Euro 25 reflections - contains nerdity

So, England held on to their trophy, even if they weren’t the most careful of owners, blithely resting the silverware on the roof of cars that they then drove off in, knocking into it when placed perilously on an open shelf, leaving it unguarded so that other Europeans could have it away with them. Some might say carelessness, they might say they needed to generate a spark.

The curious feeling at conceding the goals to Sweden particularly, suggested that going out before the final went against everything that seemed pre-destined. If England had ultimately paid for their defensive incoherence, the pre-destined thing would have been kept in its box, and assumptions made about team and manager reaching the end of the line. Still, Sarina Wiegman’s side appeared too mighty, despite the mighty flaws, to be cut so soon. Lauren Hemp hit the bar at one down to the Swedes to suggest there was more to be added to the ten goals in the previous two group games against Netherlands and Wales and, at half-time, Jill Scott mentioned that thing you learn in the first ten years of your footballing life about 2-0 up being a dangerous scoreline. Chloe Kelly, with her redemption arc and wedding day shinpads, channelled her inner John Barnes at Mexico ‘86 to torment the Swedes down the left, and provide the start of the rescue act with a cross headed in by Lucy Bronze at the far post. And on that fitting note, let’s get some other headers up.

Lucy Bronze

I referenced her ‘ragged’ tournament when writing after the Italy game, and though she is generally prone to a rush of blood, such as the surge into a Spanish trapdoor at the World Cup Final two years ago that led to the only goal of the game, she is better known for her elegant raids down the flank. Here in Sweden there was a distinct air of dishevelment to her, perhaps best exhibited by the reems of self-strapping she administered against the Swedes.

“Obviously she doesn’t need blood supply to that thigh!” Rachel Brown-Finnis wryly observed.

We now know that Bronze played through the pain of a broken tibia during the tournament. I take back my words. Perhaps the excess bandage was fitting against the Swedes, a nod to the blood-stained Terry Butcher, playing (foolishly) on with a head wound to inspire England’s 0-0 draw them that secured their place at Italia ‘90. Lioness goalkeeper Hannah Hampton paid her own tribute, playing on after a clash with a Swedish player that required tampon-insertion up the nostril.

Bronze followed up her deficit-halving header by smashing in a rare successful penalty in this tournament during the shootout, leading England to the brink of the semi-Final. Brown-Finnis compared her old-school persona to that of Stuart Pearce, another Three Lion from the eighties. Ironically, Butcher’s rallying call to his team mates before games was “caged tigers!” according to Gary Lineker.

Bronze kicking out at an advertising hoarding, like Faustino Asprilla (or was that a corner flag? Or Keith Curle?) in defiance following that goal against Sweden could have been an even more iconic moment had the sponsors displayed round the pitch not been so pleasingly inoffensive in Switzerland. While giving a credit card compny a good bashing might have been unwittingly cathartic, it was for once a shame that Visit Qatar or Bet360 were not in place for Lucy to put her foot through. Lucy is just the woman for these stick-it-to-the-establishment moments, such as the World Cup Final ceremony when she didn’t profer her hand for that snake, Gianni Infantino, to shake before putting the medal round her neck at the one game of the tournament he bothered to turn up for. Would he have appeared up for any more games had this been a FIFA women’s tournament in his own country? He did once appeal for the women players to kick down FIFA’s doors, perhaps Lucy could give that a go, mate.

Talking of advertising hoardings

Yes really, that’s a sub-heading. The first time I brought a friend to Highbury for a match (well, Dad took us) he spent a fair whack of the time obsessing over the identity of the unfamiliar companies boxed around the pitch instead of, as I’d banked on, fawning all over the on-pitch beauty around him instead, which was quite frustrating when I was trying to concentrate on the anxiety of watching Arsenal try and beat Middlesbrough on a November afternoon of their eventual 88-89 title-winning season. So, call me a hypocrite for noticing the lack of corporate or nation-state morally bankrupt entities on view at this Euros. The innocence of the blossoming game was emblematic in the absence of Visit Qatar/Saudi/Gilead or BetYourLifeSavings.com (Take time to Think). In their place, there was Playstation5, Wisenhof (adventure park/hotel/poultry brand) Hublot (luxury Swiss watches), GRIFOLS, COMMITTED TO SCIENCE, Just Eat and ClicktopayVisa. It wasn’t all perfect though, and while it is just in this family that we have beef with Just Eat as they neither delivered or refunded us a takeaway a few years ago (not used them since), the adverts for Euronics, Amazon (online shopping) and Miele (washing machines and dryers) were perhaps not ideal in a female empowerment arena.

One of the things I got wrong

I said that Spain wouldn’t let England off the hook like Sweden and Italy had, but the missed chances by Paralleulo and Bonmarti kicked that theory into touch. Two years ago, I wondered if Spain’s intricate, technical football would falter under the weight of England’s superior finishing, but this time (more than any other time) Spain’s profligacy became a problem. England do seem to have the greater mix of potential goalscorers, not just Russo (only two this tournament, albeit one of them vital and another bizarrely disallowed) or Hemp (1), but James (2), Toone (2), Stanway (2) and other contributions from Beth Mead and Aggie Beever-Jones from the bench and of course Bronze.

