That's it then, England thrashed 4-1 by Germany after a shamefully bad start to their World Cup campaign. I really don't know what happened to England (although Tim Newman has some pretty good ideas). Whether the players are good or bad, they lacked fire and they really didn't hang together as a team. Manager Capello seemed clueless.
Here's my plan:
1) Capello must go. If he has any morals, he'll resign. Otherwise the English FA will have to sack him (I suppose it's too much to expect there's any kind of clause in his contract that says they don't have to pay him five year's worth of salary if he turns out to be a charlatan who cannot choose, train and motivate an England team that can actually win games).
2) Future England managers to be on one- or two- year contracts. Ability to speak English highly recommended.
3) No Premier League players allowed to play for England. Really. These guys might be good for their clubs, but hardly any of them in this World Cup demonstrated the slightest bit of interest in playing well for England.
And as for FIFA...
The disallowed England goal didn't help - it could well have changed the course of the game, but England were still outclassed by Germany. What it did do, though, is show in no uncertain terms (cliché alert) that FIFA's attitude to the 21st century is completely dinosaur-driven, blinkered and stupid. The old dinosaur himself, Sepp Blatter, President of FIFA, said after the last decision (in March this year) not to introduce goal-line technology:
"The application of modern technologies can be very costly, and therefore not applicable on a global level. The universality of the game: one of the main objectives of FIFA is to protect the universality of the game of association football. This means that the game must be played in the same way no matter where you are in the world..."
No Sepp, it doesn't. Nobody expects this technology to be forced on small clubs who can't afford it. But the reputation of your organisation is at stake when disputed decisions are made by officials at ground-level who may not be in a position to see what happened.
"If the IFAB had approved goal-line technology, what would prevent the approval of technology for other aspects of the game? Every decision in every area of the pitch would soon be questioned.
"No matter which technology is applied, at the end of the day a decision will have to be taken by a human being.
"This being the case, why remove the responsibility from the referee to give it to someone else?"
Because referees don't always see what took place. Stop being an arse, Mr Blatter.
"Fans love to debate any given incident in a game. It is part of the human nature of our sport."
They also love to see match officials having at least a chance of doing their job correctly. I wonder how many referees would not jump at the chance of being able to see an instant replay of things that happened when they blinked, were distracted by something else or were simply in the wrong place to make a reliable decision. Blatter should have been kicked out of FIFA many years ago.
Grrr. ¡Vamos España!
Showing posts with label England. Show all posts
Showing posts with label England. Show all posts
Sunday, 27 June 2010
Saturday, 26 June 2010
Pretending To Be a Footie Fan
If I'm honest (which I am, sadly, most of the time), I'm not much of a football fan. I enjoy the big games, but I'm a floating voter when it comes to supporting any particular team, although I always enjoy it when Real Madrid don't win. So maybe that makes me an anti-fan of RM. In this World Cup, I'm secretly hoping England do well (despite 44 years of evidence to the contrary), but I'm pretty sure Spain can go all the way, and that'll be just grand.
So, I don't own any footie shirts or scarves, and I don't paint my face in team colours.
Until last night, that is. I met up with some friends to watch Spain beat Chile and a pretty young lady came in and gave everybody a baseball cap. I was grateful for the cap, because we were having prolonged thunderstorms, and I'd mistakenly assumed we were in summer now. The caps have 'Yo soy de la roja - Mundial 2010' (I am of the red, World 2010?) on the front, and the backside tells us that Cruzcampo is the official beer of the Spanish team (poor sods - Cruzcampo is a loooong way from being a beer I like).
When I went to the bar, Enyaki noticed my cheeks were unadorned, and pulled out a little box that he swiped across each one. I expressed astonishment, and he gave me a couple of the wee things. Like a triple-gang lipstick, one swipe gives you a perfect Spanish flag. Unlike how it was done in the olden days:
The swiper (also supplied by Cruzcampo, bless 'em):
Now I'm wondering if we'll get any England freebies tomorrow afternoon - massively unlikely, what with Guinness not actually being English. Hmmm. Can England beat Germany? I recall it happened at least once before - 1966, in fact. I was nine years old. It's nice for me to have the option of supporting a team that can actually play football (sorry, Wayney-boy).
