We beging with More Than Mind Games, where James has found some incredibly cool clips of the first experimental films with sound. The only lament – why didn’t the innovators in film immediately rush to record a Merseyside derby? History is the ultimate loser.

FakeSigi has an existential dilemma: should he allow or disallow comments on his site? As he climbs the Search Engine ladder, the risk of new trolls grows exponentially. And the prospect of moderation or using Disqus is too weighty a price to pay. Please, go comment on his site.

Brian Phillps reflects on why Chelsea is no longer Chelsea. Rather, they are just another big club at whom we shrug our shoulders. Why? Avram Grant. That’s why.

For those of you who are suffering from a strong case of World Cup fever, hum up your Google Translator and head over to Uno o Dos Toques for a colorful look at Mexico 86.  Even if you don’t speak Spanish, the video at the end is fantastic.

The Pique-Ibra embrace photo circulated the internet, and, to be honest, the possibility of an LGBT player in La Liga does not really bother the editorial board here at FF. However, Ibra’s chauvinistic remark to a reporter certainly puzzled us. More importantly, Crab Football engaged in an Onion-esque article with quotes from people on the street. To hysterical effect.

Finally, SantaPelota returns in full force with a glorious examination of Dunga’s selections for the selecao. This is required reading.

Was this a season of disappointment? Of competitive balance? A two horse race with an overpriced and underachieving show pony stealing headlines? Has the European soccer planet shifted gravitational pull towards the Iberian peninsula? The story lines abounded, and a few refreshing moments shall wet your appetite before the MOST IMPORTANT EVENT is explained.

The global economic collapse caught up with the Premiership, as managers at the very top and bottom grappled with interest payments taking the place of player acquisition. Manchester United did not renew Carlos Tevez’s contract, losing 20 plus league goals. The Red Devils rode Wayne Rooney as long as they could, falling just short in the league race. Liverpool, forced to pinch pennies, failed to sign a quality striker and capitulated after injuries to Fernando Torres.

Chelsea declined to buy Kun Aguero in the January transfer window, instead relying on the eventual top scorer Didier Drogba and in form Nicolas Anelka. Despite a loss, at home, to Jose Mourinho’s Inter, the Blues beat United at Old Trafford and blew everybody else out of the water, scoring more than 100 goals by season’s end.

Arsenal were and were not a contender. The injury to Robin Van Persie left the Gunners dependent on Nick Bendtner, the soon-to-be-world’s-greatest striker who is not quite yet the world’s-greatest-striker. And the injury to Cesc Fabregas in the Champions League did not help matters.

In the battle for Fourth, Manchester City went from a collection of individual talented miscreants to a band of undersized misfits. Roberto Mancini welded the diminutive Craig Bellamy, Carlos Tevez, and Shaun Wright Phillps into a fierce attacking talent. They managed to thrash Chelsea at Stamford Bridge, but lost at home to United on a Paul Scholes header.

And they fell short of fourth, losing the second to last game to Harry Redknapp’s Spurs. Yes. Spurs will soon play Champions League football, the golden city of Jerusalem should fall from the sky any day now, and the temperature in Hades is a refreshing 4 degrees Celsius. Still, we all recall the price of success that Pompey paid after Redknapp’s spell.

At they very bottom, Portsmouth entered administration as allegations surfaced that the club missed one too many ransom payments. Faced with impossibly high interest rates from the ransomers, also known as “bankers”, Pompey bit the points deduction bullet but, in spite of itself, has managed to reach the FA Cup final. However, the EPL did not care to throw its weight behind a Championship participant in next season’s UEFA cup. To the surprise of nobody, Portsmouth missed the deadline for the application.

The soccer blogsophere entered the realm of the Securities and Exchange commission, with bloggers brushing up on their accounting and MBA for dummies books. The debt cast light on a clash of anglo saxon cultures, as American owners lived by fast and loose franchise “principles” while the English public clamored for public trust. To be continued…

Still, the biggest story was not the John Terry scandal that rocked the English media. Nope. JT’s infidelity only served to distract and mislead the puritanical public. JT’s sexcapades were smoke and mirrors to cover up the canary in the mine, the bird of victory that chirped and tweeted well before Wayne Bridge got betrayed.

