THAT interview with Andrea Dossena

The greatest story never told

When Andrea Dossena was a little boy growing up in Lodi, northern Italy, he would spend hours sat cross legged outside the cathedral on the historic Piazza della Vittoria, telling strangers how he would change the world one day, many miles away from where he now sat.

Falling for Football II: Fall Harder

A 'delightful book'

Another day, another extract from Falling for Football - and this time it's a bit we've actually written. Many thanks if you've already bought the book, told your friends, or tweeted about it - it's much appreciated. We officially launched on March 10th and the book is available in paperback at www.ockleybooks.co.uk and electronically at http://amzn.to/1i2yDOx. And if that doesn't tempt you, here's the introduction to the book:

It’s easy to talk of high water marks. It’s arguably more difficult to encapsulate what made a period of time so special.

When we decided to stop merely ranting about football in one of London’s many watering holes (usually a Sammy Smith’s) and commit fingers to keyboards in 2010, little did we know what a fantastic journey we were about to embark upon.

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.

Second (manager of the) season syndrome

'This is going to be a piece of pi- oh'

Following the undignified scenes at the weekend (we haven’t heard ‘you’re getting sacked in the morning’ sung with such venom since a Christmas party we were at a couple of years ago), it was good of Tim Sherwood to prove that the new dawn at Spurs is going to look suspiciously like the dusk that preceded it. SHERWOOD OUT!

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.

Through The Looking Glass

"The watch comes with the job son."

Mulleted bunder-inducer and Hannah Montana’s dad, aka Billy Ray Cyrus, may well have unwittingly (or otherwise) foretold the average Manchester United fan’s reaction to the departure of Sir Alex Ferguson with his 1992 smash hit ‘Achey Breaky Heart’. Not so much with the lines ‘you can tell my arms to go back to the farm’, of course, but with the iconic chorus. Because it seems to me that, understandably, there’s a numbness and something of a denial, certainly afflicting United fans of my age (rapidly approaching 30) who have known nothing but a Fergie-filled world.

The Award's In The Bag

"By my calculations, we are only about £100m away..."

This week, Roberto Mancini moved into what was surely an unassailable position as front-runner for manager of the season and overwhelming favourite for best manager in England.

Mancini’s plucky Manchester City, second place in the Premier League and a mere 16 spots and 34 points above the trapdoor relegation zone, defeated Champions-elect Manchester United, an achievement matched (as indicated by Mancini before the game) by precisely no team ever before, with the exception of Everton, Spurs and Norwich earlier in the season. An award hasn’t been this sewn up since Lionel Messi stitched the Ballon d’Or to his face in 2009.

A Jolly Good Football Match

"This header's going to get more coverage than Welbeck's even though it's arguably not as good."

We’ve been documenting the decline and shortcomings of ‘modern football’ and its saturation coverage until we’re bluer in the face than a freezing Smurf, so it was refreshing to take in that rarest of spectacles this week: an enjoyable football match. With European ties scarce between Real Madrid and Manchester United in recent years, and those that have occurred remembered fondly – particularly for exhibitions of skill and goalscoring by Ronaldo, Redondo, Beckham et al – it was pretty difficult for any of the usual trumpeting narratives of revenge, vendettas or rivalries to penetrate what looked like an absolute classic from the moment the balls came out of the bag.

Carrick-Fit

Carrick: Strictly NOT a box-to-box midfielder, since 1999.

If one was asked to compile a list of European football’s most successful passers at present, the king of the metrognomes at Barcelona would surely top most of those compilations. Behind Xavi, who next then? Sergio Busquets and Andres Iniesta surely wouldn’t be too far behind. Maybe Xabi Alonso? The ageing magician Andre Pirlo, too; surely he’d make an appearance. But let’s look closer to home.

Passing In The Wind

Andres Iniesta's cameo performance in The Illusionist

Throwing the decent journalism rulebook out of the window (because when has that ever encumbered any of Magic Spongers’ output over the past two-and-a-half years?), we’ll begin with a question. Is passing a tactic? We’ll seek to answer this in the next few paragraphs, but let’s continue with a second question. Is pressing a tactic? We ask because passing and pressing were up there in the dominant themes section of Jonathan Wilson’s ‘The Football Tactical Trends of 2012’ article in the Guardian.

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.

Robin van POINTLESS

Only half this problem has been solved


If you’re in the bath with the door open, not only are you getting cold, but there’s a chance people might see your balls and start laughing. So, do you pour in more Radox and hot water, in order to create even more bubbles, cover up your balls and keep yourself warm – even though this wastes your resources and threatens the composition of your bath (which was fine before), or do you just get up and shut the door so no one can see your fucking balls?

