We can't all have Magic Swede's

As we wait for Gordon to work his spell at Celtic Park, my thoughts turned to the topsy turvy world of English International football and its Swedish manager. Now it is quite apparent that our own experience with a certain Magnificent 7 Swede is not quite being mirrored down in the affluent South.

So to all those confused and disappointed anglophiles the world over, in a spirit of goodwill and constructive observation, and if you will pardon for the moment a contribution by a Scotsman, I offer the following critique:

Till the Millennium year, a large proportion of my working life was spent in Southgate, Cockfosters, and Barnet where to my eternal gratitude, I was befriended by some of the finest men and women who were also the most ardent Arsenal, Tottenham, and England fans it has ever been my pleasure to meet.

Not everything was sweetness and light however as I sat there in the erstwhile Trent Tavern in 1996 as my soul shed an invisible tear when, on that ‘potato patch’ known as the home of English Football, the ball was nudged by a stray mole in an England shirt, just as Gary McCallister was about to send David Seaman the wrong way.

We all remember how immediately afterwards Bamber’s boy Paul Gascoigne totally mis-controlled the ball and inadvertently left Colin ‘Braveheart’ Hendry in no man’s land.

The ball looped fortuitously over Colin’s head but as it was heading deservedly for row Z, a Machiavellian gust of the devil’s breath caught hold and whisked it back into Mr G’s path from where even my dear departed Granny could have scored.

Similarly the qualifying play-off for the 2000 European championship holds only that frozen moment in time as Christian Dailly was obviously violently pushed by a giant invisible white rabbit whom wee Kevin Keegan had brought on knowing that no-one could see the animal anyway, causing him to head directly at a static David Seaman.

Yes I have little cause, in footballing terms anyway, to have anything positive to say about Wembley. And while we may have been the last team to win there in a competitive match, I was first in the queue with my personal sledgehammer when the contract for its demolition came up for grabs.

However at heart, as you can probably tell, just like Murphy’s I’m not bitter.

As I said my farewells to my friends in October 2000 to return to the frozen North, I made the following prediction.

England would win the 2002 world cup ………………..

and the 2004 European championship……………….

and would subsequently, dominate world football for some years to come.

The ingredients were all there.

The investment in infrastructure; the emergence of a cohort of young talent unrivalled anywhere else in the major footballing nations; a conveyor belt of similar talent stretching over time’s horizon; the stability of experience from 1996 and 1998 tournaments; one of the top competitive leagues in the world which would ensure that the talents were being tested and honed every single week against the other nations’ top players; every position covered by both experience and new blood;

All that was required was someone with the same passion as the fans, the same hopes and dreams as the players, the ability to watch them playing for their clubs, pick the best of them in their best positions, and with the chosen squad to play and practice, play and practice, play and practice.

In other words to passionately mould a side around some of the best talent in the world who knew what they were doing, who wanted to play for themselves, for their manager, for their fans and for their country.

Instead, what happened?

Well continually playing different groups of 30 (I exaggerate slightly) out of position players in friendlies, when by his own admission many of the players would either not play there again or even would not be in an England Squad again, with little obvious sense of purpose is like a chef never actually practising the recipe which he will lay before his wedding guests and foolishly expecting it to all come together and taste perfectly on the day!

Appointing a manager with not a bad record (but not a great one either) to a position whose very heart beats with the identification with a cause, the demonstration of passion, the expression of pain and pleasure, and the need to bleed rhesus ‘England’ positive, was always a lax first move.

Talent such as it was, would never be enough for someone who apparently had his emotions extracted at birth, and who has ended up constantly a nearly man when he should have been lording over all he surveyed.

How could the players feel confident or committed in their roles and responsibilities?

Here was a man that ‘allegedly’ had agreed to take over Man U; had ‘allegedly’ agreed to take over at Chelsea, had ‘allegedly’ agreed to take over at Real Madrid etc etc.

How could anyone have trust in him? Where was the essence of honesty and commitment?

The totally undignified farrago that was both the reality and the innuendo of the sexual intrigues of Mark Palos and Fariah Alam.

How could the players or any backroom staff have any respect for him? It must have been like being motivated by Brian Rix and his ‘Whitehall Farces’ brigade!