That said…

The last three Women’s World Cups, the past three men’s World Cups, the past four men’s European Championships, this summer’s Greed is Good Cup and now the current winners of this year’s women’s Euros have all been won by the team who played the first semi-final, 24 hours before their opponents. It’s a big enough sample size to warrant consideration when analysing the integrity of competition, although not as compelling as the tv rights money.

Arsenal v Barcelona in May

I didn’t think Arsenal had any chance of beating Barcelona in the Champions League Final a few months ago, not when Arsenal can never find a way past perennial WSL champs Chelsea who lost 8-2 to the Spanish team on aggregate in the semi-final. But one of the great things about football that hasn’t been stamped on yet is the lack of logic. You learn this as a kid in junior football, when losing to a team who’d been thrashed the week before by a team you’d yourself thumped. Despite all the data and killjoy video tech, players still have off days, luck turns up in unexpected places, the fixture scheduling goes your way (see above) and shocks happen. Arsenal of England beating Barcelona of Espana provided the template - or example - that England could beat Spain, evidently together with fixture scheduling, which didn’t go for England at the World Cup but did here. Bonmarti, Spain’s best player, playing after only being cleared of meningitis a few days before the Euros, might have helped too.

So many variables keeps the game on top of it’s imprisoners!

Chloe Kelly

Perhaps the iconic player from the uber-resurgence of the women’s game in this country. The shirt twirling in the air after her winning goal in Euro 22; the World Cup quarter-final penalty shoot-out winner against Nigeria that was faster than any shot in the Premier League or WSL recorded that season; the game-changing appearance against Sweden in this quarter-final; the botched-but-recovered pen against Italy in the semi; the curling cross for Russo’s wonderful headed equaliser in the Final; the penalty-shoot-out winner to crown England champions again. Last winter, Kelly was out of favour at Manchester City and told she couldn’t leave (definitely not like an Abu Dhabi-owned enterprise to suppress a woman’s freedom), now a few months on she is a Champions League winner with Arsenal and European champion again with England.

Ann-Katrin Berger

Oh, the life of a goalie! The incredible, gravity-defying save from Berger, in helping 10-woman (always wanted to say that) Germany stave off France in the quarter Final and then making the winning save in the shootout was followed by an extra-time defeat by Spain when Bonmarti exposed her at the near post. The Germany-France fixture is poignant here. In the semi-Final at Mexico ‘86 between those two nations (albeit with ‘West’ added to Germany) French keeper Joel Bats let a first half Andreas Brehme free kick squirm under his body, which proved to be the only goal until right at the end when Rudi Voeller broke through to chip the ball over him and slot in. This had been preceded by Bats’ hero hour in the quarter final against Brazil, when he’d saved Zico’s penalty in normal time and then one from Socrates in a shoot-out.

Berger’s save against France may be the women’s game’s Gordon Banks moment against Pele and Brazil in 1970 - also in Mexico - but even Banks didn’t get much fortune after that game, going down with food poisoning before the West Germany quarter-final, where stand-in Peter Bonetti was blamed for all three goals as England saw their two-goal lead dismantled.

Then there’s Berger’s compatriot and fellow keeper, Oliver Khan, a rare shining light among his team mates at the 2002 World Cup in Japan and Korea, captaining them all the way to the Final (“they should all be put in a bag and hit with a stick apart from Khan” said former World Cup winning captain and manager Frank Beckenbaur, who’d started the comeback against England in ‘70) and then spilling the ball at the feet of Brazil’s Ronaldo for the first of his two goals to lift the trophy.

I could also talk about David Seaman’s three penalty saves in the 1994 European Cup Winners Cup at Sampdoria and then what happened in the Final, but that wasn’t an international match so I won’t go into it.

Sweet Caroline

People think they want it, need it, expect it, but that’s how they want you to think. Neil Diamond’s betting firm anthem is Prince Ludwig dressed as Nursie dressed as a cow. Your noise or their noise? You must shoos between them.

Swiss hosts

From afar, Switzerland seemed like good hosts, their second major tournament, this time without the help of Austria as in 2008 for the men’s Euros, where Spain beat Germany 1-0 in the Final (the score in the semi final here). The fan walks looked amazing, a memorable feature of the last few weeks. The most famous Swiss person is probably that egomaniac from the world federation, but the unblemished competition made a heartening comparison to his reign of terror.

A Good VAR These Days is Hard To Find

I couldn’t possibly sign off without a mention for the dishonourable VAR, the system they said that would end all moaning about injustice, so let’s discuss it. The decision to award Alessia Russo offside against France despite her not standing beyond the nearest defender wiped out the 1-0 lead and resulted (in theory, as there was a long way to go) in England finishing behind the French and getting the ‘easier side of the draw’, including that all-important first scheduled semi-final. VAR continues to have this kind of crackpot, slapstick impact, but like with the television rights and Sweet Caroline, the pleas to be gentle with this game of mine go unheard.

And finally…

Well done England, well done Switzerland, well done to everyone who watched. It’s Brazil in 2027 for the World Cup, for anyone who can still stomach FIFA. It’s worth forgetting about them for the women’s game, especially as Infantino doesn’t respect it. Late night watching is always fun, but for now let the warm glow of Switzerland ‘25 keep you going in this dark world we live in. Well, let it if you want it to, I’m not forcing it on you like a stadium DJ.

