Three and in – not just another football blog

In a professional career spanning almost two decades, Simon Smith has played for over sixty-seven clubs. The ultimate utility player, as his pace has diminished Simon has managed to reinvent himself time and again, from poacher to holding midfielder, centre-back to goalkeeper. Now that his website has been closed down, we have exclusive access to his weekly column.

I was as surprised as anyone to see Glenn Hoddle throw his hat into the ring for the vacant England manager’s job. I was similarly (but not quite so) surprised to find out quite how long it has been since he made those comments. They obviously overshadowed his short reign as top managerial dog but that’s hardly surprising. I think that, for me, it’s not so much the comments themselves that I find distasteful; it was the ignorance behind them that was so offensive. ‘England will play in the Christmas tree formation.’ ‘I think that the Christmas tree formation is the way forward for England.’ Even writing those down here make me feel dirty. There were many scapegoats for England’s dismal 2010 World Cup showing but I seemed to be the only one tracing our problems back to those catastrophic two or three games that set us back at least 50 years in terms of tactics.

Maybe this is just one man’s opinion, but I would rather have a manager who is tactically astute and analyses the opposition than one who arranges his players in a shape that he likes. They may look awesome in those aerial shots from the Goodyear Blimp but I think England should be setting their sights higher than that. Perhaps I’m being unfair though. Perhaps Hoddle would be an excellent appointment and we would have great success with a smiley face formation. Who am I to say that his (probable) insistence on a happy puppy playing with a kitten formation won’t get us out of the group stages at the Euros?

Some observers have also raked up his close relationship with Eileen Drewery and some less noteworthy comments he made about karma. Regarding the England job, Hoddle confused me on Monday when he said, ‘If I were to die tomorrow, my life would be incomplete.’ Wasn’t the whole problem that Eileen said everyone gets loads more?! Reincarnation is a complex issue. Roberto Baggio is a practicing Buddhist and I always found it tricky during my time in Italy to convince him to do anything he didn’t want to do. The whole ‘you only live once’ thing doesn’t really hold much water. I believe it’s the same for cats. Fair play to The Divine Ponytail though, he didn’t know a lot of English but he learned enough to utter just one sentence to me. ‘Perhaps in your next life you’ll be reborn as a footballer.’ Cracking banter, that’s the sort of thing only close friends can get away with!

Hoddle is clearly hoping to put his mistakes behind him and is worried that they will not cost him to dearly in the future. It is something that we can all relate to even if we don’t all create absurd paradoxes in our own logic while doing so. A few years ago everything was lined up for me to have a second spell at Luton Town. The bossman was new to the job and I think the chairbossman took a backseat when it came to signings so they were all happy for it to happen and I was keen to lay one or two ghosts to rest at Kennilworth Road. The fans were quick to fill in the bossman and chairbossman about my previous stint and had clearly not yet forgiven me. The protests were intense and very well attended.

I was a striker when I first plied my trade in Bedfordshire and I must say I wasn’t at my most prolific. I had one especially barren run that came to an end at a home match against Wycombe. I buried an easy chance and made straight for the fans. I punched the air and made it clear just how much the goal meant to me. I reached down to stretch my shirt for the badge kiss. I am still not sure what it was that made me sneeze, perhaps I’d overdone the pepper on my pre-match cheese, but I can see how it could have looked like spitting from a distance.

I know I could have done a job in my new role as a midfielder and I often think about what could have been. Absolutely no hard feelings this end and I just hope that Hatters fans have forgiven me now. I’m still available. If you provide the antihistamines then I’ll provide the solid keeper performances!

In other news I see that Wayne Rooney has broken the arm of a fan and it is good to see not only that it was an accident but that he has already been forgiven. Happy the kid is alright and he’ll have a heck of a story for the rest of his life! In actual fact the lad was a United fan in the home stand at Wolves so if anything Wayne was saving the stewards a job as he’d only have been evicted anyway. I know first hand the dangers of away fans sitting in the home end at a ground. More times than I care to recall I have heard boos emanating from ‘our’ fans whenever I touch the ball so clearly the police are doing a pretty shoddy job of separating the supporters. Good on Wazza for taking matters into his own hands.

Must be said that even us pros can be a bit wild when pulling the trigger in those pre-game warm ups! I’m still reminded of the time that one of my looseners ended up in the stands and caught a baby on the head. It must be noted that it was a mishit and also skimmed the advertising boards so it’s not fair to have a go at me about not having enough power in my shot to wake a baby. Admittedly (and thankfully) there was not enough pace on the ball to cause the baby any distress but it did wake her up so those chants were completely inaccurate. I’m not ashamed to say that they got to me a bit and I did miss a few sitters as a result. It was also selfish of me to deliberately over-hit every corner to try and make a point.

