For the first time since it’s reopening, I went to the magnificent new Wembley stadium early this weekend to watch the Wembley Cup. It truly is a stunning piece of architecture, and just about justifies it’s massive price tag when you first come out of the gangway and see the pitch, the stands, the roof and everything else that still looks shiny and clean.
However- and of course, there is a however, because this is me who is talking here- I hate it.
I actually despise it, and for one reason. Or to be more precise, one person. Said person sits in a booth at Wembley, somewhere within the stands, with a microphone. I can only imagine he gets through seven of these every match. Every six seconds he shouts the word ‘WEMBLEY!!!’ so loud that your seat vibrates. I imagine him to be the kind of person that you immediately take a disliking to after a few minutes of mindless small talk. I say small, he would probably shout ‘Nice to meet you… here… at this PARTY!!!’
If you haven’t guessed already, I’m talking about the PA announcer.
Who, by the way, must want to remain anonymous, because no matter how hard I try, I cannot find his name anywhere- and by which I mean Google.
He is a terror of a man. The ticket I obtained was a day pass for both the Celtic vs. Al-Ahly game and also Tottenham vs. Barcelona. If he had got any more excited over these two games then I can only imagine he orgasms himself to death when the first day of the season comes about. At the end of the day, it’s the Wembley Cup. This was the European champions. They were not here to bust a lung trying to win this piece of crap silverware, evidence alone being their starting line up, which contained only one member of the side that overcame United in the final in May. The way Mr PA carried on, you would think Messi had come onto the field naked and scored a goal with his erection. It’s awful.
Was that it? Was that all there was to annoy you, Hayward? No, actually, it wasn’t all. In fact what happened next simply infuriated me.
The Wembley event organisers put on a little show in between the two matches, just as Spurs and Barca took to the field. Before they could kick off, MR PA came-a-booming once more; ‘Welcome…to WEMBLEY!!! Now Ladies and Gentlemen, if you would cast your gaze to the roof here…at WEMBLEY!!!’ It’s not a fucking planetarium, you know. We’re English- if you just said ‘Oi. Look up’ we would have done it if we thought the sky was raining money or something. As it was, four paratroopers who had recently returned from the frontline in Afghanistan had lined up on the walkway across the roof and prepared to abseil to the pitch. As MR PA shouted them to start, they began their descent.
To the theme tune of Mission Impossible.
Hold on, what? It’s off the map, is it not? That’s genuinely mental, surely? These four men, recently brought home from a battle that we could safely say we have no idea who is winning, took to the skies and not only fight in our army but were expected to entertain a crowd on their return- to the theme of Mission Impossible??!! Wembley, for half a minute, took on a horrible sense of propaganda. Whenever the words ‘Afghanistan’ or ‘frontline’ were mentioned, the entire stadium applauded, but not in a encouraging and heartfelt way, more as if Wembley had put strings on everyone’s hands on entrance. It felt fake, dirty. And overall, horribly wide of the mark.
Wembley is a beautiful place, and is a lot better run than the old stadium when it would take at least a week to get home after a game. The food is expensive, but who thought it wouldn’t be? But overall, the whole marketing of the place is totally foolish. A football game is no longer a football game anymore, it’s a PR exercise, a theatre. A crowd is apparently not entirely happy with seeing their team play anymore- we have to have fireworks, stunts, things blowing up, and most of all it has to be shouted at us through a microphone from a little man who at the moment, is the World Hide and Seek champion. Should I ever seek him, though, please tell the court that the murder was just.
16 July 2009
Flog - I'll make you an offer you cannot refuse...Clive
This week I refuse to talk about anything Manchester City are doing, apart from the fact that they are building a team of super-strikers and only need to give them all Captain Planet style rings to make one hell of a TV show. I would watch, and I know you would too.
This edition of Flog is devoted to mediocre players. Players that do a job, fill a hole, come on as a sub to waste time. Players you like (or liked) but would never seriously consider getting their name put on the back of your shirt, however this factor also includes Jan Venegoor of Hesselink. We’re in a recession, for Christ’s sake.
Mediocre cannot mean shit either. We’re not taking into account players like Eric Djemba-Djemba here, and that’s also two weeks in a row he’s been mentioned in Flog, so pride should, nay, must be oozing from his talentless head. Nor can it mean unsung heroes, such as Ole Gunnar Solskjaer, who never fully got the praise he deserved as one of the best finishers the Premiership has ever seen.