Depending on how much Radox and hot water you’ve got, there’s no right answer. But let us say right now that Sir Alex Ferguson has got some pretty soapy balls (and an overflowing bath) at the moment and he’d better hope for a fair wind this season to help him close the proverbial bathroom door or he could end up getting very chilly indeed.

Don't You Know Who He Is?

'How long left? 88 minutes?!'

In true Spongers style, we celebrate the return of the Premier League by looking back at some FA Cup stuff from about six days ago. Sort of.

Here’s a little joke for you. There are these three pieces of string, right, and they’re trying to get into a club which doesn’t allow pieces of string inside. They’ve tried every combination, they’ve swapped jumpers, they’ve been round the block and come back twice. One gets fed up, so he’s going, ‘Leave this to me lads, I’ve got an idea’. So he ruffles up his hair, right, and swans up to the door with his arms folded. And the bouncers go, ‘Here, aren’t you a piece of string?’. And he goes, ‘No, I’m afraid not’.

On Gary Neville and Forgiveness

Gary Neville kisses a badge and the world shits itself

Adam Bushby hates Gary Neville. Or does he?

Let me make something absolutely clear. I am not seeking the forgiveness of Gary Neville. If anything, this piece is about applying some fundamental rules of the New Testament to football and, perhaps more specifically, how these rules relate to someone who I once hated. ‘Hated’ of course in the ‘footballing sense’, which is to say ‘dislike severely’, but not ‘to wish sudden death upon’. Hate in a vacuum, if you will. With the hatred dissipating Monday Night Football by Monday Night Football, something curious happened in December 2011. I learned to forgive Gary Neville.

What If? #2 Cantona Hadn't Signed For Manchester United

Eric Cantona at Leeds in... '93?

Two Uniteds. Two sleeping giants. One enigmatic Frenchman. Magic Spongers welcomes Dan Forman whose parallel universe-centred debut is an absolute belter*

November 1992, Alex Ferguson's office. The phone rings.

"Alex, it's Martin. Listen, Leeds are on the line again. Howard Wilkinson wants to speak to you."

"Did he say what about? It better not be bloody Irwin again."

"No but he's very keen apparently. You're not going to sell him Denis Irwin are you?"
 
"No chance. But put him through. There's something I've been thinking about asking him anyway...

"Howard, how are you?"

All Change On the Continent

In amassing a collective 32 points and scoring a total of 41 goals between, the Manchester clubs have been the Premier League’s dominant forces thus far. If you don’t count Newcastle. But while all and sundry can only foresee the title race involving two Mancunian horses, it has been a little more difficult to translate such swagger onto the European stage, on which England’s current finest have thus far amassed a measly three points and five goals.

A Tale Of Two Owens

'If I can... just... get...the... *TWANG*'

Much like being on a night out with Magic Spongers, the prevailing attitude towards the third round of the Carling Cup among the so-called ‘big clubs’ often appears to be sniffy indifference; something to be endured and survived with as little serious investment of energy as possible. In the last few years, certainly, this has meant throwing bit-part and reserve players into the mix and tailoring a post-match response around how much potential they’ve got or how it was good experience but priorities lie elsewhere, really. ‘No disrespect to the lads that have come in’, one might say, completely disrespecting the lads that have come in.

Dickheads #10 - Roy Keane

"Stick it up your bollocks, Mick"

Over to Ian Walsh of the rather excellent Touchline Views, WHO IS A MAN UNITED FAN ALRIGHT SO DON'T EVEN START WITH US.

Before I begin, a little preamble. When I mooted the idea of choosing Roy Keane for this series it seemed to cause hysteria among a couple of Manchester United fans (the club I also support). But then, I’m not one to pander to the demands of others and have no shame or remorse in saying that Roy Keane is a dickhead of the highest order.

Euro Revision #5: Manchester United v Real Madrid 2003



It's part five, which means handing over to In Bed With Maradona's Dave Hartrick...

Manchester United 4-3 Real Madrid, April 23 2003

The problem with the Champions League is that until the latter stages there are far too many mismatches. Every year the draw comes through for the groups and all we can look forward to until the next round is Barcelona waltzing through six games in which they’ll never be required to shift in to top gear. Yes, we love the Caligula style orgy of football as up to eight games are screened for us to red button to and from, but in reality, for every shock there’s 30 games that equate to a little kid swinging punches but being held at arms length by a teenager.