I’m suffering at the moment. Life is tough and, I’d hazard a guess, many of you reading these words are feeling my pain too. And we all know what is to blame, don’t we? The responsibility for our collective melancholic state lies with the coming of summer.

“Close Season” — quite possibly the two most disheartening words in the English language for a football fan.

It’s not as if we are unreasonable as a mass – we accept that it would not be feasible (or, indeed, physically possible) for footballers to work all year ’round like the rest of us are expected to. But even with this practicality accepted, it doesn’t make this time of year any easier to bear. The terrible truth is plain to see: we are addicts suffering the debilitating symptoms of withdrawal.

And what with this being an odd-numbered year, there isn’t even the scant consolation of (yet another) dismal showing by Eng-go-land in an international tournament to bitch and moan and moan and bitch about.

In season, we concern ourselves with the really important issues of existence. We ponder if the adoption a diamond in midfield might result in more frequent goal-scoring chances. We fret and worry over whether or not our star striker will recover from that knock he took in time to show out — and, with any luck, show up – our most bitterest of rivals. These are the big (as in; BIG) issues.

But when football stops, we find ourselves capitulated into the real world; a place altogether uglier than the Neville brothers and more profoundly depressing than Ch£l$ki’s transfer kitty.

Soon, we’re doing things no self-respecting Beautiful Game devotee would ever do ordinarily. We find ourselves reading newspapers from the front or tuning into Channel Four News and, to our abject horror, we’re confronted with the unspeakable truth that is a glimpse of how the world would be without football.

I ask you: How do people that profess not to like the game carry on? Here, right off the top of my head, are a litany of Reasons To Be Cheerless that are guaranteed to make even the most well-adjusted, free-thinking person reach – urgently – for the Prozac:

The War on Terror; Pete Doherty & Kate Moss; climate change; processed food; the U.K.’s astronomical consumer debt (currently just over £1 trillion and rising…fast); Alan Sugar; the cost and dire inefficiency of our public transport system; gun crime; property prices; the obesity epidemic; Paris Hilton: the plethora of reality television shows; NHS waiting lists; the perpetual, heart-breaking poverty endured by those who inhabit the Developing World; David Cameron; gleeful corporate announcements of – yet more and even bigger – multi-million pound profits…

It’s enough to wipe the smile off the face of a lottery winner — on a rollover-week.

Surely.

In the name of God, can’t you see? We need football! Give us football!!!

But there is none…so what are we meant to do in the meantime? That is the question.

Thanks in no small part to the internet, metaphorical morphine is on offer at least. We can consume stories of perspective transfer targets of our respective clubs — whether real, speculative or completely tabloid-created. We can (over) analyse the formations employed by The Gaffer in (ultimately meaningless) pre-season friendlies. We can chat for hours on end in fan forums with other addicts-in-a-state-of-advanced-withdrawal …but whatever we do to kill time it’s still there, isn’t it? A cavernous void you know can only be filled when it all starts afresh.

People hold on.

I suppose if there is positive point here, it is this: in order to protect our sanity in an increasing mad, bad and sad world, we all – as human beings, being human – need coping devices. And regardless of whether or not we choose to consciously acknowledge it, for many of us it is football that serves this purpose. And unlike other vices, like drink or drugs for example, the affliction of our addiction isn’t potentially terminal. For that, we can and should give small thanks…

…Let’s face the truth: there’s nothing to do but wait. Roll on when Saturday (11th August) comes.

From Soccerlens.com - Football News

Last week, I met up with an old friend after work for a quick beer or seven. During the discourse of the evening, he began to lament the change the Political Correctness movement has had on life on the Britannia Isle.

Turns out a bloke he works with is being investigated by what he termed, “those f**king Human Resource Nazi’s” engaged within his employer’s Personnel Department – his supposed ‘crime’? In a meeting, he apparently addressed one of his female colleagues as “darling”. She complained and a full enquiry is currently underway to establish whether or not he holds sexist opinions.

“I mean, it comes to something mate,” friend told me, simultaneously shaking his head from side to side. “When a term of endearment can be flip-reversed just like that and you find yourself portrayed as a knuckle-dragging misogynist, doesn’t it?” It most certainly does, I had to agree.

And his bewilderment didn’t just stop at the baffling nuances of contemporary corporate culture. Between sipping at his lager; he imparted a further example of the hypocrisy of life in the Noughtie’s Britain: Just recently he had been present a business dinner. One of those attending had excused herself from the table after the starters had been served. When she returned, she was questioned by one of the other diner’s — an incredibly-noisy hand job of a bloke, according to said friend – as to where she had been. For a crafty cigarette, she had bashfully confessed. And thus began a chorus of condemnation from many present – led naturally by the offensively loud chap.

“Oh. My. God! Why are you doing that to yourself? Do you realise that every time you suck on a Marlboro Light, you take a minute off your life expectancy! Smoking is slow suicide! You’re killing yourself!”

To her credit, the woman on the receiving end of this barrage of abuse was contrite, self-depreciating and modestly accepting of the criticism. Yes, she had said, she fully realised the detrimental implication her nicotine habit might eventually reap on her well-being; it was indeed a filthy habit; one she was forever trying to kick but, sadly, without success to date.

After mains, came the dessert menu. Most declined but one bloke who – according to friend — could best be described diplomatically as “a bit of a large gent” ordered a pudding astronomically-high in calorific content. And no one said a word. Why, friend silently wondered to himself, was it considered okay to berate a smoker but not someone morbidly obese? How come no similarly-indignant outburst from those around him?

“Oh. My. God! Why are you doing that to yourself? You’re already the size of Luxembourg and you think it okay to fill your face with tiramisu?! Keep on eating like that and the chances are you will self-destruct! You’re killing yourself!”

“Why didn’t you say something at the time?” I asked him.

“Well, I did think about it but…well, it’s not the done thing, is it?” he replied.

“And the reason it’s not the done thing is.” I began.

“…Political Correctness!” we both said in unison.

The world is full of double standards and we are all guilty of displaying them from time to time.

Pot. Kettle. Hypocrite’s.

Speaking of which, last week also saw the resumption of football’s premier club tournament, The Champions League. Once upon a time, it was the World Cup finals that were billed as football’s greatest show on Earth but now its title has been usurped. It is a fact that of the 22 player’s named in Brazil’s world cup squad to complete in Germany last summer, only two of them play their football in their country of origin. Freed from the obvious selection constrictions of international football, it is Europe’s CL that’s emerged as the great football competition on the planet. The lure of big Euro’s and pounds sterling meaning the world’s best players are now concentrated in one area of the world. Therefore, club football has become more enthralling than its international brethren.

But the success of the CL does have a downside, borne out the tournament has come the dark force of G14.

