Finding Jimmy Corbett

Well, you could see that coming, couldn’t you? Just as soon as the English World Cup bid gets off the ground, the English tabloids have set about dismantling it from afar.

The news that Lord Triesman, chairman of the 2018 bid, has claimed that Spain and Russia are colluding to bribe officials at the upcoming tournament in South Africa may come as a bolt from the blue, but the source of the scandal is entirely predictable.

There’s nothing more that the English press love to do, aside from blaming immigration levels and stringing up politicians, than to derail any bid for English sporting success. Whether it’s a sex scandal, betting ring or a good old piece of unfounded gossip from the top brass, you can bet that sport editors across the country will devour it quicker than a Kevin Keegan meltdown. Defended by the stance that this is in the public interest, exposes along this line have become regular as clockwork.

Without Triesman relinquishing his role as chairman, this threatens to derail a bid that is two years in the making and is oh-so-necessary for an FA that is struggling to keep it’s heads clear of the financial mire, drowning under a sea of debt courtesy of an inflated redevelopment project of Wembley stadium.

All the more frustrating is just how unnecessary this all was. In what is blatantly an inexplicable honey trap deployed by the Mail on Sunday staff to ply information from the commander in chief, all they have is the ramblings of a madman with no substantial evidence. If they wanted a sensational story, they could’ve saved themselves the trouble and interviewed a cider-fuelled tramp in Leicester Square about the impending apocalypse and his communications with the dead… A story equally as founded as the one they’ve gone to print with this morning with none of the repercussions.

Encouraging signs, however, have come from the almost unanimous condemnation from fellow journalists. Speaking on Sky’s frequently engaging Sunday Supplement, the Times’ Patrick Barclay slammed the Mail on Sunday’s efforts as nothing more than divisive.

Triesman has already announced his departure as chairman of the 2018 bid, but will seemingly cling on to his senior role within the FA and FIFA will undoubtedly cast a dim view on this debacle. So, in 2018 when the England squad are embarking on a Russia-bound voyage, I just hope the Mail on Sunday realise what they’ve done.

Another season in the Premier League graveyard grinds to a halt and Chris Coleman departs Coventry, charged with the heinous crime of failing to take them aboard the Barclays gravy train. Who’d be a manager in the Championship, eh?

Such is the stature of the second tier of English football in this day and age that 15 of the 24 teams are so-called Premiership rejects, and of those nine who haven’t been “fortunate” enough to be relentlessly tonked week in, week out, five of them sit in the bottom half.

It’s been almost a decade since Coventry were relegated from the Premiership and, in that time frame, the club have relocated from Highfield Road to the impressive Ricoh Arena, avoided relegation to League One on two separate occasions and, what is fast becoming an archetypal trait of a former Premiership club, flirted with financial oblivion and administration. In fact, they came just 20 minutes within aforementioned oblivion; Ray Ranson seemingly riding in on an elephant to save the club.

A 19th place finish, an eventual seven point grace from a jaunt into League One, was deemed not good enough and Coleman was handed his marching orders yesterday and became the ninth manager to leave his post in the Championship this season. Ok, QPR and Peterborough account for half of that list by themselves, but you get the picture…

It’s an indictment of what has become all that is wrong with football, a money-fuelled rampage on the quest for success, which will ultimately result in more money, sought by those only interested in lining their pockets with the fruits of Premier League revenue streams and commercial opportunities.

Future prospects aren’t exactly bright, either. With the Premier League keen to increase and extend parachute payments for relegated teams, it will only distort the Championship further and effectively create a glass ceiling for clubs who strive to better themselves. How can a club of Scunthorpe’s stature, who have valiantly staved off relegation this season, compete with a handful of clubs who earn £12m a year for four years because they were deemed not good enough for the Premiership?

The Premier League already has the elitist feel of an Old Men’s Club; You can try it for a year, but we’ll make you feel as unwelcome as possible and, with any luck, send you packing at the first attempt because we don’t like that Reading riff-raff here, nor that Blackpool side who have the commercial appeal of a Baghdad suburb. The Championship is quickly falling to the same snobbery.

