THE
SPIV AND THE SUIT GET IT ON
“Whut gurd’s a track without a trine?”
MERLE HAGGARD – Yank country and western song.
By
Mickey Blue Eyes.
It
was cold during the week, very cold. Temperatures plummeted, snow
fell and freezing winds swept through the population like a meteorological
plague. In the east and south of the country the worst affected areas
seized up in a plethora of snow and slush. The forecasters did their
job and got their forecasts exactly right. So naturally citizens everywhere
expressed amazement as the infrastructure ground to a halt, their
cars slid off the road and privatised infrastructure firms saved profits
by taking next to no action. It was the annual Brit winter circus.
An entire country slapped an open palm against its forehead, hitched
its useless uninsulated clothes, shivered and said, “Duhhh,” at the
thought that winter is not just cold, but VERY cold. It was utterly
hilarious.
Thick
loon after thick loon crowded radio phone-ins to blame everyone and
everything but their own dearth of common sense. Some of them, and
I ab-so-lute-ly kid you not, invoked something called the Dunkirk
Spirit. Invariably they had a whining, grating Lahndan metro accent.
Hardly anyone wondered why the rest of northern Europe copes with
a change of seasons while Britain slip-slides to a halt. Then again,
in freezing temperatures the rest of Europe doesn’t wear short-sleeved
shirts with useless and ugly paper thin “fleeces” with a turned up
collar. It goes without saying the latter has all the style of a crushed
budgerigar. At all levels Brits are culturally incapable of understanding
the difference between climate and weather. It will never change until
we have a meteorological disaster on the scale of the 1963 winter.
By
glorious chance Merseyside was in relative clover. On match eve we
had open blue skies and clear sunshine for half the day. It was invigorating
if you were suitably prepared.
But
if lack of preparation and irony was a currency, you could get rich
on the combination of Terry Venables, Peter Ridsdale, Leeds United
Football Club, and the all-white strip they copied from up-to-their-necks-in-debt
Real Madrid. Guess which club is also up to their necks in debt NOW.
They all deserve each other.
Venables
and his management methods have always lacked taste and style. Anybody
who carefully researches his record will turn up the kind of uncomfortable
questions which only lawyers can deflect. Mere plausibility looms
large where he is concerned. A short stay and quick exit is almost
obligatory. Every occupation has its erudite snake oil salesmen. One
presumes it is only a matter of time before he ends up in a Guy Ritchie
film with Vinny Jones.
Nor
have I ever had much regard for Leeds. Under Don Revie in the sixties
and seventies, they kicked their way out of the second division and
into the top of the first division. It was as out-and-out an ugly
sight as you will ever see in sports. They were the bully-boy thugs
of the English game. Following years of ugliness they had maybe two
good seasons of attractive footy before subsiding into mediocrity
and then relegation. This was prefaced by allegations of corruption.
Revie fled the country with the allegations in hot pursuit. Somehow
it all seemed fitting. That miasma has always clung to them like wet
mist in a swamp. Even when they had great players you always felt
that somehow, somewhere, they would cheat.
For
all that, the present wrecked playing situation at Elland Road has
less to do with Venables than the financial system threatening The
Beautiful Game everywhere, us included. That, plus administration
and ownership of the Yorkshire club. In one respect Venables is merely
a logical product of the system. Like all chancers all he does is
help perpetuate it. Just over a year ago this is the very club many
in the media (and some misguided and uninformed fans) presented as
a worthy example. Virtually all of that is now seen as the hyped-up
lying muck it always was. It gives me no pleasure at all to be able
to say, “I told you so.” There’s too much at stake for EVERY club.
We all know it.
Nor
should we forget how they were playing a few years ago. For a fleeting
moment it looked as though they were about to bury their long established
awful reputation. Some of their footy was inspired. I recall a superb
4-4 draw with them at GP during that spell. But even that period was
triggered by Bunger Graham before David O’Leary gradually lost control
of the situation. See what I mean? Somehow the miasma covers everything
they do. It won’t go away.
In
fact what is happening at Leeds is a footy tragedy every bit as awful
as the ITV Digital scam. The only consolation from both events is
perhaps the lessons have been salutary for all fans, owners and players
alike. But it will only be properly cathartic if everyone acts accordingly.