G14 – an unelected, unaccountable, invitation-only pressure group – was formed in the year 2000 by Europe’s self-appointed ‘elite’ clubs. The original 14 teams involved – Ajax, Barcelona, Bayern Munich, Borussia Dortmund, Internazionale, Juventus*, Liverpool, Manchester United, Marseille, A C Milan, Paris St-Germain, Porto, PSV Eindhoven, Real Madrid — became 18 with the expansion of membership in 2002 with Arsenal, Bayer Leverkusen, Olympique de Marseille, Valencia added. The club conspicuous in its absence from the list above is Chelsea – more later…

Visit G14′s website (http://www.g14.com/) and read their Mission statement – tell you what, I’ll save you the trouble…this is what it says:

“The main objectives as they are specified in the G-14 foundation agreement are:

• To promote the cooperation, amicable relations and unity of the member clubs.
• To promote and improve professional football in all its aspects and safeguard the general interests of the member clubs.
• To promote cooperation and good relations between G-14 and FIFA, UEFA and any other sporting institutions and/or professional football clubs, paying special attention to negotiating the format, administration and operation of the club competitions in which the member clubs are involved.”

Despite the use of deliberately opaque language and the organisation’s claim that it speaks for the good of football and its supporters generally, even the visually-impaired could clearly see the fundamental objective for the existence of G14 is to perpetuate the dominant position of its membership within the game.

Forget dodgy player-owning consortium’s and the Russian geezer’s bottomless wallet — the likelihood is MSI and Roman Abramovich are no more than dark cloud pseudo-threat’s that will, with the passing of time, float by into the oblivion of irrelevance. The G14 Mafioso, on the other hand, is the mob those of us that worry about the future of the sport should be losing sleep worrying about.

Though to date, they have stopped just short of explicitly demanding it; their ultimate objective is the formation of a closed European League. This was confirmed in March this year when an astonishing internal document – intended strictly for G14 eyes only — entitled, “G14 Vision Europe” was leaked to The Guardian newspaper (click this to view article). The document laid out the plan of G14 to hijack the champions League tournament from European’s football governing body, UEFA, by asserting their assumed ‘right’ to financial and regulatory independence.

The quote in response to its content – attributed in The Guardian story to UEFA’s Communications Director, William Gaillard – certainly didn’t mince any words, “This is apartheid: it would be the end of the European model of football. They want to get rid of promotion and relegation and introduce the American model of a closed league….”

And Gaillard’s outrage is nail-on-the-head justified. At a time where the gulf between the rich and poor clubs seems to widen with every passing season, G14 seem determined to consolidate the place of its members at the summit of club football by building an exclusive camp and pulling the ladder up after them.

The staggering single-minded arrogance of the organisation means they do not respect authority — not even the game’s ultimate governing body, F.I.F.A. A long-running dispute in regard recompenses G14 member believe they should receive for the release of players for international duty has gone legal. And some G14 affiliates have threatened to forbid their respective player’s permission to represent their countries in future internationals until this issue is resolved. F.I.F.A. as a result, has put its metaphorical gloves on saying it will expel any club that dare carry out the threat from all European cup competitions. This undoubtedly could best be described as ‘a war of attrition’. At present, the stand-off continues but appears to have all the makings of a major ruck – we should follow developments closely as and when they occur.

If further evidence of the G14′s destructive intent is required, try this: In May this year, one of the organisations most vocal members — legendary German striker and current Bayern Munich president – Karl-Heinz Rummenigge was called as a witness to participate in a European parliamentary debate on the future structure of European football. What he said almost beggars belief.

Rummenigge began by attacking Chelsea’s spending, claiming it distorts the sporting value of European competition. “We make a €35m profit; this is required for our investment,” he said. “Chelsea lost €204m; Mr Abramovich obviously stumped up for it. This [means] unequal competition but we are playing against each other in the Champions League. This is not acceptable.”

It’s funny — funny-ironic not funny ha-ha — how it always seems that Old Money has such disdain for the nouveau-riche, isn’t it? Moreover, his condemnation of the west London Massive might offer reason why Chelsea’s numerous applications to join the G14 party have been consistency refused at the entrance door.

G14′s answer to this problem of financial inequality within the game is a radical overhaul of the way football clubs operate — including the introduction of a ceiling on player’s wages. Rumminigge expanded the theory thus: “We could have a salary cap: when a big proportion of turnover is spent on wages clubs are going to be in the red. We should have an overall salary budget capped at, say, 50% of turnover. Across Europe there should be harmonisation. 80 to 85% of professional clubs in Europe are losing money….”

On the face of it, this proposal seems plausible and, some might say, reasonable even. The adoption of a cap would certainly curtail Chelsea’s excesses and therefore restore at least a semblance of parity. But, think it through, and what it also means is limited expenditure, based purely on a club’s annual turnover, would only truly benefit those teams at the top of football’s tree. In other words: The adoption of this system would mean (I think the French say: quelle surprise) the clubs that make up G14′s membership would be the greatest beneficences.

Most fans have come to accept that in 2006 it would be v. difficult for a minor team to climb the leagues and challenge the big boys (a’ la Wimbledon’s famed “Crazy Gang”) but, should this system be implemented, it would make such a happening nigh on impossible. But, then again, maybe that’s the idea.

By far and way Rumminigge’s most telling quote as to the real motives of the G14 came when he was questioned about the organisation’s belief its member clubs should be granted automatic – and perpetual – qualification to the Champion’s League. He said this: “[Bayern Munich has] taken part in the Champions League on 12 occasions it is fair that there should be a body where participation is guaranteed [for certain clubs i.e. G14 members]”

It’s amazing, isn’t it? Rummenigge bitches and moans (and moans and bitches) about Chelsea’s unfair financial advantage. Then, in more or less the next breath, confirms G14′s belief that member clubs should be guaranteed entry into the CL without having to go through the tediously bothersome business of qualification via position in their respective domestic leagues. Words fail me.

The world is full of double standards and we are all guilty of them from time to time but those G14 James Blunt’s don’t just take the digestive; they take the entire f**king biscuit barrel.

Pot. Kettle. Monumental hypocrite’s.

* Presently, a motion has been raised within G14 to expel Juventus from its ranks. The reason cited is — of course – the Old Lady’s demotion to Italy’s Serie B and expulsion from this year’s Champions League in the wake of Il Calciopoli match-fixing scandal.

From Soccerlens.com - Football News

(Note to the Soccerlens Massive: I was gonna keep stoom on this but, now the dust is settled, I thought I’d put my ha’penny’s in…)

A rhetorical question: Can the existence of an organisation as decidedly iffy as Media Sports Investments (MSI) be anything but bad for the game? All together now – you know the words…

Football news stories rarely register higher than zero on the Interest Scale. A fractured metatarsal here, a groin strain there, a three-game match ban for player X following the issuing of a red card over here, indescribably banal player/manager interviews over there – it’s all pretty standard stuff. But there are, however, exceptions to the rule.

On the afternoon of Thursday 31st August 2006 – the day the EPL’s summer transfer window closed – I read something that caused my eyebrows to rise heavenwards and dropped my jaw to the floor in amazement. West Ham — it was rumoured — had signed two of the game’s finest prospects; the Argentinean’s Carlos Tévez and Javier Mascherano. Such was my state of shock, I actually refused to believe what I was being told…on the grounds that it was of the opinion my limb was being pulled. But, later, when The Hammers officially confirmed the report to be fact via their website, I had no choice other than accept it as truth and was suitably dumb-struck as a result.

