Archive | August, 2011

The worst thing about the match…

22 Aug

Manchester United away.  Depressingly predictable.  What’s to say?

Not a lot – although it is worth noting that we are the premier league club with the worst record at Old Trafford.  For a team that is now operating in and around the top four that is almost farcical.   It reveals, I think, a staggering mental weakness.  Few clubs with our aspirations could simultaneously find themselves in such a rut.  Yes, we have been cheated by referees, injuries and timing but it’s the two contrasting psychological profiles that’s the real problem, that ultimately casts one club as the abuser and the other as the abused.

But the past is the past, even if it’s still playing on Sky Sports +1, and we don’t have to worry about going there again until next season.What I’d rather talk about are crowds.  Specifically the bumbling heard of marks they’ve managed to corral into Old Trafford.

Roy Keane complained about the prawn sandwich brigade, but he only had to contend with them munching and slurping away whilst he plied his savage craft.  These days, thanks to specially produced infomercials featuring Simon Callow, they understand the concept of half-time – like the intermission!  This is the theatre of dreams after all.

Now they’ve put away their snacks they can devote their full attention to the show and to those quaint mummers toiling below;  ye olde  mis-shapen lumpen-proles perspiring and cursing in the limelight.  A rumour goes around that Johnny Evans drives a horse drawn cart to training.

What oohing and ahhing.  What premature excitement!  Look Daddy, Wayne (Wayne?) Rooney just did a back heel in the centre circle.  By Jove, he did, cheer son, cheer or Roy Keane will get you.

There’s something soul destroying about watching your team capitulate to mindless shrieks of a typical Take That crowd.

And this is not just a Manchester United problem.  Arsenal supporters (or at least the ones they let into the Emirates) cannot differentiate between a meaningful attack and a wild clearence that goes slightly near that pensive man of letters Theodore Walcott.

Watching football can be a burden.  The TV commentary and analysis is atrocious.  Newspaper reporting has been shown up and taken refuge in the gutter.  Now the plastic fans are conquering our grounds.  Why can’t they be better, why can’t they be like us?  Will we become like them?

Think about Stefan Freund.  Is the age of being able to enjoy a player ironically coming to a close?