MJ

Michael Jackson is dead, but this won’t come as a shock as you know that already. This is not an event to be covered by the news, instead the news has been covered b y this event.

The problem for the rolling 24 hour news stations is that this is a very succinct news story. Michael Jackson has died, at the age of fifty, having suffered a cardiac arrest. That is in effect the story the media had in one sentence yet this had been dragged across hours of news coverage. As such the news channels rummage desperately through their contacts list for anyone vaguely relevant to the star. Sadly in Michael Jackson’s case that means his initial UK eulogising is led by Uri Geller whose tribute included the words “before I began my spoon-bending career”.

The other issue with the story is that there is also very limited footage to talk over. So as we watch mobile phone footage of an ambulance reversing through some expensive gates for the sixth time and continue to see non specific aerial footage of UCLA Hospital the news reporters are forced to pad and step into unfortunate faux pas. “He transcended black and white” said BBC News 24’s anchor, “what will happen to his concert run at the o2 is unsure” said Sky News.

On BBC News24 on contributor intoned “It does make you wonder how people are going to follow this?” The truth is that people have been following this for well over a decade now. There is no doubting that musically Michael Jackson’s work is fantastic, his contribution to pop undeniably significant. Yet, it needs to be realised that Michael Jackson’s work ended a long time ago. He has remained courted by the media despite not really doing much.

In the media Michael Jackson the pop star was replaced by Michael Jackson the oddball somewhere in the early 1990s. As such the tributes and the obituaries contained within the rolling news all seemed to include phrases to the effect of “we should not lose sight of his contribution to music”.

It’s easy to mock Michael Jackson, as it is with any major celebrity. The ammunition is there ready and waiting and unsurprisingly the internet has been awash with such deathbed humour since the news was broken, almost all of which has its roots in the last fifteen years of his life.

BBC also had a representative of Jackson’s World Fan Club in their studio who said he had hoped that Jackson would “live on for a long time to be a happy old man”. Its not just the poor health that makes that eventuality unlikely. As his lifestyle became increasingly distanced from normality the only way in which Jackson’s music could be his legacy, would be if he were to die relatively young.

To that extent, Jackson’s legacy has been in existence for over a decade already. Think back to the last time you heard ABC or Beat It played in a club? At that point was your reaction to think of Jackson in court? Was it to make a child abuse or plastic surgery related joke? Or was your reaction, as mine was, to dance unconcerned and manic with friends? Thought so.

Ladies Singled

Is there a female equivalent to the phrase ‘men against boys’? That is the question which leaps to mind as I flicked the television channel in time to see opponents taking the court for the coin toss. On one side of the net Miss Razzano and Miss Rezai, on the other side the significant presence, in stature and reputation of the Williams’ sisters, looking in comparison to their opponents like characters from a Hot Shot Hamish comic strip.

Messrs Razzano and Rezai were not the only women up against it today either. Elena Baltacha had to face the brunt of media questions about the state of British tennis after she lost out in the second round to Kirsten Flipkens. This criticism of the current quality of British women’s tennis though is as inaccurate as it is unfair.

The current standard of women’s tennis in this country is higher than it has been for some time with Ann Keothavong breaking into the World’s top 50 this year and other players closing in on the top 100. In the words of Baltacha, “Everyone goes crazy about one week and expects someone to do fantastic, otherwise you’re a failure. That’s a shame.”

Mint Murray?

I don’t care much for Any Murray. There I’ve said it. In fact now that’s out in the open I’m willing to up it now and say that I don’t like him very much at all. I’ve been trying to single out why for some time; it could well be the arrogance, it could be the occasional petulance, it could even have been the relentless monotone in which he speaks making life at the top rung of world tennis seem as exciting as filing accounts in the Beige Services Division of Tedium District Council.

Assuming it is none of those then I think I have found a definitive reason for disliking the guy. The only time I have ever seen him offer anything approaching a smile is on the front cover of the Daily Mail’s Weekend supplement for this week. Its sitting on my mum’s table now as I type… and is creeping me out so much that I just got up and turned it over so I can be faced by one of those big full page adverts for unnecessary chintz instead - the prospect of paying monthly for a garish piece of jewellery much more palatable.

Unfortunately with a dislike of Murray this is going to be a tough week or two as the guy is absolutely everywhere. Smirking forcibly on the front of the television guide, moody (default) and topless on the front of the Sunday Times’ sports section. For two weeks its all about Wimbledon and Wimbledon is all about Murray. ‘My Time Has Come’ said the Times’ piece, ‘My Love Match; Andy Murray on the girl who tamed his temper and turned him into a winner’ went the Mail. Bloody hell.

Murray came into Wimbledon seeded third and having won on grass at Queens. Two significant achievements for a player not long turned twenty-two. Murray should have a lot of years left for his career, and will have plenty of time to win countless tournaments, but to the majority of the UK press and fans that won’t matter unless he wins at Wimbledon and does so soon… ideally now. He’s on course to eclipse the notable achievements of Tim Henman, and yet unless he wins of a surface which he does not favour he will be deemed to have failed.

So I may not like Murray, on a personal level I find him as easy to warm to as a city banker bemoaning his lack of bonuses in the credit crunch. But the ridiculous pressure placed on him means I have much more sympathy for his predicament. As such I was glad he triumphed in his first round match today… just don’t let it be too widely known.

Speaker Class

After a few years wandering in a blissful meadow of apathy and ignorance I’ve seen my political interests reawakened this year by events both positive and negative. The election of Barack Obama, the expenses scandal, the BNP’s European Parliament elections, Doncaster’s new elected Mare (not a spelling mistake) and of course current events in Iran.

With all this in mind, I watched with interest yesterday as the election of a new Speaker of the House of Commons was reported. It was interesting to see the different approach of all nine candidates as they made their individual speeches to the House. However, within them all was a reflected common theme and aim, that of the need for the Speaker (and the House) to be able to connect with the electorate itself.

The candidates made their points along these lines in various ways, Ann Widecombe choosing to do this by, what, even to me, seemed to be Commons suicide, bigging up her many television appearances. That misplaced call for empathy aside, these speeches did at least bring back, to me, some faith in the political process. Namely, that these politicians want clarity, brevity and a political process which better serves the people.

In fact it was all going very well until the final speech shown in the BBC report, that of Parmjit Dhanda when all the previous good work was undone. Not by MP Parmjit Dhanda whose speech and aims were welcome, but by the elected MP seated on the row behind him. Whilst Mr Dhanda spoke well on how the House needs to better appear to be in tune with the people, the man seated behind him was clearly, and in blatant view of the television cameras, asleep.

If they are sleeping on the job in the comparatively young and happening House of Commons then presumable the House of Lords these days resembles a nursing home in the hours after a particularly heavy Sunday lunch. In the aftermath of the furore of expenses there is much scrutiny of MPs at present, you would think the least they could do to keep the heat off would be to keep their eyes open.

Henmaniacs

I like Henman but don’t like Henmania. A poor follow-up to The Killers original single, but the truth none the less. You have to feel for Tim Henman, no really you do. He built a solid career as Britain’s best male tennis player for almost a quarter of a century and yet has since been pigeon-holed by the media as the token comic loser. All this because he failed to live up to the media’s own hype and expectation by winning Wimbledon.

The fact that Henman was only denied by the two most successful tennis players of all time in Pete Sampras and Roger Federer, isn’t really worth bringing up when you can get a bigger laugh by suggesting you could beat him when pissed. So, with all that in mind I am prepared to stick up for Henman now, but only now I have realised one thing… that Henman was in no way responsible for Henmania.

OK, he can be connected with it, you know given that they were watching and cheering for him, but he is not responsible for the fans he seemed to bring in. Henman tried for the bad boy image, by whacking a ball in the face of a ballgirl at one of his earliest Wimbledon appearances. But, sadly tennis, and particularly the Open tennis championship at Wimbledon is a distinctly middle class affair and so Henman’s support had already been decided.

And so it came to pass that the last week of June and the first week of July would become a fortnight of terror for Henman as he was stalked by a distinct creature. Union Jack clad, flag waving, daft hat wearing, twee, hysterical menopausal women of middle age, middle class and middle England. If you were plagued by that sort of following would you be able to concentrate on a second serve at break back point deep in the fourth set? No, me neither.

As daunting as this would have been on the court, at least out there on the green stuff Henman was safely protected from these creatures by distance and barriers. Not to mention of course a battalion of assorted armed forces personnel he hired as bodyguards who would casually lurk at every exit. However, when the matches were over Henman then had the daunting prospect of facing one of these Henmaniacs face to face, mano-a-mano. The eager, fawning, ever doting probably slightly moist Sue Barker.

No wonder Tim Henman never dared win Wimbledon, he was probably terrified of being groped to a pulp by Sue Barker and Princess Michael of Kent. No-one wants that. Not even Cliff Richard.

Owen Owen Gone

My first ever trip to Wembley was back in 1995 when I saw an England Schoolboys team defeat their Brazilian equivalents 1-0. The goalscorer, from the penalty spot was a fifteen year-old Michael Owen. While aesthetically the only difference between Owen then and now is a coating of stubble which ensures he can get in for eighteen rated films, much has happened in the intermittent fourteen years.

From star of Liverpool and England to captain of a doomed Newcastle United via Real Madrid’s Gallaticos in between Owen has seen a lot in a career that should be far from over. However, the key word there of course is should. The combination of reoccurring injuries and dipping form at Newcastle and an incredibly high wage means that England’s ? highest goalscorer has had to resort to unusual measures to continue playing at the top level.

