Best lines of World Cup commentary of all time
Shouting these lines at the top of your lungs for full effect is advised
Criticism of Phil Neville’s sleep-inducing co-commentary at this World Cup has obscured the fact that our current crop of announcers have, so far, failed to produce any real zingers that will stand the test of time. While they pull their socks up, we’ve delved into the archives to bring you some of the best lines of commentary – that aren’t They Think It’s All Over – of all time. “Oh, that’s brilliant! Oh, that’s wonderful!” Barry Davies, Holland v Argentina 1998 Coming as an accompaniment to what is, scientifically, the best World Cup goal ever scored (think about it: it involved controlling a 40-yard pass in the 89th-minute of a World Cup quarter-final against Argentina) Davies broke free from the sanctimonious schoolmaster routine that had become very much his thing, to lose himself in the sheer exuberant joy that only a World Cup goal can bring. Davies, at his best, could conjure a wonderful cadence to his commentary and, combined here with that guttural rasp of excitement, his words achieved a spine-tingling significance. View oEmbed on the source website “Oh my word, have you ever seen anything like that?” David Coleman, Portugal v Brazil 1966 You get the feeling David Coleman rather enjoyed himself at Goodison Park on the 19th July 1966. Coleman later became famous for his understated, staccato style – in football commentary at least – but in this, earlier, example of his work, the more youthful man allows himself to be carried away by the vim of an excellent Portugal side and, of course, the chief architect of this defeat of Brazil, Eusebio. Indeed, before the line in question, Coleman is already in raptures about “the way this man hits a ball” and when the little lion from Lisbon hits his second goal of the game, Coleman practically purrs: “Oh my word, have you ever seen anything like that?” The phrasing is given all the more resonance given that in those, more parochial, days his audience probably hadn’t. View oEmbed on the source website “England have done it… in the last minute of extra-time.” John Motson, England v Belgium 1990 The best thing about this now classic (it was featured on Baddiel & Skinner’s Three Lions in case you missed it) piece of commentary from John Motson is it’s slow build, as though half way through his sentence Motty realised he hadn’t gone big enough. Obviously he’d gone big – with a level of bigness appropriate to an FA Cup semi-final winning goal, say - but not big big (to borrow from punditry parlance), in a manner that truly befits a last-minute winner in a World Cup knockout game. He rectified this, in a way that only Motty knows how: by going soprano. As his voice crackles in those final few syllables the nation comes round to realising in, unison with Motty, that this goal was, indeed, very, very big. View oEmbed on the source website “Josimarrrrr!” John Motson, Brazil v Northern Ireland 1986 Josimar is a fun name to say. Try it. Now imagine bellowing it at the top of your lungs, with added vibrato, in a stadium full of Brazilians. Feels good, right? This must have been the thought process of John Motson as he stood in front of his hotel mirror, mic in hand, possibly sheepskinned, during his pre-match warm-up routine for Brazil versus Northern Ireland in Guadalajara, 1986. Not content with his first expression, after the rangy defender lashed one into the top corner on his debut, Motty leans back, clears his throat and, just in time for the action replay, lets rip again, this time with gusto and a slight Brazilian affectation: Josimarrr! Just as he’d dreamt it. View oEmbed on the source website “You have to say that’s magnificent!” Barry Davies, Brazil v Northern Ireland 1986 Back to the grand old paternalist now for a goal that would have tested every fibre of his neutrality, what with all that seething indignation bubbling away as a result of a Diego Mardona’s Hand of God moment earlier in the game. Credit has to go to Davies for calling it as it was, without prejudgment, as a magnificent goal. Even more credit for his qualifying precursor. The ‘you have to say’ said everything. I have to say this, I really, really have to say this, but you at home should know I’m not happy about it. Don’t worry, Barry, we knew and, of course, we were with you. View oEmbed on the source website See England v Uruguay tonight on ITV - kick-off at 8:00pm
Five reasons we could see Roy Keane lose it live on ITV tonight…
We can expect some decent football from Arsenal and Borussia Dortmund - but extracts from Sir Alex Ferguson's autobiography might not leave his former player so happy
There will be a ding-dong of serious proportions at the Emirates tonight, between two of world football’s biggest heavyweights… and, no, we’re not talking about Arsenal and Borussia Dortmund. Roy Keane will be in the studio for ITV’s coverage, where, unless he’s put the squeeze on Adrian Chiles in the green room, he’ll be asked for his reaction to some pretty uncomplimentary extracts about him in Sir Alex Ferguson’s autobiography, which was finally released this afternoon. Given that Keane is partial to a mad-eyed mauling of Gareth Southgate over an innocuous offside decision, Ferguson’s comments could really put him in a funk. Here are five quotes from the book that might tip him over the edge… “What I noticed about him that day when I was arguing with him was that his eyes started to narrow, almost to wee black beads. It was frightening to watch. And I'm from Glasgow." Ooh, go on Roy, give us the stare. “The hardest part of Roy’s body is his tongue. He has the most savage tongue you can imagine. He can debilitate the most confident person in the world in seconds with that tongue.” Actually, you’d imagine Roy would be pretty proud of that one. “He thought he was Peter Pan. Nobody is.’’ This, we assume, will come as a crushing blow. ‘‘I believe that Roy Keane’s behaviour pattern changed when he realised he was no longer the Roy Keane of old… I think he could see the truth of what we were saying to him, but to surrender to it was too damaging to his pride.’' Now might be a good time for Lee Dixon to move his seat a couple of yards to the right. "His two spells in management proved one thing: he needs money." Zing! Cancel the ad break, forget the second half, all cameras on Roy. Coverage of Arsenal's Champions League match against Borussia Dortmund starts at 7:30pm tonight on ITV Follow @RadioTimes
Edinburgh Fringe 48: one man, two days and as many shows as humanly possible
With regular updates from the comedy festival, Ed Bearryman is, quite literally, putting the Ed in Edinburgh. Sadly, he has a quiff rather than a fringe (this could have been so perfect...)
Wednesday 14 August 11:30 Good morning, and welcome to a blog which I hope will have the effect of making you all feel that, yes, you really are here at the 2013 Edinburgh Fringe Festival with me, and together we're embarking on a magical, theatrical odyssey. Of course, in reality, I realise that this being the online world, you're all far more likely to feel the need to make threats against my life and troll my as yet unborn children, but let's give it a go shall we? So, in short: I'm spending 48 hours in Edinburgh with a simple brief to "see as many weird and wonderful things as is humanly possible". Assuming the inside of a National Express train from Kings Cross doesn't count, I'll start updating here when I've finally arrived (at around 2.15pm BST to be precise) in bonny Edinburgh itself. From then on I'll be keeping you up to date with all the peaks and pitfalls - inevitable given that this is my first time here - as well as attempting to review, at varying lengths, every single show I see. So, without further ado, let the journey begin... // 15:01 So, I've made it... And already it's become clear that Edinburgh is not a city built for quickly scooting from one side t'other, so expect increasingly irate updates about tailgating bearded theatre folk from here on in. Anyway, first show The Secret Agent at the Traverse is about to start so I'd better be off... Tweets by @edbearryman // 17:19 The Secret Agent, Traverse, Review "Welcome to the Cabinet of Despair," and so begins The Secret Agent, adapted from the Joseph Conrad book about 19th century anarchy and terror in London, which wholeheartedly delivers on that promise. The story of a cowardly double agent (Adolf Verdoc) whose ineptitude pervades his work and his home, where both disabled brother and wife are neglected with fatal consequences. Amongst the shadows we meet The Professor, a chemist and anarchist fond of grandiose, but muddled, rhetoric, a demented, tyrannical Russian spy (wonderfully played by Leander Deeny) and Inspector Heat, the chirpy copper whose job is to make sense of it all. The production weaves audience participation, physical theatre and a haunting soundtrack together well to create an overwhelming feeling of strangeness and suspicion, and there are some gripping performances, not least from Carolina Valdes as Verloc's put upon and, ultimately, maniacal wife. There's a slight sense of the piece meandering to its conclusion – shaving off a few minutes from the running time wouldn't have done any harm – but there are enough good ideas here to make a significant, and mysterious, impact. 20:30 Tell Me The Truth About Love, Underbelly Topside And in this instance it’s homosexual love, which was enough to send two of the more conservative audience members hurtling towards the exit after the first song. If the squeamish pair had anything against mincing and flouncing, they probably made the right call: this show was full of the stuff. But, really, what else would you expect when pairing the words of WH Auden, an open homosexual, with Britten, a repressed one. The result is a comic romp through what it means to be in love which covers, among other subjects, Auden’s unsuccessful attempts to uncloset his composer friend, they dying embers of Hitler and Eva Braun’s romance and perhaps Auden’s greatest hit – if you can call a lyric poet a hitmaker – Funeral Blues. Uproariously camp, but rather fun and enlivened by pianist Jamie McDermott’s intelligent intersections. Two shows down, on to the third… Thursday 15 August 10:11 Good morning! So this is what the morning after the night before at the Fringe feels like when you’ve only had five hours sleep. I’ve got a bit of catching up to do this morning, thanks mostly to the fact that there appears to be very few venues up here that combine the facilities of WIFI and a table. Until I post my first review of the morning, a few other Fringe observations to ponder: 1. My press pass appears to be utterly worthless. Flashing it at the indifferent students working the box offices here will earn you nothing more than a look of disdain and a request for more cash. I’m now effectively wearing a fluorescent orange lanyard for fashion reasons. 