Steven Gerrard: Destroyer of Worlds

In trademark running, pointing and shouting pose

He was my North, my South, my East and West, My working week and my Sunday rest,
My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song;
I thought that love would last for ever: I was wrong. 

The stars are not wanted now: put out every one;
Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun;
Pour away the ocean and sweep up the wood. 
For nothing now can ever come to any good.

The Perfect Storm

Football, famously, has no end. A match is gone in an instant, a season soon forgotten and even an era fades. For its followers the lack of ultimate victory is its beauty, for its detractors its futility. No team will ever win, no match will lead to any final conclusion. In the absence of such closure, it is only natural that we point to the game itself: maybe football can never be won, but perhaps it can be perfected. So from Cruyff’s total football to Barcelona’s tiki-taka, via the catenaccio of Italy's extraordinary era, we search for greatness. We search for a sign that a team can play the game, and win, in a way that seems unstoppably, unrelentingly perfect. The ideal game of chess, the mathematical formula that guarantees domination. Yet whenever a team seems to verge on it, they are derided. When perfection appears attainable we yearn for the excitement and beauty of imperfection. The irony is that when a team nears the ideal, they immediately distance themselves from how we really want football to be: fundamentally and magnificently chaotic.

The Good Ship United II

Ander couldn't remember the last time he had seen land. Confined to his small cabin, he had grown restless in the windless seas, but beg as he might for an oar or the watch, he wasn't yet trusted with such a duty. Instead he spent his days buried in his books in the quarters, or occasionally playing cards with Juan on one of the benches which lined the deck above. He had made the mistake of begging the glowering captain to reconsider his uses once before, met only with a pregnant silence before Van Gaal had muttered “What a stupid question. Below decks with you”, and returned to pouring over his endless charts with his Dutch clique, whispering quietly in a strange and ugly tongue.

Wayne's Enterprises

This is a real photo.

It is a sad truth that if Wayne Rooney had broken his leg at 23, like Paul Gascoigne before him, he would be more loved by the English public than he is now; on the verge of becoming our record goal scorer. It is a dark irony that if one cannot live up to the expectation the fans demand, and the perfection they themselves undermine, castigation will follow. Being very good but not achieving greatness is worse than being unexpectedly good when mediocrity beckoned. Because, as Harvey Dent tells us in The Dark Knight, “you either die a hero or live long enough to see yourself become a villain”. Wayne Rooney is our flawed protector, a man destined for perfection who didn’t quite achieve it, but who still toils to save England again and again and hold us back from the abyss. On Saturday, earning his 100th cap, he dragged us back into the game against Slovenia. People laughed because he scored a penalty. He consistently drives us to tournaments we have no right of reaching. For this he is derided as a player who fails to perform at the very highest level. While Rooney, like Batman, is not perfect, he is the best we have. Yet our brute Wayne, like Bruce Wayne before him, will never be recognised as the hero he is. This is not his fault. It is ours.

Land of Hope and Glory

Fear can hold you prisoner. Hope is Wayne Rooney.

Halfway through The Shawshank Redemption Morgan Freeman’s Red looks up at the newly imprisoned Andy Dufresne. Driven to cynicism by his seemingly endless incarceration he drawls, in his inimitable way, “Let me tell you something my friend. Hope is a dangerous thing. Hope can drive a man insane”. It is an enticing philosophy: better to live in the emotionless vacuum of hopelessness than dream and have those dreams destroyed by crushing reality. Normally, I would agree. Normally, I revel in boundless cynicism, building barriers of sarcasm and pessimism which mean any event can be met with a wry smile, a knowing shrug. Yet maybe we live in a World which needs a little more hope. Once we had politicians who promised us the stars, dared to dream that we could build Jerusalem in England’s green and pleasant land. Now they are preoccupied with the imaginary evils of immigration, haunted by visions of invading Romanians who never actually come, and seemingly we lap it up. After all, recent elections prove that about a third of us are racist – and according to UKIP the other two-thirds are Sharia espousing Islamic fundamentalists. Hope died in the elections last week. And now, the final straw, we are told we cannot even hope against hope for England to win the World Cup. The one misguided dream we all share every four years has been shattered by the incompetence of our players and a culture in which we fear the worst, rather than pray for the best. No more. The time has come to dispense with fear and seize the hilarious, naïve and misjudged hope which only football can bring. England can end the hurt. England can win the World Cup. Roar.