Self defence and attack

 The greatest team never to have won the World Cup is an ‘accolade’ normally bestowed on either Brazil in 1982 or Holland in 1974. The successive Final defeats of the Dutch in 74 and ‘78, losing out on both occasions to a host nation well-suited to the role of villains, perhaps gives them the edge; at least, they are the finest generation of a football team to have missed out on the sport’s grandest prize.

That the Dutch reached the second Final, in Buenos Aires, without captain, orchestrator and all-time great, Johan Cruyff, kicking a ball, is remarkable. By that time Cruyff was playing for Barcelona, and it was a failed kidnap attempt in his Catalonia home that he said led to his decision not to travel to Argentina.

The world would only get one taste of Cruyff on the global stage, but one for the ages as the spearhead of ‘total football’, a positional revolution played out before an enthralled audience, following on from the innovative predecessors of previous summers: the false nine disruptors of Hungary in ‘54, the start of the Brazilian story in ‘58 with a 17 year old wonder kid Pele, England’s wingless wonders in ‘66 and the final outing of a 29 year old Pele, in his fourth World Cup in ‘70, starring in the closest thing to a fairytale the game can offer.

Pele won three World Cups and Cruyff none but the latter applied his on-pitch mastery to a stellar coaching career at the Camp Nou which culminated in Barcelona’s maiden European Cup trophy, secured with a free kick by a fellow Dutchman, Ronald Koeman, at Wembley against Italians Sampdoria. In that team was midfield general Josep Guardiola, 21 then but a future captain. Opinionated and demanding, Guardiola’s idol was his boss, a different style of player but a disciple of his methods and eventual successor as coach.

Guardiola went one better than Cruyff in Europe, winning two Champions Leagues in 2009 and 2011, the second of those held up as the perfect embodiment of modern football, performed by arguably the greatest club side ever. It’s difficult to declare a fairytale on their triumphs, which featured notable fortune in the semi-final and - initially at least - the Final of ‘09, while their propensity to press referees as much as opponents in order to influence the severest punishments for the most minor of offences had become part of the Barcelona way, an ingredient to mix in with Dani Alves’ full-back/midfield hybrid role probing,  Iniesta’s drive and Lionel Messi’s genius. 

Yet, the dark arts didn’t cloud the brilliance, Barcelona revered as a version of ‘74 and ‘78 Dutch, with perhaps the element of Argentinian noise (encouraged, perhaps, by Cruyff or Guardiola or both as a defence-mechanism?) a sideline gripe for neutrals. Scars of the past are understandable: West Germany’s penalty in the ‘74 Final to equalise Holland’s arrived unquestionably as a result of a dive, left winger Holzenbein sprawling dramatically to the Munich turf after Wim Jansen’s challenge: Argentina’s 6-0 win over a normally obdurate Peru to ensure their place in the Final has forever been a source of conjecture, with most of the scrutiny on the hapless display of Peru’s Argentine-born goalkeeper in a game the hosts needed to win by four clear goals. Any wrongdoing on the part of Ramon Quiroga, or on any of the other five players accused of taking bribes has never been proven, although the presence of the Argentine military hangs tragically over the tournament and those that the junta ‘disappeared’. 

The Final itself was delayed when the host nation, led most imploringly by captain Daniel Passarella - “the greatest dirtiest player in the world” - protested about the plaster cast fastened onto the Dutch winger Rene Van De Kerkhof, influencing Italian referee Sergio Gonella to ask the player to have an extra layer added. Argentina, through the marauding No.10 Mario Kempes, opened the scoring but the Dutch equalised through Rene Rensenbrink, who then struck the post in the final minute. Whether this would have been allowed to stand we will never know, but in extra time Kempes inspired two more fatal blows, the third appearing to deflect off his hand on its way to Bertoni slamming in the winner. 

Bertoni now distances himself from his World Cup winning history, but the golden Dutch generation exited right heartbroken, the end of an exalted era, their decline steeped in failure to even qualify for the next four European and World championships. 

The fairytale would be written belatedly, the Netherlands’ 1988 return to prominence rubber-stamped in West Germany, lifting the European championships 14 years after their 2-1 defeat to the hosts in their first World Cup Final. On the way, they beat West Germany, 2-1, with a last minute penalty contentiously awarded, steered home by Koeman. 

Having reached the pinnacle at his club, Guardiola left Barcelona and took a year out to decompress, returning to take over at Bayern Munich, undisputedly the biggest club in Germany but one regarded favourably in Europe with its self-sustaining financial model, part owned by supporters, as is the German philosophy. 

On a personal level, Guardiola’s arrival in Munich was unfortunate, taking over a team that had just won the Treble under Jupp Heynckes, the 2013 Champions’ League win over  Borussia Dortmund at Wembley - home of the ‘92 and 2011 Barcelona triumphs - crowning a perfect season. When Guardiola’s appointment had been announced the previous January, such a feat may have been earmarked. As it was, their glamorous new coach was unable to replicate his European success with Bayern, his three seasons bringing tactical innovation but ‘only’ expected domestic dominance (and along the way a 5-3 aggregate defeat to Barcelona in the 2015 Champions’ League semi-final, a 3-2 second leg win at home recovering some pride after a chastening 3-0 reverse on his return to the Camp Nou).