2. The phrase ‘this is what the Fringe is all about’ get used a lot, often to excuse anything remotely uncomfortable or annoying that happens to you. 3. Comedy clubs at 3am will always be full of drunks. Even here, at the world’s biggest cultural celebration, there are the oiks in the front row downing rose (from the bottle in one case) and hurling abuse at any man, woman or child who dares get up to ‘entertain’ them. Last night at Spank – Underbelly Cowgate’s late-night stand-up show – Holly Walsh’s set was reduced to a twenty minute slanging match between her and an increasingly belligerent group of college boys. It descended into a bit of a scrap, which, I’m sorry to report she lost. 4. The Traverse is a long way away from fringe civilisation, all the way over on the western tip of the city centre. Which is a shame because I’ve got quite a few shows booked in there and my girlfriend (who’s gamely accompanying) is growing increasingly impatient with me for frogmarching her there at breakneck speed, in a desperate attempt to make curtain call. We succumbed last night and took a cab back from David Greig’s The Events, a clever and insightful piece on the aftermath and effects of a shooting massacre (more on that later). It took just as long but there was welcome and balmy relief, at last, for our aching pins. I’ll be back later this morning with a couple of reviews from last night’s shows, including a one-man show about the brilliance and delusion of Gordon Brown… 11:03 The Events, Traverse Theatre, Review After all the fun of Tell Me The Truth About Love comes a real slap round the chops in the form of some serious theatre from David Greig. His new play is tackling big issues; multiculturalism, immigration, social cohesion and, The Events themselves, a mass shooting. Claire is a village priest, haunted by the massacre meted out upon her multi-ethnic choir group by a ‘boy’, apparently in the name of some sort of right-wing ideology. There are obvious echoes of the Anders Breivik story here, and it’s fascinating to watch Claire’s life unravel as she attempts to find reason in the madness. She confronts journalists and politicians who reportedly inspired the killer, and comes face to face with his friends and relatives in an attempt at closure. None of this helps. She descends into a spiral of self-destruction, inflicting shamen chanting upon her confused and depleted choir group while in the meantime wrecking her own relationship with sustained introspection. Greig’s real skill in this piece is illuminating a conversation about cohesion that is so often polarised and destructive. He understands the plight of the outsider - in this case the ‘boy’ killer – and the paranoid, who follow the questionable rhetoric of the ‘politician’ (think a cross between Nick Griffin and Nigel Farage). The form is artful two. The main action plays out between two actors, Neve McIntosh as Claire and Rudi Dharmalingam who takes on all of the other parts, against the backdrop of a live choir which changes every night. It’s a gutsy technique which, notwithstanding a few bumps along the way from choir members throwing away their lines, captivates throughout, thanks to a brilliant script. The Events poses a lot of serious and thoughtful questions about how we live together, but it’s realy beauty is in being honest about the fact that there are no real easy answers. 16:15 Ciara, Traverse Longing For Grace, Hill Street Two one-woman monologues with very different results this afternoon. Where Ciara was entrancing, almost hypnotic, with a vivid script deftly performed, Longing For Grace was essentially an hour-long, histrionic whine by a princess about the pitfalls of being… a princess. Ciara is the daughter of professional criminal from the west end of Glasgow, who starts out busting butcher shops and ends up pushing the very heroine that kills his son, Ciara’s “baby” brother, Kierann. The play, then, is not a great advert for the men of Glasgow – Ciara is let down by a string of them, repeatedly – but it does serve as a sort of twisted paen to the city. There is a regretful tenderness in Ciara’s reverence for the town in which she grew up. The show’s two great strengths are the performance and the writing. Blythe Duff is utterly compelling in the role; you really feel she has become Ciara completely. Meanwhile David Harrower’s script transports the audience brilliantly from one location to another as Ciara flits back and forth through her story. That sense of place is something Longing For Grace completely and totally fails to replicate; no amount of costume changes, dodgy props or hairstyles make you feel in any way immersed in the story. Mind you, given that we’re ostensibly being asked to feel sympathy for Grace Kelly – a Hollywood princess who becomes a real one, then regrets it – perhaps that’s for the best. The performance from Grace Kiley is honest enough, if a little stilted, but her script (she wrote this piece herself) is devoid of any guile and delivered in the shrill tones of a distressed dolphin – not exactly welcome if, like this critic, you’re still a little groggy from last night’s proceedings. 20:43 There have been some pretty testing moments so far between tour guide (girlfriend) and erstwhile blogger (me), mostly due to my absolute refusal to rely on maps to get around. My rationale: we've been here a day so what kind of self-respecting man would I be if I didn't know the streets inside out by now. Also her Joey Tribbiani style map reading is not to my taste. Anyway, it's been ladies day so far today and after Ciara and Grace Kelly, we pitched up to see an ingenious and heartwarming piece of activist, art theatre Credible Likeable Superstar Role Model, by Bryony Kimmings. Kimmings, through looking after her 9-year old niece Taylor, has recognised the lack of decent role models for young girls, and so set out to create one herself. Catherine Bennett is a new kind of popstar; part-time for starters (she doubles up as a worker at a dinosaur museum), she's a creation based on values Taylor finds appealing (like kindness and motivation) and played by Kimmings herself. The show is a journey of aunt and niece, which incorporates Katie Perry dance routines, spoof Disney scenes and Kimmings' futile attempts to protect Taylor from the vagaries of the internet. It's witty and inventive and, although it borrows a bit from the Richard Curtis school of manipulative sentimentalism at times, it's refreshing to see Kimmings not just identifying a problem that should concern all of us, but going to the trouble of seeking a creative solution. 21:00 OK, so we’re entering the comedy heavy section of the evening here – I’ve developed a first rule of the Fringe which is that theatre is best seen during the day, while comedy rules the nighttime. This may or may not have something to do with me nodding off halfway through a play I will do the courtesy of allowing to remain nameless. Tonights laughs kicked off at the Pleasance Courtyard where, after afore-mentioned map issues, I’m hoping to root myself for the rest of the evening, with award-winning comic David O’Doherty. O’Doherty’s a sort of young Bill Bailey in that it’s not too much of a stretch to imagine him spending long periods of time playing Dungeons & Dragons in his bedroom – in his pyjamas – and he owns a keyboard. He’s also extremely funny and here are a selection of his jokes from this evening (not necessarily his best, just the ones I could remember in lieu of a functioning note-taking device)… “How do you bring a single lady back from the dead? Séancé!” “I wouldn’t say I was annoyed about the Nazis – I was Fuhrerious.” “If Jay-Z had just got a red balloon for each of his 99 problems he’d have had a totally different song.” And so the show must go on. Finding both a reliable WIFI signal and any form of table proves increasingly impossible as the evening draws on here, so I can’t promise too many more updates throughout the evening… but do stay tuned to @edbearryman for the latest musings, pictures and hilarious hashtags (probably). Friday 16 August 10:30 Good morning, and it’s a groggy one today. We may have got a little carried away last night at a jazz bar serving shots of whiskey for £2.75 a pop. That’s what the Fringe is all about, though, right? As I write this I’m looking out from the window of a café, at the junction of South Bridge and Chambers Street, forcing down a vat of tasteless coffee and some dry toast. What is with cafe staff not buttering your toast before they bring it to the table? It’s bad enough that I have to order myself at the counter – thus removing a key facet of the waiter-customer experience – now I have to attempt the Krypton Factor-esque task of bludgeoning a block of rock hard butter into what, by now, is ostensibly a piece of crumby cardboard. Still, Rory McGrath has just walked past the window, so every cloud…. Last night started with David O’Doherty’s attempts to Fix Everything at the Pleasance Courtyard. O’Doherty’s got a slick set, and self-deprecation down to a fine art. He also pulls off the geek schtick without becoming boring or predictable. There’s a great part of this show devoted to travelling back in time, to bring Leonard Da Vinci up to speed with our greatest inventions. “There’s a small box that fits in your pocket which allows you to know everything that everyone has ever thought,” O’Doherty explains. “Knowing everything?” Leonardo replies, “that would allow for the abolition of all argument, to stop war ever happening again. Is that what it’s used for?” “No,” replies O’Doherty, “we use it to watch videos of a Korean man pretending to ride a horse.” After O’Doherty, we meet a BBC producer who claims to have given John Bishop and Sarah Milican their first breaks in television. The fact that he concedes to being involved with Ben Elton’s latest sitcom suggests he may be telling the truth. He recommends we see Jigsaw, but we say we don’t have time and so he pays for our taxi back to Bristo Square – it’s raining, come on - which is nice. At the Underbelly Cow we file in for The Horne Section, fronted by stand-up comic Alex Horne. The show is backed by a live band which Horne uses with skill and dexterity to supplement his own brand of buffoonery. There’s a hint of Vic and Bob in Shooting Stars to all of this; the band play it straight throughout, which renders Horne’s slapstick all the more hilarious. Guest appearances from Shlomo (is this entertainment?) and Lee Nelson (legend) fall a bit flat but all in all it’s well worth checking out. Afterwards it’s a short hop to the Pleasance Dome for a party hosted by Cassetteboy, promising to showcase the best of his mash-ups in accompaniment with DJ Rubbish. In truth the mash-ups fall well short of his early work (I’m thinking Alan Sugar on The Apprenctice, obviously) but the music is a nostalgic and welcome trip back through the 1990s. We wander, or perhaps stagger by this stage, on to the Jazz Bar on Chambers Street at around 2am (via a quick stop off for pizza – hey, it’s what the Fringe is all about) where we encounter a fantastic exponent of the jazz flute (minus the Ron Burgundy moustache) before Gustavo – a Polish man with apparently no friends, who attempts to engage me and my girlfriend in some weird, three-way flirtation. We take that as a very strong sign that, yes, it's time to go home. One and a half days down, 12 shows seen. Pretty good going, I think. 