Central Defensive Blackholes and Rain Man Record Keeping

THIS. IS. SUNDAY.
Inspired by the bored antics of Chris Mann and Tom Goulding on their Eurotrip:
http://www.thefootballramble.com/index.php/blog/entry/sketches-of-spain
I've decided to dabble with a bit of former, obscure West Bromwich Albion players from my time frequenting The Hawthorns.
First up we have:
Tony Butler

What a goldfish-eyed central-defensive monolith this man was. I don't want to belittle the man as he has reached a level of the game I could but hope to reach, but he was such an average second/third tier player his name should become a byword for 'does a job'. Currently playing, aged 38, for Alfreton Town, he began his career with Gillingham before notching up a century of games with Blackpool, darting across to Port Vale and that's when Gary Megson came calling. He was one of four deadline day signings in the year 2000, yep, we rushed to sign this guy. What more did you suspect from the be-gingered maestro, Meggo? There's not much I can say other than I remember his name being called out in the first eleven (he played seventy games for us) but I never actually remember seeing him play. I know, boring as shit, but there is one player I bet no one who is reading this now, bar the odd Albion supporter, who even knew this fellow existed. That's it, load up your brains with this knowledge shake. I'm giving it to you for free.
I realised yesterday that on FIFA, Pro Evo and Football Manager I have signed both Andre-Pierre Gignac and Marko Marin for my teams.
Gignac is the epitomy of a classic Number 9:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=oOdTg-6AixI&feature=related
While Marin is a rodent-like winger come playmaker of the highest quality:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Hu-mal3vCPg
I bloody love this pair.
Alice Rosie Wilson (Girlfriend. Mexican Raven. All round quote machine.)
Harry Redknapp was on ITV during a post-match interview, talking about his side's spirit and professional attitude in keeping out the hyper-talented AC Milan forward line. My girlfriend points at the screen, the same way a baby does when it sees a home video of themselves playing in the dirt and utters these words: "Who is that fat, swollen article? His face looks like a floppy ballbag." I don't need to say anything else. Case closed.
I have spent the last hour and a half with a ruler, a biro and six exercise books, drawing lines and jotting down headings. No, it's not the year 2001. There is no need to fear. That school days world of unintended erections and six wanks-a-day are not making a return. I have merely been indulging in one of my favourite past-times. Record keeping. If you are still with me and haven't closed the tab in sheer disgust, first of all, thank you and secondly, please allow me to explain. I am rarely interested in stats in football. Bar the posession statistic, I nurse semis over Barcelona's plus sixty posession percentage on a regular basis. Unless it's a particuarly intriguing statistic I find them rather useless in a game that's played by human beings with all their faults, creativity and notable ability to do the unexpected, sublime and romantic. However what I do love to do, and have always loved to is record scores, goalscorers, league tables and transfers of players. Do you remember LMA Manager? Fucking superb game. I used to be all over it like a wet flannel. I would dream of walking home from school, grabbing a Drifter and a Yazoo (Strawberry) and resuming my season with Bradford City FC. I managed them for seven seasons, leading them to two cup finals and Premier League mid-table stability. However, I wouldn't just play the game. I would have an A4 pad next to me and I would carefully note down the scores and who scored the goals. I would jot down the entire league table for the week and when I made a transfer, in or out, I would jot that down in the 'TRANSFERS' section. Please, for the love of God, don't ask me why I get such a gentle thrill from this process but I do. Starting next season I am going to catalogue the results in full, league tables weekly and top goalscorers/assist-makers etc from the top six leagues across Europe and no one's going to stop me. Maybe it's the feel of the paper, all crinkly once I've written a full page out. Maybe it's the actual process of further committing the scores to memory, making the moment when these games are still fresh and important last longer, or maybe I'm just one giant geek who has seen too much in my twenty two years on earth and this maniacal, pointless recording is my subconscious's way of coping. Either way, I've never told anyone about this queer fetish of mine but now you all know. Feel free to recoil in horror next time you see me. I'll be the one ringing a bell, shuffling about in rags.