And continuing the theme of footie fandom, it was brilliant to see lotsa Flagsa Sint George in Engerland last week. They were hanging over balconies, tied to the front of houses, and we even saw a pub that had fixed a horizontal red band and a vertical one to their almost-white façade. But mostly, at least half of the cars I saw had one or two little flags attached to the tops of their windows. Coming back to Spain, I noticed the car-flag idea hasn't got here yet. But, just to prove me wrong, on the way to the bar I saw three parked cars in a row, each sporting a Spanish flag. Except, in the centre band where you would normally see a small coat of arms, they had the letters 'DYC'. DYC (pronounced 'Dick', of course), produce whiskey in Spain. And flags, now, apparently.
So, I don't own any footie shirts or scarves, and I don't paint my face in team colours.
Until last night, that is. I met up with some friends to watch Spain beat Chile and a pretty young lady came in and gave everybody a baseball cap. I was grateful for the cap, because we were having prolonged thunderstorms, and I'd mistakenly assumed we were in summer now. The caps have 'Yo soy de la roja - Mundial 2010' (I am of the red, World 2010?) on the front, and the backside tells us that Cruzcampo is the official beer of the Spanish team (poor sods - Cruzcampo is a loooong way from being a beer I like).
When I went to the bar, Enyaki noticed my cheeks were unadorned, and pulled out a little box that he swiped across each one. I expressed astonishment, and he gave me a couple of the wee things. Like a triple-gang lipstick, one swipe gives you a perfect Spanish flag. Unlike how it was done in the olden days:
The swiper (also supplied by Cruzcampo, bless 'em):
Now I'm wondering if we'll get any England freebies tomorrow afternoon - massively unlikely, what with Guinness not actually being English. Hmmm. Can England beat Germany? I recall it happened at least once before - 1966, in fact. I was nine years old. It's nice for me to have the option of supporting a team that can actually play football (sorry, Wayney-boy).
And continuing the theme of footie fandom, it was brilliant to see lotsa Flagsa Sint George in Engerland last week. They were hanging over balconies, tied to the front of houses, and we even saw a pub that had fixed a horizontal red band and a vertical one to their almost-white façade. But mostly, at least half of the cars I saw had one or two little flags attached to the tops of their windows. Coming back to Spain, I noticed the car-flag idea hasn't got here yet. But, just to prove me wrong, on the way to the bar I saw three parked cars in a row, each sporting a Spanish flag. Except, in the centre band where you would normally see a small coat of arms, they had the letters 'DYC'. DYC (pronounced 'Dick', of course), produce whiskey in Spain. And flags, now, apparently.
Tuesday, 22 June 2010
Red Usually Wins
Just seen a news story saying that England will play in an all-red strip tomorrow, and it reminded me of a post I wrote five years ago: Red Always Wins.
Well, let's hope so, 'cos they've been shamefully shite so far.
Well, let's hope so, 'cos they've been shamefully shite so far.
Tuesday, 23 June 2009
A Week Without Internet
I know you've missed me while I've been stuck in some of the more boring parts of northern England, and I'm sorry - my Dad has no Internet (no mobile phone, even), so it's been a bit of a challenge to get online.
A couple of years ago, there was a community computer education place in the ex-mining village where my Dad insists on living, and you could get online there for as long as you wanted, for free. During a flying visit last summer, I found it had closed down, but was able to use an Internet cafe in Doncaster, the nearest town. This year, I found that last year's Internet cafe has gone, and I was unable to find a replacement. Never mind, there's a brand-new public library in the village - they're bound to have Internet. And indeed they did, but you had to join the library to make use of it. I explain that however unlikely it may sound, I am actually just visiting the village for a week. No problem, says the man, you can have temporary membership for a month. All you need is a proof of address; a utilities bill, for example. Oh, I say, they're all at home. In Madrid. Oh, says the man. But I expect, I say, that my Dad is a member of this library. He types our family name into the computer, but it seems none of my family is a member any more (I'm secretly relieved that they have no record of the book I borrowed and never returned back in 1976*). I tell him I'll return tomorrow, with my Dad and some of his bills in tow.
