World Cup Nonsense

[Mid Life Crisis Marathon Man]

I am bemused about all this aversion to the word soccer, when the word is a 100% English invention. I was pleased to note however, that even the BBC (Five Live, to be exact) have no compunction in using it at all. I heard only two days ago the anchor man refer to "soccer's World Cup" with not even a hint of disapproval from the panel of experts. And of course BBC's World Service use it even more frequently.

Having said that, it surprises me still further that Australia's soccer body has changed its name to "Football Australia" and refuses to acknowledge any other name. Although there again, as every man and his wombat has pointed out, the national team here are still officially called the Socceroos.

Personally, I think the word "football" rather ugly. And while "soccer" ain't exactly pretty said out aloud, at least it looks better on paper, albeit perhaps more akin to Portugese than English.

And if soccer is a contraction of "association football", why isn't league football logger?

I shall probably sleep through the Australia -v- Japan game (starting in just over two hours, I believe), but be assured I will check here first for the results and commentary

[Sweder]

For the record it's not really the world 'soccer' that causes a problem.
'Socceroos'? Why not the Soccerbies or the Duck-Billed Soccer-Platipi? The Soccerigoinies?

Or the Soccerangs.
That might be more accurate - I believe those particular implements are designed to return to the sender

I know I'm a grumpy old bustard, but why not call them the Australian Football team, or Australia for short

[Mid Life Crisis Marathon Man]

'Socceroos'? Why not the Soccerbies or the Duck-Billed Soccer-Platipi? The Soccerigoinies? Or the Soccerangs.

Weeeell, because (a) soccerbie sounds too much like that place in Scotland where you crash your jumbo jets; (b) duck-billed etc is too difficult to pronounce when pissed; © there aren't very many aboriginies in the Australian team, and (d) most of them don't actually come back that often (to Australia that is) anyway.

I know I'm a grumpy old bustard, but why not call them the Australian Football team, or Australia for short

...we do it because it annoys the heck out of grumpy old poms

Actually, I'm beginning to quite enjoy this World Cup thing. People are so... edgy.

[Mid Life Crisis Marathon Man]

I have to admit, I did watch the Oz -v- Japan match (whilst repairing my recalcitrant DVD drive), and okay, yes, that last ten minutes was pretty damn exciting.

Not quite a convert yet, but it was enjoyable.

Worth a drink or three, anyway

[Sweder]

See now that's what we're on about.

Of course not every match has the drug-crazed madness that was the last ten minutes of today's game . . . but the rollercoaster effect you experienced is what we sad followers of National team fortunes feel with every wafted kick, every wince-inducing tackle, every ever-so-slightly-short back-pass . . .

. . . it's heaven and hell, pleasure and pain.

I think after a come-back like that Soccerangs is pretty accurate.
Roll on Brazil! Get anything out of that game and the whole world will sit up and take notice. Really.

Three excellent games today.
I'd say matches, except the USA's capitulation to the Czechs was nothing of the sort. Rosicky has recently signed for Arsenal and so far looks good value for his 7 million quid price tag.

Italy managed to out-think a spirited yet naive Ghana side. The contest remained in the balance until Sammy Kuffour's woeful back-pass set Iaquinta free to score. Seeing the former Bundesliega player hunched in pain on the turf tonight reminded me of an uncannily similar scene. The same player clad in the blood-red of Bayern Munich, in a similar position pounding the turf, eyes filled with tears of anger as the European Cup was stolen from his team in the dying minutes one balmy, crazy night in the Camp Nou . . .

Is it me or is this World Cup already turning out to be something special?
I can't remember being so excited about the group stages.
Tomorrow it's the turn of France and Brazil.
Zidane, Henri, all those magicians who's name being in with 'R'.

Blimey.

[Mid Life Crisis Marathon Man]

Three excellent games today.

You watched three matches in one day? That's an awful lot of Guinness











... I approve

[Sweder]

For me, the first disappointing day of the championships.
Like a long-awaited meal with favourite friends this feast of football lay before us today, eagerly anticipated, warmly welcomed but as sometimes happens when push came to shove it was all just a little off .

