tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-78362960977428632192024-03-05T18:33:20.337+00:00SCREAMING FROM BENEATH THE WAVESNeil Scotthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11872828266696255582noreply@blogger.comBlogger20125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7836296097742863219.post-68215160388415590462021-12-01T13:29:00.002+00:002021-12-01T13:29:29.798+00:00Some Player<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">[First published long-form piece, originally written around 2007]</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKz7iglaD7VQatM92GhyYO7TbhmklHmz_rhkoKFKbxsy0cmbJ2WyhcN0hLn3xRveO5RwoLodCA0FgEBV89UqwmDee0qwvAJvH8jA1Y28oU7DJdyyrvA08iw9StcCP4sXuwThngS_fLosg/s1032/Screenshot_20211130-173148_Guardian.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="811" data-original-width="1032" height="157" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKz7iglaD7VQatM92GhyYO7TbhmklHmz_rhkoKFKbxsy0cmbJ2WyhcN0hLn3xRveO5RwoLodCA0FgEBV89UqwmDee0qwvAJvH8jA1Y28oU7DJdyyrvA08iw9StcCP4sXuwThngS_fLosg/w200-h157/Screenshot_20211130-173148_Guardian.jpg" width="200" /></a></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>It is the second leg of the 1981 European Cup semi-final. The place, Munich’s imposing Olympic Stadium. With just seven minutes of a bruising contest remaining neither Liverpool nor Bayern have been able to construct the moment of magic that such occasions demand, the stroke of genius that catapults its creator into immortality and cements a legacy that any opportunistic politician could only dream of. </div><div><br /></div><div>The reality is that Bayern look the most likely winners if, as seems inevitable, the match is to go to extra time. Already missing half of their regular back four, Liverpool have been forced to endure the early loss of talismanic genius Kenny Dalglish, kicked out of the tie within the first ten minutes, and have seen his replacement, rookie winger Howard Gayle, run himself into the ground before being similarly replaced. Add to this the fact that Graeme Souness and David Johnson are carrying injuries that have reduced them to little more than passenger status and you can perhaps be forgiven for thinking that the pre-match taunts of Bayern general Paul Breitner are about to be borne out. </div><div><br /></div><div>With a sense of desperation growing amongst the travelling Red army, a heavily-limping Johnson collects the ball on the right touchline and surveys his options. A low cross aimed roughly in the area of the penalty spot seems speculative at best, until a burly white-shirted figure appears, unnoticed by all, defenders and onlookers alike. With an air of casualness that belies the importance of the occasion, the ball is chested down and unerringly dispatched, right-footed, into the corner of the Bayern net. Despite the inconvenience of a last-gasp German equaliser it’s enough to send Liverpool into their third European Cup Final. It’s as if the scorer felt the urgent hand of destiny pressing on his shoulder, shook it warmly and took it to his local for a pint of mild and a bag of dry roasted.</div><div><br /></div><div>That, my friends, was typical of Ray Kennedy.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>It’s a sobering thought that, unless you’re well into your 30’s, you probably won’t have witnessed Ray Kennedy perform in a Liverpool shirt. I’m reminded of my Dad, constantly drilling into me the fact that Billy Liddell was the greatest player he’d ever seen, when all I wanted to do was play on my Space Hopper or sort out the ‘swaps’ from my Argentina ’78 football sticker collection. But, just as I was always secretly grateful to the old fella for widening my football education, so it now falls to me to keep my sons aware of our club’s history and its glittering supporting cast. </div><div><br /></div><div>And few have glittered more than Ray. </div><div><br /></div><div>Having been an integral part of Arsenal’s double-winning team in 1971, it was something of a surprise when Ray Kennedy, still only 23 years old, was signed by Liverpool in 1974. It was, however, even more of a surprise when the man who signed him, the great Bill Shankly, announced his resignation on the same day. It fell to Shankly’s successor, Bob Paisley, to nurture and direct Kennedy’s subsequent career. In one of the most startling examples of footballing insight and intuition, Paisley converted the lumbering, slightly clumsy centre-forward into a left-sided midfielder of such poise, balance, vision and artistry that he was to become, in Bob’s own words, “...simply one of the best footballers I’ve ever seen”. From someone who had been involved in the game since the 1930’s and had seen all of the game’s greatest exponents this was a fitting tribute.</div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjyMaopJIahFcXDGfddo1rOQHt4OjoUAw8uK5yKJDmTawrlbwT8c3Gj-mz2LW7WOATXZVWVyvwD9v5jgiBA6IB7EzW5fYmTdx7neXssLam42g6h0vs2dUy65LXaXvO7XnfU2anYWfMCiQ0/s1584/Screenshot_20211130-173935_Gallery.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1584" data-original-width="1080" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjyMaopJIahFcXDGfddo1rOQHt4OjoUAw8uK5yKJDmTawrlbwT8c3Gj-mz2LW7WOATXZVWVyvwD9v5jgiBA6IB7EzW5fYmTdx7neXssLam42g6h0vs2dUy65LXaXvO7XnfU2anYWfMCiQ0/s320/Screenshot_20211130-173935_Gallery.jpg" width="218" /></a></div><br /><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>Kennedy was that rarest of wide players in that he could never be classed as a winger yet he offered his team genuine width and unmatched balance. His background as a striker ensured that he was instinctively aware of the best positions to take up in the opposition penalty area and his ability to ghost in unnoticed at the far post to finish off another Liverpool attack became a familiar sight in the second half of the 1970’s. Strong in the air, with a proverbial can-opener of a left foot and a shot of immense power, it’d be folly to estimate his worth in today’s inflated transfer market. But given the amount paid for the likes of Michael Carrick and Owen Hargreaves, a conservative estimate at Kennedy’s value would surely start at around £30 million, folly or not.