But then the real farce…………….. the obscenity of £4m year…………..that’s £25,000 every 2.2 days or so.

How much does the average football fan earn? How does he/she scrimp and scrape from £25,000 PER ANNUM to travel, exist, buy the tickets, buy the kit, and live in between games?

So at the helm England had placed a man with questionable morals and standards, a vacuum of decorum, a culpable absence of ability to bond a team, and void of identification with the life blood of the game – the ordinary fan.

But that’s ok cos’ money solves everything and £4m a year can solve a lot.

In the words of a well known TV personality and fictional England Manager – MY ARSE!

Here was a manager who has played the contract game superbly, who has seen the opportunity and taken the English FA, the players, the fans, AND the media for a ride of meaningless Pleasure Beach proportions. And like that pleasure beach you’ve ended up a bit queasy, skint, no prizes, and back where you started from!

Sven knew from the start that his pay-check depended on three things:

1. Support of Adam Crozier
2. Creating a dependency culture whereby the administrators didn’t want to appear foolish
by giving him his marching orders.
3. Ensuring that if it went wrong he had fall-back options to continue his mega-extravagant
lifestyle

Well blow me down, just as he is being found out by the public and the media, his route to freedom and the Chelsea Job and more importantly England’s path to re-birth is blocked by those same administrators.

They double his bloody wages!

I have tried to imagine here what Sven thought of these turn of events, but ‘dicks, two, and dog with’ is the only allusion that springs immediately to mind. But I’ve talked enough of the shenanigans of the manager, Chief Executive, and Secretary so let’s move on!

You may remain unconvinced and may also have a go at me by regurgitating qualification records, unlucky quarter final defeats, and refereeing incompetence/malevolence.

Forget it! I would be more convinced if the blame lay at the door of the astrological conjunction of Mars with Venus.

Simply put, Sven Goran Eriksson should be hanging his head in black-burning shame for not taking England on a regular basis to major finals and semis.

He should be pelted in the stocks for failing to grasp and maintain a top four in the world rating; he should be shunned for demeaning the name of the English FA and treating its employees like his own personal fiefdom; but most of all he should be run out of town for squandering the best array of prodigious talent that has been available to any European nation for as long as I can remember.

He has before your very eyes conjured up the ultimate disappearing trick.

Where once there was a cornucopia of bright-eyed, ball-juggling maestros who were just waiting for a morsel of opportunity, enlightenment, encouragement, organisation and most of all of imagination, there is now a collection of adversarial cliques with little sense of direction and no sense of cohesion.

I’ve seen it before!

Scotland’s choice of Bertie Vogts boy was a disaster for us. In fact we would have been better off with Bertie Wooster. But we only failed to get to the final stages of a number of tournaments and dramatically sunk to a level in world ratings where we were compared unfavourably with such luminaries as Burkino Faso. We’ll get over it!

England’s choice of Sven was a greater disaster for yourselves because you have missed out on winning a World Cup and a European Championship.

Someone needs to explain to me just why that is even remotely acceptable or forgivable!

I know from first hand experience that England fans, contrary to the public perception created by that minority whom the tabloid hacks continue to subversively give the ‘oxygen of publicity’, are tremendously knowledgeable, loyal, ardent, and committed.

You are definitely not stupid, but I am not sure that the same can be said for the administrators of the international team.

But if a ‘mere Jock’ can see Sven laughing up his sleeve all the way to his next secretary’s boudoir, then so surely can all of you who have sacrificed and continue to sweat blood tears and soul so much to fly the St George flag in so many far flung corners of the earth.

Adam Crozier didn’t get too much wrong in his time at the FA, but with this decision and his admirable but foolhardy devotion to Mr Duck-on-crutches, he didn’t half spawn a culture which has undermined the evolution of the England football team.

Take it from me. Having gone through the farce that was Herr Vogts, get yourself a manager in there who understands the country, the football, the media, the players, and most of all the fans.

A manager who wants the job, the challenge, the opportunity, and only then the rewards.

Among many other errors, Scotland foolishly followed that illogical modern day mantra that foreign = better = successful, but in hindsight perhaps we got one thing right? Adam Crozier IS Scottish after all!

Could it be that we’ve had our revenge at last!

C’mon the Hoops!

Regards

Estadio