15:25 Just bumped into some friends who have a show on at Summerhall. Inevitably there was an awkward frisson when I had to admit neither had I seen it, nor had plans to. I muttered something feeble about impartiality but still the guilt of neglecting my duties as a friend linger. So here you are, guys: it’s called Gym Party and I’ve heard its excellent (from at least three sources other than my friends who write and star in it), so if you’re in Edinburgh go see it at 6.30pm at Summerhall. If only to make me feel better. Incidentally I’d spotted the Gym Boxers in an interesting little café-cum-artspace-cum-theatre called Hunt & Darton (on St. Mary’s Street, just off Cowgate). They served me up a pretty sturdy avocado and bacon on toast, but only after I’d tweeted my order because, of course, it was social media day. They even press-ganged me into Instagraming my food, an act which filled me with self-loathing instantaneously, but they were wearing cute pinafores and had broccoli strapped to their head at the time, so really how could I say no? This is the kind of place that would be scarcely credible outside of Edinburgh at fringe-time (or, say, east London) but here it absolutely works. 16:15 And that, as it turns out, is the last meaningful action of my debut Fringe, unless you count picking up supplies for the train journey home which I’m sure you don’t. The last walk down the High Street serves as a sort of physical flashback to the – yes, you guessed it – what the Fringe is all about. The madness, frivolity and bravery; the craziness, the creativity, the downright absurd. It’s all here on this gauntlet of performance. Among the highlights of that final stroll were guitarists doing classical music in quick time, the cast of Macbeth idly, and serenely, plaiting each other’s hair, actors holding an impromptu conference calls, terrible jugglers, brilliant acrobats, they’re all here vying for attention, parading their wares (and, of course, their flyers) desperate to stand out from the crowd and articulating the cornucopia of art the festival showcases from sunrise to well beyond sunset. It’s breathtaking and breathless and I’ve loved every minute of it. In total I managed 12 shows in a little over 34 waking hours which, by my own estimation, works out to around one show every three hours. Personal hygiene, diet and sanity suffered as a result. It was certainly attritional and I’d like to thank you for joining me for any or all of it. Hopefully it’s persuaded some of you to ditch the armchair and make the journey yourself, or perhaps you’re already going. If so here’s one final roll call, and digested review, of each and every show I saw… 1 The Secret Agent, Traverse Theatre Meandering and not particularly thrilling thriller, with set-piece dances and some engrossing performances. *** 2 Tell Me The Truth About Love, Underbelly Bristo Square Camp cabaret for the faint-hearted, showcasing the lyrical mischief of WH Auden. *** 3 The Events, Traverse Theatre Challenging, thought-provoking post-massacre tale of a women priest’s life unraveling. **** 4 The Confessions of Gordon Brown, Pleasance Courtyard Circuitous monologue from the Great Leader himself, delivered with panache, poise and guts. *** 5 Spank, Underbelly Cowgate Rude, lude and occasionally funny, late-night stand-up with the bawdiness of Wetherspoon’s at closing time. * 6 Ciara, Traverse Theatre Bold and brutal paen to Glasgow, beautifully performed and written – a highlight of the week. **** 7 Longing For Grace, Hill Street Theatre Bizarre one-woman tribute to Grace Kelly. Shrill, obtuse and an assault on the ears. * 8 Credible Likeable Superstar Role Mode, Pleasance Dome The rise of the alternative popstar, Catherine Bennett. Over-sentimental, but nonetheless charming and funny. **** 9 David O’Doherty, Pleasance Courtyard The heir to Bill Bailey, weird keyboarding bolstered by a slick and well-crafted jokes. *** 10 The Horne Section, Underbelly To paraphrase Partridge, this was just good entertainment. Rasping band, brilliant led – unadulterated laughs. **** 11 Junk, C Theatre Raw and youthful production of a Melvin Burgess novel. Awkward, unpolished, but compelling. *** 12 Our Fathers, Summerhall Poignant exploration of fatherhood incorporating some truly moving physical and immersive theatre. ***
Fever Pitch: Judge Serena Williams by her performances on court, not her sex or race
Why must the tennis star's incredible achievements continually be marred by prejudice? asks Ed Bearryman
Perhaps I shouldn’t have been surprised that, as I watched Serena Williams power her way to yet another grand slam at the French Open on Saturday, the attention of the two women in my company immediately turned, not to this immense achievement, but to the shape and size of the victor’s body. After all it’s no news that we exist in a society whereby a high proportion of our female-focused media eggs on our women to gang up on each other, especially when it comes to physical appearance. The Ring of Truth and Sidebar of Shame have long-since pervaded our coffee table chit-chats. And of all sportspeople, Serena probably cops it just about as harshly as anyone. On some occasions male journalists have been known to come over all Mills and Boon when describing her on-court attire, just as Bill Mouland did on the Daily Mail website in 2003, when he excited readers by telling them her dress had “adhered to her like clingfilm, emphasising every astonishing body contour.” Phwoar, indeed, eh, Billy boy? It’s hard to decide whether to be more fed up with the sheer creepiness of that piece or just the sheer tedium that body image is the first prism through which we view our female icons. And it’s not just from outside the sport that Williams must face this relentless, regressive obsession with her ‘contours’. At an exhibition match in Sao Paolo, Brazil, late last year, world No 9 Caroline Wozniacki appeared on court having generously stuffed her vest and skirt in an apparent imitation of her rival. The stunt sparked an outraged response, in which Wozniacki was accused of being racist – the stuffing was interpreted in some quarters as having mocked something very specific about African American body types – but Williams responded: “I know Caro and would call her my friend.” With friends like that, who needs the Daily Mail? Another rival, 19-year-old American up-and-comer Sloane Stephens, recently tore into Williams for being aloof around the circuit and chastised her for the way she “went from saying all these nice things about me to unfollowing me on Twitter.” Again, Williams responded with measure and caution. There appears to be a continual reluctance to judge Williams, as almost all of her peers are judged, primarily by her achievements on a tennis court. Nowhere is this more evident than in the shoddy treatment she habitually receives at our very own Wimbledon Championships. It’s supposed to be an occasion steeped in gentility, politeness, generosity and warmth, but where Serena (and indeed her sister Venus) are concerned, proceedings at SW19 are all too often marred with hostility and resentment. There have been matches here where every one of her dropped points is cheered, and every queried line call whistled and booed. In 2011 when news filtered through to centre court that Serena had been knocked out in the 4th round by Marion Bartoli, the crowd erupted with a roar normally reserved for news of a British progression. None of this would raise a squeak, let alone an eyebrow, in the world of football, but here, at Wimbledon, it is completely out of context with everyday crowd etiquette. Just ask Roger Federer or Rafael Nadal what life is like at Wimbledon as a returning champion, and they will tell you of an atmosphere of fondness and adulation. Not so for Serena who, let’s not forget, has won this tournament five times. It comes to something when a British crowd can’t see past their prejudices – and let’s not beat around the bush about the racial element to this antipathy – and admire greatness. Perhaps at this point it’s worth reminding ourselves just how great Serena is. Currently ranked No 1 in the world, she has achieved an 89% win ratio in her career so far, has won Olympic gold, notched up 13 grandslam doubles titles as well as 16 grand slam singles titles, making her the 6th most successful player of all time and with every chance of added to that legacy before she calls time. That is a roll call of achievement worth shouting about above all else, and as one of the world’s greatest ever athletes she deserves for it to start producing some positive noise. Centre court at Wimbledon on 24 June would be a good place to start. Ed Bearryman is features editor at Match of the Day magazine Follow @edbearryman
Fever Pitch: England will never play football like Spain or Brazil - but there are other ways to win
Some fans and critics have developed an obsession with possession - but the team's natural game can be just as thrilling and effective, says Ed Bearryman
