Go do That hoodoo That Cups do So well
by
Mickey Blue Eyes.

The FA Cup retains everything that's good in the game. (Want to know what the Rugby League equivalent is now called? Try this and avoid biting your knuckles: The Kellogs Nutri-Grain Challenge Cup. Nice one, Suits. Bet the wrestling-on-wheels fans love you for that one.) I say this despite the fact our record in recent years in the competition is about the worst I can remember. I also say it every year in the hope of banishing the Wicked Witch of calamitous results. I won't repeat the list of no-marks who have knocked us out or given us a hard time because it is probably engraved somewhere near your hypothalamus. It might also short out your sense of humour. But it is all part of the game. No point chortling when another big name gets booted out if you can't take it when it's your turn to get, well, turned over, actually. Problem is in our case we're so punch drunk at events that we're all sparring with lamp posts these days, maybe even talking to them. It all depends on your temperament. Footy's the kind of human occupation which illustrates the predicament of the species.

But The Cup really is magical and no sponsor can ever destroy that side of it or even buy into it. If the day arrives when the Suits sell out to the same level as rugby then you'll know The Beautiful Game has finally died of shame. It's bad enough the players are nothing but walking billboards and too many fans have become dessicated counting macines. Still, the competition's attraction is the sudden death aspect and that for ninety minutes everyone has a chance. At least it is until you're on the end of a wrong result……………………

Monday night, another disinterested late flick through the TV channels was stopped in its tracks by the Winter Olympic Games from Salt Lake City. A giant multi-coloured condom in a crash helmet was hurtling feet first and horizontal down a stretch of melting ice on a tiny sledge wedged precariously under its scrotum. A voice-over told me this was called "the luge." Judging by the dominant position and size of unavoidable wedding tackle I would have called it The Lewd, but what do I know? The same voice was the usual tedious combination of hysteria and exaltation. It was screaming, "………history in the making………look at that style………he's coming now!………oh LOOK!………high air temperature………slower times going down………"

Watching this event I realised that how ever long I live it won't remotely be long enough to see all varieties of human madness. Mind you, I'm the one who, years ago, took it literally when my lady told me we were going on the piste in Switzerland. I have been averse to skiing ever since.

And another thing: For fuck's sake don't bother with Chamonix. It's a sort of low-rise Salford with snow, lots of it, and ancient, creaky cable cars. Skiers are the most tiresome collection of Helly Hansen bobble-hatted broken ankle bores you'll ever want to avoid. But there's money in it. Which is why the Utah mormons bribed everyone in sight to "win" the sponsored slipping and sliding in tight lycra clown outfits. Never could understand either even the limited attraction of padded-up and helmeted ice hockey. Those goal minders look positively SINISTER, man. No wonder the heist mob in "Heat" wore ski masks. And didn't Paul Newman make a movie about hockey called "Slapshot," or it might have been "Slipshod," or even "Slopshit." Is there any funnier sight on the planet than hockey players punching the living bejaysus out of each other's padding and helmets while skating?

If it doesn't already exist, there's a great opportunity here for a sociological paper (perhaps even a whole conference) on why the Yanks want to play useless games the vast majority of the world consider faintly comic or uncivilised. Examples include the knickerbocker glory of rounders and the incredible street-fight-in-motor-bike-helmets-and-shiny-pants of grid iron. I'd even watch curling, basically house chores on skates, before I paid to see a pile of stale Yank jock straps clashing to the sound of commercials. It doesn't do to take these things too seriously. Long live the legendary Jamaican Bob Sled Team I say. Eddie the Eagle too.

Who can forget the immortal moment when Eddie, specs like Guinness bottles, finished a press conference, collected his skis, turned - and walked straight into a door? I mean, last week Texyla told me with brow-furrowed intensity that Eddie's heroic leap was the British record for the ski jump. All very well that, and laudable too, but wasn't he the ONLY Brit olympic ski-jumper? I cannot ever see Brit olympic ski-jumping recovering from that PR catastrophe, not unless we finally reactivate the notorious back to front Kirkby ski slope next to the M57. Rightly, Eddie's grinning astygmatic kipper will haunt us forever. Which is a damn sight healthier than all those frozen faced aryan heroes cavorting to the depressing sound of massed cow bells and thigh-slapping lederhosen. And don't get me started on Bavaria………………

But I digress.

