Euro Bash
By
Mickey Blue Eyes

Of course it would have been nice if our islands Celt cousins could have been at the Euro 04 tournament. Unfortunately all of them failed to make it because their footy resembles extreme excreta. You know, a bit like Guinness. All that Hibernian “fervour” come to grief, tsk tsk. No Bravehearts, no hywlled-up Welsh, no “Molly Malone” on the high street. Oh well. Somehow Europe and the rest of the world will have to get by without them.

Traditionally, major footy tournaments start off with a dud game – and there’s no question in advance Portugal V Greece looked like a turkey of ostrich proportions. Sure enough, it was. The Greeks won deservedly after the laconic Portuguese gave the ball away twice in vulnerable positions and then the Foot Flutterer raced back to cover and tripped an Helenic attacker with the kind of precision which completely escaped his crossing technique all game. Penalty, second goal, game shot. Most of the time the crowd looked and sounded as though it was ready to burst out snoring. Out there on Hydra they must have been smashing plates all night, lousy game or not.

Later in the day Spain and Russia bladdered each other in a relatively frenetic match that yielded eight yellow cards and a sending-off despite it not being a dirty game. Mostly the referee was right as both sides indulged in a fractious contest in midfield. The Spaniards collared the game when their substitute came on and promptly scored with his second touch while the Russian defence stared at each other long enough to write a very long Crime-and-Punishment-sort-of-novel. It was altogether a much more interesting game without ever having you out of your seat. The Spanish were their usual mix of class, strength and maddening playing discord, while the Russkis looked sharp on the break but badly short of ideas in the final third. Plainly the capitalist experiment has proved no more successful than the totalitarian communist experiment, though it has produced Roman Abramovich in a baseball cap, tee shirt, asinine grin and crooked billions in offshore accounts. In the end the Spaniards were full value.

I had started for once with the mid-day TV previews on both BBC and ITV. Usually I can’t be bothered with these pieces of anodyne tripe because they bore me witless with their long statements of the obvious, and pundits you wouldn’t have for conversation at your nipper’s sixth birthday party table. Still, relatively, the Beeb remains streets ahead of their opponents despite Gary Lineker’s attempts to melt whatever’s left of his marshmallow personality. But anything’s better than the appalling Gabby Logan (née Yorath) on ITV, a woman who appears to be in the process of having the first joined-up chin and nose in the history of genetics while her mouth flaps behind them like a hyped-up rip in a Wellington boot. Last time I saw a face like that it was the witch in Snow White.

The actual pundits are beginning to work as parodies of themselves, though it’s a welcome change to see ex-pinky Hansen has ceased yelling at everything and everyone including the ash tray on the coffee table. Incomprehensible cockney Ian Wright wore a pair of unironed dishevelled curtains for the occasion and talked through the lower parts for most of the time. The only one who seemed to have a fundamental grasp of English and reasonable conversational courtesy was the Dane, Peter Shmeichel. If Garth Crooks gets up himself much more he’ll be scratching his ear. Needless to say all these hypist windbags forecast virtually everything wrong. Most times you get more sense from your mates before they get pissed in the alehouse. Laugh at them, people, then turn the sound off so you can watch match clips in peace. Mock the narcissistic overpaid divvies mercilessly. Gawd knows they’ve got it coming.

For the first match the TV commentators were Barry Davies and Mark Lawrenson. For the second, John Motson and Mick McCarthy. There wasn’t much in it for comedy aficionados of TV chat techniques. Barry sounds like Winnie the Pooh with piles and Motty a second hand computer salesman from Bedford. Where, you ask yourself moaning helplessly, are the footy equivalents of Bill McLaren, Peter Alliss and Richie Benaud? Still, they are easily better than the ITV crew, of whom Peter Drury is the kind of hysterical spittle-covered character you wouldn’t want loose in a zoo in case he scared the monkeys. But even he pales in comparison to a total arsehead named Matt Smith………or it might be Matt White………or even Matt Emulsion………whatever, this is the kind of TV self-licking “personality” you yearn to put through a mincer and then a combined harvester in top gear. No question, we footy fans are badly served by TV commentators, hardly any of whom seem to have conquered the knowledge that it is a visual medium and we don’t need comments like, “The ball’s cleared” or “That’s a header he’s just made.” After a lifetime of watching the game we can make that kind of deduction ourselves.