The starter was okay, an unpretentious encounter between two energetic, committed sides in the first flush of their World Cup youth. South Korea started slowly, punished early doors by the eager Togo. The Asian side rallied to remind the African upstarts that these games last 90 minutes and you’d best be ready to play for every one of them if you hope to progress.
Just ask the Aussies!

Next up France, a team full of enigmatic icons and fresh-faced promise. You never know which France will show up; tonight we got the grumpy, grumbling France, full of Gallic shrugs, raised eyebrows and, more than once, raised voices. The Great and the Good of Les Blues engaged in heated debate, Zidane remonstrating with Gallas over which system they should be playing.

Alas, despite cauldron-like temperatures the football never threatened to catch light. Switzerland, the personification of stereotypical efficiency, easily shackled the early flickers of French flair. As Henri and his pals resorted to squabbling the men in white sought to steal the game, passing up several chances to bag all three points, Alex Frei the most profligate.

Viewer disappointment was tempered by the promise of the evenings’ Gourmet Special; Brazil. I’d been looking forward to seeing The Masters practice their mystical arts for weeks. I could barely contain my excitement today, driving my co-workers bonkers. Roberto Carlos - a man prepared to shoot from the car park; Ronaldinho, World Footballer of the Year, with more tricks than a bag full of monkeys; Kaka, Dida, Cafu . . .
Coatia are no mugs – they’ve an enviable tournament record in their brief history, famously hammering Germany 3 – 0 in the quarter finals (seems like yesterday) – yet surely they were no more than cannon-fodder for the five-times World Champions?

As the match unfolded and the men in Gold flicked and chipped the ball around, the Croatians working hard to keep them at arms’ length, Messrs Motson and Lawrenson warmed to their commentary. Motty kicked off with some interesting pronunciations; the Brazilian ‘keeper became a parody of a child’s toy police car, ‘Dee Daa!’, thwarting the industrious Croatian midfielder now known as ‘Two-Door!!!’.
This midly amusing distraction could not deflect from the unfolding tragedy before us;
someone had gone all Voodoo on Ronaldo.

It was déjà vu all over again.
Eight years ago Ronaldo famously suffered some kind of fit a matter of hours before the World Cup Final against France. That day the poor man had tried, but the crushing weight of the World's expectation added to his metaphysical woes and he wilted, the South Americans losing handsomely to their hosts. There he was tonight, crushed this time under the weight of his burgeoning midriff; a day late but I doubt a dollar short.

I’m tempted to refer to the World’s Greatest Striker as a disinterested, lumbering pie-eater, but frankly he wasn’t that good. So often in the first half the ball – like the match – simply passed Ronaldo by. At one point I wondered if he’d actually started in the France/ Switzerland game by mistake, and by some modern televisual miracle wandered through the News and South East Today to stumble onto our screens and into this match. He certainly seemed hopelessly lost.

Like a grizzled old Alligator lurking in the Florida swamps Old Ronny cruised around the 18 yard box waiting for something juicy to fall into his maw. But this is the World Cup, and rarely does your prey roll over before you’ve even bared your teeth. Amazingly the great lump shuffled out for the second half, albeit some time after his team-mates. On 60 minutes the mighty reptile snapped his heavy jaws, firing a defiant thunderbolt just over the bar from the edge of the area. No sooner had the ‘roundest ball in the history of all things round’ whistled over the Croat goal than the light that had briefly lit up the man-beasts eyes faded. Ten minutes later he jogged off, replaced by Robinho, his weary face broadcasting a mixture of bewilderment and relief to the watching millions.

Croatia deserved something for honest endeavour and disciplined commitment. But for Kaka’s wonder-strike – surely the least appropriately named player on the pitch – a draw would have been a fair result. Prso spurned several fair chances and Dee Daa took to his emergency services role with aplomb.

For a few days at least we face the ignominy of a Group F table showing Australia above Brazil (on goal difference). Provided Parreira has the courage to leave Old Lardy on the bench, and assuming Croatia continue to play with heart and desire as they did tonight, that will change on Sunday.

