A (very selective) review of the year

Oh boy...

It was most refreshing to see 2013 become the year in which football finally started to move away from the hysteria over managerial movements, controversial on- and off-pitch incidents, minute scrutiny on even the tiniest perceived slight or indiscretion, ridiculous transfer fees and generally threatening to disappear forever up one of those particular proverbial arseholes at any given moment. EXCEPT THAT DIDN’T HAPPEN, DID IT.

Bad Cover Version

'They'll never know it's me.'

Fernando Torres looked at the screen, baffled. He blew out his cheeks, bemused. On the TV, a slow-motion replay showed him barging through the Manchester United defence, like a barge, before poking a shot past Edwin van der Sar and sprinting off on the lush Wembley turf, having just won the 2007 FA Cup for Chelsea in extra time.

Man, I've not heard anything about Jose Mourinho for a whi- OH WAIT

The quietest man in football

If anyone was in any doubt who the ladies and gentlemen of the fourth estate’s favourite football manager is, doubt thee no longer. Suffice to say it’s not Harry Redknapp, not any more. Suffice it also to say that the manager in question is all too aware of his illustrious standing among the nation’s sport scribblers and doesn’t so much shy away from the limelight as pour some paraffin on his head, stick a fuse in his ear and run towards it making rude comments about its mother.

Never Mind The Bollocks

"Yes, I WILL be doing this every week."

Close season transfer speculation/gossip/bullshit, for me, reached its zenith in the (probably balmy) summer of 1996. When my peers and I were young enough not to know better and had yet to be infected by pessimism, especially as England had come desperately close to their first final of my lifetime until that ultimate of bastards Andreas Moller snatched away the dream in a way only a bastard of German heritage can.

B****** G***

Talk about this. Lots.

The moment ballboys jumped the shark, by Magic Spongers regularJohn Dobson

Something happened.
Here, look at the thing.
Look at it from the reverse angle.
Look at it in slow motion.
Look at it in super slo-mo.
Look at it frame-by-frame.
Isn't it shocking?
Now look in real time again.
Then zoom in.
Closer.
The thing is terrible!
More after these commercials.

Excess Flaggage

"This is going to work out REALLY well."

God knows what Chelsea fans must be thinking about the Belfast flag protests but going on past form, we’d imagine it would be something approaching incandescence. Because, like Rafa Benitez, the Belfast City Council has a very blasé opinion of flags. And like rioting morons, some Chelsea fans have decided the best form of opposition is going down the ‘nasty’ route.

Twelve Days Of A Magic Spongers Christmas

"I was asking YOU if you thought I'D said merry Christmas to YOU!"

With (probably) our last post of 2012, we couldn't help but get in the festive spirit so in time-honoured Spongers fashion, we start off with a rant. Here's our now semi-regular (and brilliant) contributor Dan Forman with his take on 'Twelve Days of Christmas'.

Truly it's been what a Viz version of the Queen's speech might call an anus horribilis for the Premier League. In no particular order other than it features Chelsea quite a lot (which kind of tells its own story) we have had:

• John Terry abusing Anton Ferdinand (and Chelsea's handling thereof); 

• Luis Suarez refusing to shake Patrice Evra’s hand a few months after allegedly abusing him (and Liverpool's handling thereof); 

• The Mark Clattenberg affair (and Chelsea's handling thereof); 

• Roberto Mancini having to back down and pick a player who refused to warm up; 

• John Terry lifting the European Cup; 

• Newcastle's sponsorship deal with Wonga; 

• Ashley Cole defending John Terry in court;

• Arsenal putting their ticket prices up to the highest in the world, only to then not sign one of the best players in the world, but actually sell one;

• Roman Abramovich stripping out the last remaining layer of Chelsea's soul with the sacking of Roberto di Matteo;

Is Anybody NOT Enjoying This?

"I COULDN'T CARE LESS!!!"

Good news everyone! We don’t have to go and watch rugby! Football’s ok again!