I speak, of course, of the infamous Stamford Bridge Colgate-Gate. While Chelsea won a home victory, a fan was caught brushing his teeth at a match. And we celebrated. And we cried. And we wondered – why? Why? Why did this poor fan wait until arriving to the soccer stadium to brush his teeth? Did he just eat a foul odored snack? Did he actually apply toothpaste and water, or was this a dry run? Was gingivitis a legitimate concern?

At the time, we laughed at the signs of the Blues championship with bewilderment and skepticism. Surely this was  a PR stunt, we told ourselves. After all, if the International Panel on Climate Change cites non-peer reviewed blogs as secondary sources, then all is well on planet earth? And thereby planet premiership?

But we were blind to the smoke spewing from the Chelsea volcano. Only now, covered in molten lava, as the odor of our own burning skin fills our nostrils, can we reflect on this omen of omens, this sign from the Gods. As our corpse melts into a summer of World Cup entertainment and probable disappointment, we would do well to the remember our brush-in with “The Brush” of the goddesses.

Some things go wrong for all the wrong reasons.

I’d been to West London, East London, and everywhere in between. I’d even taken a trip up North, but this old Scotsman business dealings had failed to crystallize. My redheaded client and I, braced against a wall, dared not peek out the window. The recent gunshots rang in my ear and the blood on the floor and walls was not exactly inviting. I knew it was coming to an end. I knew the job had been a set-up. My professional curiosity waned as instinct took-over: how do I get out of this mess?

We waited ten minutes, pressed against the wall, breathing through our noses as our hearts tried to jump out of our chests. Finally, when the coast was clear, we resumed our prior conversation. I did not take kindly to kidnappings in general, and even less when they involved me. She had promised answers but broke down in sobs. I lit a cigarette, waited a few minutes, and then headed for the door. She grabbed my arm and threw a fit.

I had no interest in making the light any longer or the obituary for the next day’s paper. I was resigning from this case a priori, but she finally opened her mouth and made good. And then most of the pieces came together.

She was the old Scotsmen’s niece, and she knew he was up to no good. She knew he was neck deep with the Italians, and she had been scared. They’d already tried to knock him off a couple times, so she thought it’d be a good idea for me to tail him. Of course, withholding key facts from me never entered her mind as a bad idea. It seldom did in my profession.

Not all the details made sense in her story, but I didn’t really expect them to. She told me that soon after my trip to Highbury, the Italian had made a power play against the old Scot in his own backyard. She hadn’t heard from him or me since, and got worried. Only an anonymous phone call led her to one of the Scot’s apartments, where we currently were seated. I kept eye contact and nodded when appropriate, but only one question dominated my mind.

What about all this blood?

I told her I believed her, which neither of us believed. And then we went to work inspecting the apartment. A cop siren in the distance just about gave me a stroke, but it faded into the distance. An uneasy feeling swept through the apartment. Everything was in perfect order but the chair where I had been tied and the blood on the walls and floors.

I recognized the smell. It was faint, but strong enough to bring back a flood of memories. The first time I’d seen a dead body, I’d vomited for a week. The second time and every time after, I felt my body warmth drop a few degrees. When you work around death, you don’t learn to appreciate life – you just appreciate it’s going to end.

As I turned the bedroom door handle, I already knew what awaited me. Another cop siren wailed like a banshee in the distance, but refused to dimmer. I opened the door and the dame covered her mouth and dropped to her knees. The old Scot lay on the bed, his arms by his side and his face looking up. He may as well have been taking a nap, but for the two bullet sized holes in his neck.

The sirens grew louder and that was my curtain call. I turned and headed for the door when the dame tackled me from behind. She slapped and yelled and accused and ranted and wailed. I lifted my arms to defend myself, but her attack required little to repel it. Didn’t I care, she asked. I was a private investigator, not a bodyguard. I was paid to keep tabs on an old Scots, which I did for a time.And then he got offed by an Italian. Plain and simple.

If she wanted to continue to pay me to keep tabs on him, I’d be more than happy. But I was pretty sure she could handle that job on her own. And with police involvement, my rates would be beyond her modest means. I nudged her aside, walked out of the bedroom, and glanced out the window. Still no sign flashing lights, although the wail had grown almost unbearable. I would take the back exit, just to be safe.

