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NORTHERN LIGHTS 10-11-06
Calum Law
When he was feeling flush, my old man would occasionally treat us to a seat in the famous old North Stand, and I can only ever recall observing the phenomenon from there - perhaps the posh seats stimulated a heightened aesthetic state.
The immaculate Ayresome pitch would glow a preternatural green beneath the floodlights, the vivid red shirts would pour relentlessly forward when... GOAL! - ecstasy is loosed, the old wooden superstructure reverberates with pheromonal eruptings. And then (le petit mort) the shuffling, the subsidence, the slow settling down; and over in the South Stand the random, ephemeral scintilla of a thousand Embassy Regal being sparked into grateful life.
This post-coital analogue came to mind as I contemplated a way to avoid writing a futile post-mortem about Southgate's tactics or Boateng's decline. For it's my experience that there's only one means by which the football fan is able to avoid dwelling on the deep misery the game is apt to engender, and that is by way of erotic intoxication - and even then we're only talking a partial mitigation of symptoms.
Throughout the course of his life (women being credited with a wider spectrum of interests) the twin obsessions of football and sex are destined to be yolked together in a symbiotic pas de deux - a bit like air and petrol in the chamber of a carburettor. And on another cold and cheerless morning in the midst of winless run/sexual drought, success in either field acts as a kind of automatic choke on the old jalopy's ailing heart.
A whole section of the publishing industry has apparently concluded that efficient calibration of this mixture is all that's required to keep the simple male machine ticking over. For the jizzmatic young buck, the sex is necessarily foregrounded (though if he maintains that 'Nuts isn't really porn', you should challenge him to read it on a train). Later, as a chap's waistline widens along with his television, a modest reverie before the 'come hither' gaze of Gaby Logan is contentment enough.
It says little for our sophistication perhaps but truly, much anguish could be assuaged if, should Boro go down, the females of Teesside made themselves generally available for a summer of uninhibited rutting. Many of the ills that afflict human relations would be avoided should the eternal trade-off be institutionalised somehow: a league reverse would trigger an automatic blowjob say - whilst a Cup Final defeat gets you a threesome with her younger sister.
Similarly Boro would be magically prompted to time their winning sequences to coincide with periods of enforced celibacy. Sadly, I suspect the reverse is nearer the mark and just as 'success breeds success' so 'a limp display breeds...' - you get the picture.
I once briefly (and incredulously) dated a model - actually 'catered to' is probably more accurate - who assured me that 'rich people have more orgasms'. 'Great', I thought, 'despite the best things in life being free, the rich still contrive to get more of them .'
Accordingly, my friend Tom (with his matinée idol looks) supports Chelsea. For him, life is just one long tape loop of 'get in there!'
For those of us whose lives are less peppered with endorphine highs, let's hope we get to light up at least one post-conquest gasper this weekend.
Bitch Fights
You could've knocked me down with a feather on Sunday evening as I arrived home to be greeted by footage of uber-nerd Arsene Wenger taking a swipe at the rather-too-pleased-with-itself mug of Pardew.
For sheer fearless intent it resembled an altercation between the prime movers of the Dungeons and Dragons Society.
Nevertheless, to all those endless pub debates about whether Chopper Harris would've taken out Vinnie Jones, we can now add a sub-category: 'who's got the hardest manager?'
Bolton fans would probably fancy Big Sam to kick a few butts, and Martin Jol could be said to exude a certain lantern-jawed menace. As for Gareth: the kindest thing that could be said is that he'd probably place higher than his team is at present.
My money however would be on the Manchester City boss. John-Pierre Papin put it most succinctly when, prior to the 1988 European Championships, he was asked which England player he most feared.
Expecting to hear 'Barnes' or 'Lineker', his interviewer was taken aback when Papin replied 'I fear Stuart Pearce.' Adding: 'because when I look in his eyes I see nothing.'
Men in Tights
Regarding the insults which curdled the bad blood between Wenger and Pardew, I'm disposed to side with the Frenchman.
To Pardew's accusation that Arsenal's fielding an all foreign XI was 'bad for football', Wenger countered with a fairly unarguable point; namely: why should he award (say) a £2 million contract to an inferior player - just because they're English. After all, if English players are good enough they'll get a game, and if they're overpriced it's for English football to address the greed that drives it.
They are in any case largely talking past each other. Arsenal's financial projections oblige Wenger to deliver Champions League football on a far-from-limitless budget - something he's been shrewdly adept at doing. Pardew's brief, by contrast, is to provide middling Premiership stability. Of his honest English yeomen, only two - Reo-Coker and Ashton - would get anywhere near the Arsenal first team.
And ultimately those little Englander postures (in the thoroughly globalised labour market) just became tiresome. Yes, foreign players are apt to simulate injury and swaddle themselves in thermal garments the minute temperatures drop below the sub-tropical; but they've hugely raised the bar in terms of technique and entertainment value.
Even Pardew would admit that it's the team crafted by the unlikely Gallic pugilist that most neutrals would pay to watch.
NOW HAVE YOUR SAY IN THE NEW HOLGATE FORUM
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