goalkeeper than Koscielny and Wojciech Szczesny. Manchester United, who have won seven major honours since losing the FA Cup final to Arsenal in 2005 and Chelsea, with five, both have far more experience in these areas, and these factors are closely linked.
Experience also teaches leadership and influence, both of which Arsenal were lacking in yesterday. Their captain Cesc Fabregas missed the match through injury, as did Thomas Vermaelen. In their absence Jack Wilshire exuded more in the way of leadership than his age might suggest, but he was almost alone in this aspect. Injuries happen, and there is a chance Fabregas might move to Barcelona. The more a team turn to players such as Fabregas to pull them through difficult moments, the more he will be missed.
Great teams have leaders all over the pitch. The ‘invincibles’ of 2003-4 had Thierry Henry, Jens Lehmann, Martin Keown, Sol Campbell, Gilberto Silva and Dennis Bergkamp to lead the way when the difficult moments arose. Since then Wenger has made many signings based on physical attributes whilst neglecting the balance of mentalities in the side: Alexander Hleb, Thomas Rosicky, Andrei Arshavin, Theo Walcott. The general feeling now is that Arsenal are a small team both physically and mentally, one which can be pushed around and beaten and will concede goals via set pieces (52% in the Premier League this season).
This problem cannot be rectified in one transfer window and may take a complete change in Arsene Wenger’s transfer policy. Lack of experience is not an excuse that he can continue to use to patch over his side’s deficiencies, as it is he who is responsible for that factor in the first place. So many people have said that Arsenal need an experienced centre-back, and although he has bought the 30-year-old Sebastien Squillaci Wenger chose to use Koscielny and Johan Djourou, a move that backfired yesterday as Birmingham’s inferior team were allowed to defeat his because of that one moment when an experienced calm head was needed.
In my opinion Wenger should do everything possible to sign Phillippe Mexes. The 28-year-old Roma and France centre-back is out of contract at the end of the season, is exactly what Arsenal need and could form a formidable partnership with Thomas Vermaelen to give Arsenal stability, leadership and consistency at the back for the next few years, one which could make the difference between winning trophies and falling at the final hurdle as seen at Wembley yesterday.
During Tottenham’s thrilling encounter with AC Milan at the San Siro Harry Redknapp let slip that his tactical prowess is much greater than he wants us to believe. Inter Milan may have taught Spurs a lesson in the first of his first big European examinations in the San Siro this season, but the good news for Tottenham is that Redknapp and his boys in white learned from it, before passing the retake with flying colours.
On paper this test was harder than that of the preliminary stage; whereas Rafa Benitez’s Inter were floundering in the shadow of their treble success, Massimo Allegri’s side have been rejuvenated by the signings and subsequent resurgence in form of Zlatan Ibrahimovic and Robinho. They are six points clear at the top of Serie A as a result, having won 4-0 against Parma on this very pitch in their previous match.
Last October Spurs were bewildered by an Inter side that went 4-0 up inside 35 minutes, in a geometry lesson led by Javier Zanetti; a steep learning curva indeed. This time Spurs started from the off, with the clear game plan of refusing to allow Milan to settle on the ball, to get it wide and to target the obvious aerial threat of Peter Crouch. A good first five minutes were crucial, but Spurs continued to play with an intensity to which Milan were not accustomed for the entire first half, dominating chances on goal.
At Monday’s press conference Redknapp did his best happy-go-lucky act when declaring that his squad had not the players to defend; no bus to park. Instead they would go out and attack: the same naïve approach that has been the undoing of many inexperienced English teams away from home in the Champions League. After the smoke of mind games cleared like a red flare dispersing into the wet misty air, the reality was that Redknapp played Wilson Palacios and the vastly inexperienced Sandro as two tenacious yet disciplined holding midfielders, who barely strayed from their posts.
The result was that they dominated Clarence Seedorf, who floated, or more like flitted ineffectively between Milan’s three defensively minded midfielders, Thiago Silva, Gennaro Gattuso and Massimo Ambrosini, and the front two of Robinho and Ibrahimovic so much so that the Dutchman, the one and only winner of three European Cups with different sides in history, was replaced at half time. Instead it was Robinho who was charged with the creative role, and Alexandre Pato was introduced beside the Swede to inject some pace.
Having dominated the first half but failing to score, Tottenham were still fired up, still biting into the experienced Milanese midfield at every opportunity. Spurs rode their luck somewhat with two world-class saves from Heurelho Gomes early in the second half, and could easily have been led, through fear, to attack in a fight rather than flight reaction. After all, Spurs are the most cavalier side to have advanced from the group stages, scoring 16 and conceding 11. Instead, Redknapp and his team kept their heads while the Italian side lost theirs.