Ultimate mediocre players; Egil Ostenstadt, a player who took ‘lean goals tally’ to new levels, but seemed to bag a couple of important ones for Southampton and Blackburn when it counted. Neil Redfearn, somehow once labelled ‘captain fantastic’ when playing for Barnsley, he later went on to waddle around aimlessly in a Charlton shirt. Martin Pringle, another Charlton plain Jane, scored more goals in the few months he was on loan at the Valley than for the rest of his top-flight career, and he looked like he never washed. David Howells- even had a mediocre name- fits into our ‘does a job’ category very nicely. Daruis Vassell, shit-hot for England when we needed him to be, but not a top flight finisher. Recently been released by Manchester Ci….ahhh!
Stig Inge Bjornebye has a shot at being the best ever, seeing as he was relentlessly played by Roy Evans during the period Liverpool could ‘boast’ Phil Babb as their best defender and yet still look terrible. Ruel Fox is a man many Spurs fans do not believe existed and was merely some sort of déjà vu of a fat Aaron Lennon. Jesper Blomkvist, the greasy Swedish winger, is wearing a United shirt in the photo on his Wikipedia page (take a look, it’s beyond hilarious) like a jilted boyfriend trying to convince his true love that he still thinks about her. United do not imagine Anderson is you at night, Jesper. They have moved on.
Clive Mendonca! This is getting brilliant now. His surname warranted some sort of Mafia style nickname, like ‘The Don’ or something, but it was when people realised his forename was Clive that his edge was immediately wiped out. Charlton’s hero simply for the Playoff Final against Sunderland, but the name simply shoves him into this list.
And who remembers Danny Tiatto? The only man under 3ft to ever play football professionally. It seemed his only appeal was that he played more like a boxer than a winger, and he could take a wicked free kick and penalty. Good and indeed bad enough for the list.
Kevin Gallagher. Worryingly overplayed by Blackburn, I will always remember his name with utter discontent. Many a Saturday afternoon, sitting at home, I would be forced by my thirst for football to watch a terrible Scotland international qualifier against someone like, I don’t know, The Azerbanistahn Isles, and see Gallagher being marvelled at for his goal scoring ability. He played against postmen (but still scored goals- so he’s in).
I cant pick a winner. Nor can I continue because a) it could go on forever and b) I still find myself giggling at Clive Mendonca every so often.
This edition of Flog is devoted to mediocre players. Players that do a job, fill a hole, come on as a sub to waste time. Players you like (or liked) but would never seriously consider getting their name put on the back of your shirt, however this factor also includes Jan Venegoor of Hesselink. We’re in a recession, for Christ’s sake.
Mediocre cannot mean shit either. We’re not taking into account players like Eric Djemba-Djemba here, and that’s also two weeks in a row he’s been mentioned in Flog, so pride should, nay, must be oozing from his talentless head. Nor can it mean unsung heroes, such as Ole Gunnar Solskjaer, who never fully got the praise he deserved as one of the best finishers the Premiership has ever seen.
Ultimate mediocre players; Egil Ostenstadt, a player who took ‘lean goals tally’ to new levels, but seemed to bag a couple of important ones for Southampton and Blackburn when it counted. Neil Redfearn, somehow once labelled ‘captain fantastic’ when playing for Barnsley, he later went on to waddle around aimlessly in a Charlton shirt. Martin Pringle, another Charlton plain Jane, scored more goals in the few months he was on loan at the Valley than for the rest of his top-flight career, and he looked like he never washed. David Howells- even had a mediocre name- fits into our ‘does a job’ category very nicely. Daruis Vassell, shit-hot for England when we needed him to be, but not a top flight finisher. Recently been released by Manchester Ci….ahhh!
Stig Inge Bjornebye has a shot at being the best ever, seeing as he was relentlessly played by Roy Evans during the period Liverpool could ‘boast’ Phil Babb as their best defender and yet still look terrible. Ruel Fox is a man many Spurs fans do not believe existed and was merely some sort of déjà vu of a fat Aaron Lennon. Jesper Blomkvist, the greasy Swedish winger, is wearing a United shirt in the photo on his Wikipedia page (take a look, it’s beyond hilarious) like a jilted boyfriend trying to convince his true love that he still thinks about her. United do not imagine Anderson is you at night, Jesper. They have moved on.