Turn to any of the newspaper backpages this morning and you’re sure to find accounts of how England’s ‘inability to keep the ball’ against Brazil in the Maracana on Sunday points to a wider malaise in English football. The idea being that to fail in mastering one of the game’s fundamentals – passing the ball to someone in the same coloured shirt – should be the source of great shame to the nation. But maybe it’s time to get real about our possession obsession. It’s unfortunate (especially now that those coloured shirts are supplied by Nike) but it appears England just can’t do it. Anyway, the fascination has only taken root recently thanks to the emergence of statistical science in the game (we can probably, if we want to, find out exactly how many times Wayne Rooney scratches his left nipple during 90 minutes these days) and the brilliance of both Barcelona and Spain’s tiki-taka regimes. Before this, nobody spent much time poring over possession statistics, especially when England were walloping the Germans 5-1 in their own backyard in 2001. If they had, they’d have seen that Sven Goran Eriksson’s men spent just 39% of that match controlling the ball, even less than Roy Hodgson’s group at the weekend. The point is that we’ve never truly embraced the idea of the ball as a vehicle of expression. In the English game, it’s still very much the means to an end of moving the entire team up the pitch as quickly as possible. How else does one explain the persistent production of Big Men Up Top (think Andy Carroll, Peter Crouch) and the ‘agricultural defenders’ (Phil Jagielka, Michael Dawson) who feed them. And if we haven’t learnt from our more cosmopolitan chums by now, perhaps we’re never going to. Our football team doesn’t travel the world to adapt to an evolving game, rather in an attempt to smother it with our own blueprint for how the sport should be played. Just like the way scores of British holidaymakers decamp en masse to southern Spain in order to eat fried breakfasts, drink in British pubs and watch Eastenders, English football imposes, it rarely innovates. In that sense, the team itself can come to embody the characteristics of a collective troupe of Brits Abroad. Phil Jagielka, for example, defends like an Englishman ordering dinner in a Spanish restaurant; with a slow, relentless drone of unsublety. In the Maracana, James Milner turned the kind of hue only a British holidaymaker on a beach can manage, proving that not only can mad dogs and Englishmen go out in the sun, they’re also quite skilled at careering around in it at 100 miles per hour, as if they were operating in a blustery autumnal afternoon somewhere outside of Harrogate. These approaches are never going to win over the aesthetes, and won’t see their perpetrators go into any hall of fame but, as in Munich in 2001 and Brazil on Sunday, they can be both thrilling and effective. Besides, life with this England team has never been as entirely unrefined as critics like to suggest. Wayne Rooney, for example, has often provided flashes of brilliant individual skill even if the group as a whole couldn’t take his lead. On Sunday, he was back to something like his technical best. At times he had the air of the bemused holiday rep – embarrassed by his countrymen’s shortcomings and desperately trying to corral the party into something resembling coherence, with increasing impatience – but his goal was evidence enough that he can still spark this side into life. Alex Oxlade-Chamberlain’s explosive finish had done the same job earlier in the second half, although he relied mostly on the 'exuberance of youth'; a football cliche that sounds complimentary but which essentially means bobbing about in a directionless stupour, like a precocious seven year old relentlessly bombing a communal pool with no regard for his feloow holidaymakers. All the same, that boyish enthusiasm of Oxlade-Chamberlain’s did provoke a fight back from a previously spiritless England, further adding weight to Gary Neville’s theory that the old guard should be flushed out in favour of some energetic new blood. This is what Roy Hodgson will focus on for the remainder of the qualifying campaign: complementing a few jaded gems with the vibrancy of youth, in a bid to secure that elusive spot at Brazil 2014. He understands what few others seem to grasp. England are not Spain, or Brazil for that matter. It’s time for the rest of us to stop fooling ourselves they ever could be. Ed Bearryman is features editor at Match of the Day magazine Follow @edbearryman
Fever Pitch: Bayern Munich's Champions League win brings Man United's European challenge into focus
The similarities between the clubs' recent European histories should give David Moyes some comfort - and also teach him some lessons, says Ed Bearryman
Perhaps the most annoying thing about German football teams, certainly from an English perspective, is that no matter how traumatic a beating you give them they will always, some way, some how, bounce back stronger. On that crazy night in Barcelona all those years ago in 1999, Man United doled out the most painful European Cup final defeat in history. Two years later, Bayern were European champions. This time, their redemption was doubly swift, as Saturday night’s victory crowned a brilliant comeback from that harrowing capitulation to Chelsea in their own back yard last May. It’s a remarkable German character trait, and sets them apart as the most indefatigable nation in world football. Bayern are now a plotting a move beyond that culture of bust and boom toward a period of sustainable domination. It’s a scary thought for English rivals playing catch-up but, then again, almost a year to the day since we celebrated the Queen’s jubilee, perhaps it’s apt that talk on the streets of London has turned to German dynasties once more. Nowhere will the fear of Bavarian omnipotence be felt more keenly than in the new manager’s office at Manchester United. Talk of six-year plans and stability has obscured David Moyes’ European inexperience for now, but if the club falls irredeemably behind the likes of Bayern in the Champions League one suspects it will be his undoing. Moyes can take some comfort in the similarities between United and Bayern’s recent European histories. For starters, both clubs have suffered from a certain flakiness on the continent in the last decade. Throughout the early 2000s the Bayern name itself still came loaded with a visceral threat, but it was based upon past glories. Their hotchpotch of a team couldn’t do justice to the reputation. A particularly jarring defeat to Chelsea in 2005, where they were torn apart by Joe Cole and Damien Duff, sticks in the memory. Are Man United entering that kind of phase now? Their last two Champions League campaigns have fizzled out with a whimper, in the groups at the hands of Basle in 2012 and at the quarter-final stage against Real Madrid this time around. That defeat was skewed by the unbelievable dismissal of Nani in the second half of the second leg at Old Trafford, but there was something disconcerting about United’s total collapse thereafter. Their record in finals also bears comparison. Before Saturday, Bayern had lost their last two finals – against Inter Milan and Chelsea – just like United. Granted, United’s defeats came at the hands of the most celebrated Barcelona team of all time but, as Arjen Robben and Bastian Schweinsteiger can readily testify, that perennial loser tag can be a hard one to shift. So how does Moyes stop the rot? Recruiting a midfielder who bestrides the pitch in the dashing, domineering style of Saturday’s stand out performer Javi Martinez – dare we say it, a new Roy Keane – would be a decent start. Marouane Fellaini has been mooted, and it’s not impossible to imagine him developing into a player of similar elegance and command. An urgent redevelopment of his wingers is crucial, too. Wilfried Zaha is arriving, as a rough diamond, but the careers of Nani and Ashley Young will need to be rehabilitated quickly following poor seasons. After all, it was the incision provided by Robben and Franck Ribery, rotating around the pivotal Mandzukic, that cut Barcelona and Dortmund open with such regularity this season. At least in Robin Van Persie, Moyes already has the linkman-cum-loiterer to build a world-class forward line around. It’s a long to-do list for the Glaswegian and, in truth, he’ll have enough on his plate dealing with the blood-and-thunder of a Premier League title race, especially now that Chelsea and Man City are putting the finishing touches to their new management structures. But the Bayern triumph has brought the European challenge into sharper focus this week. Can Moyes emulate the Germans and reforge United as a dominant force in their image, or will his reign splutter along in the shadow of the Bavarian steamroller? If Moyes is to conquer Europe, he’ll have to do it without United’s first-team coach Rene Meulensteen who looks set to depart after 12 years at the club. The 49-year-old Dutchman was an influential figure at the club in recent years, and as a celebrated disciple of the Coerver training principle – using numerous, intricate drills to improve ball mastery – was credited with keeping Sir Alex Ferguson’s training sessions fresh and innovative. He also kept a keen eye on grass roots football in this country, not to mention the grass roots themselves, bemoaning the state of pitches here compared to in his native Holland. “When I compare it (grass roots football in England) with Holland it’s a massive difference,” he told me in 2009. “I have my sons playing for local teams (in England) and it’s unbearable to watch the kind of pitches they’re playing on. How can you expect them to enjoy it and develop their game?” His attention to detail will be sorely missed at Old Trafford if he does leave, but could the FA step in to make United’s loss English football’s gain? It would take a heartless sort not to sympathise with Northampton and England hooker Dylan Hartley after his loose lips in the Rugby Union Premiership final cost him a place on the Lions tour of Australia this summer. But credit must go to referee Wayne Barnes in his effort to uphold the standards of respect within the game. Hartley was red-carded, and handed an 11-week ban, for colourfully calling the Gloucester umpire a cheat in his side’s 37-17 defeat at the hands of Leicester, and it’s refreshing to see misdemeanours of this sort dealt with severely. Rugby Union has developed a bad habit of borrowing some of the more obnoxious traits from Premier League football in recent times – there was some pretty distasteful whining and theatrics on display throughout this season’s Six Nations – and, while on this occasion the sanction has come at huge personal cost to Hartley, it will at least diminish the likelihood of any copycat offenders and, hopefully, help to thwart a more worrying trend.