What followed can only be described as old-fashioned Catenaccio from Tottenham; Redknapp’s side ‘bolting the door’ on Milan in their own back yard by using one of the oldest tricks in the Italian book of tactics, one which got its nickname from Helenio Herrera’s Inter Milan side of the 1960s in this very stadium and has characterised many of the greatest patient Italian sides since, including AC Milan themselves in the 80s and 90s. This was made yet more ironic by the highlights of famous tactical AC Milan victories, and the speech of the bellissima Martina Colombari (wife of one Alessandro Costacurta), in the Heineken Lounge at half-time.
In short, the English students gave the Italian veterans a master-class of defending deep and with great organisation. When the chance came they broke with pace, again playing to their strengths. The slightly less tactically-astute but lighting fast Aaron Lennon was pushed up on the right, ready to break when released by the calm decision-making of substitute Luca Modric after Milan’s full backs had both been pulled forward. Lennon left Milan’s cultured yet somewhat pedestrian central defenders in tatters as he skipped past Mario Yepes before rendering the usually unflappable Italian Alessandro Nesta (the last in a rich vein of patient, tactically astute AC Milan defenders from Franco Baresi and Costacurta himself through Paolo Maldini) completely helpless with a bisecting pass to Crouch, who slotted home.
The game ended with the self-destruction, on and off the pitch, of another Milan icon: captain Gennaro Gattuso. In the dying seconds Nesta and co. panicked further as goalkeeper Marco Amelia charged forward for a corner without invitation, thus jeopardising the home team’s final attack. Few would have predicted the score line, but fewer still would have predicted the manner in which the victory was achieved, or that it would be Harry Redknapp to leave the pitch at the San Siro smug in the knowledge that, on the evidence of this enthralling 90 minutes of vintage Champions League football, the pupil had become the master.
After writing without bias for too long, I decided to let go after an emotional comeback against Blackpool. If you're not a United fan this may make you want to puke, but frankly my dear, I don't give a damn...
What a match. We were suddenly back to the United of old: the careless start then attacking flair and literal bloody mindedness to win at any cost. There would always be blood, sweat and tears at Bloomfield Road, just as there was at Burnley last year. I feared that before the match and especially when we went a goal down early on.
It just had to be Cathcart, the lad who was at United as a trainee. I’m reading Catch 22 at the moment, in which General Cathcart sends the American soldiers to the doom of more missions against the Germans. Another Yank and former Red Jonathan Spector started the rout at West Ham in our only loss of the season, a nightmare from which Jonny Evans has only just woken up. The law of the ex; the first time we had faced Blackpool in over 40 years. Just as I did after going 1-0 down to Burnley, I feared the way the Blackpool match was going. It looked written, but enough about the book. Football rarely follows the plot.
This time the tears belonged to brave old Blackpool, their ludicrous manager and their ludicrous fans. Their jubilation at 2-0 was absolutely hilarious. My particular favourite was a shot of a tangerine-skinned man (fake tan not face paint) in a pair of sunglasses that spelt ‘Blackpool’ with the ‘o’s as eyes, then a cut to a person in a hood with a face fully covered in wool inexplicably spinning round and round in circles.
For that I almost forgave ESPN and the early kick-off for forcing me to watch the match alone in Soho in a shithole pub after work, in which the old pisshead sitting almost on my knee tried to claim I was drinking his pint every time I brought one back from the bar. The more he did this and subsequently slurred bollocks to me whilst melting my face with his breath, the more pints I bought. That bloody book again.
Blackpool were fantastic in the first half. Their technique almost matched their passion, and rather than soaking up United’s pressure and scoring on the break, they kept pressing forward and forced two goals from well-earned set pieces. They reminded me of why, until then at least, I had enjoyed watching them this season - their fearless style of play (and the fact they have beaten Liverpool twice).
As the half drew to a close they had us kicking out in frustration, as first Paul Scholes and then Darron Gibson were booked. If this match proved United’s determination it also proved Gibson’s inadequacy. He may be Irish but he ain’t no Keano; he may pack a shot but he ain’t no Scholesy. What we’re left with is a central midfielder with no particular calibre in attack or defence, like an Anderson but without the determination or resolve. He was the worst player on the pitch by some distance, and was thankfully withdrawn for Giggsy at the interval. Giggs needed a rest after his heroics on Saturday, but the reason why the gritty, tenacious Brazilian was on the bench for Blackpool away is only known by one man.
Ferguson, however, has not lost his touch. A dejected man on the plastic orange seats in the Bloomfield Road dugout, you could see the anger boiling within his red face. This was a match that would have given at least four teams great hope had it been lost. The Birmingham match aside, United had been somewhat complacent for a while despite their place at the peak of the league table. There is no doubting Ferguson’s half-time team talk was as old school as the facilities. This match was replayed because of a lack of under-soil heating during the cold... an old Scotsman doubtlessly snapped at the interval with enough steam to fly a hot air balloon, never mind thaw a football pitch.