West Ham is a club with an impressive history…but don’t we just know it? Because, as their supporters are slightly too fond of reminding the rest of us (cue cavernous yawn…); without their input of key personnel back in ’66, Eng-go-land would never have got its grubby, little mitt’s on the Jules Rimet trophy. And, it is also a truth their youth academy continues to weld a disproportionate influence on English football. At the time of writing, the current England squad boasts an impressive FIVE players — Joe Cole, Michael Carrick, Jermain Defoe, Rio Ferdinand and Frank Lampard — all of whom started their careers at the Boleyn. But, and with all due respect to West Ham followers everywhere, the Hammers are more a lethargic midget than sleeping giant. Despite the lofty opinion their fans tend to have of (themselves and) their club, when the complete history of football Comes to be written, West Ham will occupy a footnote not than a chapter.

So, how on Earth then, I wondered to myself that day, had they persuaded Tevez and Mascherano to sign on the dotted line? They must’ve chloroformed them. Surely.

And what next? Ronaldinho to Reading perhaps? It certainly wouldn’t have been any more outrageous. But, alas, the midnight hour came and went without any word from the Nou Camp confirming the toothy, pony-tailed, Brazilian genius’ imminent arrival in the U.K.

If you Google the words, “Conspiracy Theory” you will be presented with a long list of links of websites authored – one assumes – by the social inadequate’s and consumed by those feeble of mind. Click on a few randomly – as I did – and you will be variously informed that 9/11 was not the most audacious and spectacular terrorist attack in history, it was orchestrated by America’s far-right, Neo-Christian movement as a mechanism to bring about a new world order; AIDS is a man-made virus deliberately implemented by the Establishment to eradicate communities and social groups it considers to be ‘undesirable’ — homosexuals, drug addicts, starving Africans and so forth; Princess Diana was not the victim of a Paris road accident — she was assassinated by our own Secret Service who viewed her enduring popularity as a threat that could eventually debase the authority of the British monarchy. Hmmm…

But I digress.

In the days following the capture of the Argentinean duo, details began to emerge that their arrival at Upton Park had brought with it a distinctly fish-like aroma and — ominously – there might be more to this story that had first met the eye.

But football’s very own conspiracy theory was not the work of pasty-skinned, geeks with wild imagination’s and HUGE superiority complexes. It flames have been largely been fanned by the respectable, legitimate news media.

(Click the hyperlink’s to read the referenced stories) On September 1st, The Guardian reported that Tevez’s and Mascherano’s contracts were at least half owned by a mysterious sports investment company known as MSI. An article published in The Times the following day, sought to shed further light on the people behind the deal. MSI we were told is an extremely dubious enterprise that, having made (and broken) many promises to Brazilian club, The Corinthians, had set their sights on owning a premiership club. West Ham, it appeared, fitted the bill perfectly. MSI, we were further enlightened, is fronted by a shady Iranian businessman who — it was inferred — is, somewhat sinisterly, backed by money from benefactors unknown. Boris Berezovsky — oh God, not another one - an exiled, billionaire, Oligarch of Russian extraction is thought to be one of them. Then, on September 3rd, The Independent entered the fray revealing Tevez had let slip — via an interpreter in his first press conference since the transfer was announced — that he was only planning on hanging around at Upton Park for just ONE season. The plot was indeed thickening…to an almost gravy-like consistency.

But probably the most damning report came the next day (again in The Independent) informing us that both players had been pimped around by MSI — and rejected — by Europe’s ‘elite’ clubs, including Man Yoo, before joining West Ham. Quite possibly, it was rumoured, as a very last resort with the transfer window poised to slam shut. However, and it is crucially important that this is noted; reading in between the lines of the latter Indy article, it appears the major reason for the G14′s members apparent apathy toward signing Tevez and Mascherano was it would not be they (the club) who would receive the majority share of any transfer profit received if or when the player(s) moved on. Make of that what you will.

So, there we were. Less than a week after West Ham’s “sensational transfer coup of the decade” and it appeared the signing of Tevez and Mascherano was neither “sensational” nor — indeed – a “coup”. Instead, the Hammers had willingly entered into an highly-dubious agreement with an highly-dubious organisation that made them, in many informed observers opinions, no more than a feeder club in what was/is, essentially, a ‘shop window’ transfer deal. And, to top it all off, MSI were seeking to buy The Hammers — lock, stock and barrel — and, incredibly, the club was listening to their offer. Were, you had to ask yourself, the current directors of West Ham United mad, greedy or simply both?

And was this ‘transfer’ and possible club acquisition a nightmare glimpse of football’s future – where speculator’s trail their galáctico investment’s around from club to club, making millions every time they put pen to paper? We know that Bosman has more or less rendered footballer’s contracts meaningless; would the activities of organisations like MSI eventually make the current transfer system redundant too?

MSI have absolutely no defence to the charges levelled against them. As the work of the quality journalist’s linked above makes clear; they are a private company (or consortium of individuals) seeking to profiteer from a couple of potentially world-class footballer’s careers, and that is without precedent.

Or so I thought until I read up on my football history and uncovered a little-known but highly-relevant fact:

Fifteen years ago, two entrepreneurial Brazilian football agents – Alexandre Martins and Rienaldo Pitta – bought the rights to three promising schoolboy footballers from Rio’s second division São Cristóvão club. From what I have unearthed, reports vary as to the exact fee paid for the trio but it was certainly no more than a combined £20,000 (GBP). Two of the three were destined to enjoy modest careers but in the third — a 15 year old striker at the time — they had unknowingly struck pure gold.

After making his name at the South American Under-17 championships in 1993, Pitta and Martins touted their prodigy around Brazil’s bigger clubs but were unable to reach agreement with any of them. The major sticking point in negotiations was the agents would only let their player move to a club that would allow them to retain a 51% stake. Eventually, after many refusals, first division side, Cruzeiro of Belo Horizonte, agreed to their demand.

(Is any of this starting to sound familiar?!!)

Soon, their charge took senior football by storm and, in the process, forced his way into Brazil’s World Cup squad. The player’s name? Ronaldo. A year later, aged just 17, he left Cruzeiro and joined Holland’s PSV Eindhoven in a multi-million deal — making his svengali management team extremely wealthy men in the process.

For Martins and Pitta, their initial investment has paid off many millions of times over and they were to continue to act as the player’s agents during a glittering and distinguished career that, thus far, has seen their protégé made the subject of TWO world-record transfers. Firstly, to La Liga’s Barcelona (from PSV) in 1996, and then, from Barca to Serie A’s Inter Milan in 1997. Today, the two men remain hugely influential figures within South American football.

But I’m digressing again…

…back to MSI. In light of the above, perhaps we should forget the footie doomsday scenario being suggested by people who really should know better and instead see Media Sport Investments for what it is – an investment company investing in sport. Forgive me the further rhetoric, but would all this fuss have been created if they were sinking their speculative capital into property or financial futures instead of the beautiful game?