Some things go wrong for all the wrong reasons.

Well, you could microwave popcorn. You could probably even pour yourself a refreshing glass of water or perhaps a delectable carbonated beverage of your choice. Maybe, just maybe, you could even unwrap the scarf bound to Mancini’s neck. Surely in mid-April, his neck is no longer cold. But is he like the mythical pale & beautiful woman from grade school lore, whose head is only kept on by the narrowest of threads? Perhaps he has a rare condition called cuello-cold-itis, in which poor blood circulation makes for extreme discomfort when not properly covered?

Oh yes, the match. Well, City’s barrage of small & crafty forwards continued to dribble and dribble, aided by the late substitution of Shaun Wright Phillips. Of course, this posed a dilemma – with so many free kicks won, who among that bunch would actually win a header? Mancini subbed on Patrick Vieira to said effect, and a Van der Saar miscue almost gifted City a win in the later stages. The flying Dutchman failed to soar far enough to snag the ball, instead palming it delicately into the 8 yard box much like you would place a newborn into a crib. Only Nemanja Vidic, who managed to stop a point blank shot and pass out of danger while sitting saved United’s skin.

Of course, Van der Saar did have a fantastic save off a Carlos Tevez free kick in the first half, so maybe, just maybe, this 40 plus years old veteran with a few titles can be forgiven. Maybe. For all the talk of Tevez revenge, though, the majority of action manifested itself in the dueling-handsome-devils of Craig Bellamy and Gary Neville. Pessimists would call the individual antics “petulant.” Optimists would label them as “scrappy.” Still, if you are ever walking about town and see two ravenous chihuahuas fighting over a bone, try not to stare. But you will fail. At least don’t stick your hand in there.

Oh yes, the game. Well, as you gleamed from a mobile phone sports-ticker application, United won 1-0. The goal was from Paul Scholes. Surely this was one of those classic piledrivers off a setplay, with Giggs teeing him up and the Brandy Dandy unleashing a shot with more venom than all the venomous snakes and venomous spiders of the world combined, and those snakes and spiders to have been subject to creepy secret-government-lab venom enhancing drugs. No. No shot with a foot. No venom. No spider. No secret lab. I’m afraid to say…it was a header. A Paul Scholes header.

Now I know what you’re thinking – a ha! Exactly as Sir Alex planned. A tight game, a winning goal in injury time, the title race trolley continues to the next stop! I hate to break your heart, but Sir Alex did not diagram this play. In fact, I’m sure when he saw a meager 3 minutes of injury time, he checked his watch and thought – “Bloody hell, I have 32 minutes by my count.”

Still, with 30 seconds left in the game, Patrice Evra presumably whipped in a cross and had no clue it was headed in Paul Scholes’ direction. The City defense, knowing that Paul Scholes was in the box, checked out mentally and began to ruminate on their summer plans. “Well, Kolo wants to head to Miami with the missus, but the guys are heading to Tenerife for some golf, hmmmmm.”

Paul took advantage of the time and space to prepare himself spiritually and mentally to channel the Karma spirit of the deceptively fast & bouncing header. The ball did not strike his head. His head did not strike the ball. Rather, the two merged briefly to share the same plane and dimension before – whack – the hand of the Karma spirit guided the ball to the back of the net.

Scholesy, of course, leaped up in celebration and ran to the visiting section. He was just glad he didn’t break his nose.

Rafael Benitez has assured some guy that he is not finished at Anfield, whatever it is he happens to do there.

Aqueduct, an Italian international – in some kind of sport is appears – has failed to adjust to the rigours of English football in his first season in the Premier League. At least, we think it is his first. Perhaps he has been here for ages. Did anyone see him come in?

The Liverpool manager sought  to reassure the player publicly in a press conference yesterday, with previous attempts to talk to the player in person resulting in a thoroughly bewildered Yossi Benayoun.  “Alfredo is a great professional, with tons of quality. I do not understand this constant speculation about whether I play him, whether I do not. When I didn’t play him at Wolves, it wasn’t because of the pitch, it was because I had got it into my head that he was Alberto Arbeloa, and was probably going to have to get his flight back to Madrid at some point.”