We live in hope. Quite possibly the English game will stumble along
and splinter yet again. You have only to consult events in Scottish
footy. That is the logical conclusion to all the “free market” claptrap
unless we understand we are all in this together. The main lesson
is not that no man is an island but that we all live on the same island.
Lord Of The Flies is not an option to civilised people. Replacing
amateur bunglers with professional spivs is not my idea of improvement.
Meanwhile,
lurking in the background is the equally grubby Scab Cowboy G14 Group
cartel waiting to scavenge off the remnants. Go read their website
if you have any doubts on the matter.
It
could so easily have been us too. Few of our fans have the slightest
inkling of how close we came to financial disaster toward the end
of Peter Johnson’s ownership of our club. Johnson is a classic example
of a self-made man as product of unskilled labour. None of us should
forget his bid and subsequent ownership were both supported by the
Echo and the Daily Post. A thick hack-clerk at the latter rag still
referred to Johnson as “Magic Johnson” a few months before he was
jettisoned by history. And Johnson’s shenanigans mean we are still
very far from out of the woods. Our foreseeable future is still mortgaged
to the financial institutions. We and others can only break out of
the cycle by a combination of (a) a national dawning of common sense
and movement away from present financial anarchy, and (b) relocation
to a modern stadium and reduction of our debt.
At
least we didn’t end up like Leeds. Not yet anyway. Another adjustment
of majority ownership/board of directors is required before we can
feel like we are truly on top of our administrative problems. My instincts
are this will take place during the next eighteen months.
The
dangers are still there of course. Example: some will recall an alleged
former interest in ownership expressed by somebody connected with
Rage Software. Well, that firm are on the verge of collapse. They
might well have gone under by the time you read this. If that lesson
doesn’t burn its way into your consciousness then nothing will. Which
is why it is ludicrous to spend money we don’t have. Unsurprisingly
the aforementioned Daily Post hack-clerk once urged Bill Kenwright
to borrow to the hilt to buy new players. All of which puts into proper
perspective the current achievements of David Moyes and the board.
These might seem modest but if you knew the full story you would realise
just how important it is in the history of our beloved club. Given
our financial situation our current league position speaks for itself.
At least it does to those with common sense and good will.
This
was all thrown into even sharper relief on match eve when Ridsdale
and Venables held a media conference to announce they are/aren’t going
their separate ways. Or something. The double talk was as almost as
comical as Ridsdale’s initial assurances on Venables’ appointment.
Both of them looked and sounded like barrow boys selling second hand
crockery in Great Homer Street Market. They even vaguely look like
each other. That is, fat and ugly. Venables said something like, “I
might be leaving. Then again I might not.” In right wing jargonshite
this is termed “pragmatism.” Actually it is merely a chancer spiv
indulging mere opportunism to his own advantage, subsidised by everybody
else. Revie did the same thing when he bolted the England job without
notice. Ridsdale said they had “…………lived the dream,” whatever the
fuck that means. What he actually meant was that the Suit owners of
Leeds (do your own research on this) couldn’t run a piss up in your
local pub, that the so-called five years business plan was nothing
more than an amateur gambler’s guesstimate of which horse race is
fixed, exactly like the stock exchange. They guessed wrong, as did
the pinkies with Who?llier as croupier. Revie-Ridsdale-Graham-Venables,
the circle is complete. Yeuk.
We
assembled in Crofts on City Road before the game. Personally I wouldn’t
visit again unless I was accompanied by my pet tarantula. If you have
to go make sure you bring your patience with you. It would be preferable
too if you cauterise your best sensitivities. The “service” at the
bar is complete shite, well in keeping with everything else. The bar
staff have the capability and brains of a herd of rocking horses on
marijuana. I especially recommend you steer well clear of a dopey
fat barmaid with a tight white top who uses the word “stumickkkk”
a lot and whose idea of serving is to tell the entire planet “……how
fuckn pissed was I arrarf five this mornin’.” If it hadn’t been for
the company I was in I would have been outside gulping down vast quantities
of clean, fresh air. Gawd but it was dire.
There
was some light relief however. New gags were everywhere. The two I
remember went like this:
1.
Question: have you SEEN who the ‘shite are after durin’ the transfer
winder? Invariable response: No. Who? Answer: Everton.
2.
Christ, did yerrear about Rooney’s bust up with Li Tie at Bellefield?