Clive Mendonca! This is getting brilliant now. His surname warranted some sort of Mafia style nickname, like ‘The Don’ or something, but it was when people realised his forename was Clive that his edge was immediately wiped out. Charlton’s hero simply for the Playoff Final against Sunderland, but the name simply shoves him into this list.
And who remembers Danny Tiatto? The only man under 3ft to ever play football professionally. It seemed his only appeal was that he played more like a boxer than a winger, and he could take a wicked free kick and penalty. Good and indeed bad enough for the list.
Kevin Gallagher. Worryingly overplayed by Blackburn, I will always remember his name with utter discontent. Many a Saturday afternoon, sitting at home, I would be forced by my thirst for football to watch a terrible Scotland international qualifier against someone like, I don’t know, The Azerbanistahn Isles, and see Gallagher being marvelled at for his goal scoring ability. He played against postmen (but still scored goals- so he’s in).
I cant pick a winner. Nor can I continue because a) it could go on forever and b) I still find myself giggling at Clive Mendonca every so often.
9 July 2009
Flog - Ready? *Ahem*... 'G-Owen Places'. Eat that.
One day this week a British newspaper, which will remain anonymous, let’s just call it The Moon for extra discretion, dished out a copious amount of shitcake regarding football transfers. In total- and oh yes, I did count- it listed eleven transfers which were almost certainly, definitely, undoubtedly going to happen within the very near future. Eleven. And do you know how many have been followed up? Of course you do. Because I wouldn’t ask ‘and do you know…’ in such a patronising way unless we all knew the answer was sweet bollocking all.
And after pretty much every paper in the country ripped the piss out of Michael Owen for having to release a brochure to relay his appeal both in football and apparently modelling (‘good-looking` were the odd words his advisers used), they have all started to celebrate the rebirth of his career under Sir Alex Ferguson. Having said this, it was hilarious. The thought of Premiership managers across the land sifting through holiday brochures with their wives on the sofa, only to come across Owen’s sparkly face on the front of what can only be described as a Bible of marketing craziness is very appealing to me. In my mind I have also called the brochure ‘G-Owen Places’. I reject your groan and choose to ignore it.
The point is, absolutely nothing is happening in football at the moment, other than Real Madrid reportedly making a £100m bid for Saturn and one of it’s moons in a swap deal for Arjen Robben. It’s not true. But I bet you’d start watching La Liga on Sky Sports if it was.
So what to do? I can’t stand pre-season friendlies, seeing as managers consistently complain about a jam packed fixture list in the season proper and ‘burn-out’ of their stars, it seems a bit counter productive to wear the fuck out of their players by sending them to Japan to play a team of school children in the hope of selling a couple of extra shirts. What’s annoying is that it usually works and only makes me jealous that my own team are not loved enough in a foreign land for them to accept us at the airport and treat us to their local culture. Bitterness, bitterness, bitterness.
So here is the bulk of this edition of Flog; a ‘this much I know’ about football at the moment.
1) The more excited and emotionally involved Jamie Redknapp is with a game he is providing punditry for on Sky Sports, the more open his legs become and the more he points his girth worm at the camera. Check it out if Liverpool vs. Spurs is shown live. Those trousers will burst.
2) Real Madrid and Man City will not inherit the Earth because they have splashed a bit of cash. As far as I can see, Robinho is the only world-renowned player that has joined City since the Sheikhermakers came in. As for Real, well, have you seen what happened to the world’s ‘boom’ phase of the economy? I’m not saying in three years we’ll be seeing Raul on the streets eating beans, but he might have to…I don’t know…sell a couple of houses, or something.
3) Betting on the side you don’t support in a game against the side you do does not constitute ‘win-win’. I have had to deal with the consensus that ‘if we win, I’m happy, but if we don’t, I still win money’ for far too long, and my argument is that you are English. Whatever the result is, your perpetual state of disappointment will always make you wish the opposite had happened.
