David Beckham clocked up his century, but apart from one cross and a lovely bit of embroidery on his shirt made no impact. Perhaps Capello’s instruction to concentrate on crosses was deliberately left untranslated by the Draculian ghoul in charge of communications. I bet everyone’s game suffered with him swooping about the dressing room; trying to avoid garlic – not easy in Paris – he must’ve been a bag of nerves.
England were proper shoddy Wednesday and I feel more disheartened than I can recall by the lack of invention, structure, imagination and flair. To whom do we turn now that Goldenballs’ seed can no longer be depended upon? Where do our hopes now rest?
Perhaps we should adopt the policy once favoured by Royalists and consider skipping a generation when electing our next deity – forget Charles and move straight to Wills. Let’s not fret further about Shaun Wright-Phillips or Peter Crouch, let us bound merrily to Mark Noble and the incomparable Freddie Sears, whose name ought be eulogised in the form of a parody of The Beatles hit ‘I Get By With a Little Help From My Friends’ – not ‘Billy Shears’ as Ringo sang but FrEeEeeDddiEEe SeEAaaRs. And God bless Paul Jewell.
34
My adventures with Beckham in wonderland
I didn’t see the Champions League games because I’ve been spending all my time with child actors, Adam Sandler and a guinea pig – in a professional capacity of course, I’ve not become a bizarre pervert with remarkable contacts.
Out here in Hollywoodland access to football is limited but proximity to mind-bending glamour is at an all-time high, why, one can scarcely leave the house without being smashed in the face with dirty great lumps of fame. That is why this week’s column is jam-packed with genuine scoops, such as you might get from a genuine journalist – unlike a genuine journalist however I have licence to provide as much context as I wish and here it is.
‘The conversation may’ve lasted nine minutes before security prised my jaw from his divine ankle’
On Tuesday night I performed a stand-up show with comedian Greg Proops who you will remember as the Elvis Costello-looking American gent from Whose Line Is It Anyway? The crowd of about a hundred people were strewn with stars such as Flight Of The Conchords, Fearne Cotton, Drew Carey, James May (out of Top Gear – that threw me), legendary producer Tony Visconti and Colin Hay – the bloke who wrote ‘I come from a land down under.’ To be there at all was bliss but to perform was very heaven – aside from the plaudits and accolades that dripped from the ceiling like hot wax I was able to check the lyrics from Men at Work’s best-loved hit – ‘where beer does flow and men chunder’ is just one of the evening’s revelations; which is a terrible advertisement for the Antipodes.
Afterwards, in the spirit of celebration, I headed off to what can only be described as a swanky karaoke bar, keen to impress all present with a flawless rendition of ‘I come from a land down under’ without even glancing at the screen. However this breathtaking plan was put aside on arrival to ‘The Villa’ as there, within its confines, immaculate, impeccable and drinking bottled water sat David Beckham. That’s right, David Beckham. Fearne Cotton cannot ever have been so hastily elbowed aside as she was when my hungry eyes met those ever twinkling peepers of dear David.
The next few minutes occurred as if unfurled from a celestial fairground; whirling lights and giddying mist, my hand on a sinewy shoulder, flashing blue eyes and a chuckle like cool water over smooth pebbles – all the while ‘A land down under’ lulling me into a waking Shangri-La. What follows are the snatched reminiscences of a conversation that may’ve lasted as long as nine minutes before security prised my jaw from his divine ankle.
Obviously, he’s utterly lovely and sweet, this we all know, and my favourite moments from this encounter were these: at one point he said, quite unaggressively and entirely in keeping with the tone of the natter, ‘fucking’ not as a verb of course, merely for emphasis, I can’t absolutely remember the context because of the pounding of my heart but it was something like ‘Yeah, LA is a fucking nice place to live.’
Now he’s a 32-year-old professional footballer from Essex, swearing oughtn’t really draw comment. I suppose it’s because we see him speaking on TV so frequently courteously that it was like seeing the Queen apologise for a fart. A further highlight came when we discussed a forthcoming LA Galaxy fixture:
Me: Is it at home?