Tuesday, to a well earned long lunch at 60 Hope Street with Ron the pinky, wherein we took the piss out of each other mercilessly. The waitress was bemused. Don't go there unless you are in the mood to pay stupid prices for reasonable food of small nouveau cuisine portions in civilised surroundings. In a previous life this place was called The Chauffeurs Club and on one memorable occasion the venue where I………………………ah, but that would be telling. (Yes, it has a website: http://www.theaa.com/restaurants/104580.html)

Anyway, Ron is now a pillar of respectability in what's left of scouse business life. But it didn't stop him telling the story of a midweek midwinter pinky visit to Middlesborough years ago when the game was at its nadir. Only a few hundred made the trip, one of whom for some reason had his thatch dyed green. They were promptly surrounded by mad Smoggies with violence in mind. The pinkies scored: Silence around Ayresome Park. Then, throbbing up slowly out of the awfulness of a freezing north-east mist came a dread mantra from crazed inbred Smoggies:

"You're dead
Green 'ead.
You're dead
Green 'ead."

At which, the few hundred surrounding pinkies took two carefully measured military steps away from Green 'Ead to leave him stranded like a lonesome pine tree. So loyal, these pinkies. By the time Ron finished his tale I was almost drowning in Rioja soaked laughter. Around us, stiff arsed refugees from suburban loneliness wondered what the sound of genuine human laughter was. You can't help feeling sorry for people with no roots. The irony was as delicious as the sparse food. But only a real footy fan could appreciate the story. It's like that when you've travelled through a blizzard to watch a footy match in a place where the only writ was once scrawled by Vikings. Or was it Kirk Douglas, Ernie Borgnine, Tony Curtis and sensuous Janet (stop me swooning) Leigh?

Tuesday night, and you aren't gonna believe THIS one. To the snooker club to meet Mogsy. When I get there, he's sitting in the front lounge wearing a broad grin. "We can't have our table," he said, agog with the news, "'cause Gazza's on it!" For a microsecond of wild imagination I envisioned Gazza rodding Ulrika in, no, ON, the baulk end. Inevitable reality dawned. Mogsy wasn't kidding. Seems Gazza and The Boys had been there since midday. Eight long hours. Full of foreboding, I closed my eyes. What would I do if he came out reeking of ale? When he finally appeared ten minutes later he looked fine and steady. Fast even, like Eddie in "The Hustler." I was relieved but the tension of waiting completely fucked up my game.

Then there was a Wednesday rumour of us perhaps applying for entry to the Intertoto Cup. Dunno how true it is. My only knowledge of this is that you end up playing Polish or Lithuanian fourth division teams in front of three hundred people in June or July. I can't say I approve or disapprove, actually. I have always considered it a pile of shite so I suppose we're perfectly matched one way or another. In the circumstances I suppose too it's a minor admin question as to whether we would qualify if we finished, say, sixteenth - which at the time of writing is a distinct possibility. Perhaps you only qualify BECAUSE you finish sixteenth. Somehow the prospect of playing Shmetyanuska Globetrotskiya on a wet Wednesday in Silesia doesn't exactly fill me with excited anticipation. Might be an interesting test of Texyla's ability to organise an away trip though.

[REALITY CHECK: Enron rumbles on. Some facts…………………

1. 17 of the 23 of the Yank Investigating Committee have received "campaign funds" varying between $3,500 and $100,000 from, erm, Enron.

2. Our home-grown Financial Services Authority (FSA) announced they would "………highlight the regulation of audit practices………" The FSA's managing director is John Tiner who used to be head of world wide services at Arthur Andersen, who were the auditors of, erm, Enron.