That was fun, wasn’t it? After two nights madder than a box of frogs, it was confirmed to us all that actually, when you take out any semblance of relevance, egos, analysis, defending, care and fitness, football might not actually be the dreadful shitbag it was declared to be on these fair pages not four days ago. Well done, us.

Is Anybody Still Enjoying This?

'[Insert bad things here].'

The darker side of football has been rearing its ugly head for so long now that its neck must be in real trouble. Diving? ‘Rar!’, football roars. Incorrect and costly offside decisions? Rarrrrr! Dubious red cards and insulting language from the officials? Raarrrrrrrrr! Pelting players with coins? RAAARRRRRRRRRRRRR!

The problem with this weekend was that it felt like one omnishambles (see also: ‘clusterfuck’) too far. Firstly, a procession of all things wryly considered to be the worst and most controversial aspects of the game occurred in front of our very eyes, as usual, and secondly, Ed Chamberlin’s eyes lit up like a fat lad at a hog roast as yet another chance arose to eschew analysing the actual football in favour of ‘great talking points’. As usual. And thirdly, an increasingly irrelevant Match of the Day 2 barely gave any analysis of anything. AS USUAL. A great advert for the Premier League, indeed. Well done, everyone.

Farewell to England's Bravest Man

YEAH BYE

Goodbye England’s rose,
May you ever grow in our hearts,
You turned offending everyone
Into a noble art.

Winning At A Cantera

"We're not bad, us"

Athletic Bilbao are a delight. ATHLETIC Bilbao, lest we forget. Seeds sown in the shipyards of Sunderland were reaped in the Basque country; a cantera policy that places the onus squarely on grass roots development within the reinforced framework of local identity. Though darlings of the anti-federalists, Athletic Bilbao were also set apart from their peers due to a proud adherence to la manera Inglesa (the English way), which became a sort of euphemism for a suspicion of flair, best evidenced under the stewardship of Javier Clemente. An altogether different proposition from the likes of Real Madrid then, this.

Marcelo Bielsa, though, is no aficionado of the anti-flair brigade. A different beast altogether, the Argentine might be known as El Loco, but in his madness there is ample method. At times last night during the Europa League win at Old Trafford, we were watching an old-fashioned schooling. A shoeing. A 3-2 thrashing.

Why England’s Brave John Terry Is The Perfect Man For The Chelsea Job Or How I Learned To Stop Worrying And Love SEO

Says it all really doesn't it

Not since the abbreviation LOL was created by a tosser have three consecutive letters riled me as much as A, followed by V, ended by B. Towards the end of his reign, more people were actually laughing out loud when saying “AVB” than “LOL”. In fact, Andre Villas-Boas himself was busy LOLing by the end as he sat back, moaned, thought of the severance package he was about to get his hands on, and then moaned some more.

With Villas-Boas consigned to the Abramovich scrap heap of Big Names that can’t win Big Cups, the search is now on for someone to buck the trend. But, of course, when winning the club a league title for the first time in 50 years isn’t enough (Jose Mourinho), indeed, winning the domestic double isn’t either (Carlo Ancelotti), you’d need to be either a mercenary (Sven-Goran Eriksson), or have been out of England so long you’d forgotten what people are actually like (Rafa Benitez), to want the Chelsea job. Or maybe you’d need to be something else entirely...

Fair Play At A Price

Since time immemorial, Uefa’s financial fair play rules have been skulking around in the shadows of polite chat in football circles. It was Arsenal’s Herbert Chapman who first busied himself snaffling the brightest and best from across the country – Alex James, Cliff Bastin, Eddie Hapgood, Herbie Roberts and David Jack – in the late 1920s in a bid to thwart Michel Platini jr jr jr and the other suits at Europe’s governing body as he pre-empted said regulations*. From Chapman to latter day incarnations, managers have always attempted to prize as much filthy lucre from their chairman’s cold hands as possible. And after a quiet January transfer window for once, following the batshit mentalness of last year, bracing oneself for an equally capricious summer of transfer activity would be a sound idea.