Fever Pitch: The Premier League finale was a bit of an anti-climax - are play-offs the answer?
And as David Beckham takes a final bow, Ed Bearryman salutes the man behind the footballing icon
How long before Premier League gets its own Hollywood ending? So there was to be no repeat of last season’s final-day drama, which, with Sergio Aguero’s last-minute title-winner, served up a last act so thrilling it felt as if a Hollywood screenwriter had taken control of the storyboard. This time, thanks to the combined coronation and abdication at Old Trafford last week, the last round of fixtures felt a bit like the bonus material on a DVD. You watch on hoping for one last hit but, deep down, you know the main event has been and gone. Spurs failed to leapfrog north London rivals Arsenal at the last and Sir Alex Ferguson's Manchester United weren't quite able to secure their manager a win in his final match in charge (although no-one can claim that 10-goal game of two halves lacked excitement). All in all, the Premier League denouement was just a bit of an anti-climax. In truth, that was no great departure from the previous eight months. You couldn’t help but think that the TV companies, fresh from lavishing a total of close to £2 billion on a new rights deal, would be feeling a little short-changed by a season in which the title race and all three relegation spots had been sewn up with a game still to spare. Not much nail-biting tension to be had there, sorry old chaps. That’s what made the prospect of a third place playoff between Arsenal and Chelsea – within a whisker of finishing on the same points, goal difference, goals scored and conceded – so tantalising. A season shorn of the exhilaration of recent memory could be given one last shot at redemption. It was a game that, had it gone ahead, would almost certainly have sparked some conspiratorial chatter in the boardroom at Sky TV. After all, once sponsors and TV executives had got a taste for a winner-takes-all playoff for Champions League qualification, and all the extra revenues that game would bring, it would surely be only a short hop for them to start salivating over the prospect of a similar finale to decide who would be champions. Why wait for a randomly-generated, once-in-a-lifetime money-spinner, when you could guarantee one every season, they might think. It works just fine in rugby league, as we know. Granted, that modification was a response to a question the Premier League doesn’t need to answer: how to revive an ailing sport. Stubbornly high attendance figures in the face of surging ticket prices say football’s top league has no comparable popularity problem. But there are other, structural, problems in the English game which mean the playoff idea shouldn’t be dismissed out of hand. The fuss around the Champions League, for example, has now become so cacophonous in English football that it drowns out almost everything else. That has had obvious implications for the FA and League Cups in this country, but it’s also beginning to harm the title race. Just look at Chelsea this season. Disrupted as they were by the sacking of Roberto Di Matteo mid-season, and Rafa Benitez’s arrival in January, they were still European champions who had spent £87 million on new players, and were trailing Man. United at the top of the league by just four points. Seeing them slip back so quickly in the league, while still managing to lift a European trophy, smacked of a club hedging its bets. Throw in the towel in the championship, consolidate a place in the top four and still challenge for European glory, their strategy seemed to be saying. They call it pragmatism and, with the growing trend for merry-go-round manager recruitment – Benitez was clearly desperate to get his hands on a quick trophy for the benefit of his CV – that approach is only going to become more and more common. The playoff system would only formalise this approach, of course, but with the added bonus of giving over-burdened English clubs a better chance of competing in Europe’s elite competitions. At a time when we appear to be slipping irretrievably behind our German and Spanish counterparts, this can be no bad thing. The grand final idea might also head off the arrival of a European Super League, which would surely decimate the domestic league beyond repair. After a season in which United, Barcelona and Bayern Munich all look like winning their respective leagues by double-digit margins, the temptation to cast off the shackles of domesticity must be swelling for the continent’s biggest clubs. Practically, the plan would be difficult to implement, especially in a sport governed by traditionalists who can’t even agree on an innovation as widely backed as goal-line technology. There would, naturally, be inevitable discomfort at seeing a team finish top with a sizeable lead, then go on to lose a play-off semi-final against the fourth-placed finishers. Rewards for finishing first and second – home advantage in a one-legged semi-final, perhaps – might help assuage those fears and, anyway, it’s unlikely that a team would expend the necessary energy to amass such a lead when they knew it would be close to worthless come the end of the season. The point is that, like it or not, it’s inconceivable that those who run the game aren’t already thinking about this idea, preoccupied as they are with exporting the Premier League as a global product. As we’ll see with the many post and pre-season tours due to be made across the Atlantic by Premier League clubs this summer, the US is very much the next market to crack. The MLS over there already has the playoff system in place, and with American owners now in place at Liverpool, Arsenal and Man. United, how long before the Premier League decides its time to take the Hollywood route? No such thing as crocodile tears for Beckham Talk of Hollywood is always a handy segway to David Beckham. The footballer turned global brand made his last ‘home’ appearance on a football pitch on Saturday night, as his PSG side beat Brest 3-1 at the Parc Des Princes in Paris. There was a fair amount of scorn poured on the fact that Becks lets his emotions get the better of him with a good old blub at the final whistle. Perhaps this was considered, in some way, un-English. We still prefer our sportsmen to be cut from a more stoical cloth. But then Beckham never really lived up to the stereotype of the British footballer. Happy to play with his masculinity – yes, the sarong – and with an unprecedented openness to globetrotting, he was probably English football’s first truly international star. For all that Bobby Charlton became renowned throughout Europe, he never played abroad and nor did he crack America the way Beckham did. Those tears in Paris might just explain Beckham’s success. As much as his world fame was plumped up by an aggressive brand-building project, his true appeal was grounded in something more human. People loved Beckham because of his boy-done-good story, his insatiable work ethic and, ultimately, the way he showed true emotion in a world of artifice and superficiality.
Fever Pitch: FA Cup party poopers, Lampard by the numbers and Fergie calls time
In the first of a new regular sports column, Ed Bearryman talks good timing, bad timing and putting the time in...