</div><div><br /></div><div>As his record of 72 goals in 393 games for Liverpool suggests, Ray never really lost his goal-scoring instinct. Many of these came in matches of real significance, such as the aforementioned winner against Bayern Munich. I can still picture his 25 yard rocket in the 1976 UEFA Cup Final against FC Brugges which was the first step to overturning a 2-0 deficit; the decisive third against Wolves which won us the title the same year; the final goal in the 3-0 FA Cup semi-final victory over Everton in 1977; the vital strike in the historic tie with St. Etienne, prior to setting up Fairclough’s legendary winner. </div><div><br /></div><div>Kennedy went on to become a member of arguably the greatest midfield quartet ever to grace this country’s football pitches. Souness, McDermott, Case and Kennedy had everything you could ever ask from your engine room, and they were hugely influential as Liverpool took their domination of the domestic game to new levels, swatting all before them with an irresistible combination of artistry, power, elegance and commitment.</div><div><br /></div><div>By the early ‘80’s it was clear that Ray Kennedy’s powers were on the wane. But the rapidity of his decline took everyone, including Ray himself, by surprise. Just nine months after that memorable night in Munich, and after losing his place in the Liverpool team to the emerging Ronnie Whelan, he was signed by former team-mate John Toshack, who had guided Swansea towards the top of the First Division. But theirs was not to be a happy marriage, with Toshack eventually accusing Kennedy of not trying following a series of lacklustre displays. The truth was infinitely more distressing. For Ray Kennedy was suffering from Parkinson’s disease, the same affliction that would also fell Muhammad Ali, although at this stage neither he nor anyone else was yet aware of it. The reality was that he had probably been affected by Parkinson’s for at least five years, putting his achievements at the heart of the Liverpool machine into startling perspective. </div><div><br /></div><div>Before reaching his 33rd birthday Kennedy’s physical deterioration forced him to retire; it was a further two years before his condition was diagnosed. A disease that would have a devastating impact for the average person acquired tragic proportions for a professional athlete, whose health and fitness were his very lifeblood. </div><div><br /></div><div>The fall-out for Ray has been shattering. His personal life has been torn apart, he is confined to his home on an almost permanent basis, he has been forced to sell his entire medal collection in order to fund the treatment and care he requires, and his condition, sadly, continues to worsen. An emotional benefit match between Liverpool and Arsenal took place in 1991, but the proceeds raised have long since been accounted for and there has been little mention of Ray Kennedy in the public domain in the last 20 years.</div><div><br /></div><div>Given the absence of meaningful initiatives from within official circles, it has fallen to a group of determined and resourceful Liverpool supporters to attempt to provide practical support to a stricken idol. The ‘Ray of Hope’ Appeal has been established in an attempt to offer the financial assistance so crucial to a man whose income has disappeared, who has been left behind in the stampede to wring every last cent out of a game which now more than ever appears little more than an opportunity for feverish corporate greed. Numerous activities and social events have been arranged, the intention being to raise a sum of money that would help make Ray’s everyday existence as comfortable as possible. It is to be sincerely hoped that the efforts of the organisers are richly rewarded and that genuine football supporters, irrespective of tribal allegiance, support a cause that is as worthy as it is upsetting.</div><div><br /></div><div>I’m surely not alone in thinking that, regardless of the ongoing uncertainty surrounding ownership of the club and its economic implications, Liverpool F.C. could be seen to take an active lead in providing some form of support for one of its fallen legends? If nothing else, and in purely cynical terms, it would certainly be an effective PR exercise. And if anyone deserves to benefit from Liverpool’s ongoing status as a footballing super-power then surely it’s someone who had such a significant role to play in laying the foundations of its continued success?</div><div>Someone who could justifiably be described as the ‘Player of the ‘70s’? </div><div>Someone who I’m proud to say I saw at the peak of his thrilling powers?</div><div><br /></div><div>The last word, as ever, should go to Shanks, the man responsible for bringing Ray to Anfield. When asked in later years for his opinion of his final signing, the great man had no doubts: “Ray Kennedy is some player.” And you know what? As always, he was right.</div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAysVbHXFT_w0k6j20h9kNxXC_OOAdfuv8T_hG5QMgBAA9ki3ADa8ISMNifbfa4MIAUqT43BdbKKVRs7xVq8FCrf1pEt-jnPLiGX5iOsLXHTyOwKkHox6lp2S6sqW9c1QS3I7kkJ_Wkv0/s1886/Screenshot_20211130-173751_Chrome.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1886" data-original-width="1061" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAysVbHXFT_w0k6j20h9kNxXC_OOAdfuv8T_hG5QMgBAA9ki3ADa8ISMNifbfa4MIAUqT43BdbKKVRs7xVq8FCrf1pEt-jnPLiGX5iOsLXHTyOwKkHox6lp2S6sqW9c1QS3I7kkJ_Wkv0/s320/Screenshot_20211130-173751_Chrome.jpg" width="180" /></a></div><br /><div><br /></div>Neil Scotthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11872828266696255582noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7836296097742863219.post-86346759929067018312021-07-15T13:43:00.000+01:002021-07-15T13:43:47.428+01:00“NOT SINGING ANYMORE?”