According to today’s papers Owen and his agent have sent a brochure around top flight clubs advertising the striker’s availability. Should it really come to this though, resorted to peddling himself in a glossy booklet like a posh new city centre apartment complex. The brochure itself promotes Owen’s past achievements and dispels the myths about his fitness and his lifestyle.

Throughout all I have read on this brochure and Owen’s reported keenness to ‘continue playing at the highest level’ there seems to me some key points that few are picking up on. Given their position Newcastle will be happy to offload Owen from their wage bill, meaning that no team will have to pay for him. That leads just one sticking point, wages. All that is stopping Owen from signing for another side is effectively his pay demands. If Owen is as desperate to play as he seems keen to put across, then a man of his considerable current wealth could probably afford to do so for free. Its time for the former European Footballer of the Year to put his mouth where his money is.

Birthday Drama Queen

Have you ever seen MTV's My Super Sweet 16? If you've not here's a brief summary. Spoilt soon to be sixteen year old American child demands incredibly lavish birthday party. Gullible rich parents engage every whim of said child to produce an unnecessarily lavish and expensive celebration. However, celebration, no matter how elaborately expensive rarely meets with child's expectations causing tantrums and tears.

General themes of excess within these parties are; 'the entrance', because the birthday girl cannot just walk through the door of the party, they must instead arrive in a limo or via helicopter or on the back of a dolphin. 'The act', all these kids invariably want daddy to somehow from his contacts at his state-wide refrigerator distribution business secure a set from KanyeWest. 'The car', because this over inflated party is not enough for the ego, the child will also receive an expensive gift, which is always a car, and will always cause some sort of hissy fit because the spanking new Audi is in silver and not black, I mean OMG dad, are you kidding me. And finally there's the guests, snivelling equally posh kids, pretending to know the birthday girl so they too can revel in the expense of someone else.

Far fetched and ridiculous, the same would never happen in this country would it? Well yes it would, and no I'm not talking about the poor imitation that is My Super Sweet 16 UK, because frankly our kids are terribly poor imitation Divas; Kerry Katona to Mariah Carey if you like. No, I'm instead talking about HRH The Queen.

Today of course is the Queen's birthday, well her official one at least, her Super Sweet 83. And reading the reports of her bash online and seeing footage on the television news I cannot help but note the similarities to those crass moneyed celebrations of the MTV teenagers. Unnecessarily expensive and showy and all of it met with that charismatic stony faced forced grimace of acceptance that the nation has come to tolerate.

The Queen's birthday celebration is very much in the mould of a Sweet Sixteen bash. To start with there is the entrance, arriving at Buckingham Palace in a vintage horse drawn carriage; a staple part of any new-money celebration. Then there is the act, not for the Queen a simple get together no she gets an RAF fly-past, marching military bands and a parade of 1,100 soldiers and 300 horses. I thought the UK was currently involved in at least a couple of wars globally... should these folk not be in a trench in Hellmand Province rather than prancing around the Mall in a bear-skin hat?

And all this in front of some token Sweet 16 party goers. Sycophantic posh folk, cheering and waving along all pretending that they know the birthday girl in someway and hoping desperately that some of her moneyed importance will rub off on them. The same folk who were up in arms when their local MP claimed expenses for first class travel, now cheering happily as a large proportion of the Defence Budget is tossed at what the BBC called a 'historic display of military pomp and pageantry'.

There's a recession on Ma'am, at least look like your in tune with the people and maybe tone it down a bit eh? Maybe this year just go out for a meal with the family then head back to Windsor for a more low key Royal Tournament; a few games on SingStar or some Wii tennis?

Wednesday - In List Form

8 at Doncaster, 9A at Birmingham New Street, 12A at Birmingham New Street, 2 at Worcester Foregate Street, 7A at Birmingham New Street, 4 at Doncaster
- train platforms stood on

Jelly beans, dummy, ham part of a ham roll, Time Out bar, Frazzles, roll part of a ham roll, fingers, a bit of a Twix, Jaffa Cake, toy car, brother's fingers
- things put in the mouth of the toddler sat opposite me on the train to Birmingham

Belle Vue Doncaster, Millmoor Rotherham, Don Valley Stadium Sheffield, Pride Park Derby, Pirelli Stadium Burton, St Andrews Birmingham
- current and past football league grounds seen from the train

Having "no fivers", taking their time getting off the train, "your wait", "upstairs is closed now", "flash flooding in the Chesterfield area", "the late running of this service", having "no more information than that"
- things people have apologised to me for

Woman on the phone complaining to o2 that she "obviously needs" the latest iPhone, Nick Griffin, Shelter charity canvasser who tried to guilt trip me about not stopping to talk to him, private letting agent who wouldn't answer his phone, Screaming baby between Birmingham and Derby, Arguing couple in Doncaster Bus Station, Andy Townsend
- people I have wanted to throw things at

The Never Ending City

On train announcement:
"...and we apologise for the busy nature of today's service, this is in part due to today's Tube Strike."

How big is Zone 6? I ask as this announcement came on my morning train to Birmingham... from Doncaster. I always assumed that Zone 6 ended at the edge of the maps, but this announcement suggests I was very much mistaken. Zone 6 it seems is in fact endless extending from the Underground network to encompass the whole of the UK. All us non-London folk are actually mere capitol city suburbanites... I could have saved a fortune today with an Oyster card.

Two long-held personal irritations have been been re-awoken upon hearing this announcement. The first is the heightened national coverage of issues which affect or relate to only those in London. OK, the Underground are striking, but you've still got legs and buses right? Boris Johnson fell over in a river. And? Why should I care? The buffoon doesn't run my town. A strike on Northern Rail would affect as many folk in more cities, but would get nowhere near as more coverage.

The second is the more dangerous and more pathetic subsidiary of 'blame culture', and that's what I've termed 'tenuous-onus'; excusing one event by connecting it by the flimsiest of threads to a barely related more significant event. The train is pretty full compared to yesterday, Undergound trains are emptier than normal today, yeah, that'll be why. 'Can't come out tonight I'm broke, credit crunch innit.' Not every financial disappointment is connected with recession, some people are just shit with money.

And besides, if I was in actual fact on the Undergound today it will at least explain why the guards on these trains often have an industrial torch strapped to his waste band.

Why Wear Work Wear - follow up

May I start by telling you that I am particularly annoyed with myself. On the bus into Doncaster today I was flicking through a copy of the Metro and on their letter's page was a great response from a reader on the subject of journalist's attire. I'm annoyed because I did not take the page or the paper with me and so I am only able to bring you one approximated quote.

So, although I cannot recall who wrote this letter I can tell you that it did include the line "A tie should be worn when reporting war". Obviously I was too quick to dismiss ties as being pointless the other day. They may not offer a layer, cover anything nor hold anything up, but it seems they are actually bullet and blast proof. Who would have thought.

Presumably this is actually the middle class equivalent of ensuring you're wearing clean underwear in case you're hit by a bus. Always wear a tie in battle, that way the enemy will never believe they have succeded in catching you off guard.

From Rush Hour with Love

I don't do commuting. I am not a commuter. Ich bein not ein commuter. In fact I have done everything I can over my employment years to actively avoid having to participate in any kind of commuting ritual. Arduous, unsociable, tedious, soulless and relentlessly repetitively mind numbing; those are just some of the descriptions that can be given to the jobs I have worked in order to avoid becoming a commuter.

Despite my career-hampering avoidance of concentrated early morning travel I am on occasion forced to venture out into what is termed, with a worrying lack of irony, 'rush hour'. So, as I boarded the 7:52 train today I was reminded of the absurdity of the commute, and most concerning the acceptance of these conditions by those undertaking it. Perhaps it is no co-incidence that commute and commune are just a letter apart. Stony faced, unemotional and silent acquiescence of the surrounding environment, it could be a monastery, albeit one with free wifi and over-priced coffee.

Crammed in the concertinaed vestibule, one foot in Coach C, the other in Coach D effectively surfing down the East Coast Mainline to my destination. And yet I am the only person who appears flustered. The dozen people crammed either side of me in this mobile airing cupboard just resolutely carry on, safe so long as they have enough room to read a copy of the Metro, and that they can breathe... always established in that order.

Beyond the person spending their journey being buffeted on alternate ears by the automatic sliding doors there's a woman riding to work wedged on the luggage rack. Despite the fact that she's paid a peak time fare to ride in a position more precarious than the suitcases and bags beneath her she has a folder wedged open with an elbow and is leafing through papers. She pauses only to apologise to a suit who wants to put his briefcase up there. Why? Why is she saying sorry? Her answer should of course be "Fuck you! You unchivalrous bastard. I'm sitting on a freaking luggage rack here! I can suggest an alternate place for your briefcase and I'll be happy to help you lodge it there!"

Two stops down the line and I've managed to adapt to my ruthless surroundings and beat a middle-aged man to a seat. It wasn't easy, but by charging into the carriage as if I was making an early morning drugs raid and then pushing the automatic door closed and nudging stray luggage behind me into his path like an escaping felon in warehouse based chase scene tossing boxes and barrels in the way of pursuing officers, I have made the leap from commuter scorned to commuter envied. That's right, I have a tray table now, I can multitask without having to wedge my coffee cup against the train wall with my ear.

However, on the table across the aisle I am being heroically outdone. At that table one woman is typing up emails on her laptop with one hand, toying with a Blackberry with the other, and all the time whilst talking into a Bluetooth headset. And she's not even at work yet! Not even in the office yet and she's surrounded herself with more keyboards and electronica than a Rick Wakeman gig. Presumable when she gets to the office she'll continue these activities whilst holding a video conference and orchestrating a power point display as she goes about her day as the Director of Multiple Operations at the ACME Plate Spinning and Simultaneous Unicycling Corporation.