But I don't return, because later that day I find that one of the Wetherspoon's pubs in Doncaster offers free wi-fi.
The next day, I go to the pub, fire up my MacBook, and follow the instructions in the leaflet. Doesn't effing work. The bar staff have never used Macs before, and so are completely unable to help.
In desperation, I go to the Tourist Information office and ask about Internet cafes. Oh yes, they say, just round the corner, next to Barclays Bank. Unbelievable. I had been to Barclays at least three times in the preceding few days and never noticed the place. It was serviceable (although I couldn't use the mouse on its 6-inch cable because I'm left-handed), but very noisy with people making Skype calls to their grannies in Poland and Romania.
I did see adverts for mobile Internet dongles. One of these would have been ideal for the week, but the two-year contract put me off.
I must be an Internet addict - I feel like half of me is missing when I can't get online. So it was great to get back and find that Telefonica have suspended our ADSL.
*Bare-faced lie, included for humourous purposes only.
A couple of years ago, there was a community computer education place in the ex-mining village where my Dad insists on living, and you could get online there for as long as you wanted, for free. During a flying visit last summer, I found it had closed down, but was able to use an Internet cafe in Doncaster, the nearest town. This year, I found that last year's Internet cafe has gone, and I was unable to find a replacement. Never mind, there's a brand-new public library in the village - they're bound to have Internet. And indeed they did, but you had to join the library to make use of it. I explain that however unlikely it may sound, I am actually just visiting the village for a week. No problem, says the man, you can have temporary membership for a month. All you need is a proof of address; a utilities bill, for example. Oh, I say, they're all at home. In Madrid. Oh, says the man. But I expect, I say, that my Dad is a member of this library. He types our family name into the computer, but it seems none of my family is a member any more (I'm secretly relieved that they have no record of the book I borrowed and never returned back in 1976*). I tell him I'll return tomorrow, with my Dad and some of his bills in tow.
But I don't return, because later that day I find that one of the Wetherspoon's pubs in Doncaster offers free wi-fi.
The next day, I go to the pub, fire up my MacBook, and follow the instructions in the leaflet. Doesn't effing work. The bar staff have never used Macs before, and so are completely unable to help.
In desperation, I go to the Tourist Information office and ask about Internet cafes. Oh yes, they say, just round the corner, next to Barclays Bank. Unbelievable. I had been to Barclays at least three times in the preceding few days and never noticed the place. It was serviceable (although I couldn't use the mouse on its 6-inch cable because I'm left-handed), but very noisy with people making Skype calls to their grannies in Poland and Romania.
I did see adverts for mobile Internet dongles. One of these would have been ideal for the week, but the two-year contract put me off.
I must be an Internet addict - I feel like half of me is missing when I can't get online. So it was great to get back and find that Telefonica have suspended our ADSL.
*Bare-faced lie, included for humourous purposes only.
Monday, 1 September 2008
What I Did On My Holidays
The results are in, so here's the post. How To Make Fantastic Bread has been sold to The Fat Expat.
Most people's idea of a holiday is to go to one place, stay there for a week or two, and then come home. I suspect life is more complicated than that for expats: you'll have one or two families to visit, in two or more locations. My two-and-a-bit-week trip went like this:
EasyJet Madrid -> Liverpool
Train Liverpool -> Scunthorpe
Train Scunthorpe -> Doncaster
Train Doncaster -> London
Coach London -> Warwick
Coach Warwick -> Liverpool
EasyJet Liverpool -> Madrid
For once, I had planned all of this well in advance, and so avoided being charged rip-off prices. All of my trips in the UK, plus MamaDuck's trip from Liverpool to Scunthorpe and back, cost 117 squids. The cheapest segment was also the longest, from Doncaster to King's Cross, an incredible bargain at a tenner.