So to Manchester City, where Guardiola would win his own treble in 2023, the crowning Champions’ League victory coming with almost a general sense of relief after all the years since 2011 of angst and ‘overthinking’ in the premier club competition. But if there really was relief, there wasn’t much else for anyone to take from their achievements. Unlike the treble win of the then routinely despised Manchester United, there likely won’t be a documentary made 25 years on from their sterile 1-0 win against Inter in the Final. 

Guardiola’s decision to join the Abu Dhabi backed project that had overseen City’s move from Maine Road to Eastlsnds to the Etihad stadium and pumped the club with seemingly a bottomless pit of petrodollars while presiding over an eternal state of human rights abuses in the Emirates, was his first move into villain territory. In the first couple of seasons at City he wore a yellow ribbon in interviews to support the Catalan people oppressed by Spanish government. Guardiola then began to receive questions about Abu Dhabi and the marginalised plight of women and homosexuals and migrants there. Guardiola stopped wearing the yellow ribbon.

Maybe Guardiola didn’t much consider, as most of the expensive signings almost certainly don’t whenever they join City, the sportswashing and propaganda state he was aligning himself with. Probably, he just saw the resources required to fulfil his coaching manifesto, finances coupled with super-smart recruitment that saw City earn a league record 100 points in his second season of 2017-18 and 98 in 2018-19 and 93 in 2021-22. 

Liverpool came 2nd in the last of those two seasons, themselves gaining 97 and 92 points respectively. Arsenal’s ‘invincibles’ racked up 90 points in 03-04 and Chelsea’s first Mourinho Abramovic-funded juggernaut amassed 95. At the moment, Arsenal fans are bemoaning that, after themselves finishing 2nd to City in successive 22-23 and 23-24 seasons with 86 and 89 points (enough to have won 10 Premier League titles since its inception) Liverpool are looking likely to capitalise on City’s Rodri-vacant decline this season. Yet who can really begrudge Liverpool after twice missing out on deserved championships? 

Liverpool: the greatest team never to have won the Premier League - or at least the greatest generation of players to have never won the Premier League? Their one title under Jurgen Klopp seems unjust, but where the German was unable to add to it, the Dutchman, Arne Slot, seems likely to step in to make the belated fairytale.

Football focus?

If all I can go in about is VAR when there’s a multimillionaire narcissist throwing out Nazi salutes at a presidential inauguration and that president himself describes a bishop as “nasty” for promoting empathy, I should probably be a bit uneasy about that. 

On the other hand, you have Taylor Swift recommending that you forget about the liars and the cheats of the world and concentrate on sick beats instead. Not a new reference I know, one that actually pre-dates the first horror of the hideous beast presiding over America/Gilead (twinned with Qatar) but one worth considering.

The complication is that VAR isn’t a liar or a cheat but does have a detrimental effect on the state it is ‘serving’. It’s not so easy to shake off while it’s fucking you over every week, directly meddling with your beloved team in a sport that no lyrical composition can replace. At least you can avoid the news. 

VAR is always in there, in my thinking. Last week, while I sat down to watch Avengers Assembled with the family, Arsenal’s home game with Aston Villa provided the unseen overarching plot, the phone in my pocket vibrating six times during the film and match. I resisted checking, despite everything, keeping up the pretence that I was 100% committed to the Marvel universe. Yes, I was enjoying the family time and AA is a fun watch, but I also knew what a boost it would be to beat Villa, especially with Liverpool having seen off Brentford with two late goals in West London earlier.

I didn’t speculate the division of goals in north London, just knew they’d happened. When I glanced at the clock to see that the game was over, I considered that maybe VAR was responsible for one of the vibrations, and that if so, of course it would be us on the wrong end of it. I just had to sit it out for a bit longer to find out.

The temptation to not actually find out, to never, ever find out and just carry on with life never knowing is a phantom temptation, obviously. You’re going have to face up to it at some point. And then you do, and you discover that your team had finally found a way to score in open play, not once but twice, but then preceded to let two in at the other end due to your makeshift right back straying out of position. The fifth and sixth vibrations? Well, that was your centre forward putting you 3-2 up and VAR then overturning it for handball. 

Fast forward to Wednesday night, and I’m back on the sofa, watching the penultimate, penultimate episode of Traitors with girlfriend and daughter, and I’m all in on this tv hour, barely remembering that Arsenal are at home to Dinamo Zagreb in the UEFA Champions League looking for a win that will all but avert an extra play-off game to reach the knockout stages. And thank goodness they won that one. The reason Thomas Partey was uneasily deputising at full back against Villa was because Jurrien Timber was called over to centre back in the absence of the injured William Saliba. Saliba had a hamstring injury, as does Bukayo Saka, who is  ruled out for months. Saliba likely won’t be so impacted, but like Saka he played nearly every game of last season as Arsenal chased Manchester City’s empire for the title. Saka also played every England game as they reached the Final of the Euros, Saliba every one for France as they got to the last four. There hasn’t been much of a gap in between.

The greed of the European elite, of UEFA, has the same damaging effect on football as the egos of those multimillionaires on the world, who fight to maintain the patriarchy, fuelled by their odd sense of self-worth and insecurity.