As fans, we follow football for love not money. And while we might not like the idea of loaded-up syndicates like MSI emerging from the shadows like a pride of lions with the sole objective of making a financial killing, the fact is football generates many billions of pounds globally so their coming — whilst disagreeable — is also plainly inevitable. As the saying goes; hey – that’s capitalism for ya, kids.

And, in any case, just who are these mongers of doom trying to kid? Planet Football has never been — and will never be – a paragon of virtue. We all know for a fact it is a land where players are unsettled and tapped-up by rivals, where matches are sometimes fixed, and where great wads of cash encased in brown envelope’s are surreptitiously stuffed into jacket pocket’s of players, manager’s, and agent’s. We try not to think about it naturally, but (sh)it happens.

So, where does this leave us? Back where we started…Can the existence of an organisation as decidedly iffy as MSI be anything but bad for the game?

No. But maybe the question we should be asking ourselves is this; in the great scheme of things, what radical difference will the introduction a few more dodgy characters make to the sport we adore?

In Britain, football has met far more formidable foe’s than MSI in the past — namely; Heysel, Hillsborough, and Margaret Thatcher. And, each time, when extinction threatened, has risen – Phoenix-like – from the flames. So, let none of us go writing the old boy off just yet – that would be premature.

Football is a fighter.

From Soccerlens.com - Football News

A few hours after the referee had blown the final whistle, I find myself sitting in a restaurant, opposite a beautiful woman, picking at a calamari entrée and throwing a glass of (rather cheeky) Chardonnay down my throat.

“You okay tonight?” she asks.

“Yeah. Fine.” I mutter, by way of response.

But she knows me too well. “What’s up?”

“Nothing! I’m good, thanks.”

“You’re not! What’s up?” she persists.

“Nothing.” I say, weakly.

“Sure?”

And then finally, under provocation, I blurt out the absurdly-worded truth: “No, I’m pissed off. We got beat today. Two nil! At home! Against Everton! And, for the majority of the game, they only had ten men! I just can’t get my head ’round it!”

As soon as those words leave my lips, I know what she’s going to say – those four little words all football fans dread. They might not have arrived yet but they’re certainly in the post. Shortly, she fixes me with a sympathetic-but-amused smirk she always reserves for these occasions and (here they come, here they come…) she says, “You’re so silly – it’s only a game.”

She’s right of course and it is I that is wrong. I like to think that I am a well-rounded, well-balanced individual but the sad truth is; when it comes to football, I am not. See, I don’t just lose my sense of perspective — any sense of scale I possess totally deserts me too.

Recently, I wrote about the ‘emotional attachment’ fans have to their chosen teams. I posted my thoughts to a (Spurs) fan forum I subscribe to and, shortly, the basic premise of the text was attacked (albeit, in an intelligent way by a learned forum member I respect) as flawed. The result of the subsequent exchange I had with my critic was — for perhaps for the first time in my life — I sought to define in my own mind what I meant when I spoke of the bond between fan and club. The conclusion I have since come to is quite troubling…

Way back, ever since I can remember, I have always been a little bit odd with all things Tottenham. Whilst other little boys did what little boys are supposed to do, I took an — in retrospect — unhealthy interest in my chosen football team. Personally, I blame my parents. They should’ve been buying me an Action Man and a Scalextric set at Christmas, not books entitled, “Tottenham Hotspur — An Illustrated History” and the Season Review videos I begged them for. As a result, my head was — and, to a degree, still is – full of spurious, irrelevant, and totally useless information. Knowing Tottenham are the only side in history of English football ever to win the F.A. Cup as a non-league club is one thing, but when you’re ten years old and can name the players in that 1901 side…I mean, come on, surely someone should have spotted I wasn’t all there…

In adulthood, my peculiar passion for Spurs shows no sign of fading. But what does concern me slightly is how my dislike for our bitterest rivals has intensified with the passing of time.

Spike my pint with sodium thiopental (the ‘truth’ drug) and I might — just might, mind — in a moment of chemically-induced objectivity, concede that Thierry Henry has talent. But ask me, in a moment of sobriety, and I am more likely to describe him as an overrated schmuck prone to become invisible in big games.

At the end of the last season when we were robbed of the last Champions League place on the last day of the season by Woolwich, I was physically sick. Note: Not disappointed, not depressed — quite literally, physically sick. When, days later, Britain’s Gooners were beaten by Spain’s Barca in the Champions League final, I was so elevated I cheered loud and long through the night. Not normal behaviour – unless you’re a Tottenham fan. I am aware (and just about sane enough) to realise my hatred of Arsenal borders dangerously on psychotic, and while, I hasten to add, I am no yobbo, leads to what I fear can only be described as obsessive compulsive behaviour that extends to anything even merely associated with our mortal foe.

Examples: I do not buy red clothing, I do not buy Nike-branded products, I didn’t do Dreamcast, would sign up to any mobile network except 02, and even if Emirates Airlines offered to fly me and my much more aesthetically-pleasing half first-class to Dubai for a fiver return throwing in a fortnight stay in world-renowned, five-star – gratis, free, for nothing – chances are, I’d shake my head ‘no’.

True story: A few years ago, I went to Tottenham Court Road to buy a piece of electronic equipment. When I got to the shop, the very helpful salesman informed me that I should perhaps reconsider the object of my desire. We’ve got a special offer on, he told me. The alternative product he was selling boasted a better specification than my intended purchase and was a good fifty lager vouchers or so cheaper. A no-brainer, right? Wrong. Problem was it was manufactured by back-in-the-day Gooner sponsors, JVC. Upshot? I left the store clutching a box marked “Panasonic“, fifty notes plus lighter in the wallet than a logical person would’ve been.

And this — if only just to ram the point home — a couple of weeks ago, I was invited by a friend to watch Brazil v. Argentina friendly taking place today at the new Arsenal stadium. I politely declined his offer. Not, you understand, because I have no interest in seeing two of the finest beautiful game nations go head-to-head on a football pitch. I said no because I simply can’t bear the idea of handing over some of my hard-earned to be banked by the enemy. Bizarre, illogical but completely true.

Mind you, it not as if my only passion in life is football. Oh no. Truth is, I take pride in the fact that I’m multi-faceted waster, me…I care deeply about many other things — just not as deeply as I care about football.

It is my opinion that Radiohead are the greatest kick-arse rock ‘n’ roll band ever to grace a recording studio but, should their next CD be greeted universally by music critics as a “seminal masterpiece “and shift say, a hundred billion copies, would I jump to my feet, punch the air with joy and scream, “YEEESSSSSSSS!!! ‘AVE THAT!!!” at the top of my voice – a manner in which I traditionally greet a Tottenham goal? I would not.

I also believe that White Teeth author, Zadie Smith, is the greatest literary talent of her generation but if her latest novel outsold The Bible and went on to scoop The Booker prize and every other writing award on planet earth, as a fan of the author, would I bask in the reflected glory of her achievement? I would not. Yet, if Tottenham go on to win a trophy this season — even if it is only The Carling Cup — I will, no doubt, walk the streets with chest puffed out large, prouder than a peacock on cocaine.