[SIZE="1"]Guinness watch: a crafty pint in the pub under the office saw out the first half of France v Switzerland. I’d planned a tour of Harvey’s bottled summer ales this evening, but so focused was I on explaining to my eleven-year-old daughter why Brazil were not actually playing like the Harlem Globetrotters as promised, I forgot. [/SIZE]

[Mid Life Crisis Marathon Man]

I’d planned a tour of Harvey’s bottled summer ales this evening, but ... I forgot.

You forgot? You forgot?? Good God man, pull yourself together! It's not like picking up a newspaper on your way to the office or something, this is important! I expected better from a man of your standing. :mad: It's only once every four years you know. It's not difficult.

[Seafront Plodder]

Just got back from Berlin, where I managed to don a set of comedy false teeth and con my way into the Brazil starting line-up.

All I had to do was to pretend to be fit, and convince the coach that what I had achieved 5 years ago was a justifiable reason why I should get in.

I managed 60 minutes before being sussed. Ho hum.

[Mid Life Crisis Marathon Man]

... in the highlights package (no way I'm getting up at 4:30 a.m. to watch some old soccer match) I actually heard the commentator apologise for not realising that Ronaldo was still on the pitch.

Have been rather pleased over here at the relatively subdued nature of the media coverage of the Aussie win over Japan. It certainly hasn't been nauseating, as is the case when we win the Ashes for example (not that we've done that for a while). Indeed, most of the media coverage seemed to revolve around expressing surprise at just how many Aussies rocked up for the game over there, and where in Germany fans have been able to buy Aussie beer. Which is strange, because I would have thought most German beers would be infinitely superior to the crap Fosters and VB which has been all that's available on tap apparently. I mean it's all very well to fly the flag, but you have to draw a line somewhere. Give me a Weihenstephaner over a VB any day...

[Sweder]

Drama, unbearable tension, a real white-knuckle ride . . .

. . . and that was just waiting for Shearer to tell Gordon Strachan that redheads shouldn’t wear yellow. Captain Scarlett sat implacable in crisp white whilst the boy Lineker donned a racy striped number that had me flicking frantically through the ‘My M&S’ ads.

Poor Poland. Nothing to do with 20th Century history, or the obvious inequity of the hosts boasting two Polish-born strikers; rather it has to do with admirable battling spirit in the face of crushing odds and overwhelming partisan support ending in glorious, last-gasp failure.
I thought that was the preserve of Ing-er-lund.

The radio chat tonight is peppered with ‘will he – won’t he’ speculation over that man and that foot. I for one am heartily sick of it, though it's easy to appreciate the conundrum. Ericsson drops a bollock bringing a bus-load of midfielders and one-point-five half-fit strikers to the most important tournament in the world. The temptation to play the Boy Wonder, seen today (s)training like a rabid bulldog, must be off the scale. The lad himself has the look of a muscular hound trying to pull his owner’s arm out of its socket as he catches sight of the park. It would be no surprise if he comes off the bench, breaks his foot and gets a life ban before Lawro can crack a funny.

Lord Barwick of FA knows only too well that should the wunderkind play tomorrow and (God forbid) exacerbate an old (or pick up a new) injury Soho Square can expect a rapier-like missive from Messrs Sue, Grabbit & Runne (Manchester office).

Word from the England camp is Rooney’s been kicking lumps off the remaining suitors for Mr Owen, including Baby Walcott via a well-aimed drop shot to the rear. Deliberately backing his manager into a corner? Perhaps. I for one hope the demob happy Swede gets bitten; his new-found recklessness knows no bounds.

'Rooney is match fit.'
That's what 4.5 million pounds a year buys you. Thank God some FA PR lackie managed to wipe the spittle from Sven's trembling lips before he dropped that gem into his press conference. It's like watching Mr Burns on amphetamines.

Finally, a word of praise for our Spanish cousins.
Ukraine, whilst hardly favourites for the Coupe de Monde, can on their day be pretty tough opponents. Messrs Alonso, Garcia and Villa reduced them to sorry also-rans left sweating on the result of Saudi Arabia versus Tunisia after a sound and very public thrashing. Bravo!