Anti-heroes, you might say. 

A Good VAR These Days is Hard to Find

 Complaining about VAR is just what they want, of course. The more publicity, the more traction it gets, further cements its place at the centre of the game and our mental well-being, having first sky(sports)rocketed there in 2018. The rant I am about to go on will be as pointless as the thing itself, but do you starve attention-grabbing provocateurs of the oxygen they crave or does that make you complicit, even a supporter? You can now, via modern means, call out celebrity baddies as well as challenge your ignorant in-laws, but while affecting change seems more hopeful when applied to direct relationships, VAR is the untouchable enemy protected by self interests and profit. It feels like we are helpless viewers watching Wallace from Wallace and Gromit putting together another well-meaning invention that will harm the world, but without Gromit there to stop the evil doings.

The agitators of VAR were the beleaguered managers on the wrong end of a tight decision that week in conjunction with armchair fans who needed an outlet for their rage and were not content with just goal line technology; the ‘there’s too much at stake now’ line, with an extra coating of ‘people’s livelihoods are at risk’. 

Those managers are mostly out of work now, their trotters up like David Cameron, having poured on the petrol and then fucked off when the fire came. But the rise of the machine was inevitable, marching forward like Cybermen unveiled by hapless buffoons trumpeting a revolution of the game as we know it. If we can put people on the moon, we’ll find a way to do that, if we can watch a programme on one side and still get to see the one on the other side that’s on at the same time, we’ll sort that.  Likewise, if we can exterminate a goal because there might have been an offside that no one’s seen or appealed for and is almost not offside, leave it with us…what do you mean, you didn’t actually want that? 

I had a problem with goal line technology at first - the idea of averting one injustice without paying attention to the rest, but I had to admit there was something satisfying about the simple efficiency of it, not to mention the elimination of all the mithering - or at least, the mithering on that front. Not that mithering is a bad thing; it can be both liberating and amusing, but in football it has helped ease the path of Big Brother’s entry. In city centres and banks, cameras are essential; to deploy them in football is less compelling an argument, but as the mithering went, people on telly can see the injustice but not the ref, how is that right? No one English gives a shit that Geoff Hurst’s shot didn’t go over the line, but when it’s your team on the wrong end, or a pundit is emphatically earning their right to be called back to the studio next week, a cauldron will start to bubble. 

Six years on from its entry into the mainstream, VAR is still there - despite, or fuelled by, the mass of dissenting voices -throwing deckchairs off the titanic every weekend and midweek. We were told, or at least I remember Gary Lineker telling us (at the beginning of Russia 2018) that VAR would only come into play to intervene in the absolute “howlers” - your Maradona and Henry handballs, your Lampard ‘over the line’ no-goal, your wild Tevez offside that stood. This proved to be balls, notably in the Final of Russia ‘18 when the ref was asked to award a penalty against France that only VAR was asking for. Now, we are told that VAR will definitely - promise - only pipe up for the clear and obvs errors. Still this proves to be balls. The examples I’m about to give from over the last week of English football include those that went against my team and went for the local rivals of my team, which is very apt of course, as self-interest is exactly the vehicle that has got to us where we are today. 

Brighton and Hove Albion versus Arsenal last weekend, January 4th. There had been controversy in the corresponding fixture when VAR had influenced a second yellow card for Declan Rice, who’d tapped the ball away after the whistle prompting Jan Veltman to rise from the turf and kick Rice,  pretending he was aiming to take the free kick. The decision to dismiss Rice was retrospectively compounded by Brighton forward Joao Pedro booting the ball down the touch line in the same circumstances and not receiving a booking. I honestly think that if the ref had given Rice red for the first yellow, a late lunge, I could have lived easier with the entirely human decision made. This perhaps contradicts my issue with Brighton’s equaliser at the Amex Stadium in the return, but I’m confident I will regain credibility by the end of this. Last week, with Brighton 1-0 down to Arsenal, again Pedro is once more a leading figure in the fallout. He heads the ball sideways in the Arsenal penalty area, Arsenal centre half William Saliba goes to make a header, colliding with Pedro, Pedro crashes to the ground holding his face. Ref Anthony Taylor hesitates, then points to the spot. About 4 hours later (no, not the duration of the VAR check) Match of the Day commentator, Jonathan Pearce is heard vindicating Taylor’s decision after the slow-motion replay and later sucks up to Brighton manager Fabian Hurzeler during the post-match interview about it. Hurzeler had answered that it was a clear penalty, which he may or not believe, there’s mounting evidence that he’s a shit-stirring little turd (my biased views are my own.) Back to the studio, and Lineker, not a seasoned Arsenal cheerleader, dismisses Hurzeler’s self-righteous smirk, backing up Arsenal manager Mikel Arteta’s words that he’d never seen anything like that penalty decision before. In addition, further analysis of the incident showed that Saliba’s head had actually made contact with the ball before connecting with Pedro. VAR clearly hadn’t seen what someone in the MOTD cutting room had, and later it transpired that it had been a very quick check. Which is fine, nobody wants (actually it’s hard to know what people want), I don’t want, emotion-sapping delays to the game over every penalty box incident (and it is the penalty box where VAR invariably operates, as only goals seem to be the focus, as if everything leading up to it is of no consequence) and Taylor has every right to give a penalty if he thinks it’s one, furthermore if there is no immediate clear and obvious error, the decision should stand.