“I really miss that guy. Wow. Never thought I’d say that”.

Desipte the precarious state of the club’s finances, and the ongoing doubts about the manager’s choices in the transfer market, Benitez defended his signing of Andreas Albacete. “It is unreasonable to expect a player to adapt immediately – it takes time to get to know this league, and we can afford him that time. After all, it’s not like we paid much for Andy did we?”

“We did?”

“How much? Twenty of them? Madre dios”

At this point, the press conference had to cut short unexpectedly, as the manager’s sweating head had scheduled a prior appointment with a bucket between his knees.

For more delightful football bloggery from the back alleys of London -London, England, that is, not London, Ontario – check out Nick’s site FISTEDAWAY

Yes, it’s an adolescent crush more so than “falling in love.” But is there a more meaningful kind of love? The three striker formation certainly stirs the blood and engages the eyes, but something deeper pulls at my heart strings. It is the players themselves. It is Carlos Tevez. It is Craig Bellamy. It is Shaun Wright Phillips. Could you envision a more motley crew in the world of sport?

This past summer, we painted City as the overspending-filthy new rich-machination. We cringed as they overpaid for players from top and mid level clubs. But can we fault the supporting cast for an aggressive director? The producer is a total d-bag, but the show on stage is breathtaking. And, at least in terms of my adolescent crush, the show backstage also induces an endorphin rush.

Are the City players’ greedy? Yes. Do they have checkered personal histories? An emphatic yes. Does their ASD personality combination make for an explosive cocktail? Of course. That’s why…that’s why I love them.

Chelsea bought bluechip recruits that quickly became or already were household names. The Blues bought big, tall, broad shouldered “world class players.” Michael Ballack. John Obi Mikel. Those two could probably lift my house by its foundations. But not City. Shaun Wright Phillips could live comfortably in my playhouse, sipping tea with the sister of the world’s once greatest-to-be footballer.

Carlos Tevez spends his time flying between the UK and Argentina to check on his illegitimate children. Granted, his concern does redeem him in some ways. But he’s still unpredictably and unreliable. Delightfully so. And Craig Bellamy? Well, I believe his picture shall someday grace the American Heritage Dictionary for a variety of unflattering words. I spent a part of my formative years in a trailer park, and Craig’s tattoos bring back fond and not-so-fond childhood memories. “Pa, get up…your late for you misdemeanor trial!”

The City players, to put it succinctly, are not the high school quarterback. They are not bland suburbanite overachievers. These are the leather clad boys whom mothers half-halfheartedly warn their daughters about. “He’s not marriage material.” In between the lines, daughters read their mom’s intuition – “You are young, don’t get your hopes up, but have fun.”

So yes, my passing fancy of City is just that – passing. I will probably lose interest in a week or month or so. I’m trying not to fall too in love. I’m tempering my expectations. At least I’m trying. But for now, they are my misfits of the month, my miscreants of the Spring, my…true love.

When Bellamy turned Mikel and finished far post in one swoop, my heart skipped a beat. When Tevez turned Carvahlo and then Terry, the hair on my arms stood on end. And when Tevez took his penalty kick with aplomb, I couldn’t help but batter my eyelids.

I’m trying not to fall too deeply in love.

I’m trying to temper expectations.

I’m….

I entered in the key term “football” and selected Portsmouth as my location.

My rationale was simple – Portsmouth FC was in dire straits, so surely a few job listings would show up for, say, owner, CFO, center back, etc. However, Portsmouth has to compete with misclicks that lead to Portsmouth, New Hampshire, a city in the United States of America. This is the obvious first barrier to recruiting talent to Pompey.

If the job candidate has mastered Googlemaps or graduated from highschool with a passing grade in geography, she or he should clear that hurdle. However, to my surprise, despite the serious problems at Pompey, only a handful of football results showed up.

Among those results, one sticks out like a swollen and sore centerback’s thumb. One result screams like a scary film female victim locked in a mortician’s basement. This result explains why Portsmouth is about to go under….it is competition. You see, if a random viewer is watching Portsmouth decides to click on the site on their t-shirt and look for a footy job, he will not be directed to the desperate Pompey, but rather to that mammoth of mammoths…Burnley. Buuuuurnley.

