Lack of fanfare can work in favour of Socceroos and England as World Cup looms

Australia and England seem to heading down parallel roads of non-expectation as the start of the World Cup footballing fiesta in Brazil edges ever closer. The flak dished out to a revamped and youthful Socceroo side after the 1-1 draw in the farewell friendly against South Africa at Sydney’s ANZ Stadium seemed way over the top. The Aussies were on a hiding to nothing. With coach Ange Postecoglou attempting to implement a major renovation job in a limited span of time, the result on Monday would not have made any difference to the task ahead in a group of frightening intensity featuring Chile, the Netherlands and all-conquering Spain. It just seems wrong for critics to get on the side’s backs when the main mission lies ahead. The Socceroos only limped through to the finals after a less than convincing qualifying route under German coach Holger Osieck. Two successive subsequent 6-0 friendly drubbings to Brazil and France merely brought home how much drastic surgery was needed. Osieck had done his job in achieving qualification but with the old brigade – ex-captain Lucas Neill and co – looking creaky, all was plainly not well. Postecoglou deserves credit for what he has achieved so far in turning around the freefall. He still has trooper Tim Cahill to call on. And with new captain Mile Jedonik and Mark Bresciano to return to the fold, all is not lost. The World Cup journey should be one to enjoy not to embark on in defeatist mode. It was not that long ago that the idea of Australia even qualifying to be on the world game’s biggest stage would have been seen as far-fetched. Now they have done it three times in a row. It’s an achievement that should be lauded with the hope of possible stirring deeds ahead. I’ve always wanted the Australian team to do well – unlike the cricketers. They need all the help they can get in a country obsessed with parochial sports in their respective states such as rugby league and Australian Rules. Don’t get me wrong, both these codes are great to watch but in global terms, they don’t really count. And of course the Aussies of recent times have had Blackburn Rovers’ former stalwarts Neill and Brett Emerton in their ranks. They also had another Rover Vince Grella involved but unfortunately his time at Ewood saw him spend more time on the treatment table than on the pitch, which made him less of a treasured item in my eyes. Whatever happens will surely be an improvement on the opening game in South Africa four years ago. On that occasion Dutch coach Pim Verbeek seemed paralysed by fear at the prospect of facing Germany. His ultra-negative strategy was to send out a side without any recognised striker. The outcome was an abject 4-0 surrender in a performance so meek it was almost “un-Australian.” And at least the Aussies won’t arrive in Brazil, suffering from the “English disease.” For as long as I can remember we have gone to the World Cup with the fans being whipped into a frenzy by the media boasting that we were going to carry off the trophy … no problems. Even in years when we failed to qualify – in 1974, 1978 and 1994 – it failed to quell the madcap stirrings when were back where we belonged. England did actually lift the then-named Jules Rimet Trophy in 1966. But that was on home soil. And when the newly appointed manager Alf Ramsey declared in 1963 that his team would do just that, he was initially ridiculed by the press. How times change… since then there have been glorious but heartbreaking failures including Mexico 1970 and 1986, Italia 1990, and France 1998. On each of those occasions, the dreaded Argentines and Germans were involved. Last time it was the Germans again, but with a humiliating 4-1 stroll. For the weeks ahead, manager Roy Hodgson has followed Postecoglou’s lead in selecting a very youthful squad. And even he has had had to put up with some cat-calls for his policy. But with the recent well-publicised concern over lack of English-born players in the world’s most glamorous and filthy rich League, maybe the pragmatic Hodgson had no choice. Perhaps it’s better that the clamour has been restrained. After all, England’s Group D looks almost as daunting as Australia’s with Italy, Uruguay and Costa Rica lying in wait. One quirk of England’s campaigns always seems to be some cheesy pop songs, often delivered by current or past players as supposed