<p> <span style="color: red;"><i><b>[Originally published in 'Late Tackle' magazine - January 2013]</b></i></span></p>______________________________________________________________________________<div><br /><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="597" data-original-width="599" height="319" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXPCvcT2TCcH4XNWo_-hIJPtqbVK4iZwCgJrhCqdfgS8ULfXXCEC-jy2k4E1JDVt_fVGwJHO35pA3e55xnVB8tvba21iiYmoPhXjHEN8KPqioxuxBOgFKAK5CppjLqUy0Lo1eJ57ilAoA/w314-h319/R-7819872-1482581705-2888.jpeg.jpg" style="font-size: large;" width="314" /></div></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">Be honest. You hear the words football and music in the same sentence and your imagination instantly transports you to a place where tackiness, tedium and human degradation hold sway. Your head fills with fractured images and jarring howls; with ‘Back Home’ and ‘Blue Is The Colour’, with ‘This Time’ and ‘Ossie’s Dream. Worst case scenario – you find yourself haunted by the omni-mulletted ghosts of Hoddle and Waddle, while apocalyptic visions of a Steve Bruce / Status Quo Axis of Evil stalk your dreams like discordant, denim-draped demons, imploring you to “keep your bottle and use your head” with all the harmonic subtlety of a cat holocaust. <br /><br />It’s like falling through a Stargate to an entire dimension of unremitting naffness. Chilling. Truly chilling. <br /><br />Of course, you can always point to the outliers, to ‘World In Motion’ and ‘Three Lions’ and, taken in isolation, it’s true that each is a refreshing exception to the rule. Even if the former did help foist relentless charm-void, Keith Allen, on a public that had previously managed quite well without him, and the latter unleashed mid-90s laddism on the beautiful game and in doing so should be held culpable for kick-starting the joyless Soccer AM banter-bus. <br /><br />But there have been few songs in the public arena which openly reflect the realities of football’s rich culture or which capture its appeal, its unique fascination to those who have spent their lives under its spell. Gimmicky World Cup records and FA Cup Final sing-alongs are all well and good, and have helped provide Chas & Dave with a regular income for far longer than logic dictates reasonable, but they don’t tell us anything about our relationship with the game. They don’t come laden with insight or sparkling wit. They don’t hold the mirror up to our obsessions and allow us to see how ridiculous, joyous, and all-encompassing they are. <br /><br />For that we must cast our gaze further afield. <br /><br />It’s best to swiftly disregard prototype efforts such as the spectacularly ill-conceived ‘Match of the Day’, an attempt by a post-Peter Gabriel Genesis to cast off their noodly prog-rock pretensions and position themselves as the voice of the common man, via some of the most awkward lyrics this side of a Scouting For Girls songbook. Random samples: <br /><br /><blockquote>“Each side's eleven men, with numbers on their backs, but at a distance they all tend to look the same…”</blockquote><blockquote>“And that's not all, our mate’s the keeper, slipping and sliding in the mud, arms as long as creepers…”</blockquote><blockquote>and the astounding, “Where are your specs, Ref? We'll kick you to death, Ref.” </blockquote><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" class="BLOG_video_class" height="266" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/hYk_uNA395M" width="320" youtube-src-id="hYk_uNA395M"></iframe></div><br /><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div>Phil Collins, ladies and gentlemen – the Poet Ruffian of the tax-exile Ultras. <br /><br />Thankfully, the subsequent decades have thrown up a collection of artists with greater empathy for the game than a man happy to rhyme “hat and scarf” with “have a laugh.” Although it seems to be a subject matter that appeals, in the main, to quite a narrow musical demographic, encompassing slightly ramshackle indie shamblers emerging from 1980s working class culture. <br /><br />Thus we see contributions from the likes of the Sultans of Ping FC, whose semi-legendary ‘Give Him a Ball and a Yard of Grass’ was a heartfelt celebration of Brian Clough and son Nigel (“He’s a nice young man with a lovely smile”); The Trashcan Sinatras, who, in ‘I’m Immortal’, peered through the eyes of an ageing substitute (“Out for a spell, I was slated. I'd lost a yard, I was hated”); and I, Ludicrous, who came as close as anyone to summoning the mundane addictiveness of the football supporter’s existence in the ominous “We Stand Around” (“We taunt the home fans humorously, the policemen eye us with ill-disguised contempt”). <br /><br />There have also been notable entries to the canon from several more familiar names. Barking’s favourite son, Billy Bragg, has long been known to drop casual footballing analogies into his songs, happy to use the game as a handy metaphor for his adolescent romantic dalliances (as evidenced in “The Boy Done Good”). With ‘God’s Footballer’ Bragg went one step further, sensitively recounting the story of 60s Wolves striker, Peter Knowles, who retired from the game at the age of 25 after deciding life as a Jehovah’s Witness was a more rewarding experience than leading the line at Molineux every other week (“He scores goals on a Saturday and saves souls on a Sunday”). <br /><br />Morrissey may not be the obvious choice to commemorate one of football’s most affecting tragedies, particularly as his previous lyrical flirtation with the game consisted of a painfully clumsy play on words in the title of a typical piece of