Second day, another stinker, this time as bad as it gets, with Switzerland V Croatia. The least said about it the better. Two narky, niggly teams of birdbrains kicked, elbowed, tripped and pulled shirts to their hearts content. In the end I went and did some painting.

Then the one we all wanted. The biggy. England V France. On ITV the commentators were Clive Tyldesley and Bobby Robson, in the studio Des Lynam with the spiv Venables and Gareth Southgate and loquacious cockney “Irishman” Andy Townsend. Actually, the only ones to spoil it were Tyldesley and Venables. Des has reclaimed his BBC persona and is all the better for it. More power to his elbow as he seeks to shake off loony ITV hysteria. During the match Tyldesley went from bad to worse but Bobby’s aged gravitas was a decent counterweight. In the studio Venables did his usual impression of a barrow boy on heat while Southgate essentially said the only way to defend against Henry was to, well, not turn up actually.

From first to last the French oozed class and deserved their win. But not before England gave them the fright of their lives and took them trailing to the closing two minutes of added time. It took a free kick and a penalty to beat us, both from Zidane. Feature of the game was the unhurried French pace maintained even as the grim reaper approached. All great teams have this, which is why they score so many late goals.

It opened a bit ominously when Trezeguet glanced a header narrowly over and then just missed connecting with a Zidane chipped up-and-under. Then England got back into it through the midfield play of absolutely indomitable pinky Stephen Gerrard, easily man of the match and a huge fillip to every other England player. Lampard and Beckham took the cue and started to play things around too. This meant the French started to get niggly, particularly Vieira, always a sure sign they’re on the collar. Meanwhile Henry was noticeable only by his invisibility. Inexplicably, so was the Hawarden Terror. We began to get into it even more. The Duke once again showed his virtually impregnable self-confidence and physical strength by taking on two or three players when the opportunity presented itself, or by tackling the nearest Frenchman with the ball.

As the half wore on Ledley King and Sol Campbell completely snuffed any penalty area threat and Zidane was reduced to hopeful long range chips into the box. Where said centre backs dealt with everything easily. For long spells it was us doing the multi-pass thing. Confidence built up and then told seven minutes before half time when Becks sent one of his special free kicks fizzing in from wide right and Frank Lampard crowned a superb display with a matching header from just right of the penalty spot and it bulleted in. In midfield only Paul Scholes was fitful at wide left.

Second half, the balls fell off us for maybe twenty-five minutes. You could see Our Boys struggling with the heat and French superior class. Yet still the Gauls created not very much at all. We began to get our second wind and got back into the game again. Then Rooney muscled a defender wide left on the half way line and barrelled his way forward before getting bowled over in the penalty area. Penalty. Becks hurried it and Barthez saved it illegally, three metres off his line and diving to his right before the kick was taken. But all ‘keepers do this without suffering the consequences. You could see it lift the French; perhaps death wasn’t inevitable after all.

Into the closing added three minutes and previous substitutes were inevitable for us. Everyone looked shattered. Hargreaves, Heskey and Vassell came on to bolster a midfield/defensive effort. I wish someone could tell me what talents Owen Hargreaves has because they completely escape me every time. For some vague reason he reminds me of someone called Stephen Hughes. Eventually amidst intense pressure the unfortunate Heskey gave away a free kick five metres outside the box, slightly right. Doubtless he’ll get pilloried by his detractors but in truth it could have been anyone. The free kick was a gimme to someone like Zidane and sure enough it whistled in magnificently with James completely unsighted. There was a minute of added time left. Then, of all fucking people, man of the match Gerrard made a loony loose back pass, James illegally downed the invisible Henry and Zidane smacked the penalty away. It was a terribly cruel way to lose but nobody sane could argue with the result.

It was a great and gallant effort from England and their youngsters.

Should you bump into a Phoney Celt – that is, not a REAL one – just tell the curmudgeonly gett to do one. “They” couldn’t even make it, while it is still there for Us. Roll on the next match.(14/06/04)

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