One to Watch

Now, I spend a lot of my time absorbing as much football as I can. I love how much Premiership and Football League football coverage there is out there but I also like to scour the more obscure leagues that a lot of people miss. There’s a lot of talent out there waiting to be discovered so I’ll bring you a ‘one to watch’ every now and then. This week: Lionel Messi. He’s only 24 but has already bagged a few goals for Barcelona. I really think he could become a decent player.

Follow me on twitter, @simon9smithpro

In a professional career spanning almost two decades, Simon Smith has played for over sixty-seven clubs. The ultimate utility player, as his pace has diminished Simon has managed to reinvent himself time and again, from poacher to holding midfielder, centre-back to goalkeeper. Now that his website has been closed down, we have exclusive access to his weekly column.

Thursday was no ordinary night in the Smith household. Instead of an evening slumped in front of Channel 5 watching Ice Road Truckers, Clarissa and I spent this most unusual of Thursday nights slumped in front of Channel 5 watching football. Manchester United were comprehensively beaten but their poor rich neighbours suffered the agony of an exit on the away goals rule. If there was anything to cheer the English it was the sight of Joe Hart heading up for a corner in the closing stages for the second time in a week. This desperate bid to save the game earned unanimous plaudits as his last gasp header so nearly sent City through but, as so often seems to be the case, there is one rule for the big clubs and quite another for the rest. Hart was applauded for his attacking instinct against both Swansea and Sporting Lisbon but at one point a few years ago I was doing it almost every week for Barnet and, without meaning to blow my own trumpet too much, far earlier in the game. Was I praised for attempting to break the deadlock in cagey encounters? Was I forgiven when the bossman made a substitution after we won a corner (something it’s generally established is a bad idea) and the amount of time that elapsed coupled with the crowded area caused me to forget myself and instead of nodding the ball into an empty net, pluck the ball out of the air with my hands and go to ground to help run out the clock? Was I able to re-establish my place in the side after the seven consecutive games in which I was still stranded in our opponents’ half when they scored? No, no, a hundred times no. Football can be a cruel mistress. Still, it wasn’t entirely in vain. I like to think of myself as something of a trailblazer and it seems Harty learned a thing or two from this old pro. I wish I could say similar about the game between Chelsea and Napoli the night before. With Chelsea 5-4 up on aggregate I really felt the keeper should have gone up for a corner late on. A goal from Cech really would have rounded off a special European night for Chelsea but sadly he remained rooted in his box. Pity, an opportunity missed.

People generally seem to think the away goals rule is a good thing but it is not without its faults. Take Thursday night for example. Without the rule, the 3-3 aggregate score would have meant the scratchcard of a penalty shootout. Everyone loves penalties, particularly the keepers. It really is a lovely moment when you stride up to your opposite number for good luck hug. Where else can I find a cuddle and a pat on the bum apart from when I buy my fish? I speak from experience when I say we are afforded very few opportunities to embrace as players and the fans tend not to like you spending too much of a game focused on finding an opportunity. They’ll never admit it but all footballers love a cuddle. It’s why refs let a lot of holding go at corners. This is not to mention that the accumulated effect of these cuddles is to combat homophobia in football in a far more effective manner than any BBC Three documentary.

The away goals rule is not tantamount to a hate crime although it can also lead to nastiness. I recall at Arsenal losing 2-0 at home in the first leg once during a European knockout game. We failed to score in the away leg, drew 0-0 and went crashing out 2-0 on aggregate. Each of our 0 goals counted double but even that wasn’t enough. We were punished for failing to get any crucial away goals. On another occasion we were away first leg, got a decent 0-0 draw in Moscow, then at Highbury we were 3-2 up with seconds remaining. With away goals counting double it actually meant we were 4-3 down. Fortunately we got a corner and, eager as ever, I rushed forward. Bizarrely Anders and Smudger seemed content to keep the ball in the corner and the bossman was gesticulating that I should get back in goal. These guys seemed content to win on the night but crash out of Europe. A bizarre lack of ambition. Sadly Smudge was dispossessed and I was lobbed from the halfway line whilst desperately trying to get back. And who do you think ended up copping the stick for our exit? No prizes for guessing. Nobody else seemed to realise we’d have gone out anyway but that’s just the nature of sportswriting in this country I suppose. As a keeper, being a scapegoat comes with the territory.

Having said all of this, the away goals rule was implemented to encourage teams to attack away from home; this can only be a good thing. I simply think the rule should be uniform across the board. It should be implemented in the league as soon as possible. Further still, away goals should count double in the scoring charts. Nobody wants to see Pele’s scoring records last forever, that’s boring. It’s brilliant when these things are broken. Imagine just how many goals Van Persie would have got last season if this rule had been in place. I’m sure some very clever bods with their computers could work it out but even I can deduce it’d be a hell of a lot!