post-Smiths whimsy (‘Roy’s Keen’). Yet, in ‘Munich Air Disaster 1958’ he offered a poignant tribute to the fallen Busby Babes (“We love them, we mourn for them. Unlucky boys of Red”). <br /><br />And let us not overlook the characteristically abrasive offerings to the genre from legendary curmudgeon Mark E Smith, who manages to channel the cynicism of a supporter through the eye of an absurdist. In The Fall’s seminal 1983 effort, ‘Kicker Conspiracy’, Smith rails wildly against the dark authoritarian forces at work within the game’s hierarchies (“Under Marble Millichip, the FA broods. On how flair can be punished”). <br /><br />30 years later, in ‘Theme From Sparta FC’, he was constructing a loose parable around the notion of a semi-mythical hooligan gang with a particular distaste for the over-privileged residents of Stamford Bridge (“English Chelsea fan, this is your last game. We’re not Galatasaray, we’re Sparta FC”). The BBC, happy to endorse such sentiments, adopted it as the theme music to their Saturday afternoon Final Score sequence, which led to the frankly disturbing sight of Smith reading the football scores to a bewildered nation one memorable day in November 2005. If you’ve ever wondered what it would be like to see Ray Stubbs accused of having the haircut of a convicted murderer, You Tube is your friend.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" class="BLOG_video_class" height="266" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/EBUiPs1PxKo" width="320" youtube-src-id="EBUiPs1PxKo"></iframe></div><br /><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span><div><span style="font-size: medium;">But there can surely be little real doubt as to the rightful heirs to the football song throne. Half Man Half Biscuit have been at it for more than two decades now, peppering their cuttingly satirical observations on popular culture and its false icons with nods to obscure 1950’s goalkeepers (George Farm, Blackpool – ‘1966 And All That’), lower league journeymen (Bobby Svarc, Colchester – ‘Fear My Wraith’) and under-appreciated Dutch maestros (Wim van Hanegem, Feyenoord – ‘Girlfriend’s Finished With Him’), to name but a fraction. As you’d expect from a band that famously spurned the chance to appear on Channel 4’s prestigious music vehicle, ‘The Tube’, because it clashed with a Tranmere home game, Half Man Half Biscuit present an authentic supporter’s vision of the game’s disappointments, frustrations and paradoxes. Footballing references don’t so much inform their stance as infuse it. <br /><br />The perspective of lyrical supremo, Nigel Blackwell, the undisputed Bard of Birkenhead, is the very antithesis of the pervasive Sky-saturated football landscape. Instead, his concerns are grounded among those who queue for stale pies and cold cups of tea on roofless terraces, who travel the length of the country to witness grim midweek goalless draws and who turn up season after season in the hope that an unspectacular mid-table finish can be secured. <br /><br />The game’s masochistic allure is documented with depressing clarity in ‘Friday Night and the Gates Are Low’, in which the contrasts between the two ends of the footballing spectrum are vividly outlined: “Stick a burger in my mouth, shove a seat beneath my arse. Buy the shirt and shorts and socks, win the keeper’s sweaty jocks. Point a gun down at your foot, am I supposed to be at home?” Though, despite taking aim at a range of targets, from match-going families to dwindling attendances, from juvenile goal-scoring substitutes to worthless competitions (“the Lux Familiar Cup”) it’s worth noting that, ultimately, it’s an irresistible calling: “Friday night and I just love complaining. And no, I haven’t got anything better to do.” <br /><br />Their scope is wide, their zeal that of the lifelong Panini sticker collector, their outlook never less than relevant. From the wistful discourse on childhood Subbuteo sessions in ‘All I Want For Christmas Is A Dukla Prague Away Kit’, (“…after only five minutes you’d be down to ten men, ‘cos he’d sent off your right back for taking the base from under his left winger”) to the icy pragmatism of ‘Dead Men Don’t Need Season Tickets’, to ‘Rock And Roll Is Full Of Bad Wools’ blistering assault on know-nothing hipster bands hungry to acquire credibility by “sitting on a so-called soccer sofa on a Saturday morning, having the so-called banter with the Preston, touching base with fellow guest Heston.” <br /><br />In ‘The Referee’s Alphabet’, they even manage to give a voice to the much-maligned man in the middle, in the form of an A-Z which offers a robust defence of the official’s art: <br /><br /><blockquote>“R is for running backwards, a difficult skill which the pundits never seem to appreciate….<br /> U is for the umpire which I sometimes wish I’d been instead. You never hear a cricket crowd chanting “who’s the bastard in the hat?” </blockquote><div> <iframe allowfullscreen="" class="BLOG_video_class" height="266" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/WKk9eizHAaE" width="320" youtube-src-id="WKk9eizHAaE"></iframe><span> <span> </span></span></div><br />Nigel Blackwell – Prenton Park’s poet laureate. <br /><br />All of which goes to show that football and music can occupy the same territory; you just need to look in the right places. Like Birkenhead. And if you see Francis Rossi heading towards your club with a weird glint in his eye, save yourself before it’s too late.<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div></span><br /></div></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br />Neil Scotthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11872828266696255582noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7836296097742863219.post-27148339127080555812017-10-24T09:36:00.000+01:002017-10-24T09:36:17.699+01:00"We Hate Nottingham Forest..."<br />