Is it finally time for Spain to bury all those years of false hope and claim the greatest team prize in sport?

[Nigel]

From our special Vienna correspondent ...

I'm returning rather late into this conversation, I'm afraid, having just departed the banks of the Blue Danube, where I managed to catch snippets of the Weltmeisterschaft (cue rather worryingly-implied linguistic overtones of world domination) within a variety of offbeat and well-supplied venues.


France v Switzlerland
The Austrians this week were displaying a mildly interested 'Was ist dieses Fussball-Spiel, eigentlich ?' kind of air, rather similar, I felt, to the one they adopted on the night of their famously contrived score-draw against Grossbrüdern Deutschland which enabled both teams to qualify for the final stages in another WM-vor-sehr-viele-Jahre and once upon a time.

The atmosphere in our hotel on Wednesday night was rather muted, despite the Live-und-Direkte Übertragung of WM-Fussball puzzlingly enriched by the presence of German comics in the studio (no need for Big Sam here). The disinterest all around me might well have had something to do with the match showing in the bar at Apéro time, featuring as it did my one-time Gastarbeit hosts and Austrian neighbours Switzerland playing out a memorably awful draw against the Franzosen. The game in its way probably counted as a victory for the yodellers, despite the frequent sight of Frei mysteriously melting like the eponymous chocolate cream in front of the French goal. There was barely a 'Hopp-Schwiiz' audible from the crowd, let alone a single cowbell, despite the holy-cheese-eating clockmaker monkeys' elegance during the qualifying stages.


Brazil open their campaign
Later on the same evening, it seemed hard to explain the very slow service during our meal, until it suddenly dawned on us that we had abandoned our beers in Stephansplatz at an untimely moment, sitting down to our [i]Knödel[/i] at the exact time when the Brazil game was kicking off. At last it became clear - our Italian waiters had become confused and mistakenly served our dinner onto the red-check tablecloths being worn by several of the drinkers outside the restaurant bar. It was only during a rare period of pressure against Brazil when these long-haired and rough-shaven types each in turn ripped off their shirts whilst falling to their knees in Goran-like pose, beating their chests and bellowing 'It is my destiny !' that I did belatedly recognise them as Croatia supporters.

Of course, I've never been one for shallow national stereotyping, as I'm sure by now you'll appreciate. And least of all, I've never really understood or even patronised that eternal weakness of Fernsehdirektors worldwide - namely of cutting pointlessly away from the action to show ravishing Brazilian supporters ululating wildly amidst their traditionally enchanting oscillations. Yet it still struck me as noteworthy yesterday that a remarkably sizeable section of the Austrian population gracing the Wiener-Altstadt did indeed miraculously seem to be sporting Brazil shirts, all the same.


Spain pain Ukraine...
After so much continental excitement, it was a relief to return to good old Blighty late yesterday evening, just in time to spend half an hour on our aircraft steps waiting for a bus to Heathrow's Terminal 4. How can airport authorities reasonably be so surprised by the arrival of incoming traffic which has been resolutely flying Londonwards for over 2 hours ? I was wondering whether such chaos would soon be suspended when our airports shortly come under Spanish control, when fortunately just before mañana a number 79 did duly arrive, just in time to get me home for Match of the Day.

Earlier in the trip I had air-tested on my poor colleague the draft of a piece I was planning to write here about the traditionally underachieving equipo español. But that article will never see the light of day, I fear, since when the free copy of the Daily Telegraph provided by BA arrived, it proved to carry an identically-worded report in their own sports pages.

That feature managed to keep us amused during our Europa-Überflug even more successfully than the transports of delight offered by the British Airways All-Day Deli service (since when did any self-respecting Delikatessen ever offer up cheese spread and tomato paste sandwiches, by the way? - but I digress). I wasn't finally sure whether the Torygraph's uncanny sharing of the viewpoints of everyone here on Spain's eternal disappointments was indeed the final proof of our qualifications as broadsheet-commentators-in-waiting, or merely a very sad confirmation of the lack of imagination of the English press in the absence of any new metatarsal x-ray bulletins to report. But I guess we'll have to defer to Mick on that one. And, more importantly, the Spanish team played brilliantly, after all.


