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.