The Beautiful Game

"Football is the most beautiful of all the arts. Because it is art. Art is about spontaneity. The quest for spontaneity is fundamental in art and football expresses it best."
Eric Cantona

I suspect the reason I write at monotonous and pained length about why football is more than a game is because of a chip on my shoulder. While my friends discuss art, theatre and music I only really have the ability to talk about the nuances of the late 1990s Leicester City team. Maybe my desire to elevate football is because of my own inadequacy, my lack of ability to comprehend why van Gogh is lauded as a master while van Persie is disparaged as just another sportsman. Maybe I write about ideas because they don’t require any research. Or maybe, just maybe, I, like Eric before me, think football really is an art. Or at least that it gives me the same wonder and pleasure as more established arts give my more learned friends. It is, after all, the beautiful game; a semi-improvised theatre that captivates billions week after week after week. So, to borrow my favourite thing to say when lagging behind in galleries: It is magnificent, but is it art?

The Good Ship United

Wayne makes his escape

The first sign of trouble was Ashley Young hitting the deck. Of course, as Robin knew, this on its own was not remarkable; but there was something about the anguished screams of his colleague that suggested all, this time, was really not well. It was then that he felt it. A great shudder as an iceberg carved a chasm in the hull of the Good Ship United, knocking the hapless crew to the deck. As Robin picked himself up he saw water flooding the ship below, as fires broke out all around him. Young had toppled theatrically into the ocean and, with a look of complete serenity, sank meekly into the waves below. The ship was going down; United was sinking. Robin looked in despair in the chaos around him, desperately hoping for a hero in the darkness. Rooney, however, had jumped ship at the first sign of trouble, and could be seen paddling rapidly away in the distance. Robin would have to be the hero himself. He would have to shoulder responsibility now.

Arsene in the Sky with Diamonds

As Arsene slowly worked his way through the mazy corridors of the Emirates, freshly back from the game, he could muse on a strong day’s work against Fulham. It was, he thought, a little bit good, non? His side had purred to victory against the mighty Cottagers, he had finally silenced his doubters; he was right, as he had always known he was. Yet as he took his seat in the boardroom his was met with stony faces all around. Kroenke, Gazidis and Usmanov met his gaze sheepishly; an elephant hung in the room. “Arsene”, stammered Stan, “we need to talk. One victory doesn’t make a season, we still must strengthen”. Arsene, as was his apt, looked perplexed. “What are you saying Stanley? My boys were a little bit perfect. They have the quality non?” he said, as Carl Jenkinson tripped over a step outside the window. “Yes, but Arsene, we need a defensive midfielder, we need steel at the back”. Wenger paused to fill his small glass with absinthe, and as he drained it a thin smile crossed his Gallic lips. “Say no more monsieur, we will make an offer for Cabaye in the morning. 10 million and un, of course”. Stan glanced at Ivan, who took up the theme with desperation in his voice. “No Arsene, we don’t need any more mercurial attacking midfielders, we need a centre back, a leader”. Wenger looked quizzically at his chairman, before reclining in his seat with a knowing nod. “I see. Gourcuff it is”. Silence hung in the air. At last, Usmanov chimed up in what I can only assume are heavy Uzbeki tones. “Arsene you are not listening. We have plenty of inconsistent forwards, we need a goalkeeper, we need structure.” Wenger put down his glass and looked straight into Usmanov’s eyes. “Gentlemen, I hear you. We must change, that I now understand. Get me Perez on the phone, I’ll make a derisory offer for Di Maria right this second”. No-one spoke as Arsene zipped up his puffy coat and strode out of the door, doubling back on himself when he realised he had gone the wrong way.

Football, bloody hell.

Someone asked me recently what my life philosophy was. The temptation was to cite Dre: I’m simply representing all the gangsters across the World. Instead, after some thought, I said that I’d prefer to follow the advice Paul gave to Jude, “it’s a fool who plays it cool, by making his World a little colder”. I soon realised, however, that this is quite the opposite of how I live my life. Of course, my friends would interject, I have no problem not being cool, my penchant for 80s music and University Challenge putting paid to any hopes of have of being street. I do, however, have a tendency to be disaffected to the point of aloofness. It is a trend that has only increased with my latest life malaise, an existential crisis born from my newly single, newly graduated and newly impoverished status. My angst has only made me more hollow; my World is certainly a little colder. In light of this realisation I have mused long and hard on a way out of my downward spiral. A job has escaped my clutches, and I don’t fancy my chances of picking up a girlfriend in the apocalyptic nightclubs of Oxford. Instead, I have decided I must follow the words I stumbled across. I must not play it cool. I must come out and finally say what I have realised in my sleepless summer nights. I know what is missing from my life. Or rather, I know what my life is. It is a ball game, the most beautiful one of all.