But…

December 8th, Fulham vs Arsenal. The score is 1-1 with just a couple of minutes left when Bukayo Saka runs in from the right to head a Gabriel Martinelli cross past home goalkeeper, Bernd Leno, a vital moment in the title race, Arsenal staying within reach of Liverpool as Saka takes the acclaim of the away support and dispirited Fulham players trudge back to towards the halfway line. Then the ref is told, after a four-minute VAR check, that Martinelli had strayed fractionally offside when receiving the ball - the customary toe-nail - and the goal is disallowed. A four-minute check does not associate itself with ‘clear and obvious’, nor the toe-nail, nor the lack of protests from Fulham. 

Back to the Brighton game now.

An unexplored controversy was Pedro’s presence on the pitch in the first place. In Brighton’s previous game on December 30th (two days before Arsenal’s, I’ll just get that in there) at Aston Villa, Pedro swung an elbow deliberately intended for the face of Pau Torres, who’d been pulling his shirt. As the commentator on MOTD said, you can be dismissed for violent intent, but as I said, VAR aren’t interested in anything outside the penalty area that doesn’t result in a goal that they can chalk off, so Pedro was free to play and affect their next match against Arsenal. I do not say that Fulham wouldn’t have found time to equalise Saka’s goal nor that Brighton wouldn’t have got one without the penalty, but 4 points have arguably been denied Arsenal there. Arsenal finished 2nd by 2 points last season. That in itself is perhaps too a simplistic point; maybe Liverpool only drew with Man United at home the day after the draw at Brighton because they were in a subconscious comfort zone. But maybe, too, that isn’t the point.

Wednesday January 8th, Tottenham Hotspur vs Liverpool, Carabao Cup semi-final. A potentially historic night and momentous occasion. 5 Live commentator, John Murray, had been far too professional to say anything more than that about the prospect of a VAR announcement to the crowd, though once The Emirates, mercifully, hadn’t become the first venue in England to be sullied by that monstrosity during the previous night’s other semi between Arsenal and Newcastle Utd, Darren Fletcher similarly played up the looming threat at Spurs. Hopefully, the Tottenham Hotspur stadium will be the only ground where it happened. When the time came, following an offside call against Tottenham’s Dominik Solanke, the crowd ordered itself into an abrupt communal hush on the ref’s audio whistle, as if an impromptu one minute silence had been signalled. What followed was appropriately mournful, ref Stuart Atwell verbally confirming a decision with no more information that couldn’t have been displayed on the scoreboard as usual - just as had happened during the Women’s World Cup in 2023. Co-commentator Michael Brown was scathing of the announcement, but I’m not sure what he expected.

An equal talking point was Tottenham’s winning goal, scored a few minutes from the end and just after Tottenham midfielder, 18 year old Swedish midfielder, Lucas Begvall had ‘escaped’ a second yellow card for a foul on Liverpool left back, Tsimikas, who was off the field receiving treatment when the goal went in. I appreciated the post-match remarks of both managers, Liverpool’s Arne Slot saying it was unfortunate that Attwell hadn’t been asked to announce the decision not to send off Begvall. Of course, as stated, VAR aren’t interested in anything that doesn’t happen near a goal, but I resonated with the sarcasm. Ange Postecoglou disputed the opinion that Begvall’s first challenge was a yellow, adding “we’ve been screaming for that all season”. I know how it feels when something that’s gone against you consistently without interference then goes for you and suddenly sparks attention. Then there was his pleasantly anticipated grump over the VAR announcement, adding that only he, an Aussie, seemed to be the one railing against the increasing deformity of our game.

Consistency of course was an oft-repeated droan pre-VAR, and everyone will have their stories of despair and injustice. Perhaps people were actually soothed by the idea of technology removing, or at least reducing, the unfairness, which albeit is a reality of life and sport. In 2009-10, Arsenal drew 0-0 at home to Sunderland after Andrei Arshavin had two goals disallowed for offside that weren’t even close to offside, and yet the next week, Sunderland manager Steve Bruce was whining on about his team being on the wrong end of poor officialdom. 

I don’t have a problem with Pedro booting the ball away after the whistle or throwing an elbow at an Aston Villa irritant, or Begvall arriving late to a challenge. I don’t have a problem with human error. I have a problem instead with stodgy and unnecessary interference. It isn’t what you start playing the game for.

During team training sessions as a child, my team mates and I would get frustrated with the manager stopping play every few minutes to make points about our game play, but I know now, and probably did then, that it was designed to improve us as players and as a team. 

I don’t get that with VAR.

It’s beginning to look a lot like the usual bull…

 For those lucky enough to have had some time off over Christmas there will be the bind of having to return, but very quickly the Friday feeling - for ‘conventional’ workers - will be back, but then you wake up on Saturday without the festive bubble, and you admit to yourself that that mould patch on your bedroom ceiling really is spreading a bit, and then there’s the overflowing recycling bin problem because they did the last collection earlier than usual before Christmas but aren’t coming again until the end of the first week of January, and on top of that, you can’t temporarily use the black bin because you missed that collection just before New Year when your sleep was all over the place, as was your awareness of the days, and though back then it was kind of ok as it was still festive, the reality of the situation is now stark, on top of which, you still haven’t got a working car for when your kids return to school and clubs next week, and if all that isn’t enough then you find out that for next Tuesday’s Carabao Cup semi finals, the refs will be asked to announce the VAR’s decisions to the crowd. 