Tottenham’s indifferent start this term has led for me to spend an inordinate amount of time speculating — electronically and verbally – as to possible reasons why with fellow fans. What has gone wrong? Are the new players gelling with the senior players? There’s talk that Zakora and Davids had a major row after the Everton game, is this true? Is it possible that — O lord, please no — Martin Jol has lost the dressing room? For hours and hours and hours. Over and over and over. All these people have similar personality traits — they are, to a man and woman, clever, engaging, decent human beings. And they all suffer from the same THFC lunacy that afflicts yours truly.

I love cinema too but if I see a not-very-funny Comedy or a not-very-tense Thriller or a not-very-terrifying Horror, would I log in to a movie-lovers forum and converse — ad nauseam — in an attempt to determine what went awry? Was it the director, the actors, the scriptwriter, or maybe studio pressure that resulted in such a mess? The answer is; hell, no. Not a chance – I simply wouldn’t care enough.

“It’s only a game.”

That is as maybe but — in my admittedly warped view of this universe — it is so much more than that. Describing Football as “only a game” is akin to describing Politics as “just a bunch of nutter’s arguing” or War as “just a load of idiot’s killing each other”.

But why has football come to mean so much to me?

I thought about this long and hard and the conclusion I’ve come to is actually quite disturbing. Tottenham Hotspur football club is a projection of self. They are me and I am them. Somehow, it seems to me, such is the intensity of my interest in the exploits of a north London football team they have become inexplicably – but intrinsically — linked to my personality. So much so, that their fortunes — of which I, obviously, have no influence whatsoever – have the ability to affect my moods. If Tottenham are winning, I’m winning and I’m happy. If there are losing, I’m losing and I’m sad. Again – bizarre, illogical but completely true.

And, do you know what? I don’t quite know what to make of this disconcerting personal revelation — so, if there are any psychologists out there who can perchance offer an explanation or prognosis in regard the neurological condition I’m clearly suffering from, I’d be really grateful if you would get in touch soon…

Otherwise, I suspect my affliction might well last a lifetime.

From Soccerlens.com - Football News

Part I

According to the United Nations, and in common with the majority of countries in Western Europe, the United Kingdom is facing a potentially catastrophic problem.

Strangely, given its gravity, it’s a big issue that goes largely unreported by the popular media and politicians dare not speak its name. It is this:

It is projected that over the next 50 years, Britain’s population will fall to unsustainable levels (Read the full report here).

Why and how is this happening?

There are a number of oft-cited, cultural factors involved; women are more likely to have children later in life than was once the case, the sky-high divorce rate doesn’t bode well or inspire confidence for the endurance of the nuclear family, more and more of our citizens are making the conscious choice to live a single (and childless) life.

But, perhaps the biggest singular reason for our plunging populace is: Money.

The high cost of living on this island means the associated expense of raising multiple children is prohibitive to all but the seriously well-off and, as a result, large families are increasingly a ghost of the past.

Why should we be worried about this?

Cause and effect: An inadequate birth rate means an aging population. An aging population means a higher demand for core services; particularly those health-related. A higher demand for core services means greater resources are needed to meet the demand. Greater resources mean higher taxation. Higher taxation means unpopular government. Unpopular government means higher potential for civil unrest. Civil unrests could mean the break down of society.

But the solution to this problem is obvious: Get more people in.

The Germans being the Germans — forward-thinking, pragmatic, proactive — have reportedly sought to remedy this demographical shift in recent years by actively offering all kinds of enticing inducements to the intellectual cream of, mainly Slavic origin, youth prepared to up sticks and settle within Her borders. However, back in the Britain, no official government policy on the issue of Replacement Migration seemingly exists. Why? It’s conjecture but xenophobia is notoriously rife amongst the tabloid-reading, agenda-setting, Brit majority so immigration is traditionally a vote-losing, hot potato for political parties; hence, the unusual resonance of politicians to voice an opinion.

Yet salvation may have arrived in the form of recent additions to the membership of the European Union. Just over two years ago, several east European countries became full members of the E.U. and, as a consequence, their citizens now enjoy a roster of new rights — including the freedom of mobility amongst other member states. This means the United Kingdom can effectively operate a stealth (and totally unofficial) immigration policy…and there is nothing any amount of scare-mongering, hate-fuelled, front page headlines in The Sun and The Daily Mail can do to hinder it. Small wonder then, those of us that live in major cities now encounter an increasing number of Polish settlers in our day to day lives.

But how will this development affect the economic dynamics of Britain in the future? We will only know the answer to that question twenty years from now…

All very interesting but, err, what’s this got to do with football? Good question.

Part II

Meanwhile, and as is so often the case, the problems of the Real World are reflected on Planet Football where a population dilemma is also looming large. And the root cause is, once again, Money. But this has nothing to do with a lack of people – quite the reverse in fact – it concerns too many people wanting in.

Brand new stadiums and escalating wage bills require huge amounts of outgoing revenue and — naturally – clubs are keen to recoup at least part of this outlay via their bums-on-seat customers. Subsequently, as the price of a ticket to a game has increased, a marked change in the demographic make-up of football crowds has occurred. On the way out is the blue-collared, semi-skilled Traditional fan and, in their place, have come The New — an altogether more affluent, professional set.

It would be fair to say, that while the two opposing groups may support the same teams, they generally do not care for each other. The former branding the latter “fair-weathered, glory hunters”. Indeed, even those inside the game have voiced their concern about the passion and long-term commitment of the New fan (For reference: re-read Roy Keane’s (in)famous “Prawn sandwich” remark).

Of course, clubs have an absolute right to secure the maximum price for the glorious spectacle they host every other week but it is important those that run the game are mindful there exists one crucial difference between everyday business customers and football fans — supporters are the dream consumers the like of which Levi’s, Nike, Coca-Cola et al can only ever dream of attracting. How so? Because football fans are brand loyal for life.

We might change our make of jeans, we may swap logo’s on our trainers, and we might display a placid indifference as to which variety of carbonated soft drink we slurp to quench a raging thirst…but we will not, can not, and absolutely shall not change our allegiance to our chosen football team. Never, ever. In this way, we are unique.

For the famous top ten or so EPL clubs, filling their respective stadia may never pose a problem. But as the chasm between football’s elite appears to widen to — one suspects — an unbridgeable expanse, it is those below them – the smaller teams that finish midtable, at best, endure annual relegation dogfight’s, and/or ping-pong between the top-flight and the Championship, at worse — who may, with the passing of time, come to rue the day the Traditional fan was priced out of the game.

It’s becoming a depressing and all-too-familiar story: There’s a lifelong supporter — we’ll call him, “Freddie Fan” — and he follows a mid-sized club – we’ll call them, “Unfashionable Rovers F.C.”- who have recently secured promotion to the top-flight. When Rovers hike up their prices to reflect their new status, Freddie is faced with an agonising dilemma. Things are a bit tight financially and he’s got a family – as well as Rovers – to support. Plainly, something has got to give. So, what does Freddie do? Well, being a decent sort of bloke, he reluctantly gives up his season ticket and resigns himself to the fact that, henceforth, his football consumption will come via a Sky dish and Five Live.