4) You can taunt terrorist victims. You can fight in night clubs. You can burn youth teams with cigars. You can commit robbery or assault. You can speed. You can binge drink. All of which you can get away with being on page 8 of The, er, Moon, but if you can in any way, however loosely, be referred to as a ‘Love Rat’, you make proper headlines. Film it, too.
5) Tom Huddlestone can effortlessly kick a football about as far as I can run without getting out of breath. Too much.
6) Jamie Carragher has the loudest scream ever heard in football. The match I refer to comes from last season when Liverpool travelled to West Ham. Annoyed at Dirk Kuyt’s less than energetic attempt to track back, Carragher turned round and bellowed what can only be compared to the scream of a woman in the company of Sepp Blatter.
7) Fabio Capello is the man to lead England to World Cup glory. But he won’t.
Can’t be bothered with anymore and what’s worse is that this final sentence won’t contain any punctuation so I’m going to dump you straight back into whatever the hell else you were doing before you read this nonsense so therefore it really hits home how bored you must be BYE.
And after pretty much every paper in the country ripped the piss out of Michael Owen for having to release a brochure to relay his appeal both in football and apparently modelling (‘good-looking` were the odd words his advisers used), they have all started to celebrate the rebirth of his career under Sir Alex Ferguson. Having said this, it was hilarious. The thought of Premiership managers across the land sifting through holiday brochures with their wives on the sofa, only to come across Owen’s sparkly face on the front of what can only be described as a Bible of marketing craziness is very appealing to me. In my mind I have also called the brochure ‘G-Owen Places’. I reject your groan and choose to ignore it.
The point is, absolutely nothing is happening in football at the moment, other than Real Madrid reportedly making a £100m bid for Saturn and one of it’s moons in a swap deal for Arjen Robben. It’s not true. But I bet you’d start watching La Liga on Sky Sports if it was.
So what to do? I can’t stand pre-season friendlies, seeing as managers consistently complain about a jam packed fixture list in the season proper and ‘burn-out’ of their stars, it seems a bit counter productive to wear the fuck out of their players by sending them to Japan to play a team of school children in the hope of selling a couple of extra shirts. What’s annoying is that it usually works and only makes me jealous that my own team are not loved enough in a foreign land for them to accept us at the airport and treat us to their local culture. Bitterness, bitterness, bitterness.
So here is the bulk of this edition of Flog; a ‘this much I know’ about football at the moment.
1) The more excited and emotionally involved Jamie Redknapp is with a game he is providing punditry for on Sky Sports, the more open his legs become and the more he points his girth worm at the camera. Check it out if Liverpool vs. Spurs is shown live. Those trousers will burst.
2) Real Madrid and Man City will not inherit the Earth because they have splashed a bit of cash. As far as I can see, Robinho is the only world-renowned player that has joined City since the Sheikhermakers came in. As for Real, well, have you seen what happened to the world’s ‘boom’ phase of the economy? I’m not saying in three years we’ll be seeing Raul on the streets eating beans, but he might have to…I don’t know…sell a couple of houses, or something.
3) Betting on the side you don’t support in a game against the side you do does not constitute ‘win-win’. I have had to deal with the consensus that ‘if we win, I’m happy, but if we don’t, I still win money’ for far too long, and my argument is that you are English. Whatever the result is, your perpetual state of disappointment will always make you wish the opposite had happened.
4) You can taunt terrorist victims. You can fight in night clubs. You can burn youth teams with cigars. You can commit robbery or assault. You can speed. You can binge drink. All of which you can get away with being on page 8 of The, er, Moon, but if you can in any way, however loosely, be referred to as a ‘Love Rat’, you make proper headlines. Film it, too.
5) Tom Huddlestone can effortlessly kick a football about as far as I can run without getting out of breath. Too much.
6) Jamie Carragher has the loudest scream ever heard in football. The match I refer to comes from last season when Liverpool travelled to West Ham. Annoyed at Dirk Kuyt’s less than energetic attempt to track back, Carragher turned round and bellowed what can only be compared to the scream of a woman in the company of Sepp Blatter.
7) Fabio Capello is the man to lead England to World Cup glory. But he won’t.
Can’t be bothered with anymore and what’s worse is that this final sentence won’t contain any punctuation so I’m going to dump you straight back into whatever the hell else you were doing before you read this nonsense so therefore it really hits home how bored you must be BYE.
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