The Runs #4: Macclesfield Town and the Ince Effect

"HOW MANY defeats?"

Over to Spongers' own Rob MacDonald, who couldn't even manage to stick to the blueprint and just write about one run.

The joy in supporting a team that seldom achieves is rarely the accolades or silver pots. It’s the sublime and often accidental skill, the flashes of inspiration amid the darkness and brutality of potato patch pitches and lower league football; the fleeting moments when the impossible dream seems almost possible.

A Tale of Two Centre Halves

"HIS KNEES AREN'T AS BRAVE AS MINE"

Though one series has ended and another since begun, this corker from Sam Macrory deserves your undivided attention.

Two decades ago, two schoolboys from East London lined up together in a youth football team and swept all before them. Just three months apart, the older boy played centre half and the younger in midfield.

The former was tipped for greatness from the start, and soon left Senrab FC to sign for a Premier League club, where he was fast-tracked into the first team at just 19 years old.

Oligarchs and Question Marks

"Well this sucks"

Somewhere in the Mediterranean last night, a Russian billionaire strode on to the deck of his $1bn super-yacht clad only in a towel and angrily shook his fist at the moon. ‘Marquee!’, he shouted at the inky sky. ‘Fucking MARQUEEEEEEE!’.

Meanwhile, back in the UK, a wiry Portuguese with more tattoos than a man could realistically ever need walked into the largest marquee ever erected in West London; nay, the world, and felt pretty fucking small. ‘Don’t worry’, a weary Spanish voice assured him from somewhere underneath an enormous price tag. ‘It’s probably for the best’.

Euro Revision #4: Liverpool v Chelsea 2005

My intention is to ruin everything

...and here's the other half of Magic Spongers Adam Bushby

Liverpool 1 v 0 Chelsea: Champions League semi final 2nd leg, May 2005

Mine is a tale of heroes and villains. I’m looking at YOU Ľuboš Micheľ with your stupid squiggly bits on the letters of your name, with the apostrophe at the end of your name. “Why do you mock this poor man so savagely?” I hear you all ask. "I’ll tell you", I sneer, in a really smarmy kind of way. Ľuboš Micheľ is a former professional referee. Ľuboš Micheľ was in fact ranked the world’s second best referee in 2006. Ľuboš Micheľ was the man in charge of the second leg of Liverpool v Chelsea and ruined it for everyone by not sending off Petr Cech in the fourth minute of the match and consequently awarding Liverpool a penalty which, I think I’m correct in saying, Steven Gerrard would have placed to the left of substitute goalkeeper Carlos Cudicini and thus provide the catalyst for the largest win the Champions League semi-final stage had ever seen. Bear with me.

Podcast Episode Two: To Me, To You

Here we go: the difficult second podcast. This week: we discuss the state of refereeing in the game, the tightening bottoms at the Premier League's tightening bottom and much of the same inanity as last time out.

Just click the arty picture. Lovely.

Great Expectations By Charles Dickheads

“Fifty million quid means that you are not entitled to much in the way of allowances,” asserted the Guardian’s Richard Williams, a day after the £50m Fernando Torres made a debut to forget. And he’s right. But after one game – 66 minutes to be precise – Williams likened Torres to Chris Sutton. Specifically, the Chelsea-brand Chris Sutton. The one Premier League goal in 29 appearances Chris Sutton. Still, he’s not entitled to much in the way of allowances, eh Mr Williams?

Yuletide Slog

Are titles won at Christmas? The short answer is: ‘Only if you are Manchester United or Chelsea (and even then it isn’t guaranteed).’ Flying in the face of our usual ‘high on rant, low on fact’ content of late, here is some actual, real-life analysis: Since the Premier League’s inception in 1992/3, there have been nine separate occasions when the table was topped by a club other than Manchester United and Chelsea at Christmas. Yet only once in that time has the side looking down on the rest on Christmas Day – Kenny Dalglish’s Blackburn side of 1994-95 – gone on to take the title.