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ISSUE 4

EMANUEL RANT



It’s that time of the season when our beloved hacks are unable to find anything to write about without resorting to that whoreiest of hoary old cliché: mind games; this is almost invariably applied to anything that Alex Ferguson might utter. If you believe the spin the eventual resting place of the season’s silverware is dictated not by the performance of footballers but by whether anyone can cope with Sir Alex’s psychological brinksmanship.  This is not only the domain of our red-top ranters but also the so-called quality newspapers. Only last week in The (new right-wing) Guardian, Simon Hattenstone suggested that Sir Alex’s mental manipulation is wasted on Jose Mourinho and that he ought to be employed by the United States government as the ultimate weapon in international politics: “Fergie is cruel, cunning, twisted, manipulative, dangerous, indestructible. What an asset he could be to the war on terror,” he fawns.

All this talk of Sir Alex’s being the master if mind games is based almost entirely on his deep analysis of the end game, “Squeaky bum time” and his spats with those well-known intellectual heavy-weights such as Kevin “I’d love it” Keegan and Brian “couldn’t spell cat if you gave him the c and the t” Kidd; but, given that there may be something to all this badinage, let’s have some of Sir Alex’s quotes…

“If Chelsea drop points, the cat's out in the open. And you know what cats are like - sometimes they don't come home.”   [Mmmmm – er, what?]

“Wayne Rooney doesn't score tap-ins.” [Er he does. Surely he’d be livid if he didn’t?]

“If we can play like that every week we'll get some level of consistency.” [No shit Sherlock!!]

“There are plenty of cynics in the world; years ago they said we called it the Worthless Cup. We never did. It was a load of rubbish.” [Given his understanding of consistency above then I suppose this makes sense.]

“As with every young player, he's only 18.” [Unless of course, er, they’re not.]

Okay, I take it all back. We can all bin those Plato, Sartre and Wittgenstein books. They have nothing on Sir Alex.

Given the righteous indignation at Drogba recent admission that sometimes he dives that spawned forth from our hollow hacks [surely esteemed journalists - ed] one might think that this was the cause of all ills in the world. Of course this kind of thing is only perpetrated by Johnny Foreigner; Rooney absolutely did not dive over Sol Campbell’s foot to earn a penalty to end Arsenals 49 match unbeaten run and in no way did Michael Owen dive twice to earn penalties against Argentina in two consecutive world cups. Cheating and lying is part of the game. The trick is not to get caught. Drogba and Robben’s only true failing is that they are – frankly – shit at it. Incidentally, should any of the England players gain a penalty in similar fashion that wins us the world cup, do you think these journos will be calling for Sven and the boys to give the trophy back to FIFA? I doubt it.

The cynicism of the modern game is not so much the diving and cheating and lying but is the shameless marketing for which we must give the likes of Peter Kenyon. Latest example was David Beckham’s admission that he suffers from mild OCD (like we should give a fuck!). Here is the exact quote:

“I've got this obsessive compulsive disorder where I have to have everything in a straight line or everything in a straight line or everything has to be in pairs… I'll put Pepsi cans in the fridge and if there's one too many then I'll put it in another cupboard somewhere.”

This admission has nothing to do with his $10 million five-year deal with Pepsi, then.

(With humble apologies to Emanuel who gave us his copy about a month ago when this topic was de-rigeur – Ed


FOOTBALL ANACHRONSIMS – not good, not bad, just are. Why? We don’t know...


JIMMY ARMFIELD

Mark Pougatch or whoever was commentating the Man U vs. Arse game on 9th April:  “This is the biggest gate at Old Trafford for 50 years when Man Utd played Blackpool…and I believe you were playing in that game, Jimmy”

Jimmy Armfield:  “Yes I was.” 

Nothing more to say about Jimmy really.


THE VALUABLES SOCK

Car keys, wallets, wedding rings, you name it, anything of real value stuffed into a smelly sock with everyone else’s treasured thingies, bunged into a kit bag and thrown in the onion bag under the never watchful eye of the goalie. Sunday sides have pumps for balls, spare whistles, tiger balm even, so why has no team in history ever thought to place the their most precious items in anything other than a sock?


