...Fan Report: Blackpool 2-3 United

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.

...Gray and Keys unlock cause for celebration

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?

...El Clasico match report

Barcelona 5-0 Real Madrid

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 16^th 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.