rallying cries. I well remember Back Home from 1970 and This time (we’ll get it right) for Ron Greenwood’s squad in 1982. Alas, they didn’t. But this time it’s Sir Geoff Hurst and Gary Lineker joining Gary Barlow to belt out a Take That cover. However, the Scots outdid us in high expectation and miserable failure in 1978 when the Tartan Army were going mental to We’re on the march with Ally’s Army. Now that was embarrassing in the wake of the traumas of the doomed Ally McLeod campaign in Argentina… In fairness, England got hip for 1990 when John Barnes and the rest teamed up with New Order for World In Motion. That’s even in my vinyl collection. So if the Aussies and us English don’t get too carried away, there could be surprises to savour for both on the greatest sporting stage. If so, I may even break into song…

Adelaide Crows fans find their voice in throwback to how Birmingham City followers never lost faith

It  was good to hear the Adelaide Crows fans making plenty of noise as their team overcame Collingwood in a feisty AFL encounter at the Adelaide Oval. The fervour made for a great televised spectacle as I watched on from my neutral position on the couch in Norwood. The first evening kick-off at the revamped venue certainly seemed to galvanise the Crows’ hordes in a crowd that topped 50,000. So far this season,  the fans have been under fire for not giving their team sufficient vocal  backing in comparison to the Port Adelaide followers, who have turned the same ground into the recently dubbed “Portress” as the Power have surged away at the top of the ladder. Certainly the Crows seemed to feed off the tumult as they upended the more fancied Magpies.  I had originally been ready to back the Crows in my tips in the Alma and the Stag but changed my mind at the last minute. Oh me of little faith. I’m not too upset.  I have no great love for Collingwood.  As an AFL outsider, the competition appears unfair to start with, as all the teams don’t even play each other twice. But Collingwood seem to gain an unwarranted advantage by the fact that they rarely have to travel from Melbourne, except when it seems to be a nice little away trip for their fans to Sydney to tackle the Swans.  The club also has the arrogance to feel that they don’t need an away strip and that it would be sacrilege if they ever had to change from their treasured black and white stripes.  Even for one game. What tosh… I was once on a Melbourne trip which involved a trip to the MCG to watch Collingwood and Geelong meet up. I found it hard to follow a blur of black and white stripes and hoops running around like a cluster of liquorice allsorts. Anybody with a modicum of commonsense must recognise that an away shirt is a must for such a clash of lookalike colours. And can’t Eddie McGuire and his backroom cohorts see that a second strip for the Magpies would be a nice little earner for club coffers as their slavish followers would gladly splash out cash to buy, let’s say, an all-red strip. The other night Collingwood  were seen off in no small way by the overdue raucous efforts of the Crows’ so-called “19^th man.’.  It brings home what an effect a revved-up crowd can have on games.  The phenomenon is more common in football, which has a different tempo for spectators than Aussie Rules. And back  home in England, in the old days of standing terraces, there were grounds where the atmosphere was always intimidating for visiting teams and fans alike. Even now, relatively smaller stadiums like those of Norwich City or Birmingham City can still emit an aura of malevolent claustrophobia with the fans so close to the action. I spent my student days in Birmingham and in the rare event of not being able to make my way to a Blackburn Rovers game – home or away via hitching along the M6  –  I would check out  what was happening on one  of the local West Midlands grounds.  Aston Villa, West Brom and Wolves all had their own unique atmospheres but I always found the stirring rumblings from the old Spion Kop along one side of the pitch at St Andrews quite an event.  