England v Trinidad & Tobago
And, so, with my feet safely back under my Sussex desk, we come to thoughts of tonight's vital and testing game.

Let's hope that it's a cool evening. Because ...

I am an England fan, I come from Eng-er-land and I can sing: I'm for ever blowing bubbles ...

- if only for fortyfive minutes, until we fade and die like a bunch of dead-against-Paraguay parrots in the Frankfurt sun.

Adding to the pain of that truly diabolical second half on Saturday, I must say just how heart-rending it was for me to endure the double post-FA Cup Final torment of seeing not only Shaka Hislop playing a blinder for T&T against Sweden, but also the repeated nightmare of Steven Gerrard blasting the ball from 35 yards hopelessly and safely into row 34 against Paraguay (Oh Lord, why oh why not last month in Cardiff ?).

And now there is yet another painful prospect to await. Because at this stage I am duty-bound to confess real interest in tonight's game, at last revealing myself as being in the unique and unlikely position of already having seen Trinidad & Tobago's Wunderkind striker Jason Scotland play live. Und zwar ... I gained that pleasure during his quite stunningly virtuoso performance for St Johnstone at home on Boxing Day.

The Saints were unlucky to go down 2-1 in Perth that day, but Scotland himself was clearly the best player on the pitch, rampaging more or less unfettered towards goal throughout the afternoon, even against the high calibre of opposition presented by the mighty Raith Rovers. Against a top quality back four from the Scottish lower leagues he was able to create chances from all over the place, and I fear he must logically be seen as a huge threat to England later today. With Shaka in inspired form in goal for Trinidad and Tobago, and Gerrard off-target for us, I predict it's gonna be no walkover Abend fuer die plucky Engerlaender.

But enough of mitteleuropäischen Weltschmerzen, (and Schadenfreude for that matter). If perhaps you were beginning to wonder if all of this random rant and diatribe had indeed brought nothing more than a poor excuse to put those particular words into a single sentence, then you'd probably be right. Now that life-long ambition has finally been fulfilled, there can surely only be one way to wrap up this woeful WM-Zwischenbericht. So here we go, here we go, here we go.


And so at last it's true. Because for you, Tommy, now ze bore is over.

[Sweder]

In an earlier post I may have given the impression that I believed the England Football team would win the FIFA World Cup.

I was obviously under the influence of alcohol and narcotics, a state from which I have happily now emerged.
I apologise unreservedly for any distress this misleading and drug-fuelled statement may have caused.

[Mid Life Crisis Marathon Man]

In an earlier post I may have given the impression that I believed the England Football team would win the FIFA World Cup.

I was obviously under the influence of alcohol and narcotics, a state from which I have happily now emerged.
I apologise unreservedly for any distress this misleading and drug-fuelled statement may have caused.

That's sad.

Because England's not going to win the Ashes, either

[Sweder]

I did have one other slightly less hysterical observation from the 'squeaky bum time' performance last night;
Peter Crouch's hugely embarrassing attempt to strike an unchallenged volley.
Was it just me or did he look exactly like a collapsing deck chair?

The real plaudits yesterday went to the mighty Ecuador.
Do you think for one moment that Klinsman and Co are looking forward to playing them next week?
But never mind their explosive football, what I want to know is . . .

. . . when are we going to see massed ranks of poncho-clad pan-pipe players revelling in the stands?
Roll the Fast Show tape . . .

[stillwaddler]

"Late balls of Fire"

[Mid Life Crisis Marathon Man]

I staggered home last night having finished twelve straight days of work and collapsed on the couch with a couple of high-powered stouts just as the Argentina -v- Serbia & Montenegro match started, so this became the first game of the tournament that had my undivided attention.

All I can say is: some of the Argie goals were very well worth watching the game for, but the Serbians? Their game plan seemed to consist of playing for free kicks with some appalling high drama "oh my god I'm so hurt by that brutish man who kicked me" namby-pamby should have been drowned at birth God-awfulness which made me shudder. I saw one bloke even stretchered off for a very minor clip to the heel. If he'd been an Aussie and carried on like that he would have been shot for treason and strung up for the crows to eat.