DB: Yes.
Me: Oh. I’d love to go. Ooh, do you think you can get any tickets?
DB: (with wry curling smile) Yeah I think so mate.
One can hardly imagine a situation where David Beckham would be denied comps for his own side’s games; he could probably get tickets to La Bohème at Sydney Opera House with a snap of his fingers. How daft of me. Then after apologising for ‘talking shop’ I asked what he made of the current England set-up and his own fitness and how playing in the MLS will affect his international career.
He said that Fabio Capello is a great manager who was fantastic at Real Madrid and will turn England around efficiently and expertly over the next six months. He said that training and fitness in MLS are as good as in Europe because American sporting technology and ideology is so advanced. And he said that he will keep playing internationally for as long as his legs will carry him.
David Beckham, on the basis of my encounter with him is a charming, intelligent and charismatic man who emanates warmth and star quality in a manner comparable to Princess Diana – for this alone he ought to be kept in the team for as long as he’s willing to turn up. And for any who doubt the ability of this extraordinary athlete and ambassador, indeed any who would seek to cross him on or off the pitch, I think Men at Work put it best when they said ‘you better run, you better take cover’.
‘I hear that some regulars at the Bridge would prefer Chelsea to be knocked out of the Champions League and to drop out of the title race just to be rid of Grant. Astonishing.
35
No replacing the man with a wiggle in his walk
Sorry. Sorry for not doing my article last week. If you were disappointed then I know how you feel, I used to be terribly upset when Jon Ronson’s column failed to appear in the Weekend magazine supplement that accompanies this very paper, on one occasion bothering to text him to personally berate him for his absence.
It’s not that Tim Dowling, the fella they got in to replace him wasn’t any good it’s just I felt, and in fact feel, a strong sense of identification with Jon’s writing especially when he scribbles from the core of his incessant embarrassment and uses his column to score points in domestic clashes. I still miss his contributions and now only look at Weekend at all because of Dave Shrigley’s cartoon – if he leaves I shall simply leave Weekend untouched like the detested Jobs and Money section, too boring even to line the cat’s litter tray – he’d become constipated rather than defecate on all those tedious career opportunities.
‘I think that I exemplify a common phenomenon in my admission that I put aside my disdain for the Blues whilst Mourinho was at the club’
When José Mourinho left Chelsea he did it in the certain knowledge that he, like Ronson, was irreplaceable. It would’ve required a manager with the looks of George Clooney, the brain of Richard Dawkins and the charisma of Charles Manson to assuage the sentimental tumult inspired by his departure. I do not like Chelsea but I was sad to see him leave and I think that I exemplify a common phenomenon in my admission that I put aside my disdain for the Blues whilst he was at the club. He made Chelsea palatable.
Figuratively the scenario is reminiscent of a girl I once dated who had an atrocious personality (cruel, racist, joyless) but a really nice arse. She was like her own arse’s irritating best mate – I had to tolerate her to get to the arse. The arse in its spellbinding beauty made her many flaws tolerable – she later revealed she’d only gone out with me because she liked my cat so don’t feel too sorry for her.
Mourinho was like that girl’s beautiful arse – while he was at Chelsea few cared that they played stifling football for
a humourless billionaire, we were too busy ogling the arse. Now that gorgeous set of buns has been replaced by the saggy rump that is Avram Grant no one gives a monkey’s that the results are quite impressive, we still mourn the departure of the tanned hide of the Special One – ‘I hate it that you’re leaving but, boy, do I love to watch you walking away.’
I hear that some regulars at the Bridge would prefer Chelsea to be knocked out of the Champions League and to drop out of the title race just to be rid of Grant. Astonishing. As he himself pointed out, who would’ve thought when Mourinho wiggled off that Grant would still be in the running for major honours this late on in the season? One suspects that Chelsea will win nothing, naturally. That United will wrap up the title in the next few games and that Liverpool will bounce them out of Europe but none of this matters to Roman Abramovich, who is apparently poised to give Grant a hundred million to reinforce his squad over the summer.