Why should we be worried about this? Cause and effect: If Freddie Fan Snr cannot justify the expense of attending games at Unfashionable Rovers F.C., he doesn’t go. If Freddie Fan Snr. doesn’t go, he doesn’t take his children, Freddie Jr. & Frederica. If Freddie Jr. & Frederica. don’t go, they will not form an emotional attachment to Unfashionable Rovers F.C. If they don’t form an emotional attachment to Unfashionable Rovers F.C., they won’t follow Unfashionable Rovers F.C. If they don’t follow Unfashionable Rovers F.C, Unfashionable Rovers F.C lose out – not just on two would-have-been supporters, they will lose a fortune in would-have-been ticket sales and club merchandise purchases as well. Money they might sorely need if fate decrees the fortunes of Unfashionable Rovers F.C take a turn for the worse.

Additionally and perhaps the most worrying aspect of this is: if Freddie Jr. & Frederica Fan do take any interest in the beautiful game in later life, logic dictates they are more likely to follow the bigger, richer teams who can more or less guarantee winning silverware, season after season, year after year. Or, in other words, he/she/they are destined to become — as perverse as it may be – fair-weathered, glory hunters.

But how will this development affect the economic dynamics of football in the future? We will only know the answer to that question twenty years from now…

From Soccerlens.com - Football News

This was forwarded to me via email. The bloke that sent it swears blind it is a true story. For what it’s worth, my opinion is it probably isn’t.

Perhaps elements of it are bona-fide — some of those Essex boys are raving mentalist’s — but, I suspect, it’s one of those ‘it happened to a friend of a friend of a friend’, Urban Myth thingamajig’s. Whatever.

I found his number and dialled it.

“Hello,” said a man’s voice I did not recognise.

I politely replied, “Hello, this is David. Could I speak with Robert Campbell please?”

Suddenly, and totally out of the blue, a manic voice yelled in my ear, “GET THE RIGHT F**KING NUMBER, YOU MUG!!!” and the phone was slammed down on me.

I couldn’t believe that anyone could be so rude. When later I tracked down Robert’s correct number, I found that I had accidentally transposed the last two digits.

I eventually spoke to Robert and I told him about the ignorant bloke I’d mistakenly spoken to and he was like, “Oh, him…yeah. Right miserable bugger! I know other people have done that and been treated the same. He’s a gooner too, mate.”

So, I went: “How do you know he’s a gooner?”

“Because, what with us having similar numbers, I occasionally get his calls too. One of them was from the Arsenal ticket office about a problem with his season ticket.”

Well, that was it. Bad enough the geezer had got all unnecessary, now I knew he supported the enemy…I’m a Tottenham man so, as you can probably imagine, I absolutely HATE gooners. In the circumstances, I decided to get up to a bit of mischief. It would’ve been rude, I reasoned, not to.

I called the ‘wrong’ number again. When the same guy answered the phone, I yelled: “YOU’RE A C**T!” at the top of my voice and hung up.

A bit juvenile, I know but it made me feel better. So much so that I wrote his number down with the word, ‘C**t’ next to it, and put it in my desk drawer.

Every couple of weeks or so, whenever I felt down or I was paying bills or had a really bad day, I’d call him up and yell: “YOU’RE A C**T!” down the line. It never failed to cheer me up.

When Caller ID was introduced, I thought my therapeutic ‘c**t calling’ would have to stop. So, I called his number and said, “Hello, sir – this is John Smith from BT. I’m calling to see if you’re familiar with our Caller ID Program?”

He yelled, “NO, I’M NOT. F**K OFF!” and slammed down the phone.

I quickly called him back and said, “That’s because you’re a c**t!”

Few months later, I was at Lakeside Shopping Centre, getting ready to pull into a parking spot. Some guy in a gun-metal grey Land Rover cut me off and pulled into the space I had patiently waited for. I hit the horn and yelled that I’d been waiting for that spot, but the idiot deliberately ignored me. My annoyance was complete when I clocked the driver was wearing an Arsenal shirt.

Then, I noticed a “For Sale” sign in his back window, so I wrote down his number.

A couple of days later, right after calling the first c**t (I had his number on speed dial by this point), I thought that I’d better call the Land Rover c**t too.

“Hello, is this the man with the gun-metal grey Land Rover for sale?”

“Yes, it is” he said.

“Can you tell me where I can see it?” I asked.

“‘Course, mate. I live at 129 Alice Street, in Ilford. It’s a terraced house, and the car’s parked right out front.”

“Terrific. What’s your name?” I asked.

“My name is Steve Hansen” he said.

“And when’s a good time to catch you in, Steve?”

“I’m home most days pal, as I’m currently unemployed.”

“Listen, Steve, can I tell you something?”

“Yes?”

“Steve, you’re a c**t!” Then I hung up, and added his number to my speed dial too.

Now, whenever I had a problem or had a row with ‘er indoors or was just in a foul mood, I had two a***holes to call. Proper blinding result, it was.

And so, for months and months, that’s exactly what I did. I would like to say I felt guilty about making life miserable for the pair of them but I didn’t — it really was great fun.

But, eventually, I did get bored with it and decided to stop. Though, not before I executed my brilliant idea as a grand finale.

I called C**t No.1.

“Hello”

“You’re a c**t!” I said, but I didn’t hang up.

“Are you still there?” he asked, hesitantly, after a few seconds.

“Yeah,” I said.

“STOP F**KING CALLING ME!” he screamed.

“Make me.” I said.

“Who are you?” he asked.

“My name is Steve Hansen,” I replied.

“Yeah? Gonna tell me where do you live?”

“C**t,” I said. “I live at 129 Alice Street, Ilford, in a terraced house with a gun-metal grey Land Rover parked out the front.”

He said, “Right, I’m coming over there right now. And you had better start saying your prayers, mate.”

I said, “Yeah, like I’m really scared, c**t! Shaking in me boots, I am…” and hung up.

Then, I called C**t No.2.

“Hello?” he said.

“Hello, c**t’” I said.

He yelled, “JESUS! IF I EVER FIND OUT WHO YOU F**KING ARE…”

“You’ll what?” I said.

“I’ll kick your arse all over Essex!” he goes.

I answered, “Well, c**t, you’re in luck – I’m coming over right now. Don’t fancy your chances much though. I’m gonna mess you up…bad!” I hung up and immediately called the police.

I told The Filth I lived at 129 Alice Street, Ilford, and that I was on my way over there to kill my gay lover. Then, I called BBC Essex newsroom and gave them some spiel about a local gang war going down in Alice Street, Ilford. They thanked me for the tip-off.

So, chuffed to bits, I quickly got into my car and headed over to Alice Street, pronto. I got there just in time to watch two complete c**ts beating the living crap out of each other in front of six police cars, an overhead police helicopter and a BBC news crew.

And d’you know what? All these years later, the memory of those gooners being handcuffed by the cozzer’s and dragged off to the local Nick, still brings a great, big smile to my face.

Happy days…

From Soccerlens.com - Football News

If we believe what we read — and let’s face it; in this case, no one has ever denied its authenticity — it was one of the most shocking and tactless methods a footballer has ever employed to inform his club he wants out.