As I mentioned earlier, there was a surprise party to celebrate MamaDuck's Dad's 80th birthday. It was a stupendous feat of logistics to get the entire family in the same place at the same time - six brothers and sisters of MamaDuck and their assorted offspring (including ours) who are scattered all over the place - two families in France, one in Spain, one in Holland and the rest in England, as well as two of the Daddy-In-Law's brothers and his sister, and various of their offspring. I think it's safe to say that a grand time was had by all.
The next day MamaDuck had to head off back to Liverpool to catch a flight back to Madrid (she'd booked the whole of September off ages ago, and was not able to change it), I headed to Doncaster, and Offspring returned to London.
I had a few days in Doncaster with my Dad and younger sister. I seem to have committed myself to attending Sis's 50th birthday next February, and also the wedding of her eldest daughter in June. I drank lots of splendid beer, consumed a fair amount of traditional British food, and watched far more Jeremy Kyle than is good for me (more than a minute, really). I caught up with a few friends in the village, and then left for London.
Offspring has moved to a new flat since last summer, and so I found myself lurking around deepest Peckham. It's not the most salubrious of neighbourhoods, but down the road is East Dulwich and Lordship Lane. Offspring had to work the evening on the day I arrived, but he had the next day off. One of his flatmates is doing a temporary job at the Thames Barrier, and I got the idea that it would be an interesting place to visit, and maybe hit Greenwich on the way back. We got to Greenwich OK, but as far as London Transport is concerned, the Thames Barrier is more or less in France and it would take us hours to get there. So we scrapped that plan and explored Greenwich instead. We toured the Maritime Museum and then climbed the mountain to the Royal Greenwich Observatory. Very interesting it was.
I never knew that Greenwich had a mini-London Eye.
 | A bit of bureaucratic insanity on a side street in Greenwich: do you think the itinerant ice-cream sellers have any idea what this means? |
On the weekend there was a picnic in the park, followed by a wine tasting/ summer staff party/Offspring's leaving do thrown by the wine shop/bar where he works (I should mention at this point that he is leaving mid-September to start a degree at Leeds Uni). Jolly splendid, it was, and of course we didn't get to bed until 6 a.m.
A few days later I caught a coach to Warwick, to visit some very good buddies who used to live in Dubai. I was astonished to be told that they left the Sandlands seven years ago! We had a pleasant couple of days, including trips in the pouring rain to Stratford-on-Avon and Leamington, followed by learning the news of the appalling plane crash at Barajas.
And finally, back to Liverpool. I love Liverpool: I worked there for three years, met MamaDuck there, got married there. And when we left in the late eighties, it looked very much as though the place was being allowed to die. But, you get knocked down, and you get up again. There is tons of new development going on, and it's a real pleasure to visit. This year, Liverpool is European Capital of Culture.
My real reason for going this time, though, was that the youngest son of my very good buddies there (who was three when I first met him) was to be wed that weekend. The venue was a castle in Cheshire, and when I woke on the Saturday morning, for the first time in a fortnight, the sun was shining! It was a sensational day.
The next day I mooched around central Liverpool: the Mathew Street Festival was on. Mathew Street is the location of The Cavern, made famous by those Beatle boys. None of the Festival happens there now, but there were five stages set up around the area. On one of which I saw Chas and Dave (definitely not Scousers). I didn't stay too long because the rain got too much.
And the next day was an uneventful flight back to Madrid.
So that was my holiday: three or four never-to-be-repeated events, re-unions with fambly and friends, mostly horrible weather, a lot of bemusement at what has happened to the country I was born and raised in, relief at not needing the stab vest that I hadn't bought, and a fair amount of boredom.
Wednesday, 20 August 2008
Notes From Engerland
I am at a friend's house that has a wi-fi connection, so I can finally do a post without the pressure you get in internet cafes. The main reason for this trip was to throw a surprise birthday party for the Daddy-in-Law's 80th birthday. That went off surprisingly well, with his numerous kids and their other halves and kiddiewinkles all gathered together from various outposts in Europe. Most of the auld guy's siblings were there too.