Ferguson: The Official Trequartistas Response

The old man knew it was time to go. His mind was willing but his flesh was weak; decades in dogged pursuit of his goal left him exhausted, nearly broken. There were those who implored him to stay, to fight one last fight and give all a proper chance to say goodbye. After all, he had been dismissed as old for years, but a dogged, fervent belief had kept him far elevated above his peers. A relentless pursuit of what he saw as right, trouncing his frailties with a fire which burned deep within him, a pure, white hot hatred for his enemy. His was the will which could not be dominated, which flickered the same whether in the depths of defeat or the dizzying heights of victory. His departure was predictably greeted with tears and despair; boundless misery at the passing of a giant, whose demise surely signalled an inevitable end, a crushing defeat. They, of course, were wrong. In his absence he became stronger than they could possibly imagine. Obi-Wan Kenobi lived on. Alex Ferguson will do the same.

The Good, the Bad and Chelsea Football Club

Bad guys rarely know that is what they are. It is only with the benefit of hindsight that the moral arbiters can assign them their status; history is written by the winners, said Churchill, and those winners are very rarely labelled ‘bad’. Good and bad are the most subjective, even nonsensical of concepts in some ways. Where one man may ardently pursue an ideology he sees as right, another may view him as morally misguided, even evil. So I write this article today with a caveat. The following conjecture is just that; the opinion and moralising of one man, who may himself inadvertently be the bad guy in the tale he is about to unfold. Yet, that doesn’t mean it shouldn’t be said. “All that it takes for evil to triumph is for a few good men to do nothing”, said someone, perhaps Andy Townsend. And while Chelsea are far from evil, and their fans far from bad, it is surely time to confront head on a club spiralling away from an illustrious history into a place only a few clubs can claim experience: near-universal disdain.

Manchester United vs Real Madrid Preview II: Let the Battle Commence

Over 2000 years ago, as the Romans conquered much of the globe, their entertainment came in the form of gladiatorial battles. Fights to the death as two skilled warriors battled it out in search of glory and honour in front of a crowd of thousands. Today these gladiatorial battles no longer take place within the walls of the Colosseum, but on immaculately maintained pitches in glittering stadiums scattered across Europe. On Tuesday night, Old Trafford becomes a Colosseum fit to host a battle of epic proportions, as the gladiators of Manchester take on the Titans of Madrid.

The Lone Rangers

The words 'team', 'one' and 'man' can be arranged in two ways in the popular football lexicon. The first is a form of praise; there is no higher title of admiration than to be labelled a 'one team man', a player who has stayed at one, and only one, club throughout his career. He is supposedly a worthy throwback to a bygone era of men who put the club above themselves, loyalty above glory, and fans above finances. Jamie Carragher, Paul Scholes and Ryan Giggs are much discussed as bastions of fidelity, although the latter admittedly only when on the pitch. The second arrangement is the 'one man team', and here we hit upon far darker connotations. It is thrown as a dirty smear from the terraces and twitter; the notion that without that one star the team would be abject, that he alone holds the others on his shoulders, catipulting them to whatever glorious victory they have achieved this week. Bale, van Persie, Suarez are supposedly the only thing that stands between their clubs and oblivion. Even Barcelona suffer mutterings about the overhwleming value of Leo Messi, the greatest player in the greatest team that has ever played the game (which despite losing to the most expensively XI on the planet they remain). Whatever happened to players being great in and of themselves, as opposed to the only worthy thing in successful sides? The truth is they, of course, still are: the notion of 'the one man team' is as redundant and vacuous as the 'one team man' is exceptional and praiseworthy.