No News is Good News

I have had to travel amidst the commuters a couple of times of late,a s you will have no doubt gathered by some of the recent posts within this blog. Many things on rush hour trains irritate me and amuse me, but one in particular is the conversations. The best ones are always held with people who are not even in the carriage, on Monday my coach became the venue for some kind of unofficial UK Business Talk Bollocks Championship, as three people seemingly tried to out business each other.

So here we have contestant number one, early thirties, female, taking the early initiative by standing from her chair just to make this call. Lets see how she fairs. Here we go;
"Jonathan, hi. Just to let you know I've left Doncaster on time so shall be able to meet as we arranged... OK... bye"

Oh its a great start, a completely pointless phone call. Nothing has happened, nothing as changed, but you still feel the need to call Jonathan to tell him. What's next? Hi Jonathan just calling to let you know that this train is five carriages long so I should be able to alight onto the platform as previously expected, ok.

Up next its contestant two, an older gentleman, pretty well dressed, he too has got a head start on the competition by reading a copy of the Financial Times a item as hard to come by in South Yorkshire as healthy lung... he's dialled the number; "Hi Sarah, just checking in, what am I doing tomorrow?"

Simple but effective, he's taken the lead with that call. You don't know what you're doing tomorrow, how on earth did you manage to dress yourself and catch this train without inexplicably finding yourself climbing a country stile dressed in a ten-year old Austin Powers fancy dress outfit?

Last into the arena is contestant three, a man in his early 40s with unecessarily trendy designer glasses and a collection of matching luggage. He's already begun, but we can catch up with him now; "Yes, I'm on my way to the Conference now, can you wire me those documents and I'll give them the once over en route"

Step back. We have a winner. Wire me?! wire me?! What is this 1940s mid-town Chicago? Jeez, what a scoop. Send out a wire. Wait til the boys in Atlantic City geta hold of this. I've made it ma. Gee, this is gonna be big I tell you, big.

Done. See you all in the quiet coach yeah?

Why Wear Work Wear

Real men do not own a suit. No. Real men own bits of suits, which can, if required, be corralled together at the last minute like an auxiliary fighting unit, and moulded into something like the finished article.

I am of this one almost suit mantra. Despite the best efforts of GQ this is how it should be. My wardrobe holds three pairs of trousers, of which only one pair ticks the two key boxes of a. fitting and b. having no hole in the crotch. Also in the wardrobe are two suit jackets, of which only one almost matches the one good pair of trousers, and four smart shirts. One has a faint irremovable stain somewhere which is untraceable until I am at least one mile from home and then it usually materialises somewhere obvious like front centre. One of the three remaining shirts requires cuff links, which I do not own and none of these shirts were purchased in the last three years.

Men were not meant to dress smart, they have been corrupted into doing so over time. There was no formal wear amongst cavemen, no concerns at being under dressed as you dragged your woman over to the neighbour's cave for supper. And more to the point those men who do dress smart (back in the present now) are often not worth knowing. The Venn Diagram which contains circles entitled 'suit-wearers' and 'wankers' is practically an eclipse, saved only from total silhouette by Barack Obama, Stephen Fry and Terry Wogan.

The whole make-up of a suit just does not make sense. Uncomfortable shoes, long sleeve shirt which means no accountability has been taken for anything approaching a pleasant temperature. And most pointless of all garments, the neck-tie. The tie of course falls foul of all three requirements of men's' clothing; firstly it is not a layer, it keeps you neither warm nor cool. Secondly it does not hold anything up, or on, and thirdly, but for the odd stain or loose button, it does not cover anything.

It serves no purpose, it is just something else to spill coffee down, to dip in your soup, and in the worst case scenario, to trap in a lathe or train door. Remember this. And don't say you weren't warned as you're dragged along face to gravel by the 7:37 to Paddington.

The Second, Second Coming

No doubt they were dancing on the pub tables of Blaydon, Wallsend and Monkseaton late last night as it was announced that yet again Shearer is coming home. The other Messiah has returned and so just over a year since Kevin Keegan was unveiled before the press Newcastle fans are heralding a second, second coming. The saviour is here, twice Britain's most expensive footballer, former England captain, scorer of 206 goals in 404 games for the Magpies and no managerial experience whatsoever... the perfect man for a crisis.

You can probably forgive Newcastle fans for being deluded as to what constitutes a good managerial appointment, after all, such has been the reign of Mike Ashley and Freddie Shepherd before him that supporters have now witnessed a whole false month worth of false dawns. However, the overall glee and celebration which has greeted the appointment of a great player, but inexperienced manager suggests that the Toon Army are leaning dangerously close to caricatures of themselves.

Of course there is a faint chance that Shearer will prove to be a brilliant football manager, but all the recent signs point towards the negative end of the managerial sea-saw, which is currently weighed down by John Toshack's considerable bulk. First up there was of course the aforementioned Doncastrian Geordie Kevin Keegan; the man they all wanted, but ultimately ineffective in the Newcastle hot-seat. And as if the omens for a returning hero were not bad enough, Newcastle fans will have to wear a bouquet's worth of rose tinted glasses to overlook the fates of great players turning their hands at Premier League management; Paul Ince, Stuart Pearce, Tony Adams take a collective bow.

Of course even I would be happy to overlook all the bad omens if Shearer himself showed promise of a tactically astute footballing brain waiting to be unleashed on the modern game. However, instead, his three years as a pundit on Match of the Day have shown Shearer to be as innovative and exciting as his goal celebration always suggested. His stints as a pundit for BBC have been so wooden it has often been hard to distinguish him from the surrounding set. "Talk us through that goal Alan", Gary Lineker may suggest; "Well if you look here, you see the winger's crossed it from the right, and there you are the forward see, he's headed it into the net". Insightful as ever Alan.

Good luck Newcastle fans, in the midst of a relegation struggle you've elected for a man with no experience, nor obvious aptitude, although your probably too busy hurling celebratory shoes off the Tyne Bridge to care

European Groundhog Day

Its another big day for fans of numbered plastic balls, giant perspex fishbowls and over financed men in suits. Yep, today was the day of the UEFA Champions League Quarter Finals draw. The eight teams at this stage included what Sky Sports irritatingly referred to as the Premier League's 'Grand Slam', given that at the time Aston Villa had somewhat cheekily decided to break into the division's top four. Manchester United, Chelsea, Liverpool and Arsenal were all there and so there was significant chance that there would be at least one all English quarter final.

And that there is, for the fifth season running Chelsea and Liverpool will face each other in the Champions League. Arsenal meanwhile face Villareal, Manchester United meet Porto and the tie of the round if you can fight your way past Sky Sports' Premier League hyperbole, is undoubtedly Barcelona vs Bayern Munich. Even to those, like myself, who regularly allow this competition and its enveloping advertising and media circus, to pass them by it is a draw which presents and intriguing set of ties.

However, a scan around football messageboards suggests that all is not as it seems. Many fans, well Liverpool and Chelsea ones mainly, are claiming that the draw has been fixed to give United an easy tie and to also keep them away from Barcelona. The latter argument not really holding much ground given that the two sides met in last season's semi-finals, whilst suggestions of a fix are hard to comprehend. For a start, as weak as Porto may be perceived to be, in a tournament called the Champions League, United are the only English side to be drawn against actual league champions.

UEFA have distorted this tournament over the past fifteen years to ensure that is contested by the biggest teams, the most powerful and the most supported and significantly, the most marketable. To win a tournament such as this no team will get an easy ride to the final, and whilst Porto may be less of a challenge than Chelsea in the eyes of Liverpool fans, I would argue that in the last round Internazionale represented a bigger threat than a transitional Real Madrid side. If you want to be the best, you have to beat the best. That fans are now fed up of meeting the same sides each season introduces a satisfying irony in my view; think of the variation you could have had with the UEFA Cup.

David Who?

When David Beckham secured his extended stay with AC Milan earlier this month many people questioned whether Major League Soccer could survive without him. The answer is a simple and resounding yes. Those who question the future of MLS and regularly scoff at its standard are usually those who have more often than not never watched a game of the USA's premier soccer league. At a grassroot level the sport has been huge in the States for years, at a professional level it continues to grow and the departure of it's headline player is not going to change that.

The fourteenth MLS season began last night as the league's newest team (but one of US Soccer's most known names) Seattle Sounders hosted the New York Red Bulls. Over 32,500 fans headed to the Q-West Field in downtown Seattle and were rewarded with an impressive 3-0 victory to the Sounders. With over 22,000 season tickets Seattle have already proved a major addition to the MLS despite only playing one match so far, and they follow in a line of sensible expansions by the league.

Aside from Seattle, four other clubs have joined the league since 2005 and all four are amongst the most supported in the MLS. Admittedly an element of novelty of having a new soccer team in the city can help swell the attendances, but credit also has to go to those at the top for recognising potential markets for their sport in Salt Lake, Houston, and Toronto, not to mention the need for a team that gathers the support of the Mexican and Hispanic communities of California, in the form of Chivas USA. Projections for the season ahead suggest that average MLS attendances could move above those enjoyed by the NHL and NBA over the course of 2009, David Beckham's involvement or non-involvement won't skew those figures.

Owls In a Spin

Sheffield Wednesday are having something of an up and down season in the Championship. Top of the table on opening day they conceded four to Wolves the following week and six to Reading over the next few weeks. They have done the double over Sheffield United for the first time since the Boer War, or something, but also lost to South Yorkshire's other three teams, including Rotherham United in the League Cup. Somewhat inevitably they remain lodged firmly in mid-table.