FA poop Wigan's Cup party Wigan couldn’t have done more to save the FA Cup. Their impressive, and total, evisceration of Man City on Saturday was the most enthralling performance in a cup final since its return to the new Wembley in 2007. But in the end their glorious victory served only to underscore the ridiculous timing of the FA’s showpiece event. Just to remind you, the FA Cup final used to be the final game of the season. Under these circumstances, Wigan would have had the freedom to celebrate their victory in style, whether they’d retained Premier League status or not. As it is, Roberto Martinez was forced to pre-emptively ban alcohol consumption from any unlikely victory party, meaning Ben Watson had to toast the greatest moment of his career without so much as a pint of shandy. Given the league results of this weekend, it’s more than likely that the Wigan players will never get the opportunity to properly celebrate their triumph. Their season now looks certain to end on the bum note of relegation to the Championship, especially seeing as they travel to the Emirates Stadium tonight needing a win against an Arsenal team unbeaten in nine matches. Back to the cup final, though, and Saturday’s result was not just a victory for the underdog, but for the footballing philosophy of Roberto Martinez and his team’s progressive style. From the press benches at Wembley, the poise and composure of the Wigan players, as well as their willingness to take a risk with the ball, was thrilling. It says a lot about the problems in English football if more agricultural teams like Stoke and West Ham can continue to survive in the top flight, while the Wigans of this world are left to flounder. As a footnote to Wigan’s cup success, it was interesting to watch the chaos engulfing their final opponents in the aftermath of defeat. Roberto Mancini’s sacking as manager of Man City has now been confirmed, but the Italian held a bizarre full-time press conference at Wembley. In it he railed against various senior figures at the club, including the media manager, for failing to quell rumours a replacement boss – Malaga’s Manuel Pellegrini – had already been approached to succeed him. The irony is that football club press officers can be very good at censoring third parties when it comes to protecting their club’s image – an email quibbling over innocuous interview quotes has become de rigeur – but it’s invariably the plot lines emanating from within their own four walls that does most lasting damage to their reputation. Lampard: The man behind the numbers It might have been all about the numbers for Frank Lampard this weekend – with 203 goals for Chelsea he’s now the club’s all-time record goalscorer – but it’s something altogether more intangible that has allowed the midfielder to scale the historic heights he’s achieved in his glittering career. By his own admission, Lampard is not blessed with the natural flair and ability of a Wayne Rooney, but what he lacked in technicality as a boy he more than made up for with a work ethic no other Premier League player can match. Forged on the playing pitches of his youth, where his Dad Frank, Sr – himself an England international with over 500 top-level games under his belt – would, sometimes brutally, pick apart his performances, Lampard’s drive has taken him to places his talent alone might not have stretched. Testament to that ferocious commitment is the fact that 12 years ago, when Lampard and Michael Carrick were making waves in midfield for West Ham, Carrick was considered to be the greater prize as the big clubs began to circle in the transfer market. Fast forward to today and, while Carrick has had a stunning career of his own, Lampard has huffed and puffed his way to 74 more England caps and 127 more Premier League goals than his old Hammers team-mate. The numbers will be how Lampard’s career is measured, but we musn’t forget the sentiments that powered them. Old Father Time in charge to the last For much of his time at Man United, opposition fans suspected Sir Alex Ferguson of controlling all the clocks at Old Trafford, but last week Old Father Time seemed to take charge of much more than just the stopwatch. His retirement weekend ran with near perfection from start to finish. For starters there was the City meltdown at Wembley. Fergie has made no secret of his disdain for his ‘noisy neighbours’, so their travails on his big weekend would have given his mischievous side something to cackle at. Then there was the Rooney saga. Sir Alex had the last word in the end, dropping him from his final home squad and then shaming him publicly by confirming a transfer request had been lodged – a rumour Rooney’s agents had apparently been denying all week. And, finally, the three points. They were in doubt for large parts of the afternoon as any hope of a sentimental finish went out the window. United toiled, as they have done since the title was confirmed, and Swansea bristled in a fashion in keeping with their own impressive season. But in the end, Fergie’s men ground out a win. Just as they always have. Ed Bearryman is features editor at Match of the Day magazine Follow @edbearryman
A meagre build-up, late kick-off and lack of Champions League qualification has devalued The FA Cup
As Wigan face Manchester City in the final on Saturday, a giant-killing could help re-ignite the passion - but big changes are what's really needed
No entertainment industry in the world does eager anticipation quite like top-level football. Ever since Sky Sports introduced the practise of advertising forthcoming fixtures during live matches, or giving their programme of weekend games alliterative nicknames, football fans have been experts at whipping themselves into a state of untrammelled frenzy. It’s a big part – perhaps the biggest – of what makes being a football fan so exciting. So, with that in mind, the build-up, or lack thereof, to this weekend’s FA Cup final has felt eerily empty and depressing. Wags have suggested the FA would be happy to hide their ‘bad news cup’ beneath the rubble of all those stories created by the tremor of Sir Alex Ferguson’s retirement. That in itself is an incredible indictment of how poorly the organisation – celebrating its 150th anniversary this year – has looked after its prestigious cup competition in recent seasons. Their relentless tampering – with replays, kick-off times and semi-final locations – has served only to devalue the supposed Greatest Cup Competition in the World. Which begs the question: if the competition was so great in the first place, why did it need all the modifications? The answer, of course, is that it didn’t. Mostly they were made to appease sponsors or to accede to the demands of broadcasters, paying vast sums for the rights to show the games, at times which pull in the biggest audiences. The primacy of the Premier League – and its gateway to the game’s most reliable golden goose, the Champions League –- further contributes to this vacuum of excitement surrounding this weekend’s final. So what, if anything, can be done to avert the FA Cup’s stagnation? In the short term, we need a cracker of a final on Saturday to reignite the passion surrounding cup final day. Something akin to the melodrama staged by Liverpool and West Ham in 2006 – when Steven Gerrard produced one of his Roy of the Rovers performances to help Liverpool snatch victory from the jaws of defeat – would fit the bill nicely. And how about a win for the underdog to boot? It might seem unlikely – Wigan have the worst goals-conceded record in the Premier League and are sleepwalking towards this final, while Man City are starting to look ominously obdurate – but stranger things have happened. 40 years ago, in 1973, Sunderland memorably did for a Leeds team, then the greatest in the land. That was the last comparable giant-killing at Wembley, so it’s no understatement to say we’re due another. Longer term, the FA needs a more prescriptive solution to this malaise. Efforts must surely be made to convince the Premier League to relinquish a Champions League qualification spot and make it available to the winners of the cup. No more can it be acceptable that the race for fourth place in the league can overshadow cup final day, as it will again this weekend, with Chelsea and Spurs both in action. That idea should be somewhere near the top of Greg Dyke’s to-do list when he takes the reigns as FA chairman this summer. Success on that front would restore competitiveness, and verve, to what’s fast becoming a moribund competition, and could see Dyke win the hearts of football fans in the same way he did BBC staff during his time as director general. Because in the end, football fans love the thrill of competitive, knock-out football in which the FA Cup has made a long and illustrious history. They crave the drama, the magic and, above all, the anticipation that’s been lost for far too long. Ed Bearryman is features editor at Match of the Day magazine Follow @edbearryman Coverage of the FA Cup Final begins on Saturday at 3:15pm (k/o 5:15pm) on ITV, 4:45pm on ESPN, 2:00pm on Talksport and 5:15pm on 5 Live The Mark Radcliffe and Stuart Maconie show is on weekdays on BBC 6 Music at 1pm
Sir Alex Ferguson loved to chat football just like any other fan
Ferguson was intensely focused when it came to Manchester United but hugely passionate about the wider game too, recalls Ed Bearryman
For all the tributes, the respect and the admiration, those who are not Man United supporters can be forgiven for having walked to work with a little spring in their step this morning. The headline news of Sir Alex Ferguson’s impending retirement is tinged with sadness, of course, but there is a hint of relief that the competitive field in English football has been levelled a little. The man who accumulated trophies like a schoolboy collecting stickers has departed, and thus the veneer of invincibility at Old Trafford may just be starting to crack. That ought to bring at least a smile to all those non-United fans who grew up in the long shadow of Ferguson’s 90s, when at times the repetition of the club’s success could feel like a never-ending slap in the face. In that decade alone, Ferguson won half of the championships on offer, finishing outside the top two only once. That regularity became synonymous with the United manager and helped cast him as a robotic, inhuman, figure. It was as if, in order to understand his heightened single-mindedness, we ascribed to him the qualities of some sort of Iron Man. A humble human being, we thought, wasn’t capable of such achievements. This explains the fascination with the man behind the myth in recent years. An interview with, of all people, DJ Spoony, was remarkable for its portrayal of Fergie as the ordinary bloke, the playful grandfather, the raconteur, the Spotify enthusiast. And it reveals why the stream of eulogies written this week have featured many a yarn of the compassionate side, which lurked behind the iron will. Since it seems a week for sharing personal encounters with Ferguson, this writer might as well dive in. A couple of years ago, covering a youth football tournament at United’s Carrington training complex, I was granted access, along with a New Zealand sports writer I’d been travelling with, to the manager’s weekly press conference. While I quietly observed, partially paralysed by the enormity of the occasion, my Kiwi friend piped up with a question – much to the consternation and disgust of a press pack not accustomed to having their line of enquiry interrupted – about a meeting between Scotland and New Zealand at the 1986 World Cup. After the session ended, a jovial Ferguson sought out my friend and invited him into his office for a private audience, as the rest of us gawped on in envy. Behind all the bravado and steely muscularity, Ferguson loves to chat football just like any other fan. But enough of the man, how will the myth live on? How can his footballing legacy be measured? Well, for the man who marked out his career by important numbers, how about the statistic that nearly a quarter of all young football fans now support Manchester United: the club Sir Alex built. Ed Bearryman is features editor at Match of the Day magazine Follow @edbearryman
Formula 1 2013 driver profile: Max Chilton
The youngest driver in the field has to keep his mind on the track and avoid any distractions in his debut season.
