Betting tales: So near and yet so far
They say the best things in life are free and there cannot be many things better for a young man who enjoys sport, than winning a free bet. There have indeed been many an occasion when we have waxed lyrical about the joys of making money simply from correctly predicting that certain teams will win a couple of games. This betting tale however, does not have a happy ending. The protagonist of this tale of hammer heartache is a bloke we will call ‘Son of John’.
Now, Son of John has been a successful gambler for many a year now but a few weekends ago he came close to pulling off the bet of a lifetime. He took up the challenge of Ladbrokes free bet, the premise being a simple one; five Premiership games, get all the scores right, win £5,000. Now it is tough enough to correctly predict the final score in one game but five is virtually impossible. Son of John is a busy man and did not agonise over his scores for too long. He marked the slip and went on with his day. Come 5pm he thought he would check how he’d done. One correct score would be nice, two definitely worth a grin, three and you’re practically a psychic.
Liverpool 2-0 Bolton? Check. Birmingham 1-1 Tottenham? Check. Fulham 0-2 Aston Villa? Check. Hull City 2-2 Wolves? Check. He’d got four, he only needed one more correct score and he had won five thousand pounds. West Ham 1-0 Blackburn? Nope, 0-0. As if the Hammers need for striking obvious wasn’t obvious before is was painfully obvious now. Their inability to score had cost the boy from Birchwood not only 5k but also lifetime bragging rights in the pub. Son of John had personified the phrase, close but no cigar, he had predicted some outrageous scorelines and fallen short of glory because big Franck Nouble can’t hit a barn door. He was defeated. But like every good, committed sports gambler, when the Saturday morning light comes streaming through his window, he’ll get up and do it again. Amen.
Separated at birth: Lords of the impossible journey
Frodo Baggins’ Owen thought as he sat on the physio’s table for the millionth time. ‘That’s right, I’ll model myself on the Lord of the Rings protagonist. It’s perfect; he searched for the ring in the same way that I’m searching for full fitness. Both are almost impossible quests and yet it Frodo is eventually victorious’.
That’s the reason Manchester United and England midfielder Owen Hargreaves has started to look a bit like a hobbit of late (albeit with the beginnings of a Mexican moustache). He’s even perfected the open eyed, gaze-into-the-distance look that worked so well for Frodo during his quest. Fingers crossed it works just as well on the long and ardous journey he is on back to playing in the Premier League.
Eco-martyr Neville shows PR has gone mad
Last week, Pope and Swift stumbled across a sentence that they never thought they would bear witness to. ‘Footballer Gary Neville has applied to build a flower-shaped eco-friendly house in Greater Manchester’ it read. Cue bemusement. Surely it was some sort of a joke, some sort of premature April Fool’s gag, Rio Ferdinand murking the Manchester United club captain with the latest of his intricate plots.
Apparently not. The more hated Neville brother has genuinely applied to build a four storey family home on the outskirts of Bolton, complete with wind turbine, solar panels and geothermal heating. If it gains planning permission, the home will be the first zero carbon house in North West England.
Stuart Fraser, partner at Make Architects with whom Neville has designed the house, said in a statement that cries ‘Yipee, we being paid enough by Gaz to pay Pompey’s wages on time for a year!’: “The client has been heavily involved in the design process and is passionate about preserving the natural beauty of this area.’
But does he really? Does Neville give two flying tackles about the environment, global warming and the continued rise in the levels of CO2 that threaten to blight our generation and ruin the world of our children? Can you imagine him switching off the light every time when he walks out of the room or chatting to Paul Scholes about his recycling bin overflowing? No, us neither.
The whole eco-martyr persona just doesn’t fit with the Gary Neville that we all know and hate. He’s the man who grows annoying facial hair and spends half of the few games he plays hollering at the refereee, not some hippy caring soul who composts his veg peelings. It may be a prejudiced view of the man but footballers don’t do green issues. They do gas guzzling 4×4’s and unnecessary swearing at former team mates in heated cup games. To expect any more is foolish.