However, the Owls' new Chairman Lee Strafford has been learning to put a positive spin on things. Last month the club offered their shirt sponsorship to the city's Childrens Hospital, with the charity getting to place their logo on Wednesday's shirts for the next two seasons. As Strafford himself puts it; "We're proud to say loud and clear that Sheffield Wednesday wants to break the current football mould by getting away from the perception that football is just about money". All very amicable, but for Wednesday it really should be about the money; with the club currently in a reported debt of £25million can such potential income really be cast aside.

Whilst he may not be raking in every potential income stream, Strafford has been a little quicker to highlight the club's expenditure with an article on the club's official website yesterday claiming the Owls have the lowest wage bill in the division. Whilst there is no doubting that the club's wage bill will be below the recent parachute payment backed Premier League demotees it seems unlikely that Wednesday's squad will be earning less than their contemporaries at Barnsley, Blackpool, Doncaster and Plymouth.

Either way the club's website went on to redraft the Championship table, affording points per estimated million pounds spent on wages, and wouldn't you know it Wednesday came out on top; numero uno. "I cannot claim these figures are 100 per cent accurate,"admitted Strafford, "but we know the kind of financial bracket most of our fellow clubs are working within so hopefully this gives you an indication of where we stand at the moment - overachieving on the pitch!" In short, as we all know 85% of statistics are made up on the spot and 76% of made-up figures are usually twisted favourably

Moore Not Merrier

In his book Fever Pitch Nick Hornby suggests that "the natural state of the football fan is bitter disappointment, no matter what the score". This is certainly true of a bloke who sits near me at Doncaster Rovers matches. The things our team do in posession always fail to meet his approval, he's unhappy if the ball goes forward and similarly displeased if the ball goes backwards, whilst anything in between is considered to be "fannying around with it". And it gets worse when the opposition have the ball with any semblance of an attack treated like the oncoming apocalypse by our resident voice of doom. Of course this sort of outlook is not simply restricted to football.

Over the last couple of years, I've discovered that the bloke who sits down the row from me in Doncaster is moonlighting as Brian Moore in the BBC's coverage of international rugby union. Moore of course, as he himself likes to point out, is an educated man. A qualified solicitor he has appeared on Question Time and also pens a wine column for the press. However, place Moore in a rugby stadia and hand him a microphone and he suddenly becomes that bloke in the pub who everyone avoids; the bloke propping up the bar bellowing at the screen.

Moore's overtly patriotic presence in the commentary box is made more obtrusive by two key contributing factors. The first factor is a succession of lacklustre performances by the England team, which have no doubt bore frustration from many other England rugby fans. The second factor is Moore's proximity to the melodic tones of co-commentator Eddie Butler. The voice of calm and reason sedating and antagonising the self-styled pit-bull in equal measure.

The juxtaposition of the two former players' commentary styles often provides the sort of televisual binaries that would only normally appear in an episode of Wife Swap. One great past example saw Moore describe a player as needing 'big kahunas', with Butler simply replying "I didn't know you spoke Portuguese Brian". The two provided another great moment in Ireland's win over England at the weekend as Moore failed to grasp Butler's rhetoric when he said of Danny Care's sin-binning; "You can't protest against that." Moore took the general as the personal to reply; "I'm not protesting against that, its stupid".

Moore of course has previous petulant form in the commentary box, most notably from England's match in Italy last year. As England struggled to run with possession and instead reverted to kicking it forward Moore eventually lost what little control he had to exclaim "They've kicked it away again!" Before yelling "For God's sake" as an incisive follow-up. Butler meanwhile continued commentating but for a sly chuckle. Moore irritates the hell out of me, and I would hate to sit next to him on the bus, never mind in a rugby stadium, but I have to admit, in partnering him with Eddie Butler the BBC have pulled off a masterstroke.

Mute Applause

With their club sliding slowly down the table since November Middlesborough fans have not had much to shout about this season. However, according to a recent letter distributed by the club then that may not be a bad thing. Whilst most clubs enduring a slump in fortunes would call on its fans to get behind the team, Boro have taken a much different approach with the letter, signed off by the club's safety officer, actually asking supporters at the Riverside to keep it down.

It's the letter's concluding paragraph which has angered most Boro fans receiving it. “I am receiving more and more complaints from our fans... about both the persistent standing and the constant noise coming from the back of this stand. Please stop, make as much noise as you like when we score, but this constant noise is driving some fans mad.” If Boro fans are to only make noise when their team scores then the Riverside is set to be eerily silent in coming weeks; Middlesborough have found the net just once in their last nine league games.

Middlesborough are a well run club who unlike many of their compatriots have not tried to overreach themselves in recent years. It is perhaps that which has stopped the Riverside being surrounded by the sort of doom-mongering which may have greeted similar form at their fellow top flight North East clubs. However, when the chips are down its perhaps best not to give your supporters more ammunition. Gareth Southgate's task at hand is difficult enough without this sort of over-zealous PR making the need for results more fierce.

Bobbing Along

If I said to you 'football', you would no doubt be confused as to to the agenda of this tall bearded man yelling the names of sports at you without any sense of practical syntagmatical understanding. However, if I subsequently explained how I wanted you to tell me what you intrinsically associated with that sport then football could bring any number of responses, such is the way it is littered across both popular culture and our own personal lives. However, if I were to ask you to do the same for bobsleigh then the chances are you will respond with two words; 'Cool Runnings'.

The film Cool Runnings dramatised the Jamaican bobsled team's participation in the 1988 Winter Olympics in Calgary, but whilst most people will be able to name one of the film's bobsled crew, and no doubt be able to quote many a line from the film too, few people will be able to name any genuine bobsledders. That's because bob-sled is one of those sports, along with curling, skeleton, sailing and modern pentathlon, which only enter the general public conscience once every four years. In the mean time these sports are rounded up and corralled into one unspecific 'Olympic Sports' category on the BBC website and left to carry on like a TV soap extra, just going about there business silently in the background.

One of the key problems with this temporal abandonment comes from the fact that Great Britain's standing in many of the world's less popular sports is much better than Olympic performances necessarily reflect. A lot can happen in four years which subsequently goes under, or just plainly un-reported. Which draws us back to the bobsleigh, an incredibly fast-paced and dangerous sport, exciting and enthralling to watch, but another which is only seen when linked to from a large sofa and implausibly vast and expensive table by Hazel Irvine.

Not only is bobsleigh exciting to watch, and of course a lot less life endangering than the ice-slope on a dinner-tray sports of skelton or luge, but it is also one in which Great Britain can currently boast World Champions. At the weekend the female British duo of Nicola Minichiello and Gillian Cooke claimed the World Championship with victory at Lake Placid, USA. A great acheivement on its own, but even more of note for a country in which there are no actual bobsleigh tracks. Instead the British team trains on a one hundred and twenty metre track, tucked behind the trees and just beyond the football pitches at the University of Bath. Its not quite a box-cart derby and a lucky egg, but its still a story which deserves more than just leap year style coverage.

Dorset and Match

Anyone watching the BBC's Score Interactive on Saturday or any of the Garth Crooks free alternatives will not have failed to note one particular non-league scoreline frequently flashing across the base of the screen. Rushden & Diamonds travelled to face mid-table Weymouth in the Blue Square (the Conference to me and you) without a win in eight games. They returned to Northamptonshire having defeated their hosts 9-0, a score-line so severe that in the years BC (Before Crooks), Grandstand's ticking videprinter would have helpfully spelt it, less you assume it was a 0-0 draw recorded by a prticularly thick fingered typist.

As this wasn't Scottish League football which routinely features at least one implausibly large away victory a week, you would have no doubt sensed there is more to this story than a lot of goals. And you would be correct for the majority of the Weymouth side faced by Rushden and Diamonds on Saturday spent the previous weekend facing Merthyr Tydfil in Division Two of the FA's South West Counties Youth League. After ongoing unrest at the club, the majority of the club's first team players and staff had gone two months without pay and in the day's up to Saturday's game their insurance cover also ran out, leaving manager Alan Lewer no option but to field the club's youth team.

After a 9-0 home defeat you could perhaps expect support for The Terras to be at its lowest ebb. However, it appears that the events of Saturday have instead galvanised those still connected with the club, with immense pride shown in those youth team players who took the field for Weymouth. As Weymouth fan Ian D put it on the independent fans' messageboard Terras Talk; "There does not need to be humiliation in losing at home by the odd goal in nine. You can still find pure human qualities of dignity, respect and belonging, the quality of people giving their all, to the absolute maximum of their ability, with honesty and pride of the best kind. Football isn’t about who can be the most successful, it’s still about the blood that runs through your veins."

That was not the only positive to come from Saturday's defeat, as many Weymouth fans also took advantage of the football media and betting world's obsession with the top end of the game. Despite the players' walk out on Friday, there were still long odds to be had on a high-scoring away win, with only the town's own bookmakers sharp enough to refuse bets. The large scoreline is reported to have cost online bookmakers over £1million, with many Weymouth fans donating their winnings to the supporters' led Save Our Club fund. The Weymouth youth team can expect to chalk up a number of appearances in the weeks to come, whilst supporters do their best to maintain the club's presence.

the Bill and Ken Show

As a club, there can be few sides that garner less casual support than Leeds United. They are not a team for which anyone ever really generates a soft spot. There are folk who love that club, with a particularly partizan insular pride, and there are those who cannot stand them. In all my life, and bare in mind I grew up in Yorkshire when they were the county's most successful club, I am yet to meet anyone who could take or leave Leeds United.