Last May, following an end of season 4-2 defeat at The Library, Pascal Chimbonda marched into the visitor’s dressing room alongside his Wigan teamates. Once inside, he fished in his kit bag, produced two pieces of paper and handed them to his manager, Paul Jewell. One document was a transfer request, the other; a letter thanking the club for the opportunity it had afforded him.

Thereafter, to paraphrase a popular expression, the faeces collided with the mechanical air-cooling device. LARGE style.

“I was livid!” Jewell told an assembled pack of sport journo’s later. It is in no way an understatement to say the club’s chairman, Dave Whelan, was not best pleased either and, using quite extraordinary language, expressed his displeasure thus:

“The timing of the request was absolutely diabolical,” he said. “I have said to him we will not stand in his way because we cannot afford to have players at this club who do not want to play for us. However, the price is £6m, not a penny less. If anybody wants to pay that, they can buy him. If they don’t, he can play in the reserves until his contract is over.”

Initially, there did seem to be a semblance of hope for the want-away Frenchman – his appearance on the transfer list attracted the attention of two potential suitors. Both Tottenham and West Ham reportedly tabled bids but their opening offer’s – £3m and £4m respectively — were declined with Wigan insisting both club’s return when they were prepared to offer the full asking price. West Ham went elsewhere but Tottenham did come back — with an offer of £3m cash plus midfielders Andy Reid and Danny Murphy as makeweights. But, once again, their offer received a negative one-worded response from Chimbonda’s employers. Following their second attempt to land the player, Tottenham too decided to take the same route as The Hammer’s and seek more viable alternatives.

And there the story ends. Chimbonda is, at the time of writing, still registered as a Wigan Athletic player and — obviously, reluctantly – started the new season with the Lancashire club. Wigan have been true to their word – he was dropped for the opening day defeat at Newcastle and his only appearance to date was as a (very late) substitute during the Wigan’s home win v. Reading last time out.

Perhaps the most intriguing aspect of this sorry tale is the questions it throws up about the dubious morality of football, the true value of a player’s contract – post-Bosman, and our unrealistic expectation as fans of player loyalty.

The player and his agent

Chimbonda’s agent — Willie McKay – has claimed since the get-go that the player acted (quote) “on his own” when he made his audacious transfer request. But can this really be the truth? Is it feasible that a player would do something as fundamentally important as ask his club for a move without first consulting the advice of his appointed representative? If this is not true, it would appear the player was very (very, very) badly-advised and should surely consider dispensing of Mckay’s services forthwith on the grounds of piss-poor guidance.

If, on the other hand, McKay had nothing to do with his client’s action, why is Chimbonda giving up a percentage of his hard-earned to an agent when it is crystal he feels capable of making his own career decisions unilaterally? It is a fact that Chimbonda signed an improved four-year deal just THREE months after arriving at the JJB stadium.

Why, given his ambition to play for a ‘bigger’ club did he do this? Was he persuaded/coerced by MacKay? Whatever the truth, in common with many footballers – post-Bosman – Chimbonda has been forced to play a nail-biting game of brinkmanship with his employer in order to secure a move to a place (he feels) more befitting his ability. The way he went about it was undoubtedly disrespectful but his only real ‘crime’ appears to be his desire for advancement in his chosen profession.

When did ambition become a criminal offence?

The club’s chairman

Deconstruct Dave Whelan’s comment above and the implicit threat contained within its subtext is glaringly obvious; if we don’t get the money we want, he can rot in the reserves! Strong words but are they also wrong words?

Dave Whelan was once a professional footballer — he played for Blackburn – so, unlike so many other club chairmen, should know what he is talking about. After hanging up his boots, he made his multi-millions building up a chain of grocery shops and launching a spectacularly-successful high street sports retail business — the Chav’s favourite for haute couture, JJB Sports. But has this man, who clearly has a masterful grasp of business acumen, acted in the best interests of Wigan football club in this instance?

Surely it is not in the best interest of any business to allow one of its prime assets to devalue deliberately? If Chimbonda is banished to the second XI, he will be worth exactly nothing. So, by playing hardball and refusing to enter into any negotiation over the player’s worth, isn’t Whelan’s action — aside from being highly-suspect business practice — also extremely spiteful and vindictive?

The manager

Paul Jewell is a rarity: an up and coming, highly-capable English football coach plying his trade at the highest level. He’s worked wonders at Wigan, a club many pundits tipped to go straight back down when elevated- for the first time – to Premiership status at the end of the 04/05 season. But, again, his judgement must be called into question regarding the handling of the Chimbonda situation.

Were all those very public outbursts really necessary? Would it not have been wiser for him to keep his lips pursed and allow matters to run their course? Did he, in short, really need to get involved at all? One of his most idiotic quotes came after Tottenham decided they would not match Chimbonda’s £6m price tag and would seek to bolster their defensive options elsewhere.

Jewell is reported to have said: “Tottenham bought Carrick for £3m and have just sold him for £18.6 million. They can’t have it both ways. I’ve pointed out to Pascal that when we bought him for £400,000 nobody knew him. Now he is in the PFA team of the year and the French World Cup squad.” Testicles.

Fact is, Tottenham sold Carrick for £14m — the remaining £4.6m, as was widely-reported, is dependant on number of appearances the player makes in a Man Yoo/Eng-go-land shirt – which means Tottenham got four and a half times more than they paid for a player they’d purchased (and whose talent they nurtured) for two seasons. Conversely, in seeking a fee of £6m, Wigan are expecting a preposterous FIFTEEN times more return for a player they signed from Bastia just ONE season ago. Which begs two other questions:

Does Mr Jewell own a calculator? And, if so, isn’t it about time he read the instruction manual?

Even more astonishing is Jewell’s recent outpouring where he intimated the player can still be a part of his future plans. You can only wonder what would Chimbonda have to do to convince his manager he believes his future lays elsewhere? Should he perhaps get a tattoo on his forehead bearing – in inch-high letters – the legend, “I REALLY DON’T WANNA BE HERE, ME.”? Might that do the trick? How on earth does Jewell think he is going to motivate him? And does he seriously expect Chimbonda’s team-mates to welcome him back with open arms too?

The supporters

How must Wigan fans feel about this whole fiasco? Imagine the prospect of seeing a player running around for your chosen team who patently doesn’t want to play for you. And what should they do? Cheer him in hope encouragement might raise his game or boo him off the pitch in disgust? Tricky one, isn’t it?

The Guardian recently reported that a small section of the club’s core supporters turned out to shout abuse at Chimbonda and his agent when they arrived at the club’s training ground for pre-season showdown talks with Jewell, so any hope the player might have of a sympathetic reception doesn’t look promising. So, why hold on to him? More broadly, isn’t it about time we – as supporters – lowered our expectation levels of loyalty in the modern game?

Talisman players like Gerrard, Terry and King are now the exception rather than the rule. Fact. Surely we need to accept that – Cashley Cole aside -when our club’s employ Johnny Foreigner; he is unlikely to possess the same attachment to our team a home-grown player might. Isn’t that obvious?

