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A BOY CALLED RANDY 26-8-06
Calum Law
The people crouch: barely able to stifle the rising sense of momentum in their eager breasts. The geriatric dictator gasps: the undiminished ambition of his lungs is mocked by reality. Over the sea in the Land of the Free, his well-fed enemy awaits, ready to exploit his untapped resources and to steal his history!
Fidel, however is progressing serenely. By contrast, Doog Ellis slips off to the twilit realm inhabited by (p/m) atriarchs such as Maggie T and Old Mr Grace from Are You Being Served. He is to be replaced by an American with one of those comedy names our septic cousins do with such panache. And Randy Lerner, it has to be said, already cuts a more plausible figure than the egregious Malcolm Glazer with his Mormon/Muslim facial fuzz. Football fans d'un certain age may have noted that in the photo reproduced in several national papers, the shoeleather he chose to accompany his grey turn-up trousers was joined to its Airwear(tm) sole with unmistakeable yellow thread. Will Randy we wonder, for his Villa Park coronation, complete the look and knot a satin scarf round his wrist?
If, that is, he doesn't follow Glenn Miller into the Bermuda Triangle on his flight over - a far more propitious course of events as far as Boro fans are concerned; given that most of us would have had Villa nailed-on as one of our inferiors again this season. For, as I touched upon in my last column, human nature dictates that it's not the comings and goings in the ethereal realms of Old Trafford/Stamford Bridge etc that sets our pulses racing with Machiavellian calculation. No, the misery of Aston Villa (for example) is the canvas upon which we daub our incoherent dreamscape. After all, nobody ever bothered to coin the phrase 'keeping up with the Rothschilds'.
One is obliged to loathe all of ones peers in the middling rank but I've always kept an extra teaspoon or two of repugnance for the clarit and blaus, along with Leicester City who, not content with the ignominy of being sponsored by Walkers were obliged to compound the self-abasesment by cladding their players in the exact same shade of blue used on the iconic cheese and onion packets.
Villa, despite having a far more illustrious history and bigger fanbase, and despite the fact that they always fucking beat us were ineluctably slipping behind us in the pecking order. We had apparent carte blanche when it came to their best players. They appeared to have written the book when it came to the appointment of unprepossessing managers (Taylor, Gregory, O'Leary), and let's be honest, a brummie accent positively screams 'modest non-achiever'. Villa, in short, served as a handy milestone by which we could compare our own quiet remorseless ascent. How we loved to hear them nasally whine 'we should buy beetin the loikes of Buhro'.
Pop sociologists have dubbed this phenomenon status anxiety, and judging by what I've read on this site and elsewhere, Boro fans are among the most anxious. It's not hard to see where their concern has come from - if our defence was hospitable last season we now appear to be offering a choice of canapes. As everyone knows, the thing about a leaky defence is it quickly drains confidence from the other components of the team.
(Owing to technical difficulties this column was not posted prior to the Chelsea game. However, you're sorely mistaken if you think i'm going to adjust my broadly sceptical posture).
Southgate needs to sort out the defence if this team is to realise its potential. There is no better strike force in the league than Yakubu and Viduka. - these guys will destroy teams but if we keep going behind they'll lose heart. Chelsea, the UEFA fightbacks - they were for real, we can be that good, but we gift too many goals. Those who excoriated McClaren may sometimes find themselves feeling a twinge of nostalgia for the old Ginger Bogbrush, for there's one thing he didn't lack (just ask Beckham and Juninho) and that's ruthlessness. It's the most important quality for a top manager to possess, and probably the hardest for a player-manager who has come through the ranks to develop - sentimentality will kill you. Southgate's greatest asset is his likeability - you can't imagine a player turning against him - but he'll have to make himself hated occasionally.
All in all, it's been a typical Boro start to the season. We've shown we can hurt the very best and be flummoxed by the mediocre. At the moment that makes us what we showed ourselves to be last season - a good cup side. If we can get a competent settled defence (and sorry Steve but I don't rate Parnaby or Pogotetz) and have luck with injuries this could be a very good year in the league too.
No Man is an Island?
One might have thought Alan Shearer would have relished a role in the England backroom set-up. A chance to work with top players from the outset but without too much pressure, luxury international travel and undoubtedly flattering renumeration. So what made him turn it down?
ComeOnBoro.com can exclusively reveal that professional considerations played little part in the thuggish Geordie midget's decision. Shearer realised that he and McClaren both suffered from the follical affliction known as Bald Man's Island, wherby the causeway connecting a chap's dwindling widow's peak to the rest of his barnet erodes away, leaving a little hairy Sicily (or perhaps Jersey) floating forlornly in the Sea of Scalp. Forget disagreements over the sweeper system and suchlike, Wor Al simply, and wisely reasoned that nestling beside Smac on the England bench would offer up a cruel symmetry irresistible to the sports photographer's forensic eye.
The Danger of the Principled Stand
Wayne: I too think your red card against Porto was a ludicrous decision by yet another showpony ref. And equally ludicrous of the Blazers at the F.A to uphold it. I furthermore appreciated what seemed like a finely-nuanced retaliation - aimed not at the fans but at the bean counters of Soho Square.
However, if you're going to try and cock a (sly knowing) snook at warped priorities at the top of the game, you might try and learn your left and right: thus, when you register your second emphatic strike on the season's opening day, you'll kiss the club badge instead of the Nike swoosh.
What's in a name?
It's true that Maggie wasn't known for administering the forearm smash, but she did shaft Teesside up the arse with her economic policies, which is why it was no surprise to see the rat-faced Ben heap more opprobrium on the Thatcher name. Some words will always gather bad connotations.
NOW HAVE YOUR SAY IN THE NEW HOLGATE FORUM
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