Throughout the past forty years the club has been particularly easy to hate with a combative style on the pitch under Don Revie in the 1970s, to a strong hooligan element off it in the 1980s and one which at times held particularly strong links to the BNP. And then, just in case these things were starting to slip from your mind, they brought in Ken Bates and Dennis Wise to ensure that no fence-sitters began edging the way of Elland Road. During Leeds slide into the third tier of English football, and their subsequent attempts to get back out of it Bates has been particularly irksome; as have those who have fallen into the trap of his propaganda. Leeds were destined to win last season's play-off final, because they had a bigger support and a richer history than their opponents Doncaster. Whilst both those aspects are true; neither supporters nor history win as many matches as playing better football does.

And so Leeds soldier on in the third tier, but lest you forget who they are, they are still particularly apt at finding new ways and reasons for a new generation of fans to hate them. In the wake of their victory over Leeds United last weekend Huddersfield Town received a letter from their opponents asking them to pay their hotel bill. Leeds claimed that the midday kick-off at the Galpharm Stadium necessitated an overnight stay to give their players apt preparation time for the match. Of course the Football League does have rules to that end, allowing teams to claim hotel expenses from opposition sides when forced to travel for an early kick-off. However, what Leeds have overlooked in this case is the distance between the two clubs... a mere sixteen miles, most of which would be travelled by motorway.

Huddersfield Town brought the letter to light through their official website yesterday, with the club CEO Nigel Cibbens stating; "Leeds' claim is as sad as it is laughable... [it] does nothing for Leeds' reputation at all".A little petulant you may feel, well yes, but not half as much as Leeds United's reply via a story on their own official website later that day headed Huddersfield Town - The Facts. In this response United quite wisely state; "The process will be dealt with by the Football League and we will pass no further comment on the matter, so as not to prejudice the outcome until a decision is made", before going on to spend the four subsequent paragraphs passing a list of comments about the match.

Whatever happens next is in the hands of the Football League, but until a decision is made Leeds United are to get no pudding for a week, and Huddersfield Town are to be allowed only to choose one play item per day from the toy box.

All Star and Stripes

As a British sports fan its easy to knock the NBA All-Star Game. The notion that any self-respecting professional sports league can, midway through it's season just stop what its doing and hold a mini-exhibition is frankly alien to us. A week ago you could have been watching two of these guys snarling at each other as their paths crossed on court and they each sort to come out on top; now a few days later here they are high-fiving after a successful alley-oop showboating combination. It is to a degree the sporting equivalent of the cast of Eastenders doing one of those Comic Relief song and dance routines where they re-enact the big dance scene from Fame.

But, this is of course sport as entertainment, 'sportainment' if you will and its what the Americans do best. Sure we have our imitators on this side of the Atlantic with Masters' Tennis and Masters' Football, but the key is in the pre-fix. On these shores we only let the athletes let their hair down when they've long since retired from the top-level of their sport. Whilst even in their twilight these players can entertain, and I'm thinking primarily of the great tennis showman Mansour Bahrami, what spectators of these events are essentially buying into is 'sportainment' fuelled by nostalgia.

In America, they deal with the hear and now and they excel at 'sportainment'. Hence the success of WWE Wrestling, Arena Football, Demolition Derbys, and the Harlem Globetrotters. What the All-Star Game, and indeed all American 'sportainment' has over British immitations is that they are all contested by the stars of now, showcasing what they are capable of at the top of their game. The Dunk Contest, the Three-Point Contest et al may be effectively sideshows, but they are still populated by the current game's top players. And those players don't stop at just playing the game.

Sunday's main game was preceded by a lengthy song and dance routine, which culminated in Shaquille O'Neil centre of a white mask clad breakdance troupe. No matter how cynical you may be about American sport, surely you cannot deny that if the country's top footballers met in a North vs South fixture, opened by Peter Crouch robot-ing it up, mimicked by a surrounding dance-troupe of hand-picked cheerleaders, you would not be glued to your television. Thought not.

Seven Month Itch

If you had to name a football club in crisis right now then you would have to have a pretty narrow-minded view of the game to pluck for Chelsea. However, that is exactly how much of the tabloids have chosen to label the Stamford Bridge side's current plight. Luton Town may be attempting to recover a minus thirty point starting point, Rotherham may have had to find a temporary home in another town at which to claw back their own seventeen point penalty, but that's nothing. Chelsea, poor Chelsea are in the last sixteen of the FA Cup and Champions League and fourth in the Premier League. The question remains... has anyone contacted the UN?

The problem with the Premier League is that as a result of the hyperbolic tone of those who regularly report on it, it now has an over inflated sense of it's own importance. This is after all 'the best league in the world' and so if you have set yourself up as one of the main challengers for that title, then you need to be effectively challenging. The old saying that 'its a marathon not a sprint' has no place in modern football, Chelsea are seven points behind the league leaders with three months still to play, surely that's to be expected in a manger's first season. Alas, tabloid coverage and one crudely made supporters banner suggests otherwise and owner Roman Abramovich follows suit with the Etch-a-Sketch approach to managerial appointments. "I tire of him, send him to the lions and bring me someone new."

You cannot but help feel sorry for 'Big' Phil Scolari, deemed not big enough to be allowed any sort of transitional period at his new club. Think of all the money wasted on English language crash courses. A home draw with Hull City is seemingly beneath the expectations of Chelsea fans with no allowance given for the key fact that this is the most competitive Premier League season in a decade. Patience is no longer a virtue when it comes to football management, fans have increasingly unrealistic demands for instant results, and this phenomenon is not confined to the Premier League. When my club Doncaster appointed Sean O'Driscoll in September 2006, he was on the receiving end of audible O'Driscoll Out chants before the month was out.

The moral of this tale? If you want job security in the coming years, stay away from football management and instead open up an English Language School in the London area and introduce yourself to football agents.

Adams Parked

Those of you frequent these pages often will be aware that I'm prone to lament the lack of time afforded football managers in the modern era. However, there is an exception to this rule, and so I was genuinely glad to hear that Portsmouth have decided to sack Tony Adams. I have nothing against Adams, nor for that matter Portsmouth, and I am not usually prone to these sort of moments of schadenfreude, unless of course they involve John Terry. No, I am please if only because it seems that at last Tony Adams will be put out of his misery.

Has anyone ever looked more unhappy in their job than Tony Adams? If he were a shop assistant or an office assistant he would have been phoning in sick within weeks of taking on his new job; by now he would have run out of fake family member funerals to attend and would have mastered the art of forging his doctor's signature. In a reign so short it has been referred to by its length in days rather than months by some media today Adams never looked comfortable, and seemed to be heading towards being sacked, or a personal breakdown from the moment they changed the name on the manager's office door.

Less than a month into his new role Adams was quoted as saying; "I don't actually like people. I'm a loner and if I had my way I'd just walk my dogs every day, never talk to anyone then die." A frighteningly bleak statement, made even more chilling by the fact that Adams does not own a dog. OK, I made the last bit up, but just weeks into his tenure Adams had made it clear to the watching world that he was not a happy man. He didn't want to be there, in front of the sponsors logo each week attempting to answer inane questions about another defeat, so why was he ever put in that position?

There is no denying Adams was a great player, his England caps and domestic honours testify that, but what managerial form he had was barely worth adding to his CV. Adams took charge of Wycombe in 2003 and steered them to the foot of League One and into League Two, winning just twelve matches, one for every month he was in charge at Adams Park; safe to say the ground was named long before Tony's legacy. With that in mind promoting Adams to the role of manager at Portsmouth was akin to putting the manager of Boo.com in charge of Nike.
Yes, Adams did a poor job at Portsmouth, but the poor bloke should never have been entrusted with the job in the first place. Having a great playing career is never a definate indication that you will become a great manager, as any supporter who has seen a suited Brian Robson hold aloft his club's scarf for a gaggle of photographers will certainly testify

Hammer the Stumps

caught the Indian Premier League auction on television the other day, although it was another day and a half before I realised what I'd actually seen. I'm not normally this intuitively slow, I mean I kind of understand Lost, and I find Frasier much funnier than My Family, as we all should, but nothing I saw on the screen intrinsically linked with sport in my mind. A room of circular tables populated by suited gentlemen politely clapping as a man talked on a microphone; for all I knew I had just watched a man's act bombing on the Asian version of Last Comic Standing.

But no this polite scene was not a Businessmans' dinner, nor a charity auction of any sort, it was actually the player auction for the coming IPL cricket season. These men, were casually shelling out thousands, and in a couple of cases millions, of dollars on the world's top cricketing talent. This was clearly a big deal, both in terms of the size of the bids being tabled, and also in the role of such an auction in world sport. Although, the most disappointing aspect of this multi-million pound auction was not the distinctly capitalist approach to sport, but the actual quality of the footage; poorly lit, unsteady camera work, Homes Under the Hammer may be the televisual equivalent of staring at a beige wall, but at least those guys now how to knock together good auction footage.

Sadly, as television demands and sofa-bound spectator interests prevail, this may be the future of many sports. The top players no longer possessing club loyalty of any kind, but instead wandering from place to place, hanging round for a season, not fussed who they are attached to, just so long as they are wanted (or paid) enough, like that dog from the Littlest Hobo, or Abi Titmus. Yes, gradually, sport is becoming similar to the cartoon series the Hurricanes; so when you next see Andrew Flintoff ambling into bat for a club side, don't be surprised if he is doing so in a hollowed out volcano.

