tomclare
23rd June 2005, 14:43
This was a piece I posted on 606 Sub back in february. I had been up to Eagles's Nest in New Mexico to lay my late wife's ashes, and stopped over in Santa Fe for the evening. I happened upon a bar that was showing that awful England v Holland game.
The Diablo Bar in Santa Fe, New Mexico, is at the junction of St. Francis and the Old Square. I just mention that in case you are ever over in that part of the world and feel the need for a decent pint of Guinness while watching English football on the many television screens that adorn the bar. I saw the England - Holland game which was played last week, camped on a barstool, inside this establishment. At least the weather outside was quite pleasant, and the booze helped numb the pain that I was experiencing, both personal, and in a football sense.
I sat amongst some diverse characters; Mexicans, who have a great passion for the beautiful game and were dressed in traditional western cowboy dress; Americans who were dressed like….well, only as Americans can dress and know sweet nothing about saccer; a couple of loud mouthed Dutchmen complete with Viking helmets, (what the significance of those were I don't know!) klaxon horns, and were a nuisance to everybody; a few American Indians who didn't know what the game was about, and judging by their expressions, didn't care either; and the inevitable drunken Jock complete with Tam O'Shanter and orange hair and displaying his meat and two veg to anybody who cared to notice!.
To be honest, I have to say that the game offered little attraction to me and I went in the bar more to kill time than for the excitement of watching a game of football. My how times have changed! There was a time when I would have gladly walked over broken glass to watch a football match, particularly an International match between two of the supposedly best footballing nations in the world.
I sat there sipping on my cool Guinness, watching what supposedly passed for International football, and dreamed of matches that would awaken my passion once again. A few nights previously, again whilst trying to kill time, I had sat at home in Houston watching a tape of the Oldham - Manchester City F.A.Cup tie, and whilst not a classic in the real football sense, compared to what was going on in front of me at Villa Park, this was at least far more exciting, and did give me a tingling in the nether regions!
I have to say that actually staring at an empty Old Trafford pitch, or anything similar is generally more stimulating than watching England in recent times. There was a saying not so long ago that, "if you think England are bad, wait until you see Scotland!" Sadly, I don't think that statement holds up any longer.
What I can't understand is the F.A.'s certainty that SGE is the man to inspire England. I keep thinking; "have I really missed something in the last four years or so?" They keep insisting that his record is a good one - well, we scraped into a World Cup and a European Championship, and looked pretty ordinary both along the way and when we actually got there, not forgetting that we also came away from both tournaments without bothering the ironmonger who makes the winners metalware!
The problem that I have with Sven is that how does he justify his four million a year or so? This is a deal that I understand also includes a disloyalty bonus! Disloyality? To whom! To be honest, he certainly doesn't give the impression of a man you would spend four million a year upon - I know looks are deceptive, but honestly, not in his case! He is just so indistinct, anonymous as a shadow, and unfathomable.
He hands out England shirts as if on some kind of commission, and to be brutally honest, some players look so seemingly unconcerned about their performances in the national shirt, that they obviously only have a somewhat tenuous grasp on what playing for your country really means. They seem to believe that kissing the badge is an oath of allegiance - how many times do we see it, only to see some little time later what it really means? Show me a badge kisser and I see not a champion but a man who likes shagging his shirt!
The other thing that struck me as I sat there in my delirious melancholy, was the commentators. Each week whenever I watch a game, we have to put up with the ramblings of some real second/third rate ramblers. However, I have to admit that whilst watching the game I thought how ever can they make this sound interesting! They must really pretend that what we are watching and witnessing is really worth the effort, which is the real eaxcuse why the come out with a lot of the meanderings that we here on a weekly basis. It's an effort to distract us from the awful reality of some of the **** that we are watching!
I get so annoyed when I hear them coming out with age old clichés. There is none to beat: "At this level." "that shouldn't happen at this level," they say as some poor unfortunate goalkeeper lets the ball slip through his legs. "That's unforgivable at this level," they remark when a one-legged centre forward misses an open goal. (By the way, why should we be shocked at a one legged man from overseas getting work, when the Premier league is full of them!).
Something that runs things close is: "For a big man, he has great technique." They use this cliché to describe players like Yakubu, the assumption being that big men are clumsy and are not as accomplished as players whose arses are a little closer to the earth! Bull***t! Not to mention Horse***t! And pure ****! ZZ is not exactly a dwarf, nor is RVN, Henry, Robben, etc. etc. It would be difficult to imagine anybody - large or small - with their control, and not to mention grace.
I can recall dear old players like Charley Hurley and John McGrath, who did juggling tricks inside their own penalty areas, Alan Hansen and Martin Buchan, who epitomized skill under pressure, and of course the greatest of them all, Duncan Edwards, built like the proverbial gable end, but the consummate, master footballer.
Don't get me going. The England team bring out the worst in me. Down Memory lane I go. Back to the shop floor which is where the game resided when I first started watching it. From the shop floor to a bar in Santa Fe, New Mexico sums up my journey. The reason why my generation sometimes walks backwards is to see a better game and meet a better class of player.
I left the Diablo Bar, pleasantly drunk, wallowing in my nostalgia, and with the rantings of the drunken Jockinese man ringing in my ears as he bellowed out "Flower of Scotland" to anybody that was interested in listening to him, and who was also in danger of losing his meat and two veg to two very elderly, but seemingly experienced American Indian Squaws!.