The EFL have taken responsibility for this latest terrorist attack on the game, but no explanation is forthcoming as to whether the announcing (which will presumably take place once the five-minute delays have been concluded) will constitute the same words broadcast on the big screen. They can save it, because I’m not really into explanations, although someone has decided that they are really important and will really please the fans, or ‘improve the in-stadium experience’ just like VAR has. 

The truth is the opposite of course, it’s not just an attack on the game but also the fans, whose input into the ‘event’ is further decreasing. The clubs and authorities have done a great job of taking the ownership of match day away from those keeping the game going. We are hosted on arrival by the adrenalin junkie on the PA system, then presented with the theatre of the Premier League music and adornments as the untouchable Gods shake hands, are invited like 7 year olds to yell back the surname of the player who has just scored, and  encouraged to belt out Sweet Caroline under the illusion it is a feel-good anthem and not an act of crowd control in conjunction with William Hill. 

When Sepp Blatter (whose corrupt-controlled reign at FIFA elicits more dewy-eyed nostalgia with every passing day that Gianni Infantino is in the job) spoke against video replays, arguing that fans moaning about decisions was an essential part of football, he was derided (by Gary Lineker among others) but I honestly think he was promoting community. So many times I’ve been to games and missed why someone was sent off, or not seen how a fight on the pitch started, or even just seen the tail-end of the ball looping into the net. You used to find the answers from other people in the stand or even on the train home, and then you’d rush to see footage of the thing you partly witnessed.

Football is creating more of a distance from the supporters under the guise of serving us. I really wanted to go to the Newcastle game, only to receive the ‘unfortunately’ email that has followed every other home match I have applied to go to this season. For the first time though, I am not disappointed. The announcement announcement came seconds after the ‘unfortunately’ email and served as a consolation amid the despair of EFL’s atrocity. Not getting a ticket I can accept, outright vandalism is tougher to shrug off. 

I can only hope this trial fails. Above the emotional and passionate pleas, how would it even work out for deaf fans, unless we’re enrolling refs on sign language courses? No doubt the additional act will give something else for the front row tourists to film, but I can’t see how else this will do any good.

Football used to put a shield up against the strains of everyday life, but it has been edging towards the other side for a good while now, and we can only rely on Christmas, even with all its marketing excess and reminders of sadness and loneliness and expressions of prejudice around the festive table, that is keeping up its end of the bargain. 

The spirit of Christmas Day gone

 Monday December 30th and the Christmas spirit is with me: I saw an old friend in town today, someone prominent in my life for two years over 2 decades ago, someone who I was only thinking about the other day, and I went over and said hello instead of sneaking past him. He’d been looking away and on his phone so wouldn’t have even noticed if I’d just walked on by, dragged away by my natural avoidance tendency. 

I even took my hood down to reveal myself, and then there we were, reminiscing about shared laughter and the comedy quotes that got us through the tedium of labour when we worked the part time evening shifts at Royal Mail together between 1998-2000. His kids came over after their temporary fairground ride and I said hello to them and his partner. I didn’t take up much of their time, and we bid a fond farewell, my friend joking that we’d bump into each other in a few years from now when he was back in town now that he lives away. 

I went off to complete my store returns in a heightened mood, glad I’d made the effort to make a tribute to a part of my life story. Perhaps I’d been inspired by a lovely night previously, spent with my sister and her girlfriend and my niece, who were visiting from the south coast. Reprising connections nourish the soul if you can overcome the pull against it. 

I don’t always go through with it, though, exemplified in my local supermarket, pre and post Christmas Day. I averted contact with two other significant social buddies of the 90’s and beyond, both from the two Sunday league football teams that were my life back then. Rival teams that I played for and against, like Mo Johnstone and Sol Campbell. On about 23rd, the captain of my first team was with his partner, providing the trolley while she put in the graft. True to his vision on the field, he appeared not to notice me as I skulked off down another aisle. This was nothing against him, just my natural setting. True, I did, in ‘98, take his then girlfriend (not the person in the supermarket) back to my bedroom after a night out and removed my trousers in front of her (you thought I was such a nice boy, didn’t you?) but all that had been ironed out back then (crucially, she’d opted not to cheat on him like he’d cheated on her multiple times), what’s more, I allowed myself this blanking as I’d previously acknowledged him in a prior supermarket encounter, which itself had been inspired by a sighting of him a time before that when I’d avoided him and later felt uncomfortable about it.

Yet, this time on the 23rd, I did end up actually making contact, noting him standing on the end of an aisle, potentially not noticing me, kind of staring into space, but I felt I couldn’t risk it and waved in his direction. He broke out of his trance, waved back, smiled and, hopefully got, by my frenzied put-on expression, that I was too rushed to talk. It wasn’t until today, after speaking with my Royal Mail friend, that I realised I’d missed an opportunity to tell him that it may well have been 30 years to the day that we’d had our inaugural Sunday league team Christmas night out that he’d played a starring role in. 