What’s going on? Why does that seem so absurd? Why are we so unwilling to accredit Grant? I’ve a friend who’s a season ticket holder in SW6 who swears blind that during matches Steve Clarke and Henk ten Cate conduct tactical powwows, literally, behind Grant’s back as if snogging out of sight of an unwanted chaperone. Players are breaking ranks to announce to the press that they never would’ve joined the club to play for him and more childishly that they call him ‘the professor’; not in the way Arsène Wenger is called ‘the professor’ – affectionately, because of his keen, tactical mind – but because they think he is a right dickhead. A dickhead professor who no one likes.
Didier Drogba is said to be leaving, only delaying his decision on destination until old sweet cheeks has picked a club, and many more, reportedly, will follow. Quentin Crisp said, ‘Charisma is the ability to influence without logic’, and this is the key to Grant’s problem – he can do all the publicity he likes or sit through a press conference issuing only yes or no answers but he’ll never manipulate the manner in which he’s perceived because he cannot make us put aside logic in the way that Mourinho could. The only thing I can remember from all the press I’ve read about Grant is that his wife once drank urine on an Israeli TV show. It’s gonna take a lot more than that.
36
From Bridge to Boleyn with Littlejohn on a limo-bike
I’m going to two Premiership football matches today, like I’m Tord Grip or something, flitting about making shrewd judgements and stroking my Scandinavian chin. I’ve never attempted such a feat before, many have said it can’t be done, but at 12.45pm I shall be at the Bridge (I’m not paying for a ticket and am therefore not contributing to Avram’s dopey war chest – in the TV in my brain I always see a pirate’s treasure chest when that idiom is used, bulging with rubies and doubloons, though that’d be a fat lot of good in any proper war. On the same dubious basis I refused to buy my friend Les who lives in Los Angeles a Spurs top, even though he’d cherish it and be deeply moved, I just couldn’t bear the idea of the revenue ending up in Michael Dawson’s trousers.
‘There is no decanter, no boomerang-shaped aerial or dividing screen between you and the driver’
Furthermore making any kind of purchase in Lillywhites sports store in central London, where I planned to coerce my friend Nik into conducting the filthy transaction as my emissary, is like trying to score smack in the Kremlin, it was like they didn’t want to sell me anything. If we’re going to surrender our souls to consumerism we should at least end up with a product. I’m aware this is still in parenthesis and has gone on for too long and that you’ll have forgotten the main thrust of the article, don’t worry, we’ll be back into the primary narrative in a trice) watching the title-deciding clash between Manchester United and Chelsea then I’ll be bounding on to a ‘limo-bike’ and darting off to Upton Park to watch the Hammers take on the Toon.
That may well sound hectic and I imagine it will be, also the term ‘limo-bike’ may conjure up rather a glamorous contraption in your neuron-box. Well know you this: a ‘limo-bike’ is a misleading piece of marketing language to inaccurately describe a motorcycle taxi service.
A less disingenuous name would be a ‘motorbike’ because that’s what it is. There is no decanter of sherry, no boomerang-shaped television aerial or dividing screen between you and the driver, in fact you are forced to cling to his waist like one of Fonzie’s girlfriends. Also his helmet is wired to your own allowing him to make a one-man radio show broadcast directly into your head, usually covering hot topics like immigration and gays. It’s like developing schizophrenia and discovering your louder persona is actually Richard Littlejohn.
I don’t usually attend matches as a neutral, for me if West Ham aren’t playing I’d sooner watch it on the telly, confidently, in my pants. But Chelsea vs United at this stage of the season will be a spectacle. The last match I went to which I wasn’t emotionally involved with was Celtic vs Rangers last season and it was thrilling. The distance and detachment afforded by the removal of loyalty and commitment improved my ability to discern and comment. I became aware of strategy and the use of space.
At Upton Park I’m transported back to my childhood and I witness the fixture from a cradle of emotional turmoil. West Ham’s presence disrupts my critical faculties. If I was watching a pornographic film and suddenly my mother appeared on screen, tipsy in a ghastly negligee I would no longer be able to enjoy the film. I’d be too concerned by the presence of my mum. ‘Christ’ I’d think, ‘she never mentioned this to me. I won’t say anything – she doesn’t like me to watch blue movies.’ It’s a bit like that.