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<strong><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 14pt;">“</span></i><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">We hate Nottingham Forest, we hate Everton too. We hate Man
United but Liverpool we love you.”</span></i></strong><br />
<em><span style="font-family: Arial;"><br /></span></em></div>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">Season after season we heard the refrain cascade down
from the Kop, a mixture of tribal defiance and petulant rival-baiting.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Like so many of the best songs are.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But, to the fledgling Liverpool
supporter of 2012, there’s something about this <span style="font-family: inherit;">one</span> that sticks out like Steve
Claridge at a Mensa convention.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">The disdain for our two biggest rivals lives on,
propelled by geography, tradition and, it should be said, the similarities that
bind us inextricably together.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But
Forest? Unremarkable, underachieving Forest?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Really?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>We might as well be singing about Coventry
or Bradford.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">A</span><span style="font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">s anyone with a passing awareness of our club’s
history can tell you, though, it wasn’t always this way. Because, for three
exhilarating seasons at the tail-end of the 1970s, Liverpool and Nottingham Forest were entwined in a fiercely
contested struggle for footballing supremacy, a struggle characterised by the
kind of intensity, commitment and quality that top-level sport frequently
strives for and rarely achieves.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There
was no need for media hyperbole or the manufacture of artificial grudges.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This was a rivalry born out of genuine
competition and sustained by the most basic of impulses – to be the best.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;"><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;"><br /></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;"><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;">Part of the thrill lay in the newness of the
challenge.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Despite the terrace mantra,
which had already been in circulation for a number of years (and which was
largely centred on harmonic convenience), Forest had barely scraped the
consciousness of most Liverpool fans prior to
1977.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It took the appointment of Brian
Clough, self-absorbed maverick of the dugout and establishment bête noire, to
change all that</span></span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">For all his faults, Clough knew how to manage a
football team.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He’d taken an unheralded Derby County
to the pinnacle of the English game before encountering humiliation at Leeds, where outspoken attacks on exalted predecessor,
Don Revie, saw his brief tenure end in resentment and mutiny.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Forest,
nestling snugly amid the detritus of the second division, represented a chance
to salvage his reputation.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was a
chance he seized unequivocally.</span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">Within two seasons promotion to the top tier had been
secured.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Not one to rest on his laurels,
Clough set about the task of engineering his rag-tag assortment of journeymen,
has-beens and rookies into a team capable of challenging Liverpool’s
perennial dominance.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And Liverpool,
fresh from their first European Cup triumph and bolstered by the rise of a new
Anfield legend in the shape of fresh arrival Kenny Dalglish, didn’t see them
coming until it was too late.</span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">Forest</span><span style="font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"> won the 1977/78
league title at a canter, almost unheard of for a newly-promoted outfit.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Taken in isolation, it was possible to write
this off as a freak, an irritating bump in Liverpool’s
trophy-laden road to success.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But what
happened in the League Cup Final that season elevated Nottingham Forest to the
position of tormentors-in-chief in the eyes of the Liverpool faithful and lit
the fuse on a rivalry that, at various times, saw both parties singed. </span></div>
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<br />
<div style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"> </span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">Over the course of two games, at Wembley and Old
Trafford, Liverpool were frustrated time and
time again by a mixture of resolute defence, outstanding goalkeeping, dubious
refereeing and rank bad luck.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>18 year
old Chris Woods, deputising for the ineligible Peter Shilton, performed like a
veteran to thwart wave after wave of Liverpool attacks; Terry McDermott,
breaking from midfield in trademark style, twice saw goals harshly ruled out;
and, with time running out in the replay, Phil Thompson was adjudged to have
brought down O’Hare inside the area despite the offence clearly occurring some
distance outside, leaving John Robertson to despatch the decisive penalty.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As Forest lifted the cup, Liverpool