Double loves, yours infitatum, @Johnny_Rudge

Boners, Sailors and Pirates

Nautical - Football porn COMBINE! You'll see why. Please, continue...
In this post I'm hoping to accurately summarise some of the wayward thoughts that have drifted through my mind regarding the week's football action. If you are expecting strong opinions or tactical breakdowns, you're in the wrong pub Jimmy. Go over the road to that minimalist wine bar, for all you'll get here are flaggons of my finest mind froth. Taste the pain.
Monday saw Blackpool hosting an all out of sorts Chelsea. I'll tell you what was in sorts (I know, I don't know what I'm writing either) was David Luiz's barnet. That shit is splendourous. Not only that but it sits on the head of an elegant, cultured centre back, the likes of which the Premier League has been lacking for far too long. I pitch a tent every time I see a centre-half reading a through ball, nipping in front of a striker and then gliding forward before spraying a delicious 40 yarder to the winger. David Luiz does this on a regular basis, for truth.
Back to the out of sorts though. Fernando Torres is currently ignoring the idea of scoring goals and is wholeheartedly concentrating on perfecting his new trademark look. The downcast eyes, hands on hips look. It's all he seems to do. Admittedly he ocassionally attempts to control a ball before having to lumber after the inevitable miscontrol and then reaching for a twenty yard shot that was never there, only to see it bounce of a defender or watch as it sails straight into the keeper's size: Large Sondicos.
Let's take a break from all this actual watching of matches malarky and concentrate on one of the truly important elements of the game, the kits.






France's new away shirt has been released and has recieved much criticism for looking like a dandy sailor's shirt and combining the release with photos taken by Chanel owner Karl Lagerfeld. I'm going to scream one sentence at people who have been mocking: "WHAT ON EARTH DID YOU EXPECT FROM THE FRENCH?!?!?!" I don;t know about you but I'm a complete bastard for nations living up to stereotypes and I'd expect nothing less from those lovely, little Gauls. I like it. I shall buy it. I shall wear it to five-a-side. I shall return from five-a-side with a pulverised face.




I suppose we'd better talk about the tosh we all had to sit through on Tuesday night. What a load of rubbish. I was this close to breaking out my complete boxset of Bruce Parry's award-winning 'Tribe' series but I peservered and managed to sit through the ninety minutes of Barcelona vs. Arsenal. Of course I tease, it was wonderous from Barcelona, as it always is. The splendid chap known as Greg Theoharis can fill you in if you're not down with what these guys from Catalonia do: http://gregtheoharis.wordpress.com/2010/12/01/barcelona/
As I watched the game, France's new maritime attire at the forefront of my mind, I came to gaze upon a metaphor. Both of these sides are akin to swashbuckling pirates of olde. All about style, flamboyancy and doing things with a criminal swagger because that was what their code demanded (thier code also included raping, pillaging and homosexual relationships aboard stinking, rotting galleons but banish those truths from your mind. Please. Thank you). However, as Barcelona kept the ball away from Arsenal, popping the ball about with unparralleled panache it was clear that they were two very different types of pirate. The Spanish pirate, bedecked in the finest jewellery: Champions Leagues, Copa Del Rays and La Liga titles very recently pilfered. Their swashbuckling technique perfect, concise and pristine. The rapier with which they strike is sharp and cuts down opponents with relative ease. They were dueling with a pirate who has fallen on hard times, whose crew are on the verge of abandoning ship through a notable lack of booty. The Captain of this ship, usually so inspiring and steadfast is making uncharacteristic errors as they do battle. I gazed upon this metaphor and there was an inevitable outcome: Barcelona, the more accomplished Pirate would come out on top and have Arsenal walking the plank eventually. Thus it came to pass that eventually the North London side would succumb leaving Arsene Wenger bemoaning a very harsh sending off (although the man in question, RvP could have been sent off for an old fashioned 'face-rake' earlier in the game) and injuries. His half-time rallying vry of "They don't know how strong we are" sounded inspired as they pulled a goal back but his Al Pacino-esque efforts were not to come to fruition.
On a lighter note here are some other observations:
A.) Adriano had the worst game I've seen a Barcelona player have for quite some time. He lacked the ability to look up and actually pick a player out, too often did he stumble past Sagna and just play the ball across the goal without picking an individual out.