Arsenal: Les Miserables

A few weeks ago Gunnerblog posted a video of staggering brilliance on Youtube. In it the usual suspects of transfer deadline day belted out One Day More from Les Miserables, a musical I have inexplicably become obsessed with. Redknapp, Fellaini and, of course, Jim White were played to perfection, but it was Arsene Wenger as the cycnical, villainous Javert who stole the show. In the light of Arsenal's implosion against Bayern last night the image of Arsene as Javert seems all the more fitting, his side rapidly becoming the eponymous miserables of the musical as he skulks in the background, desperately clinging to his dignity and his misguided principles. Javert ends the film staring down at the Seine, lamenting his regrets as the murky water swirls below, inviting him to oblivion. Wenger now must be contemplating a similar doom, fallen from heady heights to desperate depths with all veneer of heroism destroyed, now cast as the villain in the story in which, not so long ago, he had dreamed the most wonderful of dreams.

Challenge Accepted.

Should we feel sorry for Harry Redknapp? Beloved good 'ol fashioned English manager with no regard for fancy opta statistics, numerous sport scientists or even just sophisticated tactics. Hailed as the king of man management, dealing with egos, motivating prixmadonnas and charming the media, yet since his sacking from Tottenham last summer, his crown as the darling of English managers finally appears to be slipping.

New wine in the old bottles: Manchester United vs Madrid Preview

Whatever the outcome, Sir Alex Ferguson is going to be wining and dining on the finest food and drink money can buy after tonight’s game. Jose Mourinho holds the man he calls 'the Boss' in an unswerving high esteem, and the pair have traditionally shared a post-match Port ever since the Special One’s Stamford Bridge days in the mid noughties. On the pitch, however, fans can expect to see a football that falls into a new vintage – one that owes nothing to the past. Manchester United take on Real Madrid at the Santiago Bernabeu tonight in a ‘clash-of-the-cash’ that seems certain to get the LED screens humming from here to Hong Kong. The stadiums are the same, the kits have hardly altered, but the modern Manchester and Madrid teams look set to offer up a game shorn entirely of throw-backs to ‘the good-old days’. Ladies and gents, we’re now in store for something completely different.   

Class Warfare: Bad Form

Mark Writes, Rises

Where did we go? The sudden absence of The Trequartistas, once a stronghold of conjecture and dubious predictions, sent ripples through the football blogging world. "Is this the end?", solemnly pondered The Guardian. "TREQUAR-LEFT-US", screamed The Sun, as The Mail suggested our apparent unwillingness to work should be no surprise given several of our members have immigrant roots. Yet, as Cate Blanchett whispered in The Fellowship of the Ring, they were all of them deceived. We were dormant, not extinct. Our silence, far from unexpected, was part of a greater plan. For we at Trequartistas Towers were working on a piece of meta-journalism so ironic, so dastardly, so downright radical that even we sometimes forgot what purpose our secrecy served. We left so that we might return. We left to prove that most ancient of old adages: While form is temporary, class is permanent.

Selling Stars: Arsenal's Loose Grip

Despite not being an Arsenal fan myself I am an avid Premier League enthusiast and therefore have taken an interest in the latest changing of events happening at Arsenal Football Club. A large turn around in playing and coaching staff shows not only a shift in where club sees itself but also how we see it.

Breaking the Curse: How England Can Win a Penalty Shootout

England went into these European Championships with expectations at an all time low. A managerial change, stories of divisions amongst the players and controversy in squad selection culminated in England kicking off their first group game against France with few expecting them to qualify for the knockout stages. As the tournament progressed and England ground out results with resolute defending and counter attacking football, the constant harping about low expectations and little pressure ironically saw the expectations of the country tentatively lift until many believed England could overwhelm Italy and overcome the curse of the quarter final that has plagued them since 1996.

As a country however, we diluted our own failings as a team and overestimated the few strengths we had. We threw caution to the wind in a way only expectant England fans can, and dismissed the Italians as an ageing group of players lacking creativity, typical defensive solidity and a predatory strike force. However for 120 minutes in Kiev, none of this mattered. England were knocked out of Euro 2012 by the majesty of Andrea Pirlo and the ‘lottery’ of the penalty shootout.

England vs Italy: All Pain No Gain

So we lost on penalties. Who saw that coming? Admit it, when Ricardo Montolivo missed his spot kick we all thought for a split second that this could really be the moment we banish that penalty voodoo that has haunted us through eight different contests reduced to penalties, only winning once.