I think it was Nick Hornby in his book Fever Pitch, who noted that teams who rarely tasted success could have the most rabid and loyal fans. Certainly Birmingham City fans were almost world-weary in their continual attempts to drag their team to heights that were rarely scaled. The beauty of being a student in the UK was that you and your school mates were dispersed to various seats of learning away from your home town. So weekend link-ups  in selected  urban centres to imbibe and catch up were always on the cards. Early December in 1975 saw various mates from the ex-Clitheroe contingent descend on my pad in Birmingham for the University Christmas party. Waking bleary after madcap Friday night beers in the build-up to another Yuletide, what better road to recovery than a fry-up brecky in the legendary Mick’s Café in Selly Oak, followed by whatever was on the footballing horizon in the afternoon.  For the visiting crew which included Mick Eddleston and Johnie Young, then based at Manchester University, plus Adrian “Flec” Fletcher,  domiciled at Lancaster Uni, as well as  Gary Thompson, of Liverpool Polytechnic, it meant a stroll to St Andrews for the Blues taking on Derby County. Just how different and distant those times were can be gauged by the fact that Derby were 1974-75 champions. And they had a team of champion performers, every one virtually a household name, either home-grown or a big-money signing. Step forward the likes of Colin Todd, David Nish, Archie Gemmill, Bruce Rioch, Francis Lee, Charlie George, Kevin Hector and ex-Claret Leighton James. That lot strutted out onto St Andrews as a solid away banker. We positioned ourselves towards the back of the Spion Kop near the halfway line and the early grumbles of the dour, hardcore Brummie  following were brought to the fore as George put the Rams ahead. It was all going to the predicted script but then something strange happened. As one, it was as if the whole ground had suddenly decided “We’re not gonna take this anymore.” The Brummie groans became growls of  passion. The mass murmurs of 30,000 gelled into a non-stop crescendo. “Up the  Blues, Up the Blues…” It was infectious. Even we, a throng of in absentia Rovers and Burnley supporters were swept along by it all. Unbelievably, the Blues’ kick and rush, unsophisticated but relentless charge yielded an equaliser from Kenny Burns.  The place went mad. Including us. We were supposed to be neutral but it was hard not to get wrapped up in the frenzy. The pandemonium continued when Malcolm Page did an encore.  2-1 to the Blues.  And that’s how it stayed. If anyone deserved credit for the unlikely turnaround, it was the Brummie crowd. I have seen Rovers roared along by our own diehards and in a reverse scenario been on away grounds where the noise has inflicted severe panic attacks on me as we wilted.  But I have never been as embroiled in proceedings as a mere interested onlooker as that day in Birmingham.  I’ve returned to St Andrews on various occasions with Rovers after it had been transformed into an all-seater venue and plenty of that dogged crowd resolve remains. I remember a second leg League Cup tie in our title-winning season of 1994-95. Rovers were seemingly safely 2-0 up from the first leg at Ewood. But as we approached the ground, which is not exactly  in a salubrious part of the city, I warned my good mate Ivan Hickmott: “We don’t wanna let this  mob score first, otherwise the crowd will lift ‘em’  Birmingham duly went 1-0 up and it was a bit worrying until Chris Sutton knocked in an equaliser. The vocal Brummies were instantly deflated and we were safely through.  There are cricket grounds which exude similar intensity. And oddly Birmingham’s Edgbaston is one.  The England Test players always reckon that the Warwickshire venue, with its Hollies Stand,  is always one of the most parochial – especially when Australia are in the country for an Ashes series. Old Trafford also used to  be abuzz  during Lancashire’s all-conquering one-day Cup campaigns of the Seventies and then again in the Nineties.  So there is plenty to be said for fans getting behind their team as it can make a real difference.  If a fervent crowd can make an impression on me, as such events did as an armchair viewer when the Crows loyalists raised the roof against the Magpies, then it must lift the players. After earlier low-key home performances, the Crows’  crowd now have to keep up the decibel count. It’s one thing putting the fear of God into Collingwood, a team everybody loves to hate. Now let’s see if they can do it again for the next home game against the Gold Coast Suns on June 1.  They can learn a lesson from the manic Brummies which could propel their side into overdrive as an intriguing season evolves.