were forced to come to terms with the realisation that here, at long last, was
an authentic threat to their habitual pre-eminence.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was a bitter pill to swallow. </span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">The Old Trafford defeat signalled the start of a cycle
of tightly fought, high stakes battles, in which Forest
more than held their own.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>To some degree
they established themselves as Liverpool’s
bogey team, a thorn in the side across all competitions.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Indeed, in the first ten games between them
following Forest’s promotion Liverpool tasted
victory just once, chalking up a mere three goals in the process.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Clough, it seemed, had found a way to
out-manoeuvre the great Bob Paisley, and in doing so ensured a shift in the
power-base of football in this country.</span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">Worse still, Forest began to encroach on territory
that, in Liverpool eyes, was exclusively their own, personal domain.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The European Cup.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">For two seasons, the coveted trophy had resided on
Merseyside, a representation of sporting greatness and a catalyst for civic
pride.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Fate, and UEFA’s egalitarian,
pre-seeding knockout system, decreed that in 1978/79, Liverpool’s
defence of the cup would begin against their newest adversaries.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They viewed it as an opportunity to reinforce
the natural order, to confirm that events of the previous season were nought
but a blip and normality was ready to be restored.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>For their part, Forest
dared to dream that this could be a symbolic occasion, a true passing of the
flame.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And no-one was better equipped to
make men believe in their own ability to excel than Brian Clough.</span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">Again, he orchestrated a masterclass in the art of
smash and grab.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The first leg, at the
City Ground, saw Forest race into a lead
through the emerging Garry Birtles.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Liverpool, desperate to impose themselves on both the tie
and the psyche of their opponents, attacked with gusto and, increasingly, a
lack of co-ordination.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>For once Paisley was out-thought.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Clough was content for his team to soak up the pressure and strike on
the break.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It worked to perfection as,
with the game drawing to a close, a swift Forest
counter saw the full-back, Barrett, double their lead.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was an advantage that would prove
impossible to overturn.</span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">In the aftermath, Paisley admitted that Liverpool had been uncharacteristically naïve, treating
the game as they would a typical league clash as opposed to a European tie,
where a single goal deficit was considered an acceptable result.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Perhaps it was an indication of just how much
Forest had got under Liverpudlian skin, to the
extent that logic and rationality were sacrificed.</span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">The second leg saw a repeat of the now familiar
pattern.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Fevered Liverpool assaults
crashed against Forest’s steadfast
defence.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Shilton performed miracles in
the Forest goal.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The line could not be breached.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Goalless.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Liverpool’s hold on the European Cup
was, for the time being at least, relinquished.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span></span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">This was a far more meaningful defeat than the
previous season’s League Cup lottery.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>This was the cup that meant all to Liverpool.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>To see it ripped away by an egotist like
Clough and his team of upstarts was a grievous blow.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Particularly in the context of a season that,
as it developed, revealed this to be arguably Liverpool’s
finest ever team.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Make no mistake, this
hurt.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><br /></span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">The hoodoo was finally broken, and some recompense
attained, in December 1978, when Forest’s remarkable, year-long 42 game
unbeaten league record was brought to an end at Anfield, the two McDermott
goals being greeted like championship deciders.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>The title returned to Liverpool in
thrilling style, with Dalglish scaling perfection’s heights ahead of the most
powerful and complete midfield to grace the nation’s turfs and a defence that
set new benchmarks for parsimony.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;"><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">However, the spectre at the feast refused to be
silenced.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As if to underline their
