Euro Mélange
By
Mickey Blue Eyes

Tuesday night, all time underdogs Latvia 1 V Czech Republic 0, twenty minutes to go and Clive Tyldesley the awful ITV commentator said, “It isn’t going to happen you know,” meaning a Czech comeback. Two minutes later the Czechs equalised and went on to win 2-1. Some people never learn.

Same night, Les Boche drew 1-1 with Les Têtes du Fromage after late substitutions turned the game in favour of the latter. Before figuratively I could jam a slice of Edam into his gob Motty the Beeb commentator said the Germans played with “Teutonic thoroughness,” thus giving away his generation. In fact the Germans played rather neatly and cleverly until the subs came on and should have had it well won by then. Apart from the last ten minutes the Dutch played like a bunch of sulky spoiled brats and tried to unnerve everyone with some disgraceful tackling and fouls fit enough to jerk the recipients sideways out of their lederhosen, never mind their jock straps. When this happened and Aryan bodies hit the ground at regular intervals you couldn’t help thinking “Deutschland UNTER alles.” But I do wish the Jerry fans would stop handclapping in unison and then shouting, “Sieg!” It reminds me of Lenni Riefenstahl. Or something. Not to mention John Cleese.

The previous day had featured the worst tackle of the tournament thus far when Totti of Italy almost amputated some Dane’s leg with “timing” so late he would have missed the last cable car. Later he spat at one of his opponents and got suspended. Another typically crap, fear-ridden Italian 0-0. Then Sweden battered an unfortunate and unlucky Bulgarian side 5-0. Our Toby had a good undisturbed game in the smorgasbord midfield while Larsson scored two against a defence that played like………well, like a Jock defence, actually.

Still, by the time Thursday rolled around the tournament had shaped up a little better but hadn’t yet produced a great game. All of which demonstrates we are overdue a vintage tournament, either continental or world. That’s if any of the players can bother their arse to go at it full tilt. In the meantime one looks at a DVD of the 1970 World Cup tournament with longing.

Interested fans from our studio repaired to a venue on Victoria Street wherein dwelt a large screen and a virtually empty bar full of sofas and easy chairs. Bliss, none of the standard Brit bar struggle to get served by some humourless snarler behind the bar. Our crowd consisted of a mix of devoted footy fans and the other half-who-couldn’t-really-give-a-shit Formula One fans plus Eammon (yes, it WOULD be Eammon) from Cork, Ireland.

Ours was the first game on Thursday during the heat of the afternoon. Fear and temperature were doubtless the cause of a contest you wouldn’t wish on a dogs home. Misplaced passes went neatly with the understandable lack of physical intensity. For the first quarter of an hour the Yodellers were all over us and got corners and free kicks that whistled near but (with one exception) not quite near enough. One Swiss fan in the crowd wore the skin of an upturned udder on his head, which drew the comment of “Quadruple dickhead” from one of the sofas. During the first phase of play we had eleven dickheads out on the park being slalomed by the mediocre Swiss in a match of unbending ordinariness. Ian said, “This gives shite a bad name.” How true. A stadium packed to the gunnels with England fans almost went to sleep. But it was a great sight to see flags and banners from every part of the country. There was even one from sleepy old oo ar Somerset, which in the circumstances was entirely appropriate.

There was a flutter of unexpected excitement when Bernt Haas lived down to his unfortunate name and got sent off for little more than an over excited mistimed tackle. It was a foul alright but why the ref could be bothered with the energy of another card was beyond me. The game was almost bucolic.

By that time we were already in front with bloodyhellaheadedgoal almost inside the goal area from The Duke from a short, close-in left wing cross from Michael Owen. It was a well worked goal from a move started by Steven Gerrard in our half. Rooney promptly gave himself some real exercise by doing a rotating handstand on the right wing. You could almost feel the relief flooding in from Victoria Street to join the yelling loonies in the bar, of which I was one. I was delighted for all three of the local scoring participants. Gerrard because of the cruel fate visited on him V the French, Owen because I begin to suspect injuries are just beginning to take their toll of a great player even at twenty-three, and Wayne because……………er, do you really need telling? Meanwhile, the TV commentator – I can’t remember which arsehole it was – was having the standard overhyped media kittens over Rooney’s goal. Us, well we know he’s capable of a lot better. Wait until he scores one of his specials. Christ, you’ll have to call a doctor for the media.