Dimitar Berbatov sprang into action. It seems he has finally, belatedly, learned what is expected of him. He’s a mere cog, not the scratchproof glass on United’s Rolex. The result is five goals in two matches; superb build-up play and, crucially, the stamina to wind the clock down whilst defending a narrow lead when down to ten men. During the (for once) unwelcome period of injury time - 10 minutes - he always showed for the ball, knowing when to hold play up and when to deftly release Chicharito, who came on to make relentless darting, direct runs which were consistently found by the Bulgarian. Eric and Ole in the making?
It may be too soon for such comparisons, but the rapid progress of Rafael shows that we have the real deal here. Whilst chasing a deficit he was at times United’s best player both in defence and going forward. Although his head may hurt tomorrow after he was carried off on a stretcher with concussion, the lad’s heart cannot be doubted (particularly confusing was the constant camera switches from Rafael on a stretcher receiving medical attention to Rafael standing up and worriedly looking over at himself. It was Fabio of course, but for a second it looked like little Rafa had died in a cheap film).
Blackpool’s equally large heart, meanwhile, was ultimately broken. For once I’m tempted to feel sympathy and sorrow for this group of plucky over-achievers and their charismatic boss, but unfortunately for them games are 90 minutes long, and they have been beaten by a United side focussed on a much bigger prize that they themselves narrowly missed out on last season, and that they now have the momentum to go and win.
The ‘scandal’ surrounding the sexist comments of Andy Gray and Richard Keys should really be a celebration. Two of the most respected, experienced men in English football television have been corrected in an offside dispute by a female official who let her judgement do the talking, and the attitudes of an older generation of men have been highlighted and ridiculed. It has also exposed the press as being either over-cautious without a true freedom of speech, or simply ignorant of the male inhabitants of their own country.
While most people reading the news yesterday (apart from maybe Daily Mail readers to whom the sting was perfectly targeted) are aware that some men of a certain age still carry out-dated social sentiments that are discussed in private (or in the case of Keys and Gray into a functioning microphone), the only ones to be truly offended were those writing the articles. Perhaps they had their professional caps on too tight and were worried of what implications the slightest lack of shock or disgust could have on their careers. Maybe they were surrounded by intelligent, opinionated, articulate female writers. I hope they have such excuses to offer, because otherwise it shows that they are not representative of their readership.
If the journalists I read yesterday in the Times and online from a few sources are really that offended, they have obviously never been to what we call ‘a pub’. Now, by a pub I don’t mean a London bar with mood lighting and chill-out music in which you may sup a delicious German weissbier whilst enjoying hummus and olives; a place in which you may see a Jamie Redknapp type with his fitted suits and modern outlook on life. I don’t mean a chain pub full of cockney ‘Man Yoo’ fans or toffs in rugby shirts and loafers. I mean a working man’s boozer, with drip trays and tankards; a place in which older men release darts and farts with equal gusto and accuracy and in which I feel no older than I did when I were knee high to a grasshopper, peering through smoke and man boobs to get a glimpse of the footy. In such an establishment you might see an Andy Gray type, with beer belly and bollocks flopped in ill-fitting clothes, merrily chewing the fat with his contemporaries.
In such a place one can take stock of the true attitudes of the older gentlemen in our society. The humour is crude but ultimately harmless. Where once it would be acceptable to show a racist attitude it now is not; the ‘Big Ron’ Atkinson types have been booted out of the vault along with their archaic, offensive slurs. I was lucky enough to interview Viv Anderson, the first black man to play for England. He told me of visiting a boozer near Old Trafford (when he was playing for Manchester United) called the Pomona Palace, in which he stuck out like a sore thumb, partly because of his race, partly because he asked for a drop of lime in his bitter. Twenty or so years on racism is all but dead in English social life and has even been conquered in football, which was commonly seen to be the last bastion of such disgusting prejudice.
What does remain is a slight tinge of tongue-in-cheek sexism, insofar as I might goad a female friend if she makes a well-informed comment on football match that’s on in the pub. She would not be offended, and might later poke fun at my lack of domestication. She’s there watching the game with me, a sight that would not be allowed in the old-school working men’s clubs. Times have moved on and women know much more about the game now than they used to, as seen by the excellent performance of Sian Massey at the weekend, but there is still a lingering spectre of sexism. Karren Brady, vice-chairman (/woman?! Got to be careful here!) of West Ham, admitted as much in the very column Gray and Keys referred to during their less than candid conversation: "I know more about the offside law than perhaps a girl should," she wrote.
Jokes aside, sexism is dead for my generation, as it is for the majority of the older English generation. Gray and Keys are merely fossils of a bygone age in English social life from which most men have evolved. However, for the press be so surprised and shocked by two middle-aged men doubting the decision of a female football official is either naïve or simply false. Maybe they need to leave their politically-correct bubble and sample the real world. Pork scratching?
