Fat Madrid and Richard Sharpe hangs out with Avram Grant

HOLA! As you can guess from my radical foreign language skills I'm going to have a little type about 'El Classico' that went down at the weekend. I'm not going to pretend to be an expert on La Liga but if I were a betting man I know where I'd be putting my money for the Spanish league title this year and I'm glad I would be putting it on a team with the kind of ethos Barcelona have. A club of the people, out to entertain the people with majestic football. Watching the boys in blue and red move the ball around in a fashion akin to a living, breathing, heaving piece of art against a team I didn't think could be bettered in pure footballing terms, Arsené Wenger's Arsenal, was my highlight of the year. Then to see them go up against a Real Madrid team, as overloaded with big names as they have ever been, and not even have to move out of first gear to seal a convincing win left me with the knowledge that I am now in possession of the kind of memory that my Dad and Grandad have spoken about to me many times. I now have something real to hold on to and tell my children and grandchildren about.
John Jr. (I'm not decided on whether to name him Jésus or Apollo yet so we'll go with that):
"Daddy, you are so awesome and radical and bodacious in every way. Pray tell, what was the best team you ever saw play the beautiful game?"
Me: "Son, it was Pep Guardiola's Barcelona side. They were one of the few teams who could lay claim to making the beautiful game truly beautiful."
John Jr.: "Dad, you rock so much. Can we go and fire my BB gun at a picture of Didier Drogba again then go for a swift pint of lager beer?"
Although Real were simply outplayed and outclassed in every way, one of my overriding feelings regarding the derby was how disappointing they were. They looked sluggish, almost burdened by their star signings. While Barcelona looked balletic, moving organically as one being; Madrid looked like a heavy goods vehicle trying to navigate a slalom course designed for a Fisher Price tricycle.

Rather than reaffirming my mild hatred for the club, it made me feel sorry for their genuine supporters who have watched the club fall into such a state, while still trying to claim the title of best club in Spain. Surely, even the most devoted Madrid supporter can accept that they just look like an ageing heavyweight who really shouldn't be trying to fight the inevitable decline.


I love the idea of Portsmouth FC as a kind of band of rag-tag Chosen Men a la Bernard Cornwell's Sharpe winning against the odds and the uniform class and quality of superstar players.

http://www.guardian.co.uk/football/blog/2010/apr/11/portsmouth-avram-grant

Uncle Avvie, really does deserve the mantle of terrace legend that the Pompey faithful have bestowed upon him for not only sticking by a club that he clearly holds dear as they navigate their way through choppy waters comparable to the kind of choppy waters seen in Homer's Oddyssey but for giving them a half-decent chance at lifting some silverware this season. Quality manager, quality bloke, I just hope he can wipe the permanently smug look from off Didier Drogba's permanently smug face that sits on top of his permanently smug torso, that in turn is attached to his permanently smug pelvic base... You get the idea.

Below is a picture of Avram Grant being a total badass and firing one of his many exocet missiles at Didier Drogba who then poos himself. Look, he's done so much poo. Bloody hell.

My final thought:
Did you know Alberto Aquilani isn't a name, it's an ancient Italian phrase meaning 'outrageously long human'.

Promotion, Disillusion and Realisation

I've been a bit too over ambitious I think. I'd been trying to be a serious football blogger, writing lengthy odes to coaches and players I love. Trying to write essays and critiques of playing styles and the state of the game today. Quite frankly, that's why this blog had been dead on it's feet for a while, to use a football analogy (and what the hell it's a football blog, why not?) I'd been trying to make Lincoln City play like Barcelona. I haven't the skill nor the time to write Guardian Sport Blog-esque posts so from now on I'll just whack down whatever musings I can.

The first of these musings I'm going to put into words on this fresh start for 'Steven Carr...' has to be about my hometown club and the team I've supported ever since my emigration from The Red Devils Infant Fan Club aged 10, and since that day I've proved somewhat of a lucky charm to my beloved Baggies. That was the year Meggo did the impossible and kept an incredibly lacklustre side in the old First Division before laying the foundations of a Premiership club at The Hawthorns. That's another very long story for another day however. We've just been promoted again, guaranteeing ourselves automatic promotion with a 3-2 away win at Doncaster (one of my favourite Championship sides this year). I watched it the result flow through in a pub after having just signed a contract on a house with two good friends, it was a warm, early April day so that first pint I was supping at the time was utterly delightful. Yet as I watched the fans flood on to the pitch and our backroom and coaching staff rush on with them I felt somewhat numb. I must say this is my overwhelming feeling over the course of the entire season. A kind of detached, numb feeling towards a club that have made me cry with happiness and binge drink in disappointment over the last ten years. Why?

While trying to think of the answer I ran through several theories. I only made the trip to The Hawthorns twice this season due to a lack of funds, the first game of the season against Newcastle was paid for by my blogging brother John Tipper. Maybe the lack of community spirit and watching my team in the flesh created somewhat of a gulf? I have yet to warm to Roberto Di Matteo, I even despise his nickname which sounds robotic and on second thoughts maybe that is a perfect nickname for him because in his attempts to sound like a poor man's Jose Mourinho he just comes across as someone completely devoid of passion, looking only to seal three points. I openly admit I am a dedicated devotee in The Church of Mowbray but not only am I bemoaning the loss of our side's dedication to entertain at all costs but with Big Tone I felt that he believed in the club, in the fans and in trying to create a philosophy of West Bromwich Albion whereas I feel Di Matteo is using the club as a stepping stone to his dreams of taking the reins at Chelsea. Maybe it is the fact that all but the most pessimistic of supporters has been expecting promotion since the day we were relegated last season? To be honest it's probably a combination of all these things. But you know what?
I am absolutley buzzing about the prospect of enduring another seaosn of nail-biting, binge drinking, ecstatic celebrations, boing-boinging and most likely crushing heartbreak come May. Albion 'til I die, and all that eh?