As Greavsie so often said; "It's a funny old game isn't it?"
The Diablo Bar in Santa Fe, New Mexico, is at the junction of St. Francis and the Old Square. I just mention that in case you are ever over in that part of the world and feel the need for a decent pint of Guinness while watching English football on the many television screens that adorn the bar. I saw the England - Holland game which was played last week, camped on a barstool, inside this establishment. At least the weather outside was quite pleasant, and the booze helped numb the pain that I was experiencing, both personal, and in a football sense.
I sat amongst some diverse characters; Mexicans, who have a great passion for the beautiful game and were dressed in traditional western cowboy dress; Americans who were dressed like….well, only as Americans can dress and know sweet nothing about saccer; a couple of loud mouthed Dutchmen complete with Viking helmets, (what the significance of those were I don't know!) klaxon horns, and were a nuisance to everybody; a few American Indians who didn't know what the game was about, and judging by their expressions, didn't care either; and the inevitable drunken Jock complete with Tam O'Shanter and orange hair and displaying his meat and two veg to anybody who cared to notice!.
To be honest, I have to say that the game offered little attraction to me and I went in the bar more to kill time than for the excitement of watching a game of football. My how times have changed! There was a time when I would have gladly walked over broken glass to watch a football match, particularly an International match between two of the supposedly best footballing nations in the world.
I sat there sipping on my cool Guinness, watching what supposedly passed for International football, and dreamed of matches that would awaken my passion once again. A few nights previously, again whilst trying to kill time, I had sat at home in Houston watching a tape of the Oldham - Manchester City F.A.Cup tie, and whilst not a classic in the real football sense, compared to what was going on in front of me at Villa Park, this was at least far more exciting, and did give me a tingling in the nether regions!
I have to say that actually staring at an empty Old Trafford pitch, or anything similar is generally more stimulating than watching England in recent times. There was a saying not so long ago that, "if you think England are bad, wait until you see Scotland!" Sadly, I don't think that statement holds up any longer.
What I can't understand is the F.A.'s certainty that SGE is the man to inspire England. I keep thinking; "have I really missed something in the last four years or so?" They keep insisting that his record is a good one - well, we scraped into a World Cup and a European Championship, and looked pretty ordinary both along the way and when we actually got there, not forgetting that we also came away from both tournaments without bothering the ironmonger who makes the winners metalware!
The problem that I have with Sven is that how does he justify his four million a year or so? This is a deal that I understand also includes a disloyalty bonus! Disloyality? To whom! To be honest, he certainly doesn't give the impression of a man you would spend four million a year upon - I know looks are deceptive, but honestly, not in his case! He is just so indistinct, anonymous as a shadow, and unfathomable.
He hands out England shirts as if on some kind of commission, and to be brutally honest, some players look so seemingly unconcerned about their performances in the national shirt, that they obviously only have a somewhat tenuous grasp on what playing for your country really means. They seem to believe that kissing the badge is an oath of allegiance - how many times do we see it, only to see some little time later what it really means? Show me a badge kisser and I see not a champion but a man who likes shagging his shirt!
The other thing that struck me as I sat there in my delirious melancholy, was the commentators. Each week whenever I watch a game, we have to put up with the ramblings of some real second/third rate ramblers. However, I have to admit that whilst watching the game I thought how ever can they make this sound interesting! They must really pretend that what we are watching and witnessing is really worth the effort, which is the real eaxcuse why the come out with a lot of the meanderings that we here on a weekly basis. It's an effort to distract us from the awful reality of some of the **** that we are watching!
I get so annoyed when I hear them coming out with age old clichés. There is none to beat: "At this level." "that shouldn't happen at this level," they say as some poor unfortunate goalkeeper lets the ball slip through his legs. "That's unforgivable at this level," they remark when a one-legged centre forward misses an open goal. (By the way, why should we be shocked at a one legged man from overseas getting work, when the Premier league is full of them!).
Something that runs things close is: "For a big man, he has great technique." They use this cliché to describe players like Yakubu, the assumption being that big men are clumsy and are not as accomplished as players whose arses are a little closer to the earth! Bull***t! Not to mention Horse***t! And pure ****! ZZ is not exactly a dwarf, nor is RVN, Henry, Robben, etc. etc. It would be difficult to imagine anybody - large or small - with their control, and not to mention grace.
I can recall dear old players like Charley Hurley and John McGrath, who did juggling tricks inside their own penalty areas, Alan Hansen and Martin Buchan, who epitomized skill under pressure, and of course the greatest of them all, Duncan Edwards, built like the proverbial gable end, but the consummate, master footballer.
Don't get me going. The England team bring out the worst in me. Down Memory lane I go. Back to the shop floor which is where the game resided when I first started watching it. From the shop floor to a bar in Santa Fe, New Mexico sums up my journey. The reason why my generation sometimes walks backwards is to see a better game and meet a better class of player.
I left the Diablo Bar, pleasantly drunk, wallowing in my nostalgia, and with the rantings of the drunken Jockinese man ringing in my ears as he bellowed out "Flower of Scotland" to anybody that was interested in listening to him, and who was also in danger of losing his meat and two veg to two very elderly, but seemingly experienced American Indian Squaws!.
As Greavsie so often said; "It's a funny old game isn't it?"