Everyone loves a keeper going up for a corner; along with an outfield player going in goal it’s pretty much the best thing about the beautiful game. In ice hockey the keeper comes out more often than not in the death throes of a game and in basketball the keeper goes up with every single attack. I really think this is the reason football has never gone huge across the pond. If away goals were introduced for league games then Harty and myself wouldn’t be the only ones going up for corners every game. And if there’s one thing we all love, from fans to managers, it’s an open game with lots of goals and very little focus on defending.

Follow me on twitter, @simon9smithpro

In a professional career spanning almost two decades, Simon Smith has played for over sixty-seven clubs. The ultimate utility player, as his pace has diminished Simon has managed to reinvent himself time and again, from poacher to holding midfielder, centre-back to goalkeeper. Now that his website has been closed down, we have exclusive access to his weekly column.

The use of goal line technology is an argument as old as Time (my sister’s dog) – somewhere between ten and fifteen years. How many times are we going to have to see a goal not given that should have been before the powers that be allow common sense to prevail? QPR are the latest side to be victims with their goal against Bolton ignored en route to another defeat. On a side note, it was great to see Owen Coyle not only come out to acknowledge it was a goal, but also to give the keeper credit for a good save. Keepers like Adam Bogdan and Roy Carroll make it look easy to claw the ball back from behind the line and not look guilty but that is not something you can teach. The thing is, not giving a goal isn’t always just the difference between getting relegated with 29 points and getting relegated with 30 points (just kidding Super Hoops. I look back fondly on my time at Loftus Road and wish you well).

I have always been pro-technology and think it’s vital we don’t just stop at the goal line. I remember a similar decision costing us gravely back when I was a centre half at Reading. We were one-nil up with about sixty minutes to go when the ball clearly went out for a throw. Gary Peters got some stick for not playing to the whistle but the rules of the game state there needn’t always be a whistle for throw-ins.  Play went on and they took possession of the ball when it would have been our throw. Seven minutes later they score and we go on to lose the game. As soon as the equaliser went in, I was straight over to the ref asking for an explanation. My arguments fell on deaf ears as he claimed to not even remember the incident. Just eighteen months later we found ourselves relegated. So nobody can tell me these sorts of decisions don’t have a significant impact. People say that refs and linesmen do a difficult job and get all sorts of stick but were the officials from that game getting grief and abuse a year and a  half later when we went down? It’s not possible to know but it seems highly unlikely that they were washing horse manure and eggs off their car like I was. I tell you, if you’re on the wrong end of a decision like that and you spend your days on chat rooms and introducing yourself to fans in pubs, then the stick is unavoidable. They say that these things even themselves out over time but that would only be the case if football were played to infinity. We all wish it was, but it isn’t.

The other decision being discussed this week was the correct one made by Sian Massey who got the offside call bang on at the end of Man City’s loss to Swansea. What should have been a correct decision that is almost immediately forgotten became a chance for boorish bore Andy Gray to weigh in with a PR exercise in patronisingly dishing out praise to convince the world that he isn’t the man that he definitely is. I have never had Sky television and so my life had always been blissfully free of his ‘punditry’ although I am often saddened by my limited access to The Simpsons and QVC.

The first time I heard of Andy Gray and Richard Keys was when I was informed that my soon-to-air Talksport show was being cancelled. I had spent a year in meetings with various production companies and executives proving my worth and developing a vehicle that we all felt was acceptable. All of a sudden I’m told via text message that I’m being bumped to make space for people I’d never heard of. The worst part was that the news was broken to me by a lovely young shop assistant in the T-mobile shop who I sought help from when I couldn’t work out why my phone was beeping.

I did some research on Gray and Keys and found that they were embroiled in a great publicity storm following some off-air comments that were picked up by the cameras (If you also missed the story, there’s some stuff you can find on Ask Jeeves). I listened to their comments and was surprised to learn that in broadcasting such comments were common and that this stuff went on all the time. I had no idea that this was the way that people in punditry behaved but that is exactly what Keys and Gray kept insisting. Seeing as I had been shunted off Talksport in favour of them, I figured they must know more about the industry than I do and so I vowed to follow their example. I had some leads I could follow and a couple of meetings sorted out for potential gigs. I wasn’t proud but if talking to people in the broadcasting industry about smashing and hanging out of the back of things was the way to get my own Talksport show, then that is what I would do. I can now tell you categorically that this is not something that is rife within the broadcasting industry and for now I will be forced to stick to my role as outside analyst for five live as a regular caller to 606.