Such is why we must beware. Beware the fact that even the most intolerable of human beings like Neville can be made to seem human when equipped with a Toyota Prius, beware the fact that PR has the power to turn public persona on its head with the drop of a hat. What next, John Terry setting up a orphanage in his own home?
When it rains on Robbie, it pours
At some point in the spring of 2008, Robbie Keane must have walked under a ladder, placed his new Nike boots on a table and spilt salt in the Spurs canteen all on the same day. That can be the only reason why the Republic of Ireland striker has endured the remarkable fall from grace that he has done in the past eighteen months and why he now sees himself staring at a career saving loan move to his other boyhood club, Celtic. Despite the fanfare north of the border, there is no disguising that Keane’s move to the SPL could well go down in the same ilk as Chris Sutton, John Hartson and Dion Dublin and signal the beginning of the end of the 29 year old.
For those who with memories like the traitorous Harry Redknapp, Robbie was not too long ago a genuine Premier League marksmen. In 2007/2008, Keane scored 23 goals as he and Dimitar Berbatov struck up a sumptuous partnership. Come the end of the campaign, such was the impressive performances of both strikers, that they were moved on to larger and greener pastures, Keane to Merseyside and his beloved Liverpool. Torres supposedly had the strike partner he deserved and Anfield finally had a strikeforce capable of winning the title.
The latter almost came true but alas Liverpool only thrived without Keane. After a sorry six months, the former Coventry and Leeds man made his way back to We Heart Harry Lane with his tale between his legs after failing to do anything of note. Since the return of the prodigal son, Keane’s form for Spurs has been less than inspiring and he finished the calender year with just 11 Premier League goals, four of which were scored in one particularly fruitful game against Burnley in September. He has since fallen behind the Pompey Pair of Jermain Defoe and Peter Crouch to the point that even Redknapp, a man who collects players like Pokemon cards, suggested that he move on to find regular football. That’s got to hurt.
To run salt in the wounds, Keane will forever be known as the man who almost got Ireland into a World Cup finals. It was his goal in the one all draw against France at the Stade de France that put Giovanni Trapatonni’s side on the verge of qualifying for South Africa 2010, only for Thierry Henry to spike the ball into the path of William Gallas to send the Republic crashing out in extra time. So, despite scoring five goals in qualifcation and enjoying his football for the first time in months, Keane was forced to accept that his last chance of playing at a World Cup was no longer. 
Pretty tough on poor Robbie then. You have to hope for his sake that, as the clock strikes twelve tonight and the Scottish transfer window finally closes, the bell that sounds won’t be the ominous knoll that spells the end of Robbie Keane’s Premier League career. He deserves better than that after the torrid time he has had.
Admiring glances across the Pond at men with large shoulders
Earlier this week, I had a lapse. To be honest, I don’t really know what came over me.
I was indulging in my regular trip to the BBC Sport website to check up on the latest news and views. As ever, there was much on offer, including the increasingly speedy Murray bandwagon in the build up to his battle with Nadal and Alan Shearer claiming United are reliant on Rooney and thus (as per usual) saying what everyone already knows. Enough to keep me entertained for my traditional two hours stint then.
So why then did I veer straight away towards a story that had nothing to do with any of my staple sports, nothing remotely involving the weekend’s football or indeed my beloved Leeds United’s gutsy draw at We Heart Harry Lane? Why did I bypass everything and anything and make a beeline for an article which read ‘New Orleans Saints to meet Indianapolis in Super Bowl’? Why, someone please tell me, did I click on a story that concerned a sport that for many a year I have scorned and despised, American Football?
Deep down, I know the answer. It pains me to say it but a few weeks ago I watched the NFL play-off between Arizona and Green Bay in one of the most thrilling television sporting experiences of my life. It was one of those days when you just need sport of any kind and, with nothing else on, I was convinced to tune in by a friend who said that, if I loved sport as much as claimed I did, I should give it a chance.