Blank-et Coverage

Regular readers of these blogs, which statistics suggest numbers a bakers dozen, will be well of Final Third's disapproval of ITV's football coverage, and whilst I would love to pen a blog on another subject unfortunately the nation's third channel just keeps throwing balls up in the air, and subsequently I'm afraid just have to hit them. You see ITV began hammering nails into their football coverage coffin at the turn of the Millennium. Given a chance to show what they could do with the rights to Premiership highlights they went all giddy with power. They stuck their main programme in the coveted Blind Date slot, wedged Andy Townsend in a horse box full of monitors and gave the cockney Irish buffoon free reign to bully Ugo Ehiogu with slow motion replays.

Having shown they could not be trusted when left alone with anything the majority of the nation's football fans wanted to see ITV were suitably punished and banished to seven years hard labour covering matches that either had financially and commercially less significance (the Football League), or ones which were already so heavily glossed in hyperbole that they were beyond even ITV's hegemonic corporate football leanings (the Champions League). And everything was fine with the world; yes ITV's coverage and editing process was still disappointing when it came to football, but at least it bothered less people.

Unfortunately Setanta Sports rode into town to fight the good fight against Sky Sports blanket coverage, but when they needed to select a free-to-air channel to partner them in their FA Cup coverage, they chose the bumbling clueless deputy sheriff of ITV to join their side. Channel Five may have spent much of its formative years working as a showgirl in the local saloon, but at least they've proved capable of simple and decent sports coverage now they've put their knickers back on. Anyway, Setanta chose ITV and the rest as they say is a seemingly constant stream of poor editing, ill thought out match choices, tedious punditry and dissatisfied football fans. In short, when you find yourself pining for Gary Lineker and Alan Hansen's club house in-joke banter something must be terribly wrong.

Last night ITV sealed their own fate with a monumentous error, the type, as Dennis Norden would invariably remind us, "for which the term cock-up was invented". After barely acknowledging the 3rd round's key results in their highlights programme and apparently filming Swansea's victory over holders Portsmouth on a cheap pitch-level camcorder, they manage to top, or rather bottom, those acheivements spectacularly during their live 4th round replay.

With two hours of inconsequential football and a sending off failing to separate Everton and Liverpool the match at Goodison Park looked destined for a penalty shoot-out. So destined in fact that as the home side mounted one last attack someone on the ITV gallery got all trigger happy with ad-break button. And so millions of viewers were detached from the coverage and instead shown an advert from E-on, which with unwitting irony boasted of how they and ITV were bringing families closer to football. A terrible cock-up, still things would be OK if ITV could just restore the pictures before anything significant happens... there... done it... hang on whats all that noise? ...why are all those Everton players piling on top of that other lad? Oh for the love of God! After screening one hundred and twenty minutes of football ITV managed to cut away and miss the game's only goal.

It didn't get much better for ITV post match either as they came back from a genuine ad-break this time straight into the midst of an already begun interview with the scorer of the unseen goal Dan Gosling. And then as Steve Ryder offered empty apology after empty apology like an uncovered love rat ("its the first time its happened I swear", "I was thinking of you the whole time we were off air") ITV's world went blank, replaced by a black screen and a ticking clock as presumably the fight taking place in the production gallery ended with a slain broadcast trainee slumping against the wall and inadvertently knocking out the plug.

At the end of their later highlights show ITV's Matt Smith went out of his way to plug The Big Match Revisited, which for the uninitiated is basically a re-run of a thirty year old football highlights show. Smith encouraged Manchester City fans to tune in and relive a 3-0 win over Tottenham, although he would probably have been better off encouraging his colleagues turn to ITV4 and take notes on simplistic and effective football coverage. ITV have a key lesson to learn; the FA Cup does not need to be over hyped, but if you must big up your coverage then you need to be able to back up your boasts as there are few people less forgiving than a football fan scorned.

Desperation Deadline

I've just been down the ground to collect some tickets and saw a sports car with registration LC91 5HU, looks like we're set to sign Lee Hughes," was just one of many speculative and unsubstantiated transfer based posts to appear on an unofficial Doncaster Rovers messageboard, thankfully a fellow fan of mine stepped in with the timely reply; "Just been and checked, it looks like his, its parked upside down in a hedge". The transfer window does this to people you see, it ends any sense of reason and patience and replaces it with wild fantasist speculation; "I've just seen Andre Arshavin in the Greggs in Hull's Princes Quay Shopping Centre", "My sister works at the local school and some French bloke rang up to ask if they had any places, looks like Zinedine Zidane is on his way to Stockport" and so forth.

Fans of course are always susceptible to spreading rumour; what the added hype of the transfer window has done has seemingly given the media license to do the same. Those who say there is no smoke without fire have never witnessed the tabloids' transfer rumour reporters in full flow. For example, according to the press seven different teams had put in offers for Doncaster midfielder Brian Stock, the Rovers' manager Sean O'Driscoll confirmed the actual number of offers received to be a total of zero. Of course whilst the press can spout daily rumours, the 24 hour rolling news channels can up the anti even further, counting down to the closure of the transfer window as if it were the shutting of some sort of time portal to a past world.

Anyone tuning into Setanta Sports News would be forgiven for thinking that they had tuned into some sort of live endurance Dogging marathon as the network flicked back and forth to a succession of reporters holding court in some of the nation's top car-parks. Spare a thought for these people, as whilst it's hard enough to report on nothing from the safety of a studio, its even more of a chore when you're doing so from the brunt of a national cold snap. One reporter stationed outside a North London hospital for a reason which was never explained even had to conduct his links to camera whilst under attack from a particularly vicious drive-by snowballing.

Back in the sanctity of the Setanta studio, as an onscreen clock ticked down toward seeming televisual oblivion, things were becoming increasingly desperate. Dave Bassett had been hauled into the studio, but seemed only capable of giving answers constructed from the same words used in the questions put to him; "Dave, we're seeing a lot of loan moves particularly amongst clubs in the lower divisions, would you say that's due to the economic climate?" "Well, due to the economic climate we are going to see a lot of loan moves amongst clubs, particularly in the lower divisions". So anti-climactic were things by this stage that the news of Charles N'zogbia's transfer to Wigan was touted as some sort of Roy of the Rovers-esque dream move.

Setanta's deadline day coverage was not just limited to the newsdesk and the nation's car-parks though, as they'd gone all out and hired a studio as well. In this studio they had assembled replica shirt clad fans of Premier League clubs and their intellectual equal; the expertise of Steve Claridge to react to the news as it happened. Alas of course, actual news remained thin on the ground, and when it did break it was hard to know what to make of it; pity the poor West Brom fan interviewed about his club's signing of Juan Carlos Menseguez from San Lorenzo; "Erm, I've never heard of him, so, er, I think he will bring something to the team". Steve Claridge's expert view; "I think you'll be OK you know". Sometimes no news is good news.

Super Doopa Bowl

Let me begin with a straight out, people seated in a circle, flip chart in the corner, tea and biscuits on a side table, stand up and introduce yourself, confession. I am in effect a sporting traditionalist. I dislike the way money and tabloid rumour mongering distracts from the true essence of any sport, I am disappointed when teams or whole sports feel the need to dabble into gimmicks and 'marketing appeal'. Don't get me wrong I'm all for sports and their natural progression, and to that end welcome the initiatives of say Twenty-twenty cricket, but the fact that it can be contested between the Northampton Steelbacks and the Derbyshire Phantoms makes me cringe. So with this in mind it is perhaps out of character for me to say; I bloody love the Superbowl.

It is easy for British sports fans to dislike the Superbowl, because it is effectively the antithesis of our own sporting traditions. Whilst we place a proud significance on the history of our sports, as can be seen in thesepia tinged montages opening title sequence to live sporting event, particularly any screened by the institutional BBC, American Football is unashamedly, well, American. Brash, bright, modern, convenient, in your face and as tacky as treading on chewing gum in a treacle factory. However, if you loosen your stiff upper lip and throw yourself into it, the Superbowl, or American Football in general is a great spectacle.

This year's Superbowl between the Arizona Cardinals and the Pittsburgh Steelers was particularly epic. It may have been dragged out for four hours and punctuated with televisual challenges, ad-breaks, oh and a Bruce Springsteen concert, but it remained a brilliant sporting drama. The Steelers, favourites for victory, had amassed a 20-7 lead thanks in part to the longest play in Superbowl history, a 100 yard interception run from linebacker Jason Harrison. However, the Cardinals fought back to snatch the lead with just three minutes of play remaining. As the clock ticked down, the Steelers had one last chance and they took it; a touchdown with just 35 seconds remaining to clinch their sixth Superbowl.

If you're still not convinced about the spectacle of American Football consider it's merits as one of world sports last great socialist triumphs. American sport may be mocked for its franchised approach, a trait which allows teams to move home in search of fans, indeed the Cardinals themselves have migrated steadily south to make Arizona their third base after previous lives in Chicago and St Louis. However, the beauty of American sport is that it is yet to be monopolised in the way that top level British sport has been. In the Premiership the 'big four', aided by prize money and television revenue just keep getting richer and are subsequently able to buy up the best talent to maintain their place in the sports hierarchy. In American Football, income, from sponsorship, television and merchandise is distributed evenly, and the best players are drafted by effectively the worst teams to help balance out the playing rosters. The result; fifteen different finalists in the last ten years, a variety rarely entertained on these shores.

Yes, on the surface its as gawdy, showy and crass as Jodie Marsh attending a premiere, but deep down it remains a fantastic sporting event. The hype and the razzmatazz help mark the occassion, but even on its own, once you are willing to embrace it American Football's show-piece game is one of the most open and compelling sporting finals you are likely to witness in this modern sporting age. And for that we should all toast a giant bucket of Gatorade, woop and chest bump those nearest to us.