Anyway, my original point was that we need to embrace new technologies and that’s something I’m trying to do. I’m not that knowledgeable about social media (something my son tells me is summed up by the fact that I’ve been on Google Plus for six months. I was excited to be introduced to twitter and send messages to a lot of my old mates like Sav, Pat Sharp and Justin Bieber but it seems that looked like spam so I’ve had 25 accounts suspended. Still, I’m getting the hang of it and think this one will stick so give me a cheeky follow at @Simon9SmithPro. It’d be great to hear from some old fans.

In a professional career spanning almost two decades, Simon Smith has played for over sixty-seven clubs. The ultimate utility player, as his pace has diminished Simon has managed to reinvent himself time and again, from poacher to holding midfielder, centre-back to goalkeeper. Now that his website has been closed down, we have exclusive access to his weekly column.

I feel for Andre Villas-Boas, I really do. We’ve all been there. And I don’t mean the managerial magic roundabout. I know better than most what it’s like to be given too little time. And at Chelsea no less.

Picture the scene: Stamford Bridge, 1992. Tony Cascarino and myself are at the top of our game and scoring goals for fun in training. This was my first big money move as Chelsea had splashed out nearly £1.5 million on Paul Elliott MBE and Celtic threw me in too just to sweeten the deal. I was excited. My first game was a pre-season friendly at Boreham Wood. This was the big time.

Sure, I was nervous. Who wouldn’t be? No easy games at that level and the Wood are no mugs. I figured the most important thing was to get through the first 10 minutes unscathed. Unfortunately fate (a.k.a. Dennis Wise) had other ideas.

At times of stress I can get quite gassy. I make no bones about that. This I knew. What I didn’t know was that the captain of Boreham Wood’s ’47 Athenian League second division title winning side had sadly passed away that week. This would quite literally be squeaky bum time during the minute’s silence before the game.

Well, we’ve all been there. However hard I tried to think about not farting, the more difficult it became to not fart. Eventually one popped out that was simply too loud to ignore. My situation wasn’t helped by Wisey comically covering his nose and pretending to retch. What irritates me most is that sure, it was a loud one, but fairly scentless. Dennis is a lovely bloke but part of me still hasn’t forgiven him for that.

The crowd went ballistic; largely I should add, as a result of Wisey’s mime antics. So this was what it must have been like in Galatasary. Welcome to hell. The Hertfordshire mob began chanting, ‘You’ve shat and you know you have.’ Before things escalated any further, the bossman came over and told me to disappear down the tunnel. I didn’t even get that opening 10 minutes. I wasn’t given enough time. Robert Fleck took my place and bagged a brace. Where’s the justice in that? He didn’t even kiss the badge.

A fortnight later and it’s Kerry Dixon’s testimonial at the Bridge. No margin for error this time. I eschew my traditional pre-match pound and a half of cheese and focus on the game in hand. It’s all about proving my worth and making sure I do enough to warrant a place in the side. Kerry, a tremendous servant of the club is bowing out after a decade and boy is he on fire. Twice he rounds the keeper and strokes the ball towards an empty net. I’m in the zone though and twice apply the finishing touch just to make sure. I’m on a hat-trick and there is a stunned silence throughout the ground. I can see the disbelief on the faces of some fans. They’ve clearly never seen a debut like it. Then, after half an hour, we get a penalty. Kerry plops the ball on the spot and pauses. As he looks with a tear in his eye into the stand behind the goal, I can sense his apprehension. Nobody wants to miss a penalty on their testimonial so I run up and take the weight from his shoulders. The keeper didn’t even move. Pure class. I expect to be mobbed. A hat-trick on debut. This is the stuff of dreams. But no. None of my team-mates embrace me. The Chelsea fans have broken their reverential silence and begin to boo. I’m touched as I realise they must be trying to steel me for future away matches where my prodigious talent will no doubt draw some stick. It goes on for what feels like forever and does begin to get quite nasty. I look over to the bossman for validation. My number’s up. I’m being subbed. A chance to soak up the adulation after a job well done perhaps? Far from it. The jeering continues unabated but sadly not loud enough to drown out the sound of the bossman assuring me, in no uncertain terms, that I’ll never play for Chelsea again. And I never did.

Sometimes, at a club like Chelsea, even a hat-trick isn’t enough. AVB was a good man with a good beard but ultimately it wasn’t enough. It annoys me that he got so much stick for losing the dressing room. That’s happened to me countless times over the years, Craven Cottage in particular is a labyrinth of windy corridors, almost impossible to find your way around. It’s not as though he was ever late for kick-off or anything.