Coleman’s sacking was relatively low key because of their disastrous finish to the season and the fans will, more than likely, be appeased with the appointment of Coventry legend Gary McAllister as manager… Someone deemed not good enough for Leeds in League One. As low key as his departure was, it’s a telling sign of things to come for Europe’s fifth most popular football league.

Lionel Messi and Pedro Rodriguez sealed a dominant win for Barcelona in El Clasico, seemingly deciding the La Liga title race as Real were left out thought, out fought and out classed.

This will, by no means, go down in history as an El Clasico to remember. Barcelona entered the contest coming off the back of a comprehensive drubbing of Arsenal, Lionel Messi single handedly leading the destruction. Madrid, on the other hand, limped out of European competition at the hands of Lyon and a loss here would almost certainly equate to a trophy-less season for the nuevo galacticos.

In Kaka’s absence, Rafael van der Vaart returned from the apparent wilderness and Lassana Diarra was forced to vacate his position in the starting line up, while Dani Alves was pushed further up the field for Barcelona in an attempt to isolate Alvaro Arbeloa.

With both sides making tactical and formation alterations, the opening exchanges were predictably tentative. Ronaldo sauntered around the pitch with his infamous pomp, nutmegging Alonso before trying to do too much with the ball and, minutes later, the opening talking point. The man dubbed Superhuman in various quarters of the press this week, Messi, raced to the Madrid by-line and, upon knocking the ball back, had his standing leg taken from him as Albiol slid and missed the ball. Any other arena would have seen a penalty awarded, but the Bernabeu escaped this decision.

If anything, Madrid opened the game in a stronger fashion. While Ronaldo huffed and puffed to little effect, Marcelo tested Barca with every driving run. Carles Puyol could have been given a five yard head start, but a step-over and a burst of pace later, He would be watching helplessly as the Brazilian darted past him.

In truth, Barcelona looked a pale comparison to the side that swept Arsenal away with ease and Messi saw next to nothing of the ball despite being the one target of every searching drive forward.

Which is why it won’t surprise you at all when, seconds after receiving being pole axed off the ball, he gave Barcelona the lead latching onto a delightfully executed ball over the top by Xavi, leaving Albiol for dead with his first touch and simply knocking it past the approaching Casillas. The once rocking Santiago Bernabeu crowd was silenced with a single swing of the Wizard Argentinian’s right foot.

The game continued at the same pace well into the second half, Marcelo posing as the main threat for a Madrid side that looked to Ronaldo for inspiration, but carrying an ankle knock all the most expensive player on the planet could muster was a string of over hit crosses and enthusiastic sighs.

The defining moment of the game occurred just before the hour mark. Pedro Rodriguez capitalised on a mistake by Arbeloa, raced ahead to latch onto a through ball and coolly slotted beyond Iker Casillas to give the Catalans a two goal lead. A goal typical of Madrid’s defensive problems will come as no surprise to the neutrals… The best part of £200million, apparently, buys you an error prone defence that crumbles under pressure.

That said, Pellegrini is not entirely blameless in a game that Barcelona found all too comfortable to control. With neither of the Diarras employed in a defensive midfield role, Madrid lacked bite in the centre and Xavi had all the time and space needed to be instrumental in attack. The complete lack of bite was readily complimented by a complete lack of ambition and invention; Ronaldo and Higuain found themselves completely isolated in attack throughout the contest and on a number of occasions, midfield reinforcements arriving into the box would surely have seen Valdes tested.

Pedro’s strike settled the game long before the referee called an end to the spectacle. Barcelona found this all too easy and ran out comfortable winners without truly expressing themselves or committing a thoroughly entertaining performance. Three points ahead and completely dominant in the head-to-head meetings between the two clubs, it is Barca’s title to lose and
it certainly looks like being another season of discontent for Los Blancos.