Fuckn dead serious la. Rooney battered shite outa ‘im. Moyesy ‘ad
terrun over an’ pull dem apart. And then he dragged Rooney aside and
said, “Look, what was all that about? I’ve TOLD yer to stay out of
trouble.” An’ Rooney said , “If that twat calls me Loony again I’ll
punch his fuckn lights out.”
Alas,
no Rooney in the team or on the bench. As usual Moyesy rightly kept
faith with those who delivered. By our recent standards we even had
a reliable bench. Leeds still had a reasonable team on the park despite
the “for sale” signs hung around their necks. I expected a draw.
This
time it took us all of eight minutes to carve out our first opportunity.
A neat Unsy-Macca left wing combo got the latter to the byline and
he pulled a terrific pass into Stevie’s unmarked path and it got smacked
narrowly over. It should have been a goal really and Stevie’s reaction
said it all.
The
first half was another ragged and untidy affair relieved only by some
quite neat footy by Leeds. While their play flowed they looked like
one pass from a breakthrough. (Funny…………where have I heard something
vaguely similar?) Fortunately they were limited to a couple of chances
which got smothered by the defence before they could get them on target.
For all their flicks and pass and move stuff via Kewell and Smith
they didn’t threaten Wrighty’s goal directly. They made most progress
down our right where the Stevie-Sandro combo isn’t as solid defensively
as Slaphead-Tony, or Nace-Unsy on the other flank.
During
the first half our midfield put on one of its horror displays. As
usual it was the passing. Or lack of it. No problem at all with effort
and chasing, tackling and harrying, only the lay offs and final passes.
Look, I know you’re sick of reading that but it’s true. I have no
idea why we should be like that some times and not at others. Moyesy
has though because they were a different proposition in the second
half. Which was just as well because I had the distinct impression
that if we had let the first one in we wouldn’t have pulled it back
against a determined defence.
While
the play was scrappy and essentially as boring as fuck, Dicky Mint
was busy explaining how innocent were he and Ozzy before being ejected
from Bolton’s ground. Apparently some local bint identified them as
Evertonians and that was enough to have them thrown out. It was entirely
believable because the story was repeated elsewhere by others. Not
only that, the whole notloB experience is so awful nobody with any
sense WANTS to revisit the place except to set it on fire and thereby
do the human race a good turn.
As
the game deteriorated somebody said, “We’ll win this 3-0,” and before
I could stop myself I heard my voice saying, “If we win this 3-0 I’ll
show my arse freely in Lewis’s winder tonight at half eight.” Dicky
Mint said, “Fuck. I feel nauseous already,” and Ozzy said, “I’ve seen
enough of your arse to last me a lifetime.” Suddenly I felt uneasy.
Our section of me beloved Lower Street End takes no prisoners and
accepts no excuses. And I remembered that these days we always have
at least one potent spell of play in every game. Oh shit.
Over
in the away fans section somebody held up a banner reading, “LUFC
not PLC.” Another one started off, “Lies United…..” but I couldn’t
read the rest. So the penny has dropped amongst them as quickly as
the Leeds share price. A good thing too. The sooner it spreads to
everyone else the sooner we’ll get our game back. Not that they found
much sympathy in the Street End. Every now and then a pitiless chorus
broke out of, “One Peter Ridsdale, there’s only one Peter Ridsdale.”
This was supplemented with a second half one-liner directed at Alan
Smith, “Sold in the mornin’, you’re gettin’ sold in the moooooorninnnnn’!”
What goes around comes around.
Frankly
I was glad to get to half time without letting one through. Surely
it couldn’t be so bad in the second half?
Nor
was it. Within minutes The Rad’s pace skinned their entire left side
defence and he got clear onto an Unsy long pass and, glumly, as usual
hit it wide with only the ‘keeper to beat. But we were back in business.
You could tell this because suddenly Gemmo-Li Tie were winning and
passing the ball accurately. You wondered what Moyesy had said and
done at half time. Leeds were reeling, apart from occasional moves
down our right side. Sadly for them, Kewell seems more intent on Flash
‘Arry stuff these days, while Viduka (constantly referred to as Fuckn
Verruca by a nearby denizen) seems as interested as a blancmange.
