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HEIDI-HI! (OR MAYBE NOT) 12-10-06
Calum Law
Switzerland is a mercenary nation par excellence. A fertile country - and hence vulnerable to over-population - the surplus males it produced formed the feared professional backbone of many European Infantries from the Middle Ages onwards.
The favours it thus accrued, the political discretion necessitated, and the proximity to 'the spoils of war' naturally made it a safe haven for high-end banking interests - a role it continues to play for multifarious gangsters, third world tyrants and football agents.
And a place, one imagines, perfectly in tune with the character of the English Footballer. A shame then, that this compatibility may not after all get a chance to flourish in the summer of 2008; for I'm sure the well-heeled locals would be suitably impressed by Ashley Cole's demonstration of how to pick up £110,000 a week without being able to routinely trap a ball.
Croatia, Russia and Israel are exactly the kind of second-tier footballing nations that will relish the challenge of shooting down our pampered millionaires, and though I'll be aghast as the next fan should they achieve it, it's possible to view such an outcome as being the reality check the game in this country needs - and the poetic culmination of a (highly febrile) story arc that began eighteen summers before.
It's grimly apposite that it should be the train wreck known as Paul Gascoigne that should be the man to prescribe a dose of sentimentality to his latterday avatar. For (as the nation threw a collective blanket over Wayne's head and ushered him out of the goods entrance at Gazza's threat of a 'cuddle') we were reminded of the cataract of hype, clamour, money, sex and glamour that has flowed in the wake of the Geordie man-boy's tears in Turin.
Before Gazza blubbed, a fondness for football was something, like genital warts, about which one tended to keep quiet. The English game - contrite and moribund after the double whammy of Heysel and Hillsborough - was revivified by that iconic moment, winning for itself a whole new (conveniently aspirational) audience.
Well-spoken girls busied themselves with the knotty delights of the offside rule; posh blokes discovered that a smattering of 'footy' knowledge perfectly toned down that priviledged sheen. And since such people by and large controlled the mass media thay were perfectly placed to exploit the marketing opportunities that technology was about to afford their new-found obsession.
Taking their lead from Italy, the hierarchies of top-flight clubs grasped the potential of the newly-plural broadcast network, and like the pools winners of old decided to spend, spend, spend. And whoever could get his snout near the trough understandably did so.
In short, hundreds of thousands of people have cause to thank the referee that gave Gazza that yellow card. Not just the Ashley Coles, but the Peter Kenyons: the City financiers, agents, T.V. Execs, fixers, merchandisers, journalists, paparazzi and their cohorts among the demi-monde.
Outside of Hollywood, English football is the world's most decadent gravy train - one which reached it's most sickeningly ostentatious terminus yet with the spectacle of the World Cup WAGS. And though the ordinary fan who pays for it all undeniably receives a higher-quality 'product' than he or she did prior to 1990, it's a product many are less and less able to afford.
At the heart of the feeding frenzy lies Team Engerland, which, despite its remorseless P.R. Machine and the deranged output of its tabloid shadow has, over 18 years, achieved a level of performance that precisely matches that of its component parts - which is to say marginally above average.
England habitually fields a team of rugged but limited pros, well organised defensively but limited in imagination. Occasionally, there comes a player (a Gazza, Beardsley or Sheringham) capable of a moment that departs from the humdrum. Overall however, the English player still exhibits the same shocking control, clueless movement and predictable passing that he always did - only now he exhibits it in silver monogrammed boots.
Ultimately the Premiership became an attractive product because the money sloshing around in it ensured it was able to attract ever more sublime talent from abroad. Shorn of Cantona, Bergkamp, Zola, Ginola, Henry, Juninho and the rest it would arguably be a place of less accomplishment than the old First Division circa 1975 - with Hudson, Currie, Worthington, Eddie Gray, Stan Bowles, Supermac et al.
I take no pleasure in saying it but English players are over-rated and you have to respect the modest little men in their black boots determined to undermine the whole bombastic edifice.
For like the cheeses of Switzerland, it's full of holes.
Orange Crush
Despite having just paid £12 million for the capacious Selhurst Park arena, Simon Jordan will still probably have to sub-divide his ego in order to squeeze it in. Nevertheless, you've gotta love the Orange One.
Jilted by not one, but two young managers, he retaliates with the kind of language that would be considered intemperate in a Sicilian blood feud. But then he's clearly a passionate man: he's currently squiring neurotic former coke-fiend Sophie Anderton, whilst testifying against another equally comely conquest charged with stalking him.
If you're witty, intelligent and well-endowed say, you might be apt to disregard the importance of striving for Geld, but Jordan's exemplary exploitation of the high life exposes your folly. He lives in Marbella, shags supermodels, buys his favourite football team and gives himself a run out in testimonials.
Well you would, wouldn't you?
Born Yesterday
The first time I ever played poker I was relieved of my pot in roughly seven and a half minutes by a smiling Irish assassin whose name escapes me.
I next beheld a similarly predatory countenance several years later: it belonged to an 'official guide' as I stepped off the boat in Tangier.
The rapid and unequal transactions that took place on both occasions felt, after a fashion, like initiations.
When Gareth Southgate says of his £6 million signing Robert Huth: ''we're determined to help him become a better player', you'll forgive me if I'm transported back to those long-buried humiliations.
NOW HAVE YOUR SAY IN THE NEW HOLGATE FORUM
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