3. Next month, the Smoke hosts the Corporate Security Summit 2002. This grubby gathering of trained paranoids discuss the threat to global capitalism. That is, you trying to defend your families against "deregulated" (read: decriminalised) corporate rip off. The present agenda includes a talk on 20th March entitled, "The psychology of fear and its implication for risk management." Topics therein covered include, "Maintaining the trust of your employees"………"Judging the level of information to be divulged"………"Legalities involved in managing awareness"………due to be delivered by one Jamie Jemmson, head of security at, erm, Enron.

4. The Chief Messenger Boy personally intervened to help the construction of a gas-fired power station at Teesside, thus breaking his own government's moratorium. The owners of the station were, erm, Enron.

5. Former electricity regulator Stephen Littlechild once worked as a "consultant" for Teesside Power Limited. The leaders of the consortium thereof were, erm Enron.

6. "New" Labour and The Chief Messenger Boy got their money from Enron through so-called "sponsorship" deals which do not require shareholder authorisation. This means payments could be hidden because such deals were "business transactions, giving commercial benefits to the sponsor, it does not need to be listed separately in a company's accounts." In other words, at the time any company could buy an advantage in a political party. It is different now. But that doesn't mean you can't tell some "New" Labour apologist to fuck off when he claims there were no donations. Yes there were. De facto.

Yup, your friendly Texican carpet baggers are everywhere, not just stinking up the place in Houston and Dallas. The minute you hear "Texas" you know, just KNOW, there's a scam right behind it, always accompanied by shite about "free trade" and "entrepreneurs." Even one of the Investigating Committee summoned up the courage to call Enron's Chief Suit, the one who took the fifth like all gangsters do, a "carnival barker." But since he only accepted $3,500 from the barker I suppose that made it easier. All of which demonstrates just how much of a crook was Mark Thatcher when even the Texicans issued a racketeering warrant for him before he fled to extradition-free South Africa.

In the meantime, The Chief Messenger Boy and his accompanying sleazeballs continue to plan privatisation of the Post Office despite a pre-election promise to the contrary. In our city this will lead to closure of most of the large facilities and transfer to Warrington, that characterless dead hole in the middle of nowhere off the M62. Which in turn means needless redundancy for many hundreds of our people, all of it in the name of profits.

Then privatised Brit Airways announced nearly six thousand more redundancies to go with the thousands already announced in the wake of 11th September. Not a peep from the government and only a whimper from Morris of the Transport union. Then again, the latter gobshite is the one who sold the dockers down the river at Seaforth, as so ably shown by Jimmy McGovern in his TV writing.

"New" Labour? Oh aye yeh. There's nothing new about a bunch of toadies who'd sell their own granny to stay in immoral and unethical office. In many ways they are a good deal worse than the tories. At least with the latter you know they are bought lock, stock and smoking gun by the establishment and no two ways about it.]

By Friday The Gravedigger offered a convenient apology to Smiffy, the club and the fans. Ostensibly this puts him back in the frame for a World Cup place with Denmark. All the familiar and tiresome PR muck was delivered down the same old tired road in the same old lying sentences. The sooner he's gone, the better. Even his biggest fans have decided he's a waste of space.

On Saturday, reports claimed UEFA would bar from the Champions' League any club with an unmanageable debt. Which of course is just about everybody, but especially bollocks-deep francoist Real Madrid, sponsor: Juan Carlos. Within twelve hours UEFA HQ was denying the story. I bet they were. A pity this, since it might reveal just how rotten to the core and corrupt is the entire European footy financing network. Of course there are honourable exceptions and some countries are worse than others. Fact is, though, the game is running on financial illusion inside a floating bubble. After it bursts the mess will have to be tackled. Until then, it will get worse and worse. Unless of course the fans decide to vote with their feet.

Match day arrived bright and clear with winter eking away. That was early on. Within a few hours it clouded over and we got a cold clinging drizzle yet again. We might have known. The Cup was here and we were playing, no disrespect to Dario Gradi, a team of no-marks. Fact is of course Gradi has done a wonderful job for Crewe. Only a fool would deny it. Equally, only a fool would deny the Crewe team are mediocre second division at best.