After the weekend in Scunthorpe, MamaDuck returned to Madrid, Offspring returned to London, and I went to visit my dad and sister in Doncaster for four days. Then I tootled down to London for a week, which included a wine-tasting and raucous party thrown by the wine shop/bar that Offspring works for (and getting to bed at 6am).
Now I'm in Warwick, visiting some mates who escaped from Dubai 7 years ago (it only seems like 2 or 3), and tomorrow I'm travelling up to Liverpool. On Saturday I'm attending a wedding at a castle in North Wales, and on Monday I'm flying back to Madrid.
I'll be ready for a rest, I reckon. But I'm enjoying the beer and the terrible weather, so no complaining.
Tuesday, 12 August 2008
Thursday, 22 November 2007
Ah, Inglaterra, Usted Bastardos Inútiles [Oh, England, You Useless Bastards]
I don't usually swear on this blog, but after watching the first half of England's pathetic performance in the Euro 2008 (non) qualifiers, I feel entitled. England were beaten 3-2 tonight by Cerveca Crapasia Croatia. FOR FUCK'S SAKE!
This should have been a goal-fest for England. But the soon-to-be-ex Manager Steve McClaren put a child in goal who apparently has never faced a high-speed ball heading his way before, so he ducked out of the way every time one came towards him. Jesú Ache Cristo (as we say in Spain when we want to say Jesus H fecking Christ).
It breaks my heart, really it does. We invented the game! I was nine years old the last time England did anything truly impressive in soccer (we won the World Cup, at home, in 1966, in case your memory isn't that long). Now I'm fifty. How long do I have to live until England's Association Football 'team' actually manages to deliver something?
I'm inclined to agree with the UK Sports Minister who recently said he thought a lot of 'top' players were seriously overpaid. I don't know the ins and outs of them playing for the national team - I suspect they get their travel, accommodation, personal hairdressers and food paid for, and a few quid in walking-around money. Whatever it is, they don't seem to feel any hunger.
I suppose, in a way, it's a relief. Next summer we won't have to watch England doing their usual can we/shall we/ will we/won't we SHITE. We can just watch games played by competent teams and enjoy the football they play. McClaren should never have been given this job.
But the head honchos at the FA. Well. I just don't know. They have develped a spectacular record for choosing Managers who are, at best, Not Much Good, at worst, Total Wankers. So I think the selection of the next Manager should be made by one of these:
a) Some chickens
b) Me
c) Six cuttlefish
Gaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaah!
This should have been a goal-fest for England. But the soon-to-be-ex Manager Steve McClaren put a child in goal who apparently has never faced a high-speed ball heading his way before, so he ducked out of the way every time one came towards him. Jesú Ache Cristo (as we say in Spain when we want to say Jesus H fecking Christ).
It breaks my heart, really it does. We invented the game! I was nine years old the last time England did anything truly impressive in soccer (we won the World Cup, at home, in 1966, in case your memory isn't that long). Now I'm fifty. How long do I have to live until England's Association Football 'team' actually manages to deliver something?
I'm inclined to agree with the UK Sports Minister who recently said he thought a lot of 'top' players were seriously overpaid. I don't know the ins and outs of them playing for the national team - I suspect they get their travel, accommodation, personal hairdressers and food paid for, and a few quid in walking-around money. Whatever it is, they don't seem to feel any hunger.
I suppose, in a way, it's a relief. Next summer we won't have to watch England doing their usual can we/shall we/ will we/won't we SHITE. We can just watch games played by competent teams and enjoy the football they play. McClaren should never have been given this job.
But the head honchos at the FA. Well. I just don't know. They have develped a spectacular record for choosing Managers who are, at best, Not Much Good, at worst, Total Wankers. So I think the selection of the next Manager should be made by one of these:
a) Some chickens
b) Me
c) Six cuttlefish
Gaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaah!
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