 

 

Liverpool can only look on as Manchester City walk off with title

It all seemed a little matter-of-fact on Sunday as Manchester City breezed past a seemingly disinterested West Ham side 2-0 to collect their second  English Premier League title in three years. The table never lies so City can rightly be hailed as the best team in the land. But what the ladder doesn’t  tell is simply that Liverpool handed the title to City. Only a few weeks ago the Scousers had the crown within their grasp. It was “their’s to lose” to use popular parlance. After all, they had overcome City 3-2 on an emotional  afternoon at Anfield  on April 13 and were seemingly geared for a smooth run-in to lift the ultimate domestic trophy for the first time since 1990. But in the end the pressure got to them and they buckled. A calamitous 0-2 home lapse to Chelsea opened the door for City, who needed no second invitation.  Liverpool’s loss of control was emphasised when they conceded three goals in a barmy eight minutes at Crystal Palace to give away a 3-3 draw. It seemed all the expectations after a 24-year drought had served to addle Liverpool’s collective mind.  The stirrings of the 25^th anniversary of the Hillsborough disaster mixed in with all the overdue yearning for the title seemed to swirl around the club like a claustrophobic mist. It’s strange to think that just back in the 1980s it was Liverpool who won the title ad nauseam while Manchester United, their hated rivals from the other end of the East Lancashire Road, looked on in undisguised envy. It’s also easy to forget that until Sir Alex Ferguson’s regime reversed the roles, United had gone from 1968 until the first year of the Premiership in 1992 to be top dogs. So in my eyes, this will be the year that Liverpool threw away their big chance.  How they react to this when the new season rolls around will be fascinating to behold.  I wish no ill to Liverpool.  Strangely, in a world awash with “plastic” football fans walking down the city streets of the planet in Man U, Liverpool, Arsenal,  Chelsea and Johhny-come-lately Man City replica shirts, I know very few mates of Scouse persuasion. A rare Red in my global social circle is Stewart Jackson. An admirable former Daily Telegraph colleague from Longridge, who has shared many convivial occasions with me down the years over-imbibing and thriving on talking footballing nonsense. I feel for Stew after his Scouse mob have caved in. I am sure they – and he – will bounce back. Stew follows Liverpool all he can from his Enfield base, when his lovely wife Vicky will allow it.  He was most famous for popping up in the crowd on TV during Liverpool’s “miracle of Istanbul” in the 2005 Champions League final against AC Milan.  As Gabs and me watched the game in the Metro pub on Holloway Road, I declared  in my know-all pundit tones that Liverpool had “no chance at all” of coming back from being 3-0 down at half-time. But what did I know?  Come back they did, to secure the trophy on penalties.  And Stewie revelled in the achievement on his return to the Canary Wharf office. Deservedly so. Yet despite all Liverpool’s successful adventures in Europe, this long-overdue  Premiership accolade would have meant perhaps even more.  In the end, the suffocating  pressure told.  It just shows that the race for the title can be a harrowing experience.  Especially  for the fans. The happenings bring back warped memories for me from 1994-95 when Blackburn Rovers almost committed a similar hari-kiri collapse so close to the finishing post.  And I was in real jeopardy of being dubbed the biggest Jonah of all time.  It was all a new phenomenon for us followers who had travelled the country watching Rovers through thin times and thinner.  Bankrolled by Jack Walker’s cash and Kenny Dalglish’s shrewd and canny management the unbelievable was about to happen. We were on the brink of the title – only a matter of seasons since meandering along as nobodies in the old Division Two. Maybe it had all happened too fast. But all I know is that as I landed back in the UK to from Sydney to witness our march to glory, it all almost unravelled in front of my disbelieving eyes.  My first stop was fine – a 2-1 win at Everton in true “muck and nettles’ style as we somehow survived a furious late onslaught by the home team.  My later joke was that as Alan Shearer and Chris Sutton mulled over the ball at kick-off time, one said to the other :  “I hear Dave’s back and at the ground.’  So I reckoned they gave me a “welcome home present’ in the form of Sutton’s goal after a mere 14 seconds.  But the nearer we got to the prize, the more jangled things became.  A 1-0 win at QPR seemed business as usual.  Colin Hendry nodded in a goal at Elland Road but Leeds United pegged us back in injury time. I watched, twitching with nerves,  from the press box as the accredited Sydney Morning Herald Northern England correspondent . (The Rovers away end had been sold out for weeks so sometimes you have to improvise).  A surprise 2-3 home defeat to Man City (yes, those sods) meant that the supposed cakewalk to the summit that I had been surveying from 12,000 miles away in Sydney was suddenly becoming almost one step beyond.   