But as I said at the beginning: This is The Cup. THE Cup, none better. Which means we were in deep doo-doo even before we kicked off, largely because you get the feeling that Smiffy has as much chance or idea of doing well in the competition as he has of ever beating one of Ferguson's teams. That is, pretty much fucking never.

No real surprises in the team. No Unsy. Gazza, Gravesen, Joe Max, Pembo on the bench. Their team was the usual second division mix of very tall front men, centre backs and goalkeeper and a mish-mash of praiseworthy journeymen everywhere else.

That was it, really. The game was plain awful. We had maybe ten good minutes at the start and then it just deteriorated into a nothing game played by nothing teams. We were as bad as them, no question. In fact their two big front men had two first half clear heading chances which they should have buried but didn't. In the second half they hit the face of the cross bar from a tight angle.

Gazza, Pembo and Joe Max came on in the second half. The Little Yank tried a couple of edge-of-the-penalty-area shots, one of which whistled narrowly past their keeper's lower right hand post. Otherwise, their keeper anticipated what few crosses we got over and took them quite well throughout.

We should have had a penalty in the second half but it plainly wasn't going to happen. Anyway, probably it would have been an injustice on Crewe.

For me there were two straws to cling to. Firstly, Clarkey got in some more turf time, though out of position at right back. He's learning slowly and surely but still needs to steady himself before delivering a cross. Probably needs to develop physically a bit more too. Secondly, Daveed got in more crosses from wide left in this game. Some of them were really notable for delivery from a very tight situation with not much time for thought but nevertheless with a lot of class. Crewe had at least two men on him every time he got the ball. In all cases the crosses went nowhere. We had nothing at all up front. SuperKev took a very bad knock late in the second half which might keep him out for a few games.

I am tempted to say our midfield was terrible once again but that wouldn't be fair. The fact is, our entire team played once again like they had just met in the tunnel. There's no point picking out scapegoats. Individually and collectively the team didn't have it. There was no coherent shape and seemingly not much will to make it otherwise, on or off the pitch. Smiffy of course is next to useless in orchestrating these encounters and we shouldn't expect anything from him. The record speaks for itself.

I hope it doesn't sound apocalyptic when I say in general the fans have now completely lost confidence that the team can deliver at any level. And by and large they are right. Nor should anyone blame them for their approach, barracking apart. They have been wonderfully loyal and patient for the most part. Difficult circumstances have brought out the best in most of them, dicksplat Melledrew Tendency apart. But now, no question in my mind, they have simply had enough. If we go out of the Cup in the replay I expect to see an overdue hæmorrhage in attendances. If you keep hitting someone on the head long enough eventually they go unconscious. Just as they finally ran out of patience with Smiffy at Blackburn, so they have now finally run out of patience with patience itself. It hasn't be dramatic but it has been quite definite.

Anybody who talks about their lack of encouragement for the players is simply unacquainted with our circumstances or just doesn't understand human nature or is plain foolish. Any pro player will tell you it is a bad player who says he needs the crowd's encouragement to play. Sure, you mostly play better with encouragement and everyone prefers a vibrant stage. But I prefer spontaneous reaction to the bollocks of an organised Nuremberg Rally so often dubbed "atmosphere." And for it to be spontaneous the crowd have to be reasonably confident of the players' reactions. It's a chemistry thing. There is no formula, not unless you copy the nazis or listen to jeering gobshites in the press.

At this match there was just nothing for anybody to get excited about. All the shouting in the world wasn't going to change that. It was a poor spectacle, like too many of our games in recent years.

Crewe well deserved the result and the replay but I still expect us to get through after a hard tussle. Smiffy and co. owes us one of these. Let's hope he isn't "disappointed" once again. If manager and team don't get their heads right they'll lose them. And they'll only have themselves to blame.

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Quotes

Lard
Reports from
Goodison Park

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Blue Kipper Star Man

David Ginola