The match at the Boleyn is of little real significance to either side who are both assured mid-table mediocrity this season but for the fans it’ll be important. As far as we’re concerned our mum’s dignity is at stake out there.
I shall spare a thought for dear Frank Lampard who lost his mum this week. Frank is a player who has been unduly harangued internationally and domestically despite being a great midfielder and, by all accounts, a lovely bloke. As Avram Grant pointed out some things are more important than football, like mums.
37
Girls may turn my head but my heart is lost
During the last seven days I have watched more football and had more football-related encounters than at any other time this season. I went to Stamford Bridge for Saturday’s visit from Manchester United where I met Ray Wilkins and Chopper Harris and mistakenly attempted to chat up Joe Cole’s girlfriend (I didn’t recognise her – she’s really pretty and when she revealed her identity I had to try and re-package the preceding flirting as harmless chivalry) then on to Upton Park for the Newcastle match.
As I arrived I saw Freddie Ljungberg being tipped into an ambulance, then during the match, for which I was 30 minutes late, I was seated next to the CEO’s phenomenal girlfriend – just in time to witness Newcastle’s two equalising goals and, most extraordinarily of all, afterwards I was whisked off to meet the legendary Paolo Di Canio. All this and it was Champions League semi-final week, not to mention my childhood hero West Ham striker Tony Cottee’s flattering insistence that I introduce his forthcoming greatest goals DVD.
‘Forever on the precipice of declarations and tears he converses how he played, with captivating intensity’
Any of these events would be sufficient to fill a column thrice this size and taken together they form a gleaming itinerary of unthinkable intrigue and glamour but even cursory examination will reveal that the inescapable embarrassment that accompanies me through life was present at every turn, like a seagull following Eric Cantona anticipating a tasty morsel of bizarre imagery.
Firstly, Saturday’s matches. It was the intention to attend both games on opposite sides of London by promptly leaving Chelsea at the whistle, leaping on to a motorbike taxi – like an assassin – and zipping to east London in time for three o’clock. These motorbike taxis did not show up, instead I travelled to the games in a…taxi.
On Fulham Road once disgorged I walked incognito among the Chelsea fans, thinking myself
so smart – ‘I’m like Henry V, amidst his troops or Luke Skywalker when he dressed as a Stormtrooper, these blue berks have no idea that I, a Hammer, as fiercely opposed to their posh, Osgood doctrine as it’s possible to be, am ghosting imperceptibly in their ranks.’
‘I’LL PICK YOU UP AT ONE THIRTY, RUSSELL!’ bellowed the driver.
The blue flag anthem stammered into silence, the shuffling battalion ceased marching, a police horse exhaled and eyes turned. ‘It’s Russell Brand’ spat the chief of the Headhunters. I steeled myself for the onslaught. ‘I’ll go down fighting’ I pledged. ‘You can take my life but you’ll never take my freedom,’ I screamed as one by one polite adolescents posed at my side for harmless photos.
I saw a beautiful woman sashaying through the throng – my chance for escape; I darted after her regurgitating clichés till she elegantly revealed she was betrothed to England’s most naturally gifted player, Joe Cole. Once in the executive lounge I navigated the Wilkins encounter flawlessly – except for badgering him to give me inside information on the Avram Grant situation, he agreed that the problem was succeeding ‘the most charismatic man in sport, let alone football’.
Travelling by car meant that it was necessary to leave this scintillating match at half-time – listening to the radio en route I learned of two goals and several enthralling incidents at the Bridge and two home goals at Upton Park. Of course I was in my seat in time to see Obafemi Martins score for the Geordies then moments later Geremi drew them level, confirming my status as a jinxed talisman. My companion for the second half was the heartbreakingly attractive girlfriend of a West Ham executive who I chatted to innocuously whilst the fans behind us hollered ‘Oi, focus on the game’ and ‘Brand! Put her down.’
Articles of Faith Page 14