B.) Manuel Almunia resembles a Slowpoke.
'nuff love homeslices.

@Johnny_Rudge - Hit me up on Twitterex and I'll give you a verbal high-five while dolphins leap over us in the clear moonlight. Seriously, it will rock like Vietnam.

Sick Day

I woke up this morning with the undeniable urge to throw my stomach lining up.
(If that's not one hell of an opening gambit I don't know what else you guys could want, that is a top tenner).

After trying to rally for a while I made the decision to crawl back into bed until the next wave of nausea hit me. After an hour of the toilet shuttle run (Note to self: Potential game show) I made the phone call to the boss and she made the inevitable sarcastic, unbelieveing, unsympathetic groan of "Oh dear, will you be in tomorrow though?"

After another two hours stewing under the covers, muttering expletives to myself I managed to supress the need to go potty for long enough to slink downstairs in my duvet and check my Sky Plus planner. I felt a warm sensation fill my chest, and this time it wasn't another batch of stomach bile. I had recorded the Italian football from the free weekend on ESPN. Being too poor to plump for the full ESPN package I had contrived to eke every single ounce of free football available to me and recorded pretty much a day's worth of football action ready to watch throughout the week. I hadn't seen any of the scores from the Italian weekend so that added a bit of spice to watching the game. I opted for Inter vs. Genoa because I have a crazy man-crush on Leonardo and Genoa are an old favourite of mine having guided them to the Serie A title and Coppa Italia final on FIFA a year ago.

Apart from being a fairly interesting, nicely paced game to watch I noticed a number of things I'd like to have noted.

1. Javier Zanetti looks and plays like a football player from the sixties.
His immaculately side-parted hair, his high cheekbones and rigid jawline plus his slightly shorter-than-everyone-elses shorts combine to give him the appearance of someone playing back in 1963. Also his slightly formal running gait and his very deliberate first touch and turning on the ball all seem to elicit memories of black and white highlight reels. I can't help but imagine this badass Italian, pulling up in a Triumph TR4, signing some autographs for screeching females, sparking a woodbine and donning a pair of sunglasses before sauntering into the changing rooms. All I can say is that I am a massive fan of this and would like to see a lot more modern players looking like they are playing old fashioned football. The End.

2. Samuel Eto'o is one of the world's best players.

He has proved with his goal record that he can put the ball into the back of the net with ease on a regular basis: 201 goals in 285 club appearances. That's a cracking strike rate, not to mention his better than one in two record at international level. But what strikes me most about the man from Nkon, Cameroon is his continued level of pace, skill and spacial awareness he displays whenever I see him. A good many African players see their careers take a dramtic downturn as they hurtle towards thirty as their main weapon, their pace, begins to wane. Samuel Eto'o however, after undergoing a resurgence under Jose Mourinho at Inter Milan, where he was moved out of his default role of 'on the shoulder' striker to become a winger, almost, who did a great job working back for the team and supporting the midfield and often the wing-backs. This was a master stroke from the 'The Unshaven One' no doubt but Eto'o displayed a versatility many before have ignored, or chose to ignore. Watching the game against Genoa, the African forward was in sparkling form, picking the ball up, running at players or picking out a precise pass. He has a superb passing range, much better than he is given credit for and is always aware of the space and the players around him. Of course he got himself on the score sheet too but his work in and aorund the box, bringing Inter's other talented players into play really brought home what a great all-round footballer Samuel Eto'o is.