On Boxing Day, or maybe the day after, a player from the other, more successful team, who I’d  won trophies and gone out on memorable nights out with - including over the last couple of years - was in the same supermarket with his kids, appearing not to see me (a theme?!) in one aisle and then later picking up laundry detergent with his back right to me, as close as we’d been when having our arms round each others necks on the dance floor during £1-a-pint club nights on Monday and Thursdays. The only music playing now was Lucky You by the Lightning Seeds over the sound system, a tune he sang to himself as he walked away back up the aisle without interference from me. Again I forgave myself, as I’d chatted with him in there a couple of months before. I believed myself to be in credit, and I’m sure you agree, so with that cleared up, I’ll change tack and tune in on the Lucky You bit of that riveting story. Not just that song in particular, but the always strangely abrupt ending to the Christmas songs once 25th has passed. I say, keep ‘em coming!

There must be an argument, even if only I am making it, that Mariah and Brenda and WHAM! and Elton etc, (probably not Slade, as they inquire about stockings going up on walls) are better enjoyed after the big day of presents. Before then, the festive songs are just a soundtrack of anxiety to the mass spend, impossible organisation and impending intrusion of relatives insisting that you hear their thoughts on politics and quotas. Get all that out of the way and, if like me this year, there is no upset or tragedy affecting me during the festive period, then the true magic of Christmas, which is its power to catch all the day-to-day stresses in a sack and tie it up, allowing you to watch old festive Top of the Pops from years gone by (1998 is a smasher - Spice Girls, Bewitched, Leanne Rimes and a truly moving performance of No Matter What by Boyzone, interspersed by presenters Kate Thornton, Jayne Middlemiss and Jamie Theakston slap-sticking Jane MacDonald in a Santa outfit) and eat and drink just because it’s there, the wonder of all those Yuletide bangers can be truly appreciated. One year my missus was mildly irked by my wearing of Santa pyjama bottoms throughout the year, and while I’m not condoning that excessive behaviour, I’m still on the Christmas playlist during this (now) most wonderful time of the year. 

The influence of a teenage prodigy

 ‘Southampton versus Brighton & Hove Albion in the Premier League. What is the worst possible way we can treat that derby?’

This was the daunting task befalling Sky Sports’ executive match-ruining committee a few weeks into the season, a responsibility eventually handed down to a work experience  student to properly crown the end of their two-week placement. 

Said 16 year old Joanna Furlong: “I’d sensed that the task was becoming overwhelming for the group, not least after a long day of pressing high against the lounge bar, and like all top temporary staff, I was on my toes waiting for a chance to come my way. I knew that the scheduling of the south coast derby had been the number one item on the agenda, but reading the game like I know I can, it was clear that when my superiors returned to the office they’d become distracted. It can happen, procrastination is the curse of the workplace, be it on site or online, but I was determined it wasn’t going to be my master.’

The tenacious Furlong explained that she had to tap in to flowering leadership skills to get the supporter-averse arrangements over the line.

‘As they came shuffling through the door, puce-faced and boisterous, I decided to make my mark: “It has to be a Friday night. A Friday night derby”, I boomed in front of them, stopping them in their disjointed tracks. “Saturday lunchtime, Monday night, they’ve both got their strengths in belittling the supporters, but with a Friday we can finish their football interest even before the weekend’s started!” 

‘I concluded the argument with growing confidence, and I could tell they were impressed. They went with it in a heartbeat.’

Furlong is warm and engaging during our short interview, happy to talk about her motivations for learning about the dark arts of fixture rescheduling. 

‘I’m only young but I am keen to make a difference’, she added. ‘Sky Sports literally gave me a platform to do that. Before we got involved, Southampton v Brighton & Hove Albion was an eagerly anticipated Saturday 3pm local derby, with folks happy to end the week with a tipple or two in the Friday night hostelries, glad to have packed the working week away and looking forward to the next day’s big game. Excitement would rise on the morning of the match, still time to spend with families and friends or admin, and then maybe head out for a bit of lunch or another tipple or two on route to St Mary’s, just like it always used to be before 1992 (I’ve done my research!) But with just one decision, I managed to change all that: instead, in came the Friday rush hour factor and the opportunity for our loyal subscribing neutrals to flick through the channels and settle down for a bit of reliable old footy. To be responsible for that, well…I have to say it was quite empowering’.

I asked Furlong where she saw herself in twenty years.

‘Well, that’s the question! I have a vision, so many ideas, so many time slots to tap into. The Christmas Day match is there for someone bold enough to implement it, in between the King/Queen’s speech and ‘Enders. Amazon are inching towards it, but I question their ability to go the extra mile. Wherever I end up, I want to be innovative, a trailblazer, a disruptor. And if a work experience student wants to put forward a 1am kick off to pull in the Kuala Lumpar audience, who would I be to not to listen to that?!’

It’s quite clear that Furlong is one to watch for the future. With FIFA president Gianni Infantino set to rename the FIFA Club World Cup the ‘Gianni Infantino Trophy’ (or GIT, for short) by 2029 (or ‘27 if his full dreams are realised) whose to say she won’t have her name on it in years to come?