Team: Marussia Nationality: British Birth date: 21/04/1991 First F1 race: Australian Grand Prix, 2013 2012 points: N/A 2012 best finish: N/A 2012 championship position: N/A He looks like he could easily be the sixth member of One Direction and perhaps that’s apt as his career trajectory so far has gone singularly upwards, and at breakneck speed. In fact, if there was an official fast-track Formula One scheme it would have trouble keeping up with the 21-year-old from Reigate. Karting as a 10-year-old, Max graduated to T Car racing by the age of 14, moved onto Formula 3 at 16, made his Formula 2 debut at 18, was test driving F1 cars by 20 and now takes his place as the youngest Formula 1 driver this season. If that’s a breathless sentence to read, just imagine having lived it. Chilton’s progress has been well and truly whirlwind but, for the moment at least, his feet seem firmly on the ground. His youthful enthusiasm for motor-racing shines through whenever he talks about his debut season; from recalling those Sunday afternoons planted in front of the BBC F1 coverage as a boy to imagining the chance to race alongside some of his heroes. It will be a battle for him to stay true to that innocence though. He’s already been a victim of the Daily Mail paps, on a beach holiday with girlfriend Chloe Roberts this year, and you can bet the interest in him will be on an exponential upward curve throughout the season. The key thing for Chilton is to make sure his finishing positions do the same thing and that his head isn’t turned by all the publicity. 2013 predictions: “I’m obviously still learning plenty of things, but it’s going really well and I’m happy. I’ve had to up my fitness, these are a lot longer races than what I’m used to in GP2, so that’s the hardest bit.” Did you know? Max's Dad is vice-chairman of insurance firm Aon and helps to fund his brother Tom's World Touring Car Championship team.
Formula 1 2013 driver profile: Valtteri Bottas
The ice-cool Finn is hoping to follow in the footsteps of his boyhood hero Mika Hakkinen in his debut season
Team: Williams Nationality: Finnish Birth date: 28/08/1989 First F1 race: Australian Grand Prix, 2013 2012 points: NA 2012 best finish: NA 2012 championship position: NA It might be a cliché to describe a Scandinavian as coolheaded, but all stereotypes are grounded in a certain truth and Bottas exudes a calmness that, one suspects, will serve him well in his debut season. Having taken part in 15 Friday practise sessions with Williams last season, the 23-year-old from Nostosia, in southern Finland, should know his way around a Formula 1 car by now. That familiarity, coupled with an extraordinary single-mindedness, might just give him the edge over his fellow rookies in the paddock. That’s probably why he feels confident enough to assert that 2013 will be a season not just for development, but one in which he will also rack up “a lot of points for the team.” That will be a tall order for Bottas but for a man who’s been racing in some form or another since he was six years old, you wouldn’t bet against him. Since those early karting days, Bottas has matured into a skilled driver who, in 2010, became the first man ever to win two Formula 3 Masters titles. His boyhood hero is compatriot and two-time world champion Mika Hakkinen, and it’s safe to assume the legendary Finn would be impressed with his countrymen’s poise and determination. It’s unlikely that 2013 will be the year that Finland delivers a fifth world champion in Formula One, but rule out the ice-cool Bottas for future glory at your peril. 2013 predictions: “Frank (Williams) has told me to feel my way in and not feel pressure. But I want to deliver the points immediately. There are so many drivers who want to get into F1. So, if you don’t do well, they will find someone who does.” Did you know? Bottas is going out with Finnish swimmer Emilia Pikkarainen who competed at the London Olympics but sadly failed to make it out of any of her heats. Follow @ValtteriBottas
As Michael Owen retires let's remember the good times
Rather than dwelling on the former England player’s injury-hit twilight years, we owe it to Owen to remember those exhilarating international nights
There’s a joke doing the rounds regarding today’s announcement that Michael Owen will retire from football at the end of the season. As the line goes: “I thought he’d retired three years ago. Those engaged in this kind of schadenfreude clearly have short memories. Certainly Owen was a player who became marginalised in his twilight years at Manchester United and, now, Stoke City. In the end he became a victim of his own style, which cruelly went out of fashion. As defences moved ever deeper - thanks to continued tweaking of the offside rule - and the two-man strikeforce became all but obsolete, Owen’s off-the-shoulder approach to goalscoring grew more or less redundant. His greatest strength was always finding that elusive yard of space in which to tuck away a trademark finish. Eventually, the space closed in on him and the goals, inevitably, dried up. But to dwell on this coda of Owen’s career would be to do a disservice to one of England’s greatest ever goalscorers. Far better to remember him for those exhilarating moments when he had a nation – and it was for England that he reached his most thrilling heights – not so much on the edge of its seat as collectively jumping up and down in their own living rooms. That incredible, impish sashay through the heart of an experienced Argentina defence in 1998 was the first genuinely world-class goal England supporters had witnessed in a generation. The country seemed to take a collective sigh of anxiety, as Owen nipped the ball away from Paul Scholes’ toe to clip a shot back across goal. We needn’t have worried. The finish nestled beautifully in the top corner and the 18-year-old with the schoolboy smile and the coolest of heads had arrived on the world stage. Elsewhere, there was the exquisite, quick-as-a-flash flick and finish against Brazil at Wembley in 2000. In two touches, and what felt like one seamless movement, Owen flummoxed Roberto Carlos, no less, with a world-class drag-back, before arrowing a smart finish into the bottom corner of the net. The famous hat-trick a year later against Germany, in a World Cup qualifier in Munich, was spectacular, of course. But more than that it underlined Owen’s rapacious reliability in front of goal at that time in his career. During that purple patch either side of the new millennium, when Owen went through on goal he scored. Simple as that. For Liverpool, a memorable night in the Stadio delle Alpi in Rome in February 2001 will live long in the memory too. The Reds faced Roma – at that time European heavyweights and leaders of a strong Serie A – in the first leg of a 4th round UEFA Cup tie, with Owen a major fitness doubt having missed the previous eight games. Owen not only started but scored a devastating second-half double which pretty much secured his status as Europe’s No 1 striker. He was 21 years of age at the time. Since then, the years, and the public, have been less and less kind. An ill-fated period at Real Madrid – which nonetheless resulted in 13 goals from 13 starts – began a decline which took in an injury-hit spell with Newcastle, a bit-part role at Man United and now, finally, a closing chapter at Stoke. Fans who laugh at him now have, at various points in his career, questioned his commitment, his professional choices and his failure to adapt to the modern game. But for the rest of us, the slurs can’t touch his legacy as the star of England’s golden generation who took on, and beat, the world on our behalf. Owen was the boy wonder who went, in his own words, “from those freezing local parks to terrorising the best defenders in the world. Now that really is a story worth smiling about. View oEmbed on the source website
Champions League: Manchester United v Real Madrid preview - "Tonight will be special"
The second-leg last-16 clash between the two European giants is one to savour, says Ed Bearryman
Forget the diving, the feigned injuries, the imaginary cards waved at beleaguered officials. Forget failed takeovers and ruinous management. Forget administration and agent fees and financial doping. Forget the eye-gouging, the ref-hounding, the tribal myopia. Forget the corruption, the largesse, the detachment from reality. Forget it all. Tonight is a night for football. Just football. Please drop off your pessimism at the front gate, leave your suspicion on the doorstep. Tonight, as Jose Mourinho observed in his press conference at Old Trafford yesterday, the world stands still for the denoument to a Champions League last-16 tie rich in romance and pedigree. Manchester United and Real Madrid share 51 league titles and 12 Champions League trophies between them, but the gravitas of this fixture is about much more than the acquisition of mere silverware. Both clubs have an identity, a legend, which can light up the whole of Europe with a charge of delicious electricity. They both play the game according to those romantic ideals of daring to entertain. And, tonight, there is a sense that we are guaranteed entertainment and the highest of drama. We've been here before, of course. In 2003 when United were insouciantly swept aside by three strikes of another Ronaldo's boot, in front of a disbelieving and appreciative Old Trafford crowd. And before that in 2000, when Fernando Redondo and all-time Champions League leading scorer Raul authored another devastating ambush on their travels. There were flickers of brilliance in red across those two ties, too. David Beckham’s dash-and-swerve run and finish in 2003, for instance, stands out as one of the few occasions he ever managed, or needed, to beat a man to score. But tonight the pair meet again on a more equal footing. United are unbeaten in 18 matches, Real have one defeat in 17. United