status as Liverpool’s new-found nemesis, Nottingham
Forest, provincial, unfashionable Nottingham Forest, went on to capture the treasured
European Cup and, to add further insult to recurring scouse injury, retained
the trophy a year later.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Even the most
grudging Kopite was forced to acknowledge the enormity of the achievement.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It didn’t stop them resenting every second of
it, mind.</span><br />
<br /><br />
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman;">
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;">With Forest dominant in Europe and Liverpool imposing their authority domestically,
something was always going to have to give.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>As it transpired, it was Clough who ultimately was found wanting.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He was unable to nurture the kind of
continuity that all the truly great clubs exist upon.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>When the time came to replace the players
that had served him so well, and who he had moulded into an obdurate,
irrepressible unit, his Midas touch at last failed, the veneer of invincibility
faded and within a couple of years, while Liverpool strode onward to further
glory, his Forest team were back amongst the ranks of the also-rans</span></span></span><span style="font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">Their last stand, perhaps fittingly, came when the
teams met once again in a two-legged League Cup semi-final clash in 1980.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The well-worn plan was dusted off,
Liverpool’s best efforts were frustrated and a penalty in each tie from the
invaluable Robertson saw Forest through to another
Wembley final, where they would taste defeat at the hands of a Wolves team
captained, perhaps inevitably, by ex-Anfield legend, Emlyn Hughes.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In a further twist the two sides also met in
an FA Cup tie at the City Ground, where Liverpool
comprehensively defeated their declining rivals.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">The war was over.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Forest had enjoyed victories beyond
their wildest expectations.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>However, when
the haze of battle cleared, only one team in red was left standing.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Liverpool
bore the scars but they would go on to create a legacy of triumph that
continues to resonate.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">For Paisley, the
competition would never be quite as intense again and, after a few more
trophy-laden seasons, he stepped aside, happy to see others carry his work
on.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Clough was never able to work the
same magic again and his career petered out amid unseemly allegations of
corruption, alcoholism and ill-conceived Hillsborough accusations.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was a sad end for a unique talent.</span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">In the present climate, it’s impossible to imagine a
team emerging from second tier obscurity and going on to compete, on equal
terms, with clubs who are little more than billionaires’ playthings. The resource
gap is so immense, the advantage so clearly stacked in favour of the wealthy,
that the main objective of any newly-promoted team is simply to survive in the
top flight.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Unless there’s a cataclysmic
shift in the structure of the game, we won’t be seeing another Nottingham Forest.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span></span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">But we’ll always have the song.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">“We hate Nottingham Forest……”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></i></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">As the years go by, it’s nice to think we’ll remember just why that was.</span></div>
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<br />Neil Scotthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11872828266696255582noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7836296097742863219.post-17613040603211724792017-10-06T09:21:00.000+01:002017-10-24T08:55:29.064+01:00Two Cups, One Goalie<br />
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<span style="color: red; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><strong>(Originally published in 'We Are Liverpool' magazine, issue 3 - September 2014)</strong></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "calibri" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">There are two things that, I am fairly certain,
won’t come as a huge surprise.</span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">
</span><br />
<div style="-ms-word-break: normal; line-height: 115%; margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; mso-pagination: widow-orphan;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Cambria; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-font-kerning: 0pt; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">One: Liverpool FC have won Europe’s most
prestigious trophy, the Champions League / European Cup / call it what you will
(except ‘Old Big Ears’, a term which should only be used as a football
reference when discussing the career of Francis Jeffers ), five times.</span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">
</span><br />