White Knight

Although the class divides in the UK are no longer as significant as they once were there are still distinct dividing lines which can be drawn. On of these lines can be drawn clearly by a sport. If you are in your early twenties and you know how to ski, then chances are you will be of the financially superior classes. I went to school in a South Yorkshire comprehensive; I know of no-one I went to school with who can ski. Plenty are as thick as two short planks, few could stand up on the actual artifacts. However, that is not to say we were not familiar with the sport.

Thanks to Ski Sunday, and the sadly now departed David Vine, we were regular skiing fans in our house. Watching intently from behind a coffee table laden with a ploughman's tea we would attentively do as we did with motor-sport in the summer months; collectively wait for someone to push the boundaries of speed and gravity too far and hurtle off course into a tangle of poles, skis, lycra and bright orange netting. And whilst men ditched cow bells and scrambled across the slopes to their aid we would collectively mutter a distinct "Ooooh" before asking dad to stop hogging the Branston Pickle. Simple times.

This week however an event came to my attention which enforced how wrong I had been about skiing. Not just a source of masochistic meal-time family television, nor an upper class jaunt. No, when done properly, by those who have the sport on their doorstep, skiing can give you a phenomenal sporting atmosphere that will be rarely rivalled. Step forward the good people of Austria and the sporting event you need to seek out and see for yourself; the Schladming Night Slalom. Because hurtling down near sheet ice at high speeds is not dangerous enough when you can see where you're going you need the addition of darkness and over 50,000 raucous Austrians to make it worthwhile.

Not only was the skiing on the floodlit track hich-octane but the noise levels from the assembled crowd would have reduced your average prawn sandwich toting football fan to a cowering pile of dust. Aided by cow-bells and hooters the noise increased in decibels until the final two skiers attempted the descent, the Austrian pair of Manfred Pranger and Reinfried Herbst. By the time Herbst left the start gate an Austrian one-two finish was pretty much certain and so the volume doubled and the home country skier descended the slope to a myriad of Austrian flags, waving amidst scores of bright red flares. Herbst triumphed in the partizan atmosphere and celebrated by diving face first into the snow at the foot of the piste. If skiing had this associated atmosphere in this country then we'd all have shared memories of Kitzbuehel.

Don't Hassle the Hoffenheim

Early season league tables always throw up interesting anomalies; for example the current Premier League campaign had Hull City pushing for top spot and reigning champions Manchester United wedged in the bottom half back in August. United have form in this respect though, in the first Premier League season they began at the foot of the table after back to back defeats. However, eventually the status quo is inevitably restored, and so Hull are currently abseiling down the table, and teams like Carlisle, Swansea and Watford have intermittently been allowed to lead the top flight so long as they know their place and edge their way back down the table before they over stay their welcome.

In Germany though a new face seems intent to overstay its welcome. TSG Hoffenheim arrived in the top flight for their debut Bundesliga season in August, and impishly won their opening two games before being officially welcomed to the big time by a 5-2 defeat at Bayer Leverkusen, followed soon after by a 5-4 loss at Werder Bremen. However, instead of running home, cowering in their room and strategically covering their bruises when forced to emerge for meal-times Hoffenheim just went back to winning again. And at the end of October, with a 3-0 win over nearest challengers Hamburg meant that Hoffenheim had shown the temerity to return to the top of the league.

Naturally, since that date the German media has constantly alluded to the fact that this cannot last, that the bubble will burst, but now on the other side of the Bundesliga's Winter Break Hoffenheim are still sitting in Bayern Munich's seat and refusing to get up. The crucial thing about Hoffenheim's success this season is that this club is not a sleeping giant, enjoying a long overdue stint in the top flight. No Hoffenheim are more of a rich man's folly. As recently as the early nineties Hoffenheim were little more than a village team, playing in the amateur ranks at the eighth tier of German football; now they are the top team in the country thanks in no small part to the backing of Dietmar Hopp.

The entrepreneur Hopp had played for Hoffenheim as a young man before going onto other things; namely founding SAP AG, Europe's leading software company. Having made a tidy profit during his twenty years away Hopp returned to his former club as financial backer, and has helped pave the club's way up the divisions. Its an unlikely story, and one which will never be matched in this country; the equivalent would see Lincoln United or Goole defeating Manchester United in fifteen years time. And so, though the Bundesliga has an unfamiliar look to it's upper echelons, the influence of Hopp's millions mean many German fans are not as welcoming to the wind of change as they may be.

Pitch Battles

I think its comedian Dara O'Briain who makes reference in his stand-up act to nostalgia essentially being 'heroin for old people'; as such I am eternally wary when I write these articles of preaching any sort of 'things were better in the old days' type comment. When it comes to football grounds things certainly were not better in the old days, in comparison to today's safe and comfortable all-seater stadia. However, whilst they may not have been better in the old days, they were certainly more individualistic.

As more and more of today's football league teams move into shiny concrete bowls, dropped into retail parks, on the edges of towns and cities, complete with constant revenue streams where you are watching the game becomes of less significance. You could be at Southampton or Shrewsbury, Darlington or Doncaster, Coventry or Colchester, but for the colour of the seats and the dialect of the baseball capped personnel behind the snack-bar all are pretty interchangable.

Of course it wasn't always like this; old grounds often boasted unique characteristics that made them easily identifiable when they appeared on the television, or memorable when you visited.
On television Stamford Bridge was the oval shaped one with the blue disability cars parked between the touchline and the stands. The Dell had it's oddly shaped 'chocloate box' enclosures behind each goal. Ayresome Park had it's odd barn-like Main Stand roof whilst the Manor Ground seemed to have been pieced together from other football grounds' left-over stands. Inside old grounds you often found further architectural anomalies; for example in the final years of Doncaster's Belle Vue ground it was widely acknowledged that the best view on the Pop Side terrace came from looking through the small window above the middle urinal in the Rossington End toilets.

However, whilst this side of the border football clubs continue to embrace modern flat-pack arenas to satisfy the all-seater requirements of the top two divisions, there remains an oasis of retro football ground features in the Scottish League. Beneath the SPL exists a haven of terraces, neat archaic mains stands, and courtesy of Brechin City's Glebe Park, the coup de gras; a great big hedge. So long has the Glebe Park pitch been bordered on one side by this foliage that the club thesmelves have become intertwined with the feature and are now nicknamed the hedgemen.

However, all this could be set to change thanks to the pantomime villains of UEFA. Whilst Brechin's narrow pitch fits the criteria of the Scottish FA it is however three metres too narrow to satisfy UEFA's pitch regulations which must be met for club's to obtain licencing. As such the Scottish FA could force Brechin to adhere to those regulations and widen their pitch accordingly. However to do that they would face one distinct long green obstacle. Could they still be the hedgemen even without their hedge? And more importantly when are Brechin really likely to challenge for a UEFA Cup spot?

Why TV?

Back in December I made reference within the safety of this blogsphere to what are regarded as the 'Crown Jewells' of televised sport within this country. For those of you who missed that piece, and I realise I am speaking to a select few, the crown jewells in this sense refer to a number of sporting events which the government has deemed of national interest, and therefore they must be broadcast on free-to-access television. An idea which is welcome amongst traditionalists like myself, but an idea which has its downsides; namely that it increases the chances of some of those sporting events surfacing in ITV's locker.

Given Final Third's lowly financial status I am loathe to pre-empt a law suit, but I am confident that just cause can be found in my statement when I say ITV cannot do football coverage. Although of course we've known this for years, but such is the hyped-up money-soaked world of the Champions League, they've just about managed to get away with it. Coverage which would normally appear gaudy and distorted by advertisements has instead just blended seemlessly into its subject.

However, this year ITV has returned to the FA Cup, a competition so long a mainstay of the BBC and as historic and as institutionalised as the latter channel itself. As such ITV's FA Cup coverage has stood out like the overendulged Christmas lights on a nouveau-riche family's mansion and left a taste like a vintage brandy topped up with Happy Shopper lemonade. You know that at its core there is something good, something palatable, but there is sadly no avoiding the fact that its been conveniently coated and packaged and in doing so the true value has been lost.

At the forefront of ITV's advertising campaign for their FA Cup coverage is the belief that 'all men are equal', a belief subsequently projected as the image of a footballer being tackled by a milkman. With this as their base ITV's coverage has subsequently set off in search of an upset, however their search has been limited and has only extended to matches they are actually at. On Wednesday, in the lead up to Southend's replay with Chelsea could effectively have been summarised thus; "COME ON YOOUUUU SHRIMPERS!!!" as the show's producer sat in a truck outside Roots Hall presumably rubbing his hands like an infant on Christmas Eve.

However, just a week and a half ago the FA Cup had kindly thrown ITV to great football shaped bones with a couple of significant cup upsets. At Victoria Park Hartlepool defeated Premier League Stoke City to reach the fourth round for only the sixth time in their history, and were rewarded with about one minute's coverage on ITV's highlights show. On the same day Torquay United overcame a difference of sixty league places to win the Battle of the Seasides and defeat Blackpool 1-0 at Plainmoor; their reward for being one of very few non-league clubs to reach the fourth round? Brief footage of the goal followed by speculative comment from Robbie Earle.

The frost enduced selection of delayed FA Cup third round ties and forced replays gave ITV a second chance at producing a decent third round highlights show, but again the network's failure to cast its net wider cost them. With twelve midweek Cup ties to cover ITV plumped understandably for the Southend versus Chelsea match as their main live game. As for the focus of their highlights programme screened forty-five minutes later? Er, Southend United versus Chelsea.