True, Crystal Palace were edged out at Ewood but then came an anaemic 2-0 surrender at West Ham. The massed ranks on the away end at Upton Park watched in muted bewilderment. This was not supposed to happen. I could see it all slipping away. Suddenly it seemed like Rovers were wading through treacle. “Jeez, why did you come home, Dave?”.  None of my loyalist mates said that, but I knew – paranoid or not – that they were thinking it. Shearer’s header saw off his home town Newcastle United on VE Day, which became Victory at Ewood Day.  The lead-up to the final hurdle at Anfield was horrendous. Mind games galore played out on me by myself. We all know that somehow Tim Sherwood lifted the trophy after our 2-1 loss didn’t matter as MUFC’s Andy Cole fluffed chance after chance at West Ham.  Or rather, the crazy keeper Ludo kept everything out.  We had won the title but I didn’t enjoy that evening. It was like we had done the deed by default.   But we prevailed.  Almost two decades on (where have the years gone?)  at least I can reflect on one of my most poignant sporting pinnacles.  Only next morning as I wandered round to Hannah Hickmott’s house (Ivan’s mum) on Ribchester Road was I able to take in the true significance of the event as we mulled over the sporting headlines with toast and brews of tea. Then, the following season, I went through the same crazy script but this time looking on as interested observer.  Rovers’ post-title malaise had left us out of the running, but into the breach as the new challengers  to Fergie’s  ManU bullies stepped the free-flowing stylists of Kevin Keegan’s Newcastle.  The Toon had not won the league for yonks and were in a similar state as Rovers had been.  In other words, the nearer you get, the further the prize seems away. I had spent three crazed years living in Geordieland in the early 1980s during my time on the sports desk of the Shields Gazette. I knew what this would mean. I was willing them to do it. They had lost to ManU about Christmas time but as 1995 became 1996 they were 12 (yes, TWELVE) points clear at the top. I admit to being a fatalist at times – if something can go wrong, then I believe  it will. But my great Geordie mates Mick Ramsey, Ged Clarke and Simon Malia can sometimes outdo even my dour Lancastrian forebodings. Yet as the run-in beckoned, the Toon were in the clear. Or were they?  Cavalier Keegan took  things into overdrive by introducing the maverick genius of Tino Asprilla into proceedings. Mental.  Wonderful, but mental. Rather like Man City bringing in Rodney Marsh to complicate a title push in 1972, it proved too much to accommodate. Fergie’s mob pulled back the points until the Toon were floundering. Then came that epic 4-3 implosion against Liverpool at Anfield. Amazing television for all us neutrals, but not for bare-chested beer-bellied Geordies who started sobbing their eyes out on the away end as Sky’s cameras zoomed in. The title trail was becoming too much. Now my guilt complex kicks in. The Geordies were due at Ewood with us sauntering along to seventh place.  The away contingent had sold out so we got the boy Ramsay a ticket in the Riverside Stand next to Shaun Gill and billeted him at Shaun’s pad, care of Ray and Sonia.  Mick even enjoyed a  monumental pub crawl around Accrington when the town still had pubs and the Sunday nights were famed as the place to be. He was showing no title nerves. He was mortal (Geordie lingo meaning drunk). We all were. We wished him well. “We hope you win tomorrow,” was the inebriated chorus on that Sunday night. But of course, you can’t do that. For Mick and the Toon hordes, the pre-game Bank Holiday Monday bevvies turned into mission A-OK  as ex-Rover David Batty scored a rare goal on his return.  Four minutes to go. Then the title curse struck. A non-entity striker of Geordie descent named Graham Fenton in cahoots with his Tyneside superstar pal Shearer, conjured up a very messy equaliser. 1-1.  In those days, me, mum, dad and Mick Charnley had season tickets on the Darwen End right next to the away supporters.  It often made for interesting viewing. When Fenton scuffed in another untidy goal in the final minute, it meant cruelty on a major scale. 2-1. Game, set, match. As I leapt up and down in delirium then settled down I looked across to see fat Geordie blokes crying. Again. We walked out, apologising to them over the fence. I said sorry to Mick in the Havelock. What to do? The title jinx had kicked in big-time. Newcastle had not managed to do what Rovers had the year before.  ManU duly cleaned up. Rovers and Newcastle have never come as close again to claiming the ultimate prize. These days it’s all about the sort of disgusting cash that would make Jack Walker’s philanthropy look like pocket money. I hope Liverpool can come again, to spare us the sight of too many more Man City triumphs. Before the Arabs got involved, Rovers used to win at City for fun. Ditto at Chelsea before that shady Russian, Mr Abramovich, came onto the scene. But history has weighed heavily on Liverpool’s shoulders.  Maybe they can make another charge next season. Chin up, Stew, there’s still plenty to look forward to.