Where Madrid go from here, worryingly, lies in the wrath of Florentino Perez. Pellegrini was reportedly lucky to keep his position in the wake of their elimination from the Champions League and this defeat will come as yet another blow for the much revered Chilean. Perez promised the supporters success upon his election and now he must deliver… Over £200million was spent and just Albiol and Arbeloa arrive to reinforce the defensive ranks within a disproportionate and unbalanced side. If they are to progress, Pellegrini must be allowed to bring in his own players.

As it stands, Barcelona are towns ahead, not just streets.

When two teams of the highest calibre collide, it wouldn’t be beyond the realms of possibility that they negate each other and the feature becomes something of an anti-climax. Not when Arsene Wenger and Pep Guardiola are around. No. This was special.

Barcelona flew out of the traps as if to snatch a stranglehold on the tie early on. Much had been made of Lionel Messi’s class and form entering the game, some quarters commenting that he was better than Maradona at the same age; apparently nobody had informed Alexandre Song, who shamefully allowed the diminutive Argentinian to weave his magic in front of the Arsenal box on a number of occasions.

Thankfully, Manuel Almunia was listening, and produced a series of fabulous stops against Messi, Ibrahimovic, Xavi and Messi again. This was indeed a footballing extravaganza, it’s just Barcelona were playing the part of the playground bully, not letting the younger kids play.

The first half continued along the same font. Barcelona stringing Arsenal along, prodding and poking for an opening that a half-fit William Gallas just couldn’t close. Gallas followed Arshavin off the field, Eboue and Denilson replacing them in a move that saw Song switched to centre back and Messi almost salivating at the thought.

The dichotomy of Barcelona’s game plan, dragging the full backs forward to allow the likes of Messi and Pedro to drift inside, allows gaping holes to form further up the field and, as the half dragged on, Arsenal became fully aware of the space. Nasri continued to haunt the shadow left by Dani Alves’ jaunts into Arsenal territory and, in truth, could have seen a number of crosses connected with. As far as first half stalemates go, this was truly engaging.
If the first half tantalised and teased the watching audience, the second exploded into action within seconds.

A searching ball played down Barcelona’s right flank found Ibrahimovic, who had wasted a host of opportunities in the first half including a free kick which is currently still heading into orbit. The Swede looked up, found Almunia inexplicably in no man’s land and produced a deft finish over the head of the goalkeeper and into the net. A previously rocking Emirates audience was silenced in a heartbeat.

Just ten minutes later, you could have been forgiven for thinking the tie was over. Some wonderful play by Xavi, the midfield maestro who continues to haunt English teams in this competition, found Ibrahimovic in a world of his own, free to take a touch before dispatching the ball past Almunia to give the Catalan’s a two goal advantage.

Barcelona, by this time in full pomp, could have wrapped this tie up so very, very easily. Xavi Hernandez is one of the most infuriating players on the planet to watch, not because he’s lacking something, but because he makes every discipline of the game look outrageously simple. There is no known superlative adequate for the midfielder’s performance tonight, and he slipped Lionel Messi in to cut inside on a further occasion, this time the Argentine found his ankles clipped as he entered the box and the chance was squandered.

Wenger had spent the previous hour ranting and raving along the touchline, and you would have forgiven him repeating his “leave me alone” rant at the Barca midfield. Sparked into action, Theo Walcott replaced Bacary Sagna and the game changed in an instant.

Walcott raced past Maxwell, who was fortunate enough to see Arshavin injured early on, and fired directly at Victor Valdes. Fortunately for Arsenal, the ever-dependable stalwart had been hypnotised by the mesmerising football played within his opposite end and the ball crept beneath him and into the goal. A previously sombre crowd erupted into life. Game on.

The goal seemed to have a perplexing effect on Barcelona, so much so that even the ever-cool Guardiola seemed to find himself fidgeting in his seat. Gone was the slick, triangular passing movement, replaced with a clumsy, error-stricken game that played right into Arsenal’s hands for the last 20 minutes.

An end to end tie played at a frenetic pace had developed; Henry coming on to rapturous applause, then a chorus of boos with his first touch. Walcott continued to threaten, using Eboue to twist and turn Maxwell to such an extent that you’d easily mistake him for a ballerina.