What next for AVB? Well, Villas his middle name so I wouldn’t bet against him replacing Alex McLeish sometime soon. Some cynics will suggest there’s no link between name and club but I’d point out ARSENe at Arsenal and MANCini at City. Not to mention, when I’m down about the state of the world, I’m often cheered up simply by recalling the fact that, between 1998 and 2003, Wolfgang Wolf was the manager of Wolfsburg. And who would rule him out of taking on the Wolves job next? My own middle name is Randy so you’ll have to ask the missus whether I live up to that one!

With managers being granted less and less time, you have to wonder who will go next. Well, here’s this week’s betting tip for you all based on recent events. After West Brom beat Wolves, Mick McCarthy was sacked. After West Brom beat Chelsea, Villas-Boas was sacked. Who have the Baggies got next? Manchester United. With generous odds of 200-1 on Ferguson to be the next man to get the chop, you’d be a fool not to stick a fiver down.

Follow me on twitter, @simon9smithpro

United fan Darren Richman plays tribute to his club’s extraordinary manager.

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‘People say mine was a poor upbringing. I don’t know what they mean. It was tough, but it wasn’t bloody poor. We maybe didn’t have a TV. We didn’t have a car. We didn’t even have a phone. But I thought I had everything, and I did: I had a football.’

On the final day of the 2000/2001 Premier League season, Manchester United played Tottenham Hotspur at White Hart Lane. Coming as it did, just a few months before the remarkable 5-3 at the same venue, this match is not so well remembered. With the league already wrapped up, the game was largely an irrelevance for those of us standing in the away section. United lost 3-1 and, unlike our next trip to the Lane, very little about the occasion sticks in the mind. Bar one thing. For the duration of the second half, without interruption, the fans sang ‘Every single one of us loves Alex Ferguson’ ad infinitum. Forty-five minutes without a break, the longest sustained piece of chanting I have ever heard. You see Sir Alex Ferguson had talked about retiring at the end of the season. We had come to praise Caesar, not to bury him. Part thanks, part plea, the noise would not let up. And though received wisdom suggests repetition leads to a loss of meaning, on that particular day nothing could have been further from the truth.

Fast forward a decade. Three weeks ago Fergie celebrated twenty-five years at the helm. On the day that the North Stand was renamed in his honour, I texted a friend to remind him of another day, in 1998, when an acquaintance of ours had suggested it was about time the gaffer was handed his P45. This pal, a Spurs fan, texted back with the words, ‘I can’t wait until you have a normal, human manager.’ Quite. In his very first set of programme notes all those years ago, plain old Alex wrote ‘A man is very fortunate if he gets the opportunity to manage Manchester United in his lifetime and I can assure you that I have no intention of wasting my opportunity.’ Consider us assured. We used to taunt the City fans with chants of ‘25 years, fuck all.’ Perhaps we should replace the expletive with ‘it’ and direct the song at the man for all seasons.

I deliberately decided to postpone writing this piece in order to let the dust settle and the clamour subside a little. I have a friend who will only watch an American drama box set once the series has come to an end as he feels one should not judge things contemporarily. Much as I agree with the sentiment, Sir Alex ain’t off any time soon and I felt I had to write something this decade.

Though gushing, the bulk of the press coverage of this remarkable milestone focused on the myth rather than the man. The papers have always preferred archetypes and love to paint Ferguson as the furious masticator, angrily berating his players for any perceived inadequacies, not much of a tactician but a masterful man manager ruling with an iron fist. Though tempting, this somewhat misses the point. Cristiano Ronaldo, for one, has claimed he never saw a single example of the famous hairdryer treatment during his six years at United. Mark Hughes coined the phrase in relation to his old mentor way back when but people change and none with quite as much success as Sir Alexander Chapman Ferguson.

In that same set of programme notes, that mission statement, Ferguson, perhaps surprisingly, insisted he was not interested in the past, concluding ‘there is only one way to go, and that is forward.’ This is the man’s entire M.O. in microcosm. Alvy Singer was right, a relationship is like shark and does have to constantly move forward or it dies. It’s just that in this case the relationship is with a football club. It is a simple case of adapt or die.

To paraphrase another manager with a decent claim to be amongst the greatest ever to have drawn breath, Brian Clough, I wouldn’t say Ferguson is the greatest manager ever to have lived. But he’s certainly in the top one. Clough, of course, made the claim about himself and yet, for all his success, Fergie rarely talks about himself and the extent of his achievements. Even the twenty-fifth anniversary was marked only by his insistence on extolling the virtues of the great players he feels he’s been ‘lucky’ enough to work with down the years. Winning is everything, the glorification of the Ferguson name means nothing. For all the flak he has received over time, I cannot think of a decision he has made that wasn’t at least intended to be for the good of Manchester United football club. His outbursts are never about showmanship or a desire to be the centre of attention (an accusation that could be levelled at Clough on occasion and Mourinho more readily in recent years). Even the feud with the BBC suggested a man unfussed by how history will remember him. Or perhaps he realises it tends to be written by the winners.