3.Yuto Nagatomo and the Underrated Japanese Football Nation.
The much talked about full-back made an appearnce as a substitute in Inter's game against Genoa and considering he was only on the pitch for ten minutes or so he made quite the impact. Within his short time on the field he managed a shot that stung the keepers hands and then produced a smart turn and accurate shot which gave him his first goal in Italian football. This goal led to one of the greatest and ball-chokingly awesome celebrations I've seen for time, dawg.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2FWnuVh6xzI

His energetic display lifted the last ten minutes of the game which unusually for an Italian game didn't fizzle out but saw both teams continue to create chances. That last line annoys me somewhat which is stupid because I wrote it. What a doofus. But seriously, too often are Japanese players, and I'd like to throw South Korean players in here aswell, as energetic players. As though all they bring to the game is the ability to run and run but it's all to make up for technical deficiencies in their game. I love watching South Korea and Japan in Internationals because nearly every single player in their squad has a desire to move the ball forward, they play without fear and technically there are very few natons in the world that have such a consistency in their ability with the ball. Nearly every Japanses and S.K. player I've seen have had a crisp first touch and a great eye for a ball. When you combine this with an unparralleled work-rate and a professional attitude I don't see why these players are so reguarly ignored in European club football. Sure, I'm generalising here and I'm confident there are many below average Japanese and South Korean players or players who are massive cock faces like Ashley Cole or Mario Ballotelli but with Ryo Myachi, Arsenal prodigy, lighting up Eredivisie stadiums at the moment, Nagatomo producing magic at the San Siro and Ji-Sung Park proving to be every neutrals favourite Man. Utd player for me this is a group of players that we'll see a lot more of in the European club landscape over the next few years.

4. Mauro Boselli scored. What.The.Fuck.

Seriously. WHAT.THE.FUCK.

Anyway, what I found most appealing was that Italian football has always held a sense of homeliness to it. I know you're thinking shut the funk up you pretentious earwig, you are from Brandhall in a backwater of Birmingham, England. Hear me out though. I've always got up at stupid hours in the morning ever since I was about eight, don't ask me why eight but it seems that was the age when my body decided sleeping in was for losers. Getting up early on Saturday mornings I used to make myself a bowl of Rice Krispies (I don't know what I was thinking, they're a poor choice of cereal) and watch the last ten minutes of some show about the Old Testament and then eagerly await the opening bars of that infamous theme tune:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kHXfHFNlJ_w

So, I think it was the fact that I wa sill and in need of some comforting, the pussy that I am, and so sitting in front of some Italian football made me feel that little bit better.
Cheers, Italian football. If you were a girl I'd give you a hug and hope to touch a bit of boob as we released from the hug. Great stuff.

"And he winds up a speculative shot..."

Hola fellows.
There appears to be a thick layer of dust settled on all of the old electrical appliances and some rangy spiders loping about the place but with any luck I'll hoover them up over the coming months.
I've called this post "And he winds up a speculative shot..." because I'm a bastard for football commentary and also because this return post is a rather speculative effort at re-immersing myself in the world of football writing. I've been away for a while, if you ask where I may well let me gaze drift skyward for a few moments and then drag a bottle of Captain Morgan's across the desk and pour myself a double.

I have been babbling away on Twitter however, hit me up @Johnny_Rudge for some ABOSLUTELY SMASHING BANTER LIIIIKE! And while tweeting away there are a number of things I've wanted to elaborate on past the now mythical 140 character limit.

I work a thirty seven and a half hour job, seven am to three pm and so balancing a social life that includes at least three trips to the pub, seeing my lady friend every night and trying to write something interesting enough to throw in your faces can prove quite a challenge. I've decided to get organised and set myself a writing rota. Why am I telling you these mundanities? Because I'll forget if I don't.

So every Sunday, Monday and Thursday I'll hit you with a short blog just to fill you in on what has caught my eye in football over the preceding days. If anyone out there in this barren landscape known as the inter-web is still reading then I hope to see you knocking about the place again. Richard Sneekes has grown terribly lonely over the past few months.

Let's not leave him alone again, he's broken all the Meccano, practising his half-volleys.