It
was only a matter of time. Ten minutes into the half The Rad got through
in exactly the same fashion as his miss and got downed by an ex-pinky
defender, a clear penalty even though the referee was way behind play
because of The Rad’s pace. The linesman gave the penalty. Unsy bladdered
it home and Leeds completely collapsed almost immediately, especially
in midfield where Gemmo-Li Tie were an exact reverse of their first
half form.
More
incessant pressure had Leeds pulled all over the place. The second
arrived after ten more minutes when a neat triangular move on our
left ended with Li Tie knifing a pass through to The Rad left side
penalty area. As usual he scorched the defenders and was left clear
with only the ‘keeper to beat. I thought, “The daft bastard’s only
going to miss again.” But immaculately he slotted it right footed
and it was 2-0.
In
the row in front Dicky Mint and co. turned around in perfect unison
and grinned wickedly. “Mick, what bus you gettin’ to Lewis’s?” asked
Dicky kindly. And then, “Bet the old sphincter’s twitchin’ like fuck
now ey.” I maintained my dignity in the face of severe provocation.
Out
on the pitch The Rad was murdering their back four on the right, on
the left and through the middle. Meanwhile, Leeds did their best to
kick Unsy up in the air every opportunity they got. I counted three
such occasions and each time Unsy just got up, dusted himself off
and took the free kick, the Chelsea lesson seared into his brain.
SuperKev
came on as sub and almost walked right through their left side defence
before the ‘keeper fell on the ball in sheer desperation.
So
we won and won well courtesy of an excellent second half display.
You know, I’d give anything to be present at one of Moyesy’s half
time talks. It must be like verbal Viagra.
After
the game we repaired to Wetherspoons. Wherein I prevailed upon Lard
(fresh from a three week holiday in Oz) to recount again the Saga
of The Cane Toad Race. He swears it is true even though you won’t
believe it for a minute. In this, he attended a licensed establishment
which stages said event. The rules appear to be fairly sparse but
those in place are quite stern. As the tale unfolded I couldn’t help
remembering the Ozzies I know and how they would be dabbing tears
from their eyes at how some Poms can be suckered into anything.
First,
a little background. It appears the Cane Toads were introduced in
sugar cane fields to feed off crop pests and save the harvest. Nature
took its natural course and said toads eventually overran the place.
Further uses had to be found for the creatures. Hence the “races.”
According
to Lard, the rules are:
1.
All the toads are placed in a bucket. They are identified separately
by racing jackets.
2.
The human participants sit around the bucket and draw lots for selection
of their toad.
3.
Each human then picks their toad out of the bucket and places it on
a table. You have to kiss the toad before placing it on the table.
Each human is fully equipped with one of those party tooters, the
extending ones with a feather on the end.
4.
When all the toads are in place a race organiser blows a hunting horn.
At this, each human blows his party tooter until the feather tickles
the toad’s bum and he leaps away sharpish, the way you would. This
is called, and I shit you not, “blowing the toad.” The toad who leaps
furthest is declared the winner.
That’s
the theory. Reality always intervenes. For instance, Ian, scared shitless
by toads (is this toadaphobia?), picked his toad (named Fat Bastard
by the race stewards) up by its neck instead of under its forelegs.
The hapless creature naturally and promptly shit itself everywhere.
Lard has not yet confirmed if Ian was STILL obliged to kiss Fat Bastard.
Anyway, while everybody else was busy blowing their toads in the advised
fashion, Ian’s concentration had completely lapsed and he was blowing
his tooter at a baleful and unmoving Fat Bastard’s nose.
There
are three important lessons to learn from Saturday’s events. They
are these:
(a)
NEVER in any circumstances offer to show your arse in Lewis’s window.
(b)
NEVER trust an Ozzie. Just punch them in the mouth immediately and
tell them they’re all related to convicts. It’s the only thing they
understand. Trust me.
(c)
David Moyes can walk on water. I saw it again personally against Leeds.
Roll
on Charlton.
Quotes
Moyesy
says: "There were good performances all round again
but I thought Tomasz Radzinski was always involved in a lot of the
things we did. He seemed to be always in the game. He went through,
he missed a chance when through on the goalkeeper - putting the ball
past the post - then he gets through and is brought down for the penalty.
Then he gets a great ball from Li Tie, a reverse pass to set him up
and then in the last minute he nearly had a tap in from Kevin Campbell's
pass so all round he has made a great contribution. It wasn't just
his goal. I think his workrate and his effort is exceptional at present."