 

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Red, red wine of Clare Valley could be chilled-out cure for red-faced Liverpool boss Brendan Rodgers

Brendan Rodgers may need to get away from it all if Liverpool duly blow their title tilt. I have the perfect place for a close-season escape for Brendan.  Chilled out in the Clare Valley.  For me it certainly was in more respects than one last weekend. Take note, Brendan… This week winter had come early to the north of the city of Adelaide and the plunging temperature was seemingly a major talking point for inhabitants and tourists alike on our weekend escape. As a native of constantly-cold Lancashire it didn’t seem a mind-altering event. But then again… The cold snap had hit the hoteliers early, so there was indeed a crisis for me. A lack of Coopers stout.  My favourite winter tipple in the southern hemisphere. The bar people had not been expecting such  a dip in living conditions. All the more fun for me.  Real red wine weather.  And thankfully Clare provided a sporting top-up on Sunday. It was all about the reserves of the Crows and Port doing battle in the SANFL Showdown.  “Tex” Walker assumed Hollywood status as my lady Gabs and I strolled along the main drag on Sunday afternoon.  Never mind the potential telly distractions of the AFL or the imminent craziness of the English Premier League title race, the locals in Clare only had eyes for the main sporting show in town.  More than 5,000 people made the Clare Stadium the centre of attention. And well done. It was a worthy spectacle to behold as various generations – from pram dwellers to pensioners – strolled along for the first bounce with the variance in club colours not seeming to provoke any animosity. We satisfied our hunger for the occasion with great scran in the Clare Hotel. But outside, sport was on the menu. Always great to see.  I did not want to intrude as I try to follow Norwood in the SANFL.  We made our way back to base in Auburn via several wineries.  The clichéd friendliness of country people does come into play in the Clare Valley.  And it is no cliche at all. The chatter from mine hosts in the Kilikanoon Wines and O’Leary Walker Wines made it hard to leave those respective establishments. The Shut the Gate pit-stop was also a worthy venue.  Paulett Wines and Pikes Polish Hill are others pencilled in for a “must do” note.  I’m not an advertising agency, I just found the friendliness so genuine. I will talk to anybody so long as they are not up themselves. And the folk of the Clare Valley are the real thing. Gabs took a gamble by booking us into Mellers of Auburn. It proved a great move. Rosemary Howe is smiles all round as the perfect host. It’s only a mere stroll “next door”  to the Rising Sun,  with Ken and Paula dispensing the  beverages.  It certainly got chocka as the fans piled in after the Crows-Port stouch down the valley.  Not exactly akin to Rosies Bar after a Newcastle United visit of days of yore or thawing out with a pint of bitter in the General Havelock after a midwinter Ewood experience, but a post-sporting  occasion all the same. As an “old school” follower of sports I can claim no fear of “screen addiction” so I blocked out all need to find out the Rovers result. Eventually I succumbed and gave the legendary John Pittard a bell. It turned out to be Rovers 4 Wigan 3. No play-offs for us but the perfect postscript to a laidback, wine-fuelled, off-the-dial sporting weekend. This is where my advice for Brendan Rodgers comes in again. He can flee free from the media madness to recharge his batteries. Plenty of reds for a Red, Brendan. Think about it.  You might need it…