Rob’s Magic Shoes

Another remarkable shoe story

Adam Bushby (AB) 

The unusual events described in this chronicle occurred last Saturday in Angel, north London. I’d arranged to meet Rob MacDonald (co-editor of Magic Spongers) outside Highbury & Islington tube and then we walked up to the Craft Beer Co on White Lion Street. Although it’s always nice to go out for a drink, we’d ostensibly met to talk about our new book (Falling for football: The teams that shaped our obsession, publication date: soon). As we did so, my eyes fell on Rob’s shoes. “Are they your new maroon and black shoes that you got free from JD Sports?” I asked. “Maroon?” he asked incredulously. “They’re black.” They weren’t black. They were maroon and black.

The Shape of Things to Come

'Two plus two equals HARRY FOR ENGLAND'

More bewildering news from the world of autobiographical serialisation as the greatest-manager-England-never-had-but-still-may-have-and-most-likely-still-will-end-up-with-at-some-point decided to follow such luminary commentators as Gary Lineker and, ahem us, in putting the boot into the FA for not being able to run the country properly, or something.

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.

Hart Knock Life

'Anyone going to tackle him?'

When this blog was very young and trying to be a serious collection of articles about what was, at that time, still a serious sport, it was very de riguer to fly in the face of widely-received wisdom to appear distinct. Well, never ones to be more than three years behind a developing trend that everyone else has already milked into oblivion and pastiche (watch out for our book, coming soon, by the way), here we are with a treatise on the reasons that Joe Hart is NOT overrated, despite the fact that a) he is, b) he’s been pretty poor for two years with the exception of a good game against Dortmund last season, c) we’ve variously read that the England manager has ‘misgivings’ about his form (doubtless following the shipping of TWO goals to Scotland), d) that he ‘flapped’ at not one but two corners against Cardiff on Sunday, and e) like all footballers, he just is.

The Premier League's REAL big two

'Jake f*cking WHO?'

It might feel a bit 'same shit, different year', but there are changes afoot for the ways in which pundits will be boring you to tears this season. And it might even be an improvement. Dan Clark looks forward to the return of the Premier League.

The scene is set: ‘Here we go, here we go, here we go’ will be heard from the comfort of my living room couch this weekend as the sun rises on yet another glorious new Premier League season. And of course this new 24/7/nine-month festival of football will all be delivered in crisp high definition with every angle covered, the best up-to-the-minute reaction and all the talking points covered. At least that’s the Sky Sports version.

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.