The obvious and pertinent question: is Burnley committing an intentional and debilitating braindrain by advertising on the sponsor of Portsmouth? Is Burnley the potent magnet in a fiercely competitive employment market, forcing Pompey to settle for Israeli ex-felons?

Of course, few people look at a sad reality in football – Portsmouth won the FA Cup, but success has a severe price in the wage inflated land of European soccer. While in the States the players cry foul over post-contract rights, across the pond clubs drown in debt to former players and past transactions.

Also, a chicken and egg situation has emerged. Portsmouth relies on executive talent from the Middle East, yet even the most naive of international businessmen knows the risks and cutthroat reputation of that region of the world. Arrest warrants, tax evasion,  those are considered costs of business, not harbingers of insolvency. Did Portsmouth’s mismanagement lead them to rely on executives with a rap sheet? Or vice versa?

Let’s not forget this is an institution that hired and employed Harry Redknapp. Who worked closely with Peter Storrie.

We also should acknowledge the Portsmouth fans’ choice of dissent – the death threat. Jermaine Defoe has a strong season and top clubs want to sign him. Happy for his services and best of luck? No. Death Threat. The CEO is working tirelessly to manage a miracle. Thanks? No. Death Threat. At what point does a supporters’ group become a drunk militia?

So let’s recap – you saw Portsmouth play, clicked on the sponsor website, and now you do a little research on your prospective employer. Tax evasion pops up. The other employees, recruits from countries with cut throat business practices, have arrest warrants or have served time. What do you do? Well, if you have an IQ over 30, then…..you scroll down and come back to BURNLEY. Yes, it all comes back to Burnley.

We shan’t forget the snake in the grass in all this, the sly and stealthy cheetah, the BURNLEY.

Despite the bigger business (read boring) context, I am sorry for Portsmouth.

However, I am also worried about Burnley. I’m not worried about Burnley for Burnley’s sake. No, I’m worried about Burnley for other clubs’ safety. My mind wanders…did Burnley, the Goldman Sachs of soccer, shortsell AIG stock a year and a half ago? The possibilities are endless for Burnley’s brilliantly devilish plan to tortuously interfere with other club’s business while ruthlessly climbing to the top. Portsmouth was an inviting and decaying carcass, but Burnley swooped like a vulture of its own sinister volition.

To find out who this mystery man is, head over to the delightful FistedAway right now.

Jozy Altidore scored in his first English Premiership game. But, aside from the impeccably timed run, lovely first touch, and precision shot, what does this goal mean in the postcolonial struggle against/for oppression? Let’s speculate/elucidate/complicate.

For the US national team, Jozy is the classic Lacanian “Big Other,” often playing target forward, or “A”, alongside speedy and mobile “Little Others” such as Charlie Davies, rather “a”. While the little “a” shares a perceptual likeness, this little other merely reflects the “A” as if a mirror and a body. All of which depends on the imaginary order.

For HullCity , the relationship is inverted. I would boldly posit that Jen Vennegoor is the Big A, a hulking Dutchmen of a striker with superb hold-up play and a large frame to throw around. Thus, this puts Jozy in a precarious yet also powerful position of submission/domination. One the one hand, he can take advantage of the radical alterity of Vennegoor to run onto glancing headers and deft first touches. On the other hand, Jozy is not blessed with a super quick first step.

At least not by Lacanian or Premiership standards.

]]> http://futfanatico.com/2010/02/09/jozy-altidore-le-lacanian-stade-du-hull-city/feed/ 0 http://futfanatico.com/2010/02/06/we-learned-today-that-the-boateng-clan/?utm_source=rss&utm_medium=rss&utm_campaign=we-learned-today-that-the-boateng-clan http://futfanatico.com/2010/02/06/we-learned-today-that-the-boateng-clan/#comments Sat, 06 Feb 2010 17:20:04 +0000 Elliott http://futfanatico.com/?p=4772

…”Ain’t Nothin’ to Fuck Wit” by Wu-Tang Clan