lead the championship by 12 points, while Real are fresh from inflicting a double-blow – in cup and league, respectively – against their sworn enemies, and trademarked Best Team in The World, Barcelona. And after United's visit to the Bernabeu, the tie stands at 1-1. Confidence is high, as are the stakes for both managers. For Mourinho, defeat means it won’t be him who carries Madrid to their spiritual destiny of 10 European Cup wins. For Ferguson, the same outcome represents another missed opportunity in Europe, especially with their great nemesis of recent years Barcelona – Real have no monopoly there – hanging by a thread in this same competition. To win, United must combine their newfound parsimony with the cavalier and irresistible flair of their 1999 vintage. The smash-and-grab final of that year is well remembered, but there were two exhilarating score draws with Barcelona in the group stages, as well as two gutsy victories over fearsome Inter Milan and Juventus teams in the knockouts. One moment in particular stands out from that run. Going into time added on in the first leg of the semi-final against Juventus at Old Trafford, United trailed 1-0 to an Antonio Conte goal. Ferguson’s men, in a manner which was to be repeated again and again in that campaign, summoned enough energy to storm forward one more time, and were rewarded when Ryan Giggs swept home a crucial equaliser at the far post with 92 minutes on the clock. Giggs will make his 1,000th appearance for United in some form tonight – an achievement that beggars belief – and he will know more than most the precariousness of United’s position in this tie. His late show at home to Juventus 14 years ago paved the way for a momentous 3-2 victory in Turin, which sent United to the final. In a match in which both managers have promised there will be goals, who would bet against a 3-2 away win sending Real into the quarter-finals at United’s expense? Whatever happens there is an expectation that tonight will be special. The heritage and style of the two clubs makes that as cast-iron a guarantee as you can get in football. So for one night only it’s time for football, and us, to forget all our troubles and just get happy. We’re in for a hell of a treat. Ed Bearryman is features editor at Match of the Day magazine Follow @edbearryman Manchester United face Real Madrid at Old Trafford tonight with the score from the first leg of their last-16 tie standing at 1-1. Kick-off is at 7:45pm with coverage on ITV1 from 7:30pm
Gareth Bale's attitude, as well as his ability, sets him apart from players like David Bentley
The Spurs midfielder's former team-mate used to make fun of him - now Bentley's anonymous and Bale is setting the Premier League alight, says Ed Bearryman
As little as three years ago, Gareth Bale’s career was the subject of ridicule in the Spurs dressing room. His standing was such that then team-mate David Bentley felt at ease lampooning him for a freak run, which saw Bale go through his first 24 games as a Spurs player without a single victory. “There were one or two laughing about it,” Bale told Match of the Day magazine at the time. “David Bentley was probably one of them. He likes chirping up quite a lot.” They’re not laughing now, and nobody’s heard a chirp out of Bentley for quite some time. Bale’s recent form has, quite rightly, earned him the status of the Premier League’s foremost player. Bentley’s journey in the opposite direction serves to highlight the magnitude of that achievement. Since that interview in August 2010, Bentley has lurched through loan spells with Birmingham, West Ham and Blackburn without so much as a single league goal to show for them. On the other hand, Bale’s goals are now so regular, and so spectacular, it’s as if the narrative of this Premier League season has been taken over by his very own cartoon scriptwriters. It is Bale’s attitude that sets him apart from Bentley, as much as his ability. Bentley was a talented and coveted youngster, he even drew comparisons with Dennis Bergkamp in his formative years. But in the end his was a depressing deterioration based on an inability to take the game seriously. Bentley’s two most high-profile moments in English football in the last five years – tipping a bucket of water over Harry Redknapp’s head and gyrating behind a Sky Sports News presenter during a live broadcast – bear that out. Bale will not be sidetracked so easily. There’s a ferocious single-mindedness about him which has been evident in each of his last eight goals, scored in just six games. It’s as if a switch flicks inside his head and he decides: ‘OK, enough is enough. It’s time for me to win this game.’ To think it, however, is one thing, to do it quite another. And Bale just keeps on doing it. He has succeeded in making the outrageous seem like the norm to the point where spectators, almost justifiably, expect heroics every time he lines up a shot. That’s a lot of responsibility for a 23-year-old – especially when you think that some men his age can’t even manage their own laundry – and Spurs have come to depend on him to an alarming degree. Had they faced their last eight games without him, they would find themselves 10 points further back in the Premier League and out of Europe. In a sense, their whole season rests on his shoulders. But for the greatest players, dependency like this is not a burden; it’s what they thrive on. The challenge for Bale now is to maintain this glorious intensity and stake his claim as a future candidate for the Ballon D’Or. This week he told MOTD he was willing to do whatever it takes to become the greatest player in the world. Knowing Bale, you sense he won’t need reminding of Bentley’s tale as evidence of what happens if you take your foot off the pedal. Read an exclusive interview with Gareth Bale in this week's issue of Match of the Day magazine, on sale now Ed Bearryman is features editor at Match of the Day magazine Follow @edbearryman
Ailing Arsenal need a management transplant - Arsene Wenger for Jose Mourinho
The Frenchman has lost his ability to turn promising youngsters into winners, says Ed Bearryman - the "abrasive, direct and dirty" Portuguese is the answer
Arsenal are in terminal decline. Their moribund performance against Bayern Munich this week wasn't a minor health scare. It was the symptom of an illness that reaches back eight years into a traumatic and desolate past. It's time for a surgical solution: Arsene Wenger must be removed. It's absolutely true that the Frenchman has chalked up an incredible list of achievements as Arsenal manager and, as Gordon Strachan asserted on ITV last night, the English game has benefited hugely since his arrival 16 years ago. But those facts are historical and completely irrelevant to Arsenal's current plight. Wenger has patently lost the ability to turn promising youngsters into a collection of winners, and without the resources of his peers this makes him a liability, not an asset, in the modern game. Wenger is very fond of referencing his team's 'mentality' as a way out of yet another crisis. He's the only man in the world who can't see that 'mentality' as part of the problem. Asked in a recent Football Focus interview what would happen if he went three seasons without a trophy, Sir Alex Ferguson could barely hide his disgust. It simply wouldn't happen, he insisted. Players see this authority from Ferguson every day on the training ground. It nurtures a ferocious determination which can take an unremarkable team to three Champions League finals in four years. By the same token it's fair to assume the tetchiness, insecurity and lack of control Wenger displayed in his press conference meltdown on Monday has infected proceedings at London Colney. When that happens, the lost confidence of a dressing room is more often than not irretrievable. Of course the manner of his departure will have to be managed carefully. In a game short on sentiment and decency, Wenger's achievements still deserve a dignified exit strategy. Perhaps an ambassadorial role similar to the one Bobby Charlton holds at United, or indeed Franz Beckenbauer at Bayern. But a warring board must unite and make the decision quickly. There is a quick-fix solution to Arsenal's problem which requires bold and imaginative leadership. That solution is Jose Mourinho. Widely accepted to be in his last season at Real Madrid, Mourinho is the one coach in world football capable of affecting the turnabout in self-belief this Arsenal squad so desperately needs. He's done something similar at every club he's ever coached. Chelsea had gone 50 years without a title, Inter were a Champions League laughing stock and Real's gigantic ego had taken a rat-a-tat battering at the hands of Barcelona's tiki-taka. He spun all of those narratives into a success story, with himself as the hero. There's little doubt he could do the same at Arsenal. Abrasive, direct and dirty – but perfect. Those that say he's a bad fit are wrong. Mourinho is abrasive, direct and dirty, they'll say. Yes, quite. But who would dispute that those are qualities this Arsenal squad lacks in abundance, and desperately need to rediscover to challenge for major honours? After all, how many supporters called for Patrick Vieira to be jettisoned in 2000 when he was sent off twice – once for spitting – in the first two games of the season? And how many wanted Martin Keown booted out after his boorish and infamous taunting of Ruud Van Nistelrooy at Old Trafford in 2003? The answer, of course, is none. The pair have gone down in the folklore of the club as heroes; men who were prepared to do anything to win. Arsenal have lacked a meanness and intimidating aura for far too long. Mourinho could restore it at a stroke. The patient is ailing badly. Do those in charge dare prescribe the medicine that could revive it Ed Bearryman is features editor at Match of the Day magazine Follow @edbearryman