It didn’t disappoint. I ended up (despite extreme tiredness) bearing witness to the highest scoring play-off game in the history of the NFL. I didn’t understand a great deal of what was going on but the result was an epic hazy dream of men of all sizes, each with immensely important roles, clawing to get at the ball as if it had a million dollars stuffed safely inside. It was like a huge hulking game of chess, with the Queen (aka Quarterback) in constant danger of being toppled. I didn’t want it to end and it only came to a conclusion when Aaron Rodgers was cruelly stripped of the ball and Arizona touchdowned for victory. Checkmate.
Since then, I must confess, I have flirted with the idea of staying up for more American Football in the hope of replicating that surreal night. I have secretly considered applying for tickets for the NFL International Series game at Wembley in October and I have engaged in limited discussions with friends. I even know that the New Orleans Saints and the Indianapolis Colts have made it through to the SuperBowl, where extortionate adverts reign and popstars bare their chest.
It goes against everything I know and have ever stood for but I dare say the NFL may well just have captured my imagination and expanded my brain like some crazy hallucinogenic drug. It will never take over from the beautiful game but, for now at least, I am more than happy to indulge in the temporary feeling of ecstacy that American Football brings and which allows it to be an official member of our egg shaped balls category.
Time to recognise Redknapp’s true colours
He had to do it, he just couldn’t help himself. I was having such a good week but then Arry Redknapp reared his ugly, how did I spawn such a handsome son, head and ruined it all. My annoyance refersto the Tottenham managers signing of Eidur Gudjohnsen from under the noses of London rivals West Ham. The Icelandic striker was reported to have agreed terms with the Hammers and undergone a medical before the cheeky chappy Spurs manager decided to get involved. Like Messrs Sullivan and Gold, I am not happy.
Firstly, from a neutrals point of view I would have far rather have seen Gudjohnsen playing every week in partnership with Carlton Cole than battling it out with Defoe, Crouch and Robbie Keane (and that is assuming Redknapp manages to get rid of Roman Pavlyuchenko). He would have had a far greater impact and far more game time at Upton Park for exactly the same amount of money.
Then there is Redknapp and his role in the transfer. Regular readers of this blog will know I have somewhat of a unjustified hatred of the Tottenham manager, and you are perfectly within your rights to recognise his achievements in football in contrast to my own feelings. But I just think the man is admired as a character which is very different from the reality of the man. Over the last few years it has become increasingly obvious to us, the general public, just how seedy, corrupt and money obsessed football is and I feel Redknapp embodies much of the naivety towards these very serious issues. It is the fact he is seen as this jovial, jack-the-lad, alright me ol’ mug, character when in fact he is a very calculated, cold and clever man.
He knew Portsmouth’s downfall was on the horizon when he jumped ship to ‘rescue’ Tottenham from relegation. Fair enough, everyone has to look after number one. It was the fact that it was his and Peter Storrie’s outlandish spending which got them in the mess in the first place, and he had the nerve to not only reveal his exit to Sky Sports Newsbefore Portsmouth could issue any statement but also that he left by revealing Pompey’s financial troubles and claimed that the compensation Tottenham were paying was good business for the South coast club.
My issue here centres around the fact this is very sinister and successful man who is forever painted as one of the lads. The naivety we all show towards Redknapp and the way he works is reflective of the naivety we all have towards the way football works. We will probably be deprived of seeing as much of Gudjohnsen in action, West Ham (another of Redknapp’s ‘beloved’ former clubs) may suffer but nothing will be said for Redknapp’s cold and calculated actions and instead the media will marvel at his wheeling and dealing. If it is time to take football seriously then we must do the same with Redknapp.
Window shopping lacking its old appeal
My God this is boring isn’t it? This January’s transfer window has been the dullest since it was implemented in 2002. As far as the big four go, Ancelotti doesn’t want to get naked, Wenger wants to prove he doesn’t need to spend, Benitez is being forced to try and convince a mid table club to allow their second best striker to join him on loan and don’t even get me started on those naughty Glazers. This window has been so dull in fact that the news that Craig Gardener is moving from Aston Villa to join Alex McLeish’s blue revolution makes me a little giddy.