Then came the decisive moment and one that threw the whole tie into the balance. A ball fired deep into the Barcelona area found Cesc Fabregas and, knowing full well that Carles Puyol was behind him, he hitched his body in such a motion to collide with the defender.

With the ball heading out of play, a penalty could be considered generous and Busacca hand wrapped the gift by giving the defender his marching orders. Fabregas dusted himself off and fired the penalty past a despairing Victor Valdes.

A fitting finale to a fantastic spectacle and, honestly speaking, no number of words could do the game justice. Mesmerising from start to finish, this was an advert for what the Champions League should be: The finest teams consisting of the finest players, playing slick, adventurous football.

The second tie will suffer because a number of absentees, most notably Fabregas who picked up a shockingly poor yellow card, but if the game is half as good, then we’re still in for a treat.

Apparently, Carlo Ancelotti’s mother never warned him that if he pulled a funny face and the wind blew, it would stay that way. Ancelotti pulled the same expression of futile, emotionless pondering for 94 miserable minutes as Chelsea, yet again, faultered in Europe.

Much had been made of Mourinho’s return to Stamford Bridge, and the self proclaimed special one pulled off his act with aplomb. Inter were nothing tonight if they weren’t meticulously organised and tactically drilled to combat every weapon Chelsea had at their disposal. Anelka was ushered out wide by Maicon every time the ball was aimed toward the left hand side, every Lampard shot was met with the brute force block of a defender’s torso and every set piece was delightfully aimed high into the Chelsea six-yard box, designed to alienate the Champions League debutant Ross Turnbull.

Inter watched as their city counterparts AC were torn to threads by a rampant Manchester United last week, posing as an indictment of Italian football against the ferocity of the English game. The truth is, apart from a ten minute spell towards the end of the first half, Chelsea were never in this game. They were shut out for large periods of the game merely chasing shadows.

They played at their own pace, nonchalantly knocking the ball between each other as if this were an extension of their training game. Wesley Sneijder was magnificent, proving his European class by continually threatening an immobile Chelsea defence with a cross field ball played behind the lumbering Terry and Alex. It paid off with just eleven minutes remaining, Samuel Eto’o running behind John Terry before dispatching the ball past Turnbull with an exquisite finish of the highest calibre.

With Inter claiming a crucial away goal, leaving Chelsea needing two in ten minutes, the tie was all but settled. There was of course time for one last twist. Step forward Didier Drogba, he of dubious moral standing with European officials after his antics following last year’s semi-final defeat to Barcelona.

Every time the towering Ivorian went forward for a set piece, he was met with tugs, hugs and shrugs, the latter from the officials, as he was assisted to the floor. It happened once again in the dying moments of the game, only with nothing to play for Drogba thought it reasonable to leave Thiago Motta with a souvenir: Drogba receiving his marching orders for a stamp.

This is the one trophy that continues to elude Chelsea and Abramovich must be left scratching his head as to why. He’s assembled a talented team and under the expert tutelage of Ancelotti, defeated expression and all, they entered the tournament as the not-so-dark horse this season. This season, though, Chelsea cannot leave this to refereeing decisions. They were incredibly poor tonight.

Mourinho, much like Chelsea, made a rather swift exit upon the final whistle not wanting to be seen celebrating on his old turf… I doubt very much whether Abramovich will be inviting him up for a celebratory champagne and caviar reception.

When Manuel Pellegrini took the reins at Real Madrid, blank cheque book in hand, I doubt very much he expected his only shot at silverware at this stage of the season would lie solely in a sprint to the finish with Barcelona…

Courtesy of Miralem Pjanic, that is exactly the situation. Lyon took a 1-0 lead to the Bernabeu, tasked with keeping out a Madrid side that boasted some of the world’s finest talent and they couldn’t have asked for a worse start. Cristiano Ronaldo took his Champions League tally for the season to seven, blasting through Hugo Lloris’ legs after just five minutes. Unfortunately for him, and unlike his former club Manchester United, that was as close they came to a quarter-final berth.