The difference between the two managerial heavyweights is aptly summed up, oddly enough, with reference to Frank Sinatra. The idol of both coaches, the Forest legend once claimed of ol’ blue eyes, ‘he met me once.’ This soundbite is quintessentially Clough; pithy, witty, arrogant but brilliant. Sinatra did not meet Ferguson though. In 1989 the two were supposed to have dinner together. United lost away at Charlton during the day leaving the boss in such a foul mood that he cancelled dinner and went home on the bus. It is one of the few decisions Ferguson regrets to this day and tells one a good deal about the nature of obsession. Watch his interviews carefully and you’ll notice the word ’challenge’ recurs more often than any other and he’s much more likely to reflect on the final day on the 1994/1995 season than any of the twelve title successes. The man will be seventy on New Year’s Eve and has won everything there is to win yet is still driven by an obsessive fear of failure. I happened to catch a quiz show between players and staff on MUTV last Christmas and Ferguson’s side wiped the floor with Giggs, Neville and Carrick. Not the strongest opposition perhaps but the manager’s single-mindedness shone through as he barely consulted his team-mates and still stormed to victory. I suspect in that moment they knew how Mike Phelan feels.

It is almost impossible in sport to compare different eras. For a multitude of reasons there can be little doubt that the Barcelona of today would beat the 1970 Brazil side. Context is everything and this doesn’t necessarily make modern Barcelona the greatest ever football team. What is remarkable about Fergie is the manner in which he has straddled the divide and succeeded in an era of Clough, violence and pitches resembling the Somme all the way up to the present day. The game is almost unrecognisable yet the result is identical. Perhaps the most significant thing you can say about the man is that the story of the Premier League is his story, the one constant pushing the narrative forward. The hero or anti-hero depending on where you came in the lottery of life. The protagonist.

Ferguson has risen to every fresh challenge over the quarter of a century he has managed United. Initially he had to overcome Liverpool and the weight of history, then he had to take on Blackburn and Jack Walker’s millions, Wenger’s Arsenal came next with some of the finest football ever seen on these shores, finally he bested Chelsea and Abramovich outlasting even the ‘special one’. For the record, Mourinho himself refers to Ferguson only as ‘the boss’. Hard to believe there was once a time when there was actual discussion of whether Wenger was the greater manager. Now Ferguson faces City and possibly the greatest challenge of his managerial career. I wouldn’t back against him having the last laugh.

On Yom Kippur this year I went to synagogue with a book of Ferguson quotes disguised as a prayer book and read it cover to cover. Initially I felt bad about breaking the second commandment on the holiest day of the year but then I recalled I need only beware false idols. It brought to mind a Passover choon entitled Dayenu in which we list all of the gifts God has bestowed on us (brought us out of Egypt, gave us the Torah, yada yada yada) and conclude each line with the titular word, the rough translation of which is ‘that would have been enough.’ Even just one such wonderful blessing would have sufficed.

If He had brought us our first title in 26 years? That would have been enough.
If He had brought us our first European trophy since ’68? That would have been enough.
If He had brought Cantona to the club? That would have been enough.
If He had brought home 2 European Cups? That would have been enough.
If He had placed us on top of a certain perch? That would have been enough.

A successful manager need simply get it right more often than he gets it wrong. In football, you don’t have to be good; you only have to be good enough. Last season’s title triumph was perhaps the most pragmatic of the twelve but in a sense that makes it Ferguson’s finest achievement. One could even argue it was a transition year and yet still his side ended the season as champions. The team reflected their maker, as always, and proved extremely difficult to beat. Even in his finest hour, the treble triumph, unprecedented in the history of English football, United, as so often before and since under Sir Alex, left it late. It happens too often to be deemed mere coincidence, that never-say-die attitude comes from the top. Fortune favours the brave. Pundits have lost count of the amount of great teams the man has fashioned, four or five at last check and always with an eye on the future. Put it this way, if I had access to just one immortality pill then I’d give it to Sir Alex Ferguson and die safe in the knowledge that I did the right thing. Football? Bloody hell.

Last season, when Rooney requested a transfer and all seemed lost, Ferguson delivered arguably the greatest performance of his reign. One could have formulated a hundred different ways to handle that situation and none would have been quite so effective. Ferguson opted not for silence, anger or histrionics but instead for emotion. He displayed his fragile side and allowed himself to look vulnerable, quite unheard of prior to that press conference. Like Mel Gibson in Ransom, he turned the situation on its head and used the cameras to his advantage with all the cunning and guile acquired through years of experience. One can only hope that, when May rolled around, some of the Premier League prize money was used to buy young Wayne a dictionary in order to look up the definition of ambition.