The footballing world gasped in amazement last night as Barcelona confirmed the self-belief that they are the best team in the world by a very large margin. Up until kick-off in Camp Nou, Real Madrid could almost have pretended that they were, after their unbeaten start to the season, on the same planet as their most hated rivals. No more. Real can be the Galacticos if they like, but here on earth at present Barcelona ply the most pure brand of the beautiful game.
How frustrating it must be for Real Madrid. How helpless they must feel. As much as Jose Mourinho tethers and tenders to his fallow hotbed of talent, he can only gaze enviously at Pep Guardiola and his lush garden of red and blue, the seeds of which were sown long before he arrived. Having proved his worth on many a foreign field, Mourinho’s ultimate challenge is now the very club with which his skills were first honed.
Never can I recall footballers of such quality being humiliated in such a manner. The best goalkeeper in the world was helpless as five goals were slotted past him. What a different figure Iker Casillas cut from the last time the eyes of the world were on him, as he bawled his way to victory in the World Cup final. This time the tears were shed for a very different reason. At least Casillas could, for most of the match at least, escape the spotlight. For the ten outfield players there was no place to hide as Barca’s peerless tici taca left Real Madrid chasing shadows, so precise were the one-touch triangles played in and around the white shirts of Madrid.
Comparisons to bulls and matadors are inevitable but very much deserved. While Madrid chased and charged, fuming with heads down, their ever-growing red mist was fuelled by the inability to ignore the thousands of fans goading them all around. They eventually snapped out, leading to several 20-man handbag sessions. Cristiano Ronaldo, eclipsed by Lionel Messi and chums on his big day, was booked for pushing Pep Guardiola; Messi was booked for apparently simulating contact between his face and the elbow of Ricardo Carvalho. The passion and petulance was there for both sides as expected, but only one team was allowed to play. It was Barca’s ball, Barca’s playground and Real Madrid was the tearful slow kid in the middle, sniffling red-faced as the ball was forever kept just out of his reach.
Barca can buy as many Ozils and Khediras as they like but they will never have a midfield partnership like Xavi and Andres Iniesta. With all eyes on the strikers in a furious opening exchange it was the two little Catalans who kept their heads; Iniesta bisecting Real’s defence with a typically pinpoint pass, and Xavi calmly following the path of the deflected ball over his shoulder before nonchalantly lifting it past Casillas on nine minutes, to open a wound that was to be relentlessly lanced until Real Madrid eventually collapsed.
Xavi then resumed his more natural role of creator, finding David Villa with an angled, lofted pass to the inside-left channel. Spain’s leading scorer ghosted outside Sergio Ramos before finding Pedro, who gratefully slotted his cut-back in for 2-0 inside 20 minutes. Spain’s showcase fixture had been a very Spanish affair so far. With their work done Barca now dropped the intensity but cranked up the swagger, giving an exhibition of passing and movement and never really allowing Real Madrid a chance to impose themselves on the game for the rest of the first half.
Jose Mourinho acknowledged Barca’s dominance in possession by replacing Mesut Ozil with Lassana Diarra at half-time; before they could even think of attacking his team would first have to win the ball. Barcelona were unmoved and unaffected: Leo Messi slipped in David Villa who showed his class by beating the offside trap and then Casillas with equal precision on 55 minutes. With Madrid on the ropes Messi slotted another perfect pass through a crowd of white shirts to find Villa again, with the outcome inevitable: a devastating quick-fire double in just three minutes to finish Real off.
What could Mourinho do? Rarely had the Portuguese ever found himself in such a position of futility. For once it was he who had to sit and endure torment from a younger, more stylish manager in the opposing dugout. Now Pep Guardiola was the Special One. On the pitch Madrid were beginning to display the anger that boiled inside Mourinho as they realised the game was up, and that it was now about damage limitation. Eight Madrid players were booked and Ramos was sent off on 90 minutes. By that time Jeffren had added yet more insult to injury by converting a low cross from fellow substitute Bojan for 5-0.
So while Guardiola won his sixth consecutive Clasico, a humbled Mourinho, who always knew that his tenure at Real Madrid would only be judged on his ability to beat Barcelona, now realises the enormity of that task. If this match was important for Madrid’s chances of wrestling the La Liga crown from Barcelona, the return fixture at the Bernabeu on the 16th of April next year is monumental.
Both teams had scored an impressive 27 goals in their last seven league games before last night, but Barcelona proved able to continue this rate against Madrid to show them that however good they become under Mourinho, their Catalan enemies will always be one, or even five, steps ahead. Special might not cut it this time around.
United's soul is never sold So proudly wear that green and gold We'll never wear our famous Red 'Til Glazer's gone or even dead So raise that ancient standard high By green and gold we'll live or die That day will come again for sure When we can wear our Red once more