BOVRIL



Liquid cow. The word ‘Bovril’ originates from the first two letters of the Latin for beef ‘Bros’ and a Victorian concoction called ‘Vrill’ – ‘an electric fluid’ which ‘cured diseases and established equilibrium of natural powers’. Who says Sidenetting don’t ejucate ya, eh?

Any way, it is, as you all know a foul brew, never drunk anywhere other than a football ground from a paper cup…for a £1.00. Strangely enticing at half time and not entirely unsatisfying, but get out of the ground and you wont go within a mile of the stuff. “Cup of Bovril Dear?” “Are you mad, woman? I’ll have a cup of tea like I always do!”


WAGON WHEELS



Generally popular mid 70s, then for a while it seemed they could only be bought at a football grounds. You can get them anywhere now but they remain synonymous with their footballing past and why not. A delicious chocolate(ish) flavoured coating over layers of stale biscuit, marshmallow and something else. And they taste as weird as they look. We’re not complaining, although a word of caution; for everything you value, all that you hold dear, never ever dunk a wagon wheel in your Bovril.


PISSING INTO A ROLLED UP NEWSPAPER

Hmmmm. This delightful ‘mannerism’ was popular in the 70s (again) and is still kept alive, so we understand in the tribal lands of the north. Why go all the way to the lav when you can go there and then into a copy of the Daily Record. Never adopted at Wimbledon, Henley or Lords (although the Tavern was getting there until they pulled it down, the spoilsports) it remains ‘Football’ through and through. Indeed, where else other than the football terraces would you find such generosity - to share one’s most intimate moments so that all may enjoy the sight and the hot vapours-du-discharge thereafter.


THE HALF-TIME FAG



Sunday supremos favourite, bugger the slice of orange. The half-time fag often rides tandem with a piss. In which other sport do you light up? Darts maybe, but it cant help, can it. Strange then that the best players always had a crafty ciggy, held backwards like, whilst some idiot ranted on and on about using the channels and “we can beat this lot, y’know”.


THE HANDBALL RULE

Law 12 of the official FIFA rulebook says a free kick is to be awarded if a player “handles the ball deliberately (except for the goalkeeper within his own penalty area)”. That’s it. Nothing else. But because very few handballs are done on purpose like Drogba or the entire Sunderland defence does, “deliberate” has to be interpreted. Here’s what David Elleray says:

"Referees look at two specifics - did the hand or arm go towards the ball or in a manner which would block the ball, or is the hand in a position where it would not normally be? The challenging decisions are if the defending player spreads their arms to make themselves bigger. If the ball hits the arm then the referee must decide whether this action was to deliberately block the ball or whether the player has raised their arms to protect themselves - especially if the ball is hit at speed."

Oh dear, oh dear. This could run and run, and frequently does when our esteemed TV pundits are being particularly cavalier with the viewers patience. So once and for all Sidenetting is able to give the clear, unambiguous, irrefutable definition of a handball. Ready?

A handball is a handball if it looks like a handball.

Simple as that. We all know what one is – we’ve seen a million of them before. Just don’t ask us to explain any further.


DA DA, DA DA, DA DA, DA DA, DA DADDLE DA DA, DA DA

I’ll name that tune in one! No I wont because I don’t know it other than the Final score ditty from Radio Beeb at five oclock sharp, step lively man. A relic from a better time, when wife beating was kept behind closed doors, when nonces could roam the local park free from prying eyes, when (oh shuttup –ed). It’s always followed by James Alexander Gordon’s dulcet tones. (Rising pitch) Arsenal nil (higher pitch) Manchester United three. Kind of puts your feet back on the ground after listening to the incomparable Stuart Hall. Strange that the Beeb's radio broadcasts are so much better than their telly’s. Hey that’s another footy anachronism (no it’s not and f**k off while you’re at it – Ed).