I believe, as a fan, the most one can hope for is that come April your team is still involved in some important games. For the best part of two decades United have been there or thereabouts in the league during the latter stages of the season along with an outstanding record in cup competitions. I was born in 1984 and as a result, in pure footballing terms, I know nothing of pain. I say this not to gloat but because I actually realise quite how lucky I have been. I trust Fergie enjoyed a decent glass of red on his silver anniversary. Here’s to another 25 years.

Although the pressmen of the 90s loved to characterise Ferguson and Wenger as polar opposites with the cultured, professorial Frenchman at odds with the abrasive Scottish football man, nothing could be farther from the truth. By all accounts Wenger has very few interests outside the game and spends his time almost exclusively viewing matches whereas over the years I have heard Ferguson espouse on topics ranging from Shakespeare and American military history to the Coen brothers and classical piano. Astonishingly well read, I wonder if Sir Alex has ever come across the following quote, from Jonathan Safran Foer, a particular favourite of mine and one which I used last year in a piece about Ryan Giggs and Paul Scholes but bears repeating here I think:

‘If you love someone, you miss them while they’re still there.’

Every single one of us loves Alex Ferguson.

They say you can never go back.

As last season approached its dramatic denouement, giddy with excitement I decided to pick the best Manchester United XI of my time going to football matches (1988-present). Yes, these things are entirely subjective and mostly pointless but that doesn’t stop them being quite good fun. After due (or should that be Jew?) consideration, I went for Schmeichel in goal, a back four of Neville, Ferdinand, Stam and Irwin, a midfield comprising Ronaldo, Keane, Scholes and Giggs then Cantona and Van Nistelrooy up front. I picked substitutes too, primarily because I got carried away. On the bench then, Van Der Sar, Bruce, Vidic, Robson, Beckham, Solskjaer and Rooney. All under the watchful eye of Mike Phelan of course. It struck me that I really have been exceptionally lucky. No place in the squad for the likes of Cole, Kanchelskis, Evra, Sheringham, Fletcher or Yorke. Not the only notable omissions. I tweeted my verdict and immediately received a text from my brother, an Arsenal fan. ‘What about Hughes? You loved him as a kid.’ I did. I still do.

Now there is only one valid choice of favourite player for any United fan of my generation. King Eric. Le Dieu. But just as there is only one correct answer to the question, ‘who is your favourite Simpsons character?’ sometimes it’s worth thinking outside the box and determining a number two. And though he may not have even made my bench, best and favourite are not the same thing, and Sparky is unquestionably my Chief Wiggum.

Mark Hughes played for Manchester United from 1980 to 1986 then again from 1988 to 1995. During these two stints he notched up 467 appearances for the club and scored 163 goals. That tells the whole story in one sense but in another it tells you nothing. Those statistics are not the reason I loved the man and his tree trunk thighs. Age is a key factor. I am too young to remember Hughesy’s first spell at Old Trafford but his second neatly coincided with my burgeoning interest in the beautiful game.

One of my earliest sporting memories is the Welshman’s brace against Barcelona in the Cup Winners’ Cup Final of 1991. Both the competition and United’s goalkeeper on the day are no longer with us but to me it feels like yesterday. I can picture the second goal perfectly and regularly do. My mind’s eye always opts for the angle of the camera placed in the bottom right hand corner of the net. The ball breaks free, Sergio Busquets’ Dad (yes, really) comes charging out of his goal in those ridiculous tracksuit bottoms, Hughes knocks the ball past him but he’s gone too wide surely, Barry Davies thinks so, the 6 year old me thinks so, and then, from an impossible angle, bang, it nestles beautifully into that bottom corner. I didn’t know the game was against the former club at which he’d been deemed a failure, or that it was United’s first European trophy in 23 years, or that Barcelona were huge favourites on the night. It didn’t matter. Everything and everyone seems larger than life when you’re small and Leslie Mark Hughes seemed the biggest of the lot.

Fast forward to 1992. The inaugural Premier League season. I distinctly remember larking about with my toys on my own. In the next room my Dad is watching United take on Liverpool at Old Trafford. He had sat me in front of the European final but clearly decided a league game was less crucial in terms of building character. Still, the TV is on in here too even if I’m not focused on it. A cheer from the next room alerts me to the fact that United have pulled one back with ten minutes to spare. I look up and see it’s that man Hughes again. He’s lobbed Grobbelaar. It only dawns on me as I type this that it might just have been the first lob I ever saw. I put down Kermit and Fozzie and decide to watch the remainder of the game. Teams don’t come back from 2 goals behind surely? 90th minute. Diving header. Hughes, M.