I say, this game really makes one emotional, doesn't it?

[El Gordo]

Owen must be dropped, with Rooney on from the start.

And y'know, I quite like the idea of Beckham at right back and Lennon as an attacking winger, as we saw towards the end of the T & T game. Beckham no longer beats his man but he's always shown decent defensive qualities, and his distribution of course is excellent. Trouble is, such an idea should have been tried out in friendlies before the tournament rather than now.

And the Lampard/Gerrard thing just doesn't work. We can all see it. All of us except Sven. I can't see us winning the tournament but if we do, or get anywhere near, it will be despite, not because of, him.

Although most of us feel a bit gloomy, ultimately, here are the facts: we've played badly twice but we've won both games and are through to the next round. It's not so bad.

[Sweder]

I couldn't agree more, Andy
I had many heated discussions with my Golf Society pals yesterday - we had our Society Championships at East Sussex National: a Grand Day Out and no mistake! - about the Beckham - Lennon axis. My theory is this:

Lennon is inexperienced and thrives under Beckhams careful husbandry.
He replaced the Captain in a recent friendly and did rock all on his own.

Neville is out and we really miss him -
not at right back, but as the creator of space for our celebrity ball-crosser.

Beckham works space to create 'live' deadball situations - witness the creation of the Crouch header against T&T (but don't look too closely at Robotman's playground hair-pull as he scored).

Lennon takes on and beats his man - or draws a foul. In this world cup refs seem to favour the attacking team (OK, that joker from Mexico in the first England game didn't like tall people).

Strikers: form is temporary, class is permanent. The clamour to 'drop' Owen is ill-founded. If you told the managers of Sweden, Germany or Ecuador that we were leaving Owen on the bench they would punch the air. Owen thrives on space - Rooney takes defenders away. Crouch needs one marker to shackle him, Rooney needs a back four, even three-quarters fit.

Lampard - he's looking like Sonny without Cher in the absence of Claude Makalele, a lost soul. Carrick in, Lampard out, Gerrard to roam with impunity. On the right-back/ Beckham issue, why does it need to be a rigid system? Four at the back is only needed when we're under the cosh; Terry and Ferdinand can cope with most situations provided Ashley Cole can stay focused and Carrick or Hargreaves can handle the midfield guard/ right-back cover duties.

So many positive options and they don’t really need a huge amount of testing.
What worries me most is the lack of imagination and the failure for these top-flight players to take it upon themselves to change things on the pitch. It is interesting to note that the Chelski players get a massive amount of coaching from the Special One during Premiership matches but only occasional frog-in-a-blender semaphore from Sven’s Ginger Puppet.

I’m not so glum.
Argentina and Spain have peaked too soon; Germany’s defence looks as steady as an Oklahoma shack in hurricane season; the Dutch will blow up, the French are still in Paris; Brazil are a one-man team; Portugal are all style and little substance.

Trust me; no-one wants to draw England in the knock-out stages.
Little do they know we have a clueless, drug-crazed loon at the helm.

[El Gordo]

I agree with most of that (much more reasoned analysis than mine), but have to draw the line at Owen.

The guy scored that great goal against the Argies in 98 and has been living off the glory ever since. A fully fit Owen is a decent goal poacher, nothing more. Where are the match-winning, defence-splitting runs of yesteryear? Lost in the depths of his navel-gazing complacency. What he's really lost, and this governs these other qualities, is the hunger and desire of youth. It might sound crazy given that he's only 25 or 26 but compare him with Lennon and Rooney who aren't yet old enough to know that they can't do some of the stuff that they get away with. It's sad, but there you have it. He's not fit and he doesn't want it as much as he used to.

As one of the few people in the world to have seen Walcott play, I'd prefer Walcott to Owen. Again, he's a dynamo who just doesn't care about anything apart from scoring goals and getting back to his PlayStation.

At the very least, I'd put Owen on the bench for the Sweden match. It's just possible that this could bruise his pride enough to put the spark back in his game if he comes on later.

And I'm a Crouch fan. Won't hear a word against the big fella!