Sadly, most of the questions posed above, seem destined — just like Pascal’s Chimbonda’s transfer request — to go unanswered but maybe there’s an harsh life lesson we can all learn from his contractual imprisonment: You can’t make someone love you and doing your utmost to prevent them finding contentment with someone else, isn’t big, clever, wise or advantageous. In ANY sense.

Spread the word. Inform Amnesty International. There has been an injustice on Planet Football:

Free The Wigan One…

From Soccerlens.com - Football News

“Moral indignation is jealousy with a halo.” – H.G. Wells

What’s the problem with Chelsea? As we students of the backpages know only too well, they are many and multiple. But for those that live – Bin Laden-like – in a cave, I’ll summarise the main point vitriol of their critics as succinctly as I am able to:

• Their owner, Roman “Loadsaroubles” Abrahmovich, is an uncouth, noveau-riche oligarch who, using his (allegedly dubiously-acquired) fortune, first bought the football club then, outrageously, bought the Premiership title itself too
• Their manager, Jose “The Chosen One” Mourinho, is the world’s most ungracious loser and – put bluntly – a bit of a narcissistic ponce to boot
• The team are a motley crue of overpaid, overrated, preening prima donnas who — in between performing Olympic—grade dives following non-existent fouls – prance around most Saturday afternoons grinding out marginal wins against less-well-financed opposition
• Their methodology — many are of the opinion that Chelsea are prepared to use any means necessary — including gamesmanship and a fragrant disregard of laws that supposedly govern accepted conduct of a football club — in their single-minded pursuit of success
• The unjust nature of their status — as a new season begins, Chelsea are odds-on, stonewall, you-can-put-your-mortgage-on-it-pal favourites to win the EPL for the third time consecutively but, before the cash injection of Abrahmovich (and their previous moneyed-up patron, the late Matthew Harding), they were little more than an also-ran, dishwater-dull, south-west London football team with a pitifully low fan base.

That about sums up the most common complaints, doesn’t it? But, wait, isn’t this just another example of history repeating itself?

Those that know their footie history or are long enough in memory will recollect what Angelo Moratti did at Inter Milan in the 60′s and what Silvio Berlusconi did at AC Milan in the ’80s. They’ll remember how Bernard Tapie and Jesus Gil transformed Marseille and Atletico Madrid respectively in the ’90s.

And, lest we forget, this sort of thing is not even without example in England. In 1994, steel industry magnet, Jack Walker, was similarly accused of buying the title for his beloved Blackburn Rovers (An aside for any of you with an interest in inflationary nature of Western economies: The Team That Jack Built cost a paltry £28 million to assemble back in the day. Roman Abrahmovich spent close to eight times as much recreating the same feat just 12 years later).

Move along, please — there’s nothing new to see here.

Those that cast Abramovich as football’s anti-Christ are bogus and fraudalent. In reality, he is merely the latest in a long tradition of rich men who have used the beautiful game to create a sporting folly. That is all.

And, think about it, were the pre-Abrahmovich Premiership days really any better or are Chelsea-haters guilty of peering at the past through rose-tinted specs? It could be argued that Manchester United certainly would not have enjoyed their decade-and-a-half dominance of English football were it not for the fact they had – and willingly used — their wealth to buy advantage in the form of world class ability. The presence of Eric Cantona and Roy Keane in particular was absolutely crucial to their hey-day success.

So, those that ejected toys from pram in disgust when Chelsea added Michael Ballack and Andriy Shevchenko to their already-formidable, star-studded squad during close season, may do well to remind themselves that, just as recently as the summer of 2001, Man U spent the best part of fifty million quid on just TWO players — they paid Holland’s PSV £19 million for the services of Ruud Van Nisteroy and smashed the then-British transfer record when they parted with £28.1 million for the (ill-fated) signature of Argentine midfielder, Juan Sebastian Veron.

Truth is; in a world of famine, prisoners of conscience, and illegal wars do we really have any right to expect justice, fair play and parity in football?

Indeed, has a level playing field ever truly existed?

Whilst Chelsea football club undoubtedly owes its current good fortune to their owner’s HUGE fortune, Roman Abramovich’s background is far from privileged. His mother died of blood poisoning when he was just 18 months old and he was orphaned at four when his father was killed tragically in a building site accident. Thereafter, he was sent to live with relatives in Ukhta – a dismal oil industry town just outside the Arctic Circle. And there is where he would have stayed, destined to become – at very, very best – a £2000 a year middle manager, were it not for his ruthless exploitation following the coming of perestroika and the subsequent Russian gold rush it created.

According to the gold diggers bible, The Sunday Times Rich List, Abrahmovich is today the richest man in Britain. His estimated, (and totally incomprehensible) fortune of £7.5bn dwarfs even that of old money, land-owning toff, The Duke of Westminster, who has to struggle by — bless him – on a guesstimated £6bn.

But what on earth can you do with that amount of cash? I mean, once you possess all of the trappings that go hand-in-hand with one of those so-damned-elusive billionaire lifestyle’s — he’s got the lot: a town house in London’s exclusive Belgravia, a 220-acre pile in Sussex, a yacht the size of a small village, the ubiquitous private jet — how do you fill your time?

He could have done something a tad more noble, I suppose. He might have worked to eradicate world hunger or promote a greater understanding between humanities in the hope of achieving world peace. But he did not. Instead, he decided to play Fantasy Football — for real!

John, Paul, George and Ringo got it wrong; money can buy you love. It can also buy you power, fame, and glory in the shape of a safe pair of hands between the sticks, a solid back four, a creative midfield and a brace of clinical finishers up top…the one singular thing money can’t buy is Time.

And therein lies the key for those of you suffering from an acute case of Chelsea fatigue.

Question is: just how long will Abromovich remain entertained by his current muse?

If, as they should surely expect, the club wins the Champions League this coming term they will have reached the zenith of club football. The problem with a peak is it inevitably leads to a trough. The only way is down and it may be at this point that he grows wary of putting his hands in his bottomless pockets and looks elsewhere (there are rumours that he wishes to launch an F1 team) for a money-draining distraction to the tedium of his luxurious existence.

But, mark my words, even if it does happen, another money man will soon take his place. In fact, if the financial pledges made by the new Villa owner – the superbly-named, Randy Lerner — aren’t just new-love, starry-eyed, sweet talk, a new footie sugar-daddy may already be in place.

In the meantime, Chelsea-haters need to calm down, think about their blood pressure and rediscover a sense of perspective.

Many people assume the simpleton grin that seems to permanently adorn the Chelsea’s owner’s face is there because he is unlikely ever to be overdrawn at the bank. Perhaps it is but I suggest otherwise. Maybe Roman Abramovich sees a truth most fail to acknowledge – the furore that his entry into world football has caused is of constant amusement to him. Why?

Because he is, after all, a child of the formerly-Communist Mother Russia who has exposed the fatal flaw of free-market Capitalism:

Those that control the wealth can do, more or less, whatever they want and there is absolutely nothing the more financially-challenged amongst us can do to stop them.

Ironic, innit?

From Soccerlens.com - Football News