It could have been different; Gonzalo Higuain rounded Lloris not much later but could only fire his shot onto the post. Ronaldo’s fellow Galactico Kaka had a shot that clambered just past the post in the second half, but the Brazilian wasn’t much more than a passenger in the game and his contribution will rightfully be questioned. Karim Benzema felt the swift metal of Pellegrini’s axe for much less, and the truth is Kaka has not justified his inflated price tag.

Miralem Pjanic, of Bosnian heritage, decided the tie in the 75^th minute, feeding from a Lisandro lay-off to lift the ball past Iker Cassilas giving Lyon a vital away goal. Madrid needed two goals but could not muster one, gifting Lyon several chances at the other end that were spurned by Lisandro and Delgado.

Pellegrini spent €260m in recruiting the likes of Ronaldo, Kaka and Benzema to the Santiago Bernabeu and any observer, me included, expected a far greater return than what has come to pass. Out of the Copa Del Rey, reaching just the last 16 of the Champions League and facing a nail-biting finale to the La Liga season, locked on points with Barcelona and ahead only on goal difference.

If €260m can’t buy a single defender worth his stripes, then questions have to be asked of the transfer policy. Football is a game of balance, left to right, top to bottom, it’s the balanced teams of club football that succeed. Manchester United won the Champions League on the basis of a rock solid defence and counter-balanced the effervescent ability of Ronaldo and Rooney with the sheer determination of Tevez, Fletcher and Scholes. Barcelona succeeded on the basis of turning Thierry Henry into a wing-forward purely to maintain balance.

Make no mistake, Pellegrini is a wonderful coach. He transformed Villareal from also-rans into material worthy of European competition on a comparitable shoestring and is thoroughly deserving of his shot at the big time, but Los Galacticos will expect much, much more from this and to finish the campaign without a single trophy will, more than likely, see his contract terminated.

If this is what €260m buys you, then it’s no wonder so many clubs are on the precipice of financial meltdown.

I’m not a Manchester United fan. When Freddy Eastwood dispatched a venomous 25-yard free kick past Tomasz Kuszczack in the Carling Cup, I was as ecstatic as every other Southend supporter crammed into Roots Hall. I do, however, own a green and gold scarf.

Supporters are funny groups of people. One minute, they can be great, warring factions deserving of a place in a Shakespearian love story, whereas the second a threat rears its ugly head the division and rivalry is forgotten, uniting to conquer the foe.

The Love United, Hate Glazer campaign has been simmering in the background for a few months now, ready to boil over despite what is amounting to a successful season for the reigning champions.

Ever since Malcolm Glazer and his hostile, leveraged-debt ridden takeover bid wrestled ownership of the club there have been a steady stream of support groups and protests and rightfully so. In a second, United went from being a financially secure fortress to a club crippled by an enormous debt and the interest accrued.

Such is the calibre of the squad that Sir Alex Ferguson has assembled and, in fairness, the ageing talents at Chelsea and the equally tumultuous ownership at Liverpool, the problems at Old Trafford have been glossed over by a concession of trophies. It’s not the present that the Manchester United Supporters Trust are worried about, though, it’s the future…

By obtaining over 100,000 members, MUST contacted the so called ‘Red Knights’, fronted by football finance expert Keith Harris, in order to launch the strongest campaign yet to oust the Glazers from the club. Although no official bid has yet been received, the American Owners have reiterated their stance that the club is not for sale. They might have been able to dispel some of the supporters with a bond £500m bond issue that helped them restructure the debt, but even the most ardent supporter would struggle to cast that in a positive manner.

It’s something that their deadliest rivals are all too familiar with. Liverpool have struggled immensely under the stewardship of Hicks and Gillette, the pair rarely seen within talking distance of each other. Another debt-ridden takeover that has had a disastrous effect on the finances of the club, with the team directly suffering at the hands of penny-pinching.

To see the two biggest clubs in English football suffer so at the hands of meddling businessmen is a damning indictment of the commercial aspect of football today. The blind and almost tribal faith of supporters is so easily exploited with extortionate ticket prices and exhaustive amounts of merchandise; it was only a matter of time until foreign markets saw the money-making potential.