But all this anti-climax and page filling stories about everyone’s favourite petulant, cry-baby, striker Kris Boyd coming to the Premiership got me thinking. What the hell are we expecting? Sure, in recent years ‘the window’ has been exciting, but why do we allow ourselves to be drawn in to all the Sky Sports News fuelled gossiping and yellow tickered excitement? Why do we allow ourselves to be interested in ol’ Arry’ Redknapp babbling on about having a ‘triffic squad’ but still ‘lookin to do summink’? None of that bollocks is why we love football is it? If this week has proved anything it is that we shouldn’t give a toss about all the nonsense and speculation and should instead revel in the bloody brilliant games on offer.
The intensity of a Manchester Derby, the ridiculous goal feast fuelled by early scores for an away side, the classy turnaround from a team on top even the shock of the bottom side in the football league winning away at the promotion chasers (Darlington beat Rotherham 2-1 for those who somehow didn’t notice that one). These are the reasons football excites us. So never mind the bollocks, here’s the football instead.
Separated at Birth: Masters of survival
If you had to compile a list of men that represented everything that was great and good about England, Adrian Chiles and Ray Mears would be in the top five without question. Just take their names; you can’t get much more British butch than Adrian and Ray can you? Funny then, we think, how they resemble each other so strikingly. Steely gaze (for taming wild wilderbeast and Alan Hansen when he gets carried away about Liverpool’s shoddy defending), casual open shirt (for the older women), BBC’s famous pursed lip smile, they share the lot. In fact, we’d quite like to see them swap roles for a few weeks. Ray Mears would certainly provide some interesting comments on Portsmouth’s chances of survival in the wilderness of the relegation zone.
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Pope and Swift, as you may have noticed from our inactivity, have been busy indulging in academia over the past few days. Hours chained to a desk can be tough and insanity is always a small step away. Which was why we were so delighted by this little beaut we found on YouTube (other video sharing websites are available).
Basically, a lady called Anita Wardell (see scary face above) was asked by Danny Baker, of Radio 5 Live, to put the names of some Portsmouth players to a scat solo (which translates a vocal jazz improvisation, for our non-musically adept readers). The result is something of quite astounding genius and genuine hilarity.
And since you’re wondering, our particular favourite moment is the mention of a certain European Championship winner at 12 seconds. Based upon the fact that he’s hardly played a game for the club, we reckon he’s done quite well to get on the Pompey Scat. We hope you enjoy as much as we did.
No title necessary
If ever there was a photo that summed up a Test match (aside from Flintoff consoling Brett Lee in 2005), Pope and Swift would argue this was it. On first glance, it’s your average ‘Two England batsmen, heading to tea, on the fifth day of a Test match’ photo. Look closer though and you can almost hear what Paul Collingwood and Ian Bell are thinking. In Bell’s steely glare forward, there is an uncharacteristic desire to hang around until the end of the innings, to be the gutsy middle order batsman that many have doubted he could be. Collingwood’s lowered head implies satisfaction in a job done (he surely would have revelled in his marathon knock of 40) but a knowledge that there are tougher times post tea. And the handshake, slightly awkward for the mismatch of glove and hand, is a touching sign of respect for one another, a gesture that says ‘Well played mate, now let’s go on and get that draw’.
They did go on, fighting together amongst a circle of South African fielders for almost two hours in the last session. And their four hour partnership was the most compelling piece of cricket since Colly, with the help of KP in the first innings, scrapped and scraped a draw in the first Ashes test in Cardiff. As then, the swing and miss tailenders will take the headlines for their bravery in the last few overs but the hardwork was done yesterday by messrs Collingwood and Bell. In facing a combined 401 balls, they have once again made the Test match draw one of the most compelling of spectacles in sport.