The Swiss promptly went to hell in a hand basket. Even then they might have got an equaliser from the odd burst of determination. Really, it was a walk over from that point. Gradually our midfield got on top of the job until even they couldn’t screw this one up against ten men. Once again Steven Gerrard was the leading light. Gawd knows where we’d be without him.

Rooney got a second after a move developed down our right and Becks and others played it across and there was The Duke left side, his favourite scoring location, bafflingly unmarked – for some reason all match the Swiss fell hook, line and sinker for this left-side conundrum of ours – and he took a couple of paces and struck it perfectly right-footed beyond a covering defender and the ‘keeper. It hit the post, came back, hit the ‘keeper on the head and rebounded mercilessly over the line. Quite appropriate to the match really.

Later, we got another right wing break and Becks played a superb low level crossfield ball straight into the path of bafflingly unmarked Steven Gerrard on the left and closing in the penalty area. And he banged it in without ceremony. That was it.

Highlight of the next game, France V Croatia, was in the TV studio. With the half-time score at 1-0 Hansen said, “Och, all France need to do is step up a gear an’ they’ll win by three goals.” Within six minutes of the restart the Croats were winning 2-1 and battering the living daylights out of the reeling French. You prayed for it to stay that way even if it put our group progress up for grabs, but Trezeguet got a late equaliser. A good game and one that sent a clear warning not to take anything for granted on Monday against the Croats. Once the Balkans teams get their national shirts on the recent civil war gives them an energy and collective skill they don’t get at club level as foreign mercenaries. They might yet prevent us going any further.

Following the England success you didn’t have to be very perceptive to forecast what would happen. Sure enough the media went Rooney Mad and hyped up a game and display that any sensible individual knew to be less than acceptable. Wayne was the scoring star but this kind of hype is unhealthy for everybody, especially, but ESPECIALLY, the young man himself. He does indeed have the sports world at his feet. He always has. He just doesn’t need the media to make it any more slippery than it already is. Make your bets on which journos are on the take from various agents as they try to talk up a transfer. No wonder we wouldn’t inconvenience a pig sty with a visit from your average journo.

Regular readers will know I warned precisely of this after first seeing him as a schoolboy, including the stupid comparisons with Paul Gascoigne. Anybody with any prescience at all would have said the same. Fortunately, the young man has a good family and strong roots behind and under him. He’s different. And better. The week also saw his first genuine TV interviews and he came out of it a deal more level headed and down to earth than the media gobshites interviewing him. It was a pity to hear the standard PR clichés from him but that’s the way it is now. It looks as though he has been hugely helped by Steven Gerrard in that respect. Give the stupid bastards the words that keep them employed and nothing more.

I have no idea if we can hold on to him much longer than one more season. It’s entirely up to himself. He can sack his slimy agent Paul Streftford if he wishes or tell him what he wants him to do on his behalf. Even if he signs an extension there’s absolutely nothing to stop someone bidding for him at any time. There’s absolutely no point whining about this because that’s the way the game is nowadays. Even Figo went from Barcelona to Real Madrid and Becks from the Mancs to the same Harlem Globetrotters. So, sensibly, what chance do you think we have of holding on to him in our present like-everybody-else-up-to-our-bollocks-in-debt situation? It would be the same whichever club he was playing with. Scott Parker didn’t leave Charlton easily and nor will Wayne Rooney leave us without a backward glance if and when the time comes. I still think he’s here until at least the end of next season if only because he’s not yet experienced enough in life to survive a long spell away from home. It will be different in a couple of years. In the meantime the media and our very own Melledrew Tendency will work over time on the matter. For his own sake I hope he takes the right decision. And a lot of our fans will have to grow up too.

After the Swiss game Eammon took a lot of teasing. Someone said, “How did Ireland get on tonight,“ and he said, “They weren’t playing” – actually he said “Dey wurnt plyin’” – and then added, smiling, “Like youse lot.” See, REAL Celts have a great sense of humour. Not like the Plastic version at all.

Roll on, Monday. Bring me death or bring me glory. (19/06/04)

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