Fast forward again, this time to 1994. I am by this stage an addict. I have seen lobs, headers, volleys, you name it. I’ve also seen my team win the title. As my Dad memorably told me ‘I’ve waited 26 years for this, you saw it in 2.’ I was blessed. And now United are on the verge double for the first time in their history. At this point I am well read on such matters and am aware of the fact that even the great Sir Matt Busby never managed to lead his side to the league and cup in the same season. Deep into extra time of the FA Cup semi-final and Oldham are 1-0 up. United look devoid of ideas. The ball is hopefully punted long, Oldham fail to clear, it hangs in the air for an eternity before Sparky strikes the sweetest volley you will ever see. Pandemonium in our household. We scream then run round the dining room table before collapsing in a bundle on the sofa in hysterics. He’ll hate me for mentioning this but it is the only time I can recall my brother celebrating a United goal before or since. Let the record show it was the goal that won the double. To this day if my team are behind late on I will implore them to ‘do an Oldham’.

We all have hundreds of such memories. People and places that perfectly evoke a time to which we can never return. Do I care that the lad from Wrexham went on to manage City? No. What I remember is my Dad’s VHS of the 1990 FA Cup final that I watched and rewatched at a time when live football on the TV was rare. Yet another double from Hughes. And the moment on the 92/93 season review video when Giggs skins his aging marker and the commentator says ‘it’s like a Mini trying to catch a Porsche’ then a pause as the young Welshman whips in a perfect cross for his compatriot to bury, concluding ‘and there’s the Rolls Royce waiting in the middle.’ Perhaps I think of those goals more often than the man himself, maybe that’s the nature of being a fan. Hughes was everything I’d like to be if I were a professional footballer and boy would I like to have been one. Strong, brave, a propensity towards scissor kicks and outrageous volleys that bordered on the staggering coupled with an incredible awareness and ability to hold the ball up. Calm and quiet off the field, quite the opposite on it. If my relationship with Wayne Rooney is much like Mad Men, almost impossible to love however hard I try, then Mark Hughes must be compared to The Sopranos. Pure, unadulterated enjoyment. And he had two spells for the club.

They say you can never go back. Fuck ‘em.

—

You can find ‘Big Ask’ on twitter here.

As the news of Bébé slipping back out of the Old Trafford door with as little fuss as when he quietly slipped in, it begs the question; How has his transfer to Manchester United been so easily forgotten about? This was a player who was homeless a year or so before the signing, which is novel enough as a multi-million pound industry story. But on top of that, and here we may find the root of the answer we seek, his transfer to Manchester United had a distinctly ‘dodgy’ aroma to it.

The player was signed by Guimaraes for just half a packet of Rolos, then five weeks later, after a couple of pre-season games, they sold him to Manchester United for over £7m! Without Ferguson having ever seen him play! During the midst of a difficult financial period for Manchester United in which £7m wasn’t far off being their record transfer fee!

But why didn’t Manchester United, with their Portuguese scouting system and former assistant manager in charge of the Portuguese national team, just sign him for free a month earlier? Did he really make his mark during those pre-season friendlies?

But what’s this? Just before he completed this big-money transfer, he was suddenly poached from his existing agent by Portuguese ‘super agent’ Jorge Mendes, also responsible for the sales of Anderson, Ronaldo and Nani to Manchester United? A man who knows Alex Ferguson well? And he owned £30% of Bébé’s ‘economic rights’, so made about £3m out of the transfer for himself?

That sounds a bit suspicious. Has he ever been involved in Alex Ferguson paying over-the-odds for a Portuguese player before now then? What’s that? He handled negotiations directly with Alex Ferguson and Peter Kenyon for the sale of Ronaldo to Manchester United for £12.24m when Sporting had already accepted a bid from Arsenal for just £5.5m? An extra near-£7m? It sounds almost as if someone or other may have made the transfer happen purely for potential underhand personal financial gain.

As does this Bébé one.

Just like another Ferguson family member was once accused of doing on a BBC documentary. Which led to Ferguson blackmailing the BBC. Which he’s still doing. And coincidentally, no press agency is asking any questions about the potential for dodgy dealings behind this recent transfer.

Interesting…

We should have known.

The Mail has about as much ability at humour as it does at level-headed, sensible liberalism. Turns out the post we made yesterday captured the Mail plagiarizing Dirty Tackle.

We would like to apologise to Dirty Tackle for not being aware of their running ‘holding his face gag’ (we can’t read all the blogs in the world, you know!), as well as apologising profusely to both our readers for such a serious error of judgement regarding the Mail.

To make it up to you, here’s the famous Daily Mail headline generator, which is always good for a laugh.

It won’t happen again, we promise. Please don’t leave us. We can change.

From a story about Barcelona’s players appearing on stage with Shakira to celebrate their Champions League win.

Unless Busquets is even worse than I think that’s nicely done.