I realise that in the modern world the broadcaster which gets the rights to an event is effectively the one which pays the most money, but is it too much to ask for some sort of quality control measure to work in tandem? Sadly, it probably is and so ITV's finest moment from their FA Cup coverage thus far in 2009 came completely by accident. Half-time in the Gillingham versus Aston Villa match and Andy Townsend is asked for his views, although his response is timed inadvertantly but perfectly with the next song to come over the Priestfield PA system. And so Townsend's nonsensical cliched response is performed to a backing track of Ghost Town by The Specials; it could have been a glorious Streets-esque postmodern spoken word lament about modern football. Sadly the truth was he was just hindering the playing of a very good record.

Harry Carry the Can

With Michael Dawson down injured during the second half of Tottenham’s hapless display at Wigan yesterday the Sky Sports cameras zoomed in on Harry Redknapp, stood in his technical area, yapping away on a mobile phone. I cannot be the only one who presumed that Redknapp has begun to revel in his transfer wheeler-dealer reputation so much that rather than organise a substitution for the injured centre-half he was instead delving into the transfer market to try and buy a replacement mid-game.

Redknapp of course is ever happy to talk to the tabloid press about anything and everything, a trait which means he is unlikely to be criticised as heavily by the media as many of his fellow managers often are. Instead he is afforded this odd lovable rogue artful dodger like persona where no matter what he does wrong he just receives a ruffle of his hair and shrugged boys will be boys dismissive reproach.

Earlier this season the papers carried numerous stories, perpetuated by the Tottenham chairman Daniel Levy, regarding Alex Ferguson’s alleged ‘tapping-up’ of Dimitar Berbatov. Prior to the middle of last week most newspapers were carrying stories about Harry Redknapp’s desire to bring Jermaine Defoe back to White Hart Lane. Funnily enough neither Levy, nor the press, appear to have noted the similarities between the two deals, or sagas as I believe the correct tabloid-ease term to be.

Similarly just a month or so ago the tabloids and the press at large were full of praise for Harry Redknapp’s resurrection of Tottenham. So much so that Guardian columnist Paul Wilson even suggested that the manager should be considered as the BBC’s Sports Personality of the Year. Unsurprisingly whilst all was rosy Redknap lapped up the praise like the hang-dog he is starting to resemble, but now he has taken a different tact.

“It can’t always be the manager’s fault, can it?” said Redknapp during a post-match interview for Match of the Day 2 yesterday. No Harry, but its time you learnt that sometimes it can.

Dart Attack

In the modern era diet has become an important aspect of sport. In the majority of contests the days of pre-match steak and chips are long gone, revolutionised by the continental approach of pasta and carbo-loading. And so, in these food sanatised times, welcome refreshment comes from the mouth of one professional sportsman, as transcribed in the latest Observer Sports Monthly; "Some of the younger lads are careful about their diet, but I don't follow with all that. Its got to be the full English hasn't it? Or stew. Any stew".

These words come, sadly not from Chris Hoy who presumably sticks to the cow pies and Bran Flakes, but from professional darts player Martin 'Wolfie' Adams. For those not in the know Wolfie is reigning Winmau World Masters Champion, captain of England and ranked number three in the world going into this week's World Professional Darts Championship at the Lakeside. His nickname stems not from a deadly playing style, or a vicious ruthless streak on the oche, but because with his beard he's really hairy, you know, like wolf.

You'll be glad to hear that Martin Adams tips are not just restricted to pre-match food, they extend to drinking; "A lot of the Europeans don't know how to pace themselves, go out in the last four because they've had too much to drink. I don't count the number of beers I've had - its how you feel. You know". And of course there are Adams' frankly metro-sexual approach to style and gift-giving; "I've bought a sovereign in the shape of a wolf for 25 years of marriage. The wife got a platinum."

Cynical people would highlight the above quotes as a reason why darts is anything but a sport. Its something done to prolong your stay in the pub when its raining out and not a sport worthy of national television coverage. However, I'm of the other persuasion, darts is not only a sport, but a great sport at that. Its a great sport because no matter how much television coverage it receives, both the sport and its participants remain humble and in touch with their roots. Would a top flight footballer regularly head down to his home village team between games, the same way a darts player returns to his local like a pedigree homing pigeon? Darts is a sport, darts players are human and a darts crowd is full of more involuntary comedy than a whole series of My Family. Watch darts... its the past and the future combined.

All Hail the Cliche Cup

Dust off your cliches and break out the patronising soundbites, FA Cup third round weekend is here. Yes, a number of plucky underdogs will hoping to cause an upset and claim the scalp of a bunch of overpaid professionals. The Derbys and the Evertons of this world won't fancy it on the bobbly sloping pitches and tight little grounds of The New Lawn and Moss Rose. At the end of the day you can throw league form out the window because its a funny old game and the magic of the cup always brings a shock.

There, that's all that out the way. FA Cup third round day is one of my favourite dates in the football calendar and this year it looks set to be extra special. For one, this is because for only the third time in my life-time my team have made it this far. But more importantly, because of the record number of non-league teams which have made it to this stage of the competition. A record eight in all have progressed from the qualifying rounds of the competition and that would have been nine were it not for Droylesden's expulsion.

The increased number of non-league teams means two things in particular; firstly it greatly increases the chance of there being a non-league team in the fourth round and subsequently the chance of an upset, which means we can enjoy a weekend free of Premier League hyperbole in the press and see some more deserving teams in print. And secondly, because it means Mark Lawrenson and Lee Dixon are dragged from their top-flight comfort zone with even more regularity on the Football Focus sofa. "So Mark, what do you view as Blyth Spartans strengths?" "Hey, I tell you, never mind their strengths, how about that mustache on their manager Harry Dunn, hey?".

Chances are that in the papers in the past few days you have read a story claiming that the FA Cup is not what it once was, that it has been 'devalued'. Chances are the same article then appointed the blame for this at Manchester United's attendance at the 2000 World Club Cup in Brazil. If the Cup has been devalued by anyone then it is the media themselves. It is their constant harping on about the 'best league in the world' which has taken focus away from the FA Cup. In past years the first few days in January would be spent previewing the upcoming third round ties, instead now the focus is the transfer window and so instead we have rumours as to who wants to go where, and non-news about who wants to pay how much for who.

However, the FA Cup is still alive and kicking and holds a significant interest for the wider football fan. Only in this competition in this country could you have an all top flight clash like Hull City versus Newcastle United and at the same stage, on the same footing, have Kettering Town versus Eastwood Town, a fixture between teams ranked 102nd and 164th respectively in the football pyramid. The only other sporting competition which runs it close in respect of top level professionals mixing it with amateurs is Rugby League's Challenge Cup, but even a revamp there means that you can be treated to the frankly odd spectacle of a fixture such as Castleford Lock Lane versus Lokomotiv Moscow.

Swayed by money and television exposure and the hype fans of many a top flight team have forgotten their routes. Look at the papers, the Premier League and European competition are where its at. Why should they have to put up with these trivial encounters with Southend, Gillingham and Plymouth when they should be facing Roma, Ajax or Porto? Yes, football does have too many games now, but managers should be pointing the finger at their sixth Champions League group stage tie rather than than the FA Cup third round. This after all, unlike the European competitions is still a knock-out cup in the rawest sense. One game and one chance to get it right, lose and you're out. Unpredictability still has a chance in the domestic game and so I for one will take a greater interest in Final Score tomorrow than I have at any other point this year, whilst the pubs will be distinctly emptier.

the Gaza Strip

Football shirts sponsorship has thrown up some perplexing deals over the years. In the early years of the concept in the 1980s we were treated to cultural oddities such as West Bromwich Albion's kit featuring the No Smoking logo, and Cardiff City's tie in with the makers of children's cartoon Superted. There were also the deals that would lead to shirts becoming cult classics in later years; Coventry's giant T design shirt, made specifically to incorporate sponsors Talbot, and the legendary Oxford United shirt honouring Wang computers. Even now there remains some left-field deals, such as Sheffield United's insistance that everyone should Visit Malta.

Given the ruthlessness of modern-day football marketing it is surprising to discover that the first club to pluck for shirt sponsorship in this country were not Manchester United, nor Liverpool, not even sock-tag wearing Leeds United. Instead it was those perpetual trend-setters Kettering Town. In January 1976, thanks to a 'four-figure deal' brokered by chief executive Derek Dougan, the Poppies took to the field for their Southern League match with Bath City complete with shirts bearing the slogan of 'Kettering Tyres', although the FA predictably banned the shirts within days of the match.

However, thirty years on and Kettering are continuing to blaze a trail in the shirt sponsorship with their current kit which has as it's sponsor Palestine. Thanks to a deal with Interpal, a charitable organisation who distribute aid in Palestinian territories the Nortamptonshire town has had endured a rare triple header of media coverage; featuring in the sports, business and news sections of many a paper during their FA Cup run. In other countries football can be very political, in the UK it is a very apolitical sphere and so for a non-league side to highlight the suffering of others at the expense of potential income from a local timber firm is particularly subversive.

So where will supporters' minds be come Saturday's FA Cup third round tie with fellow non-leaguers Eastwood Town? Will they be focused on the task in hand and progression to a potential money-spinning fourth round tie against a Premier League side? Or will they generally quite melancholy about the football on offer as their attention and concerns lie with the shelling and gunfire currently landing on Palestinian territories? Which strip do you choose; home strip or Gaza strip?