So, when such a threat is posed, a threat that all football fans can relate to, it is drastically important that supporters group together. At the cost of just £5, a green and gold scarf might not seem the most potent of anti-establishment weapons. The message it sends, however, is one that will reverberate around the vacant, Tampa mansions of the Glazer family.

I don’t support Manchester United, but this is a cause every football supporter should get behind.

When Ryan Shawcross trudged off the field in tears, the last thing the lad needed was to be hounded by a sense of indignation from Arsene Wenger and a loud collage of journalists and Arsenal fans alike. So, imagine the disgust when the pitch forks and stakes came out…

The challenge itself was, if anything, clumsy and mistimed. Shawcross’ foot remained planted to the floor throughout and replays suggest Bendtner restricted his view. Ramsey flew in at a reasonable speed and paid the price with a rumoured six fractures in his right leg… Simple laws of physics dictate that the little man will come off worse.

It’s the third substantial leg break Arsenal have picked up in as many seasons, but to suggest it is anything more than a freak coincidence is sadly misleading. Arsenal might be met with sterner opposition to counter-balance their over complicated passing game and it definitely isn’t ‘Joga Bonito’, but that’s essentially what football is at the highest level:  A physical game of tactical chess.

Teams like Stoke and Bolton know full well that Arsenal’s midfield can be attacked, the simple tactical choice would be to reinforce the midfield with stronger options. It’s a simple problem that can be solved by simple solutions, however Arsene is a victim of the incessant belief he has in his own system and, instead, feels that this ugly problem can be fixed by a spate of public bleating.

It’s a tired record that is in distinct danger of breaking.

The real victim here, though, is Ryan Shawcross. A young defender of great ability has had his first England cap spoiled by the incessant ranting of a manager and the inevitable witch hunt that followed. Players and team mates alike have leapt to the defence of Shawcross, not one believing he actually has an ounce of venom in his body. The damage, however, is done and England fans have a history of turning on their own.

The saving grace could be the ongoing victimisation of John Terry, but I certainly wouldn’t bet against a tirade of abuse from disgruntled Arsenal fans incensed at the loss of one of their own starlets. In a World Cup year when defensive options are running wafer-thin, a player of Shawcross’ potential could prove to be invaluable… But it’s almost tradition for England to hang their own out to dry.

When Portsmouth’s 4th owner of the season presumably won the club in a game of pass-the-financially-defunct-parcel, did nobody explain the basic rules of English football?

The news that Portsmouth have applied for extraordinary circumstances to the Premier League in order to sell their players outside of the transfer window isn’t exactly surprising considering the sense of impending financial doom surrounding the club, but the sheer arrogance of the move is brilliant.

Not content with requesting their relegation parachute payments a good six months ahead of schedule, Pompey officials presumably swaggered into Richard Scudamore’s office this morning, bearing a beleaguered and desperate expression, starting with: “Hey, Rich… You know that transfer window? how about we smash it because we’ve got no money…” Before turning into some form of Judge Dredd in blue shouting: “We are above the law!!”

It’s a move that is ironically both shocking and unsurprising at the same time.

We’ll ignore the subtle questions of ‘Who’s allowed to buy them, then?’ and ‘What about the other clubs who are skint?’, What is more pressing is exactly what situation do Portsmouth expect to be in within the coming months?

Requesting this kind of intervention from the Premier League will open the club to having to accept derisory offers for players worth far more. Every club will know too well that this is a last gasp move of sheer desperation, so any offer that closely resembles market value is likely to be accepted. So, why are Portsmouth officials willing to do this now instead of waiting till the window opens? The only sensible answer is that they might not last that long.

It’s akin to the signs of an impending apocalypse, first the players aren’t paid for months on end, then the HMRC come knocking and finally the club make farcical approaches to the League in order to grant them a way of raising a quick few million.

Portsmouth rushed to deliver their state of affairs to the high Court yesterday in a move that, according to them, put to bed with rumours they are about to go into administration. It doesn’t take a genius to read between the lines here, Portsmouth are facing a danger far greater than that…