<div style="-ms-word-break: normal; line-height: 115%; margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; mso-pagination: widow-orphan;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Cambria; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-font-kerning: 0pt; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Two: by the early 80s, Liverpool FC enjoyed the
kind of dominance rarely seen outside of Madame Fifi’s Saucy Punishment
Parlour.</span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">
</span><br />
<div style="-ms-word-break: normal; line-height: 115%; margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; mso-pagination: widow-orphan;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Cambria; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-font-kerning: 0pt; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">It was a circular process.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>More trophies meant a continuation of the
supremacy; the aura of success acquired a self-fulfilling motion, leading to
more victories, more trophies.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>What a
glorious time to be a Red.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">
</span><br />
<div style="-ms-word-break: normal; line-height: 115%; margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; mso-pagination: widow-orphan;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Cambria; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-font-kerning: 0pt; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">And yet, at the risk of sounding like an ungrateful
curmudgeon, I have always felt that we underachieved. It sounds insane when you
consider the triumphs we witnessed – title after title, cup after cup – but
there are a couple of glaring omissions on our roll-call of honours that have
haunted me for the last 30 years.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">
</span><br />
<div style="-ms-word-break: normal; line-height: 115%; margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; mso-pagination: widow-orphan;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Cambria; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-font-kerning: 0pt; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">For two years in succession, 1982 and 1983, we were
favourites to lift the European Cup.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>For
two years in succession we royally cocked it up.</span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">
</span><br />
<div style="-ms-word-break: normal; line-height: 115%; margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; mso-pagination: widow-orphan;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Cambria; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-font-kerning: 0pt; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Well, I say ‘we’.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>In reality it only took one person to trample our dreams into the dirt.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And I’ve held a grudge ever since.</span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">
</span><br />
<div style="-ms-word-break: normal; line-height: 115%; margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; mso-pagination: widow-orphan;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Cambria; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-font-kerning: 0pt; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">J’accuse Bruce Grobbelaar.</span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">
</span><br />
<div style="-ms-word-break: normal; line-height: 115%; margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; mso-pagination: widow-orphan;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Cambria; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-font-kerning: 0pt; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">People who say lightning doesn’t strike twice in
the same place aren’t merely ignorant of scientific reality, they also lack
imagination.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I doubt they ever saw
Grobbelaar play for Liverpool.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">
</span><br />
<div style="-ms-word-break: normal; line-height: 115%; margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; mso-pagination: widow-orphan;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Cambria; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-font-kerning: 0pt; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Sure, the spring-heeled Zimbabwean with the
Scouser's 'tache was capable of gravity-defying brilliance when the mood took
him, contorting his body like an Olympic gymnast to scoop balls away from his
net, a maelstrom of reflexes & instinct.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>He would race from his line without hesitation to plunge at the feet of
an advancing attacker. He would also, with alarming frequency, eschew
conventional goalkeeping techniques in favour of a more esoteric approach.
Great in theory.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Often disastrous in
practice.</span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">
</span><br />
<div style="-ms-word-break: normal; line-height: 115%; margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; mso-pagination: widow-orphan;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Cambria; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-font-kerning: 0pt; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">For every spectacular save, every match-turning
interception, there'd be a calamity.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A
loss of concentration, a reckless charge, a ball squirting through hands or
legs. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Cambria; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-font-kerning: 0pt; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-ieshQLOVlAW-niutvEhRFOf9AYbWQScx2BA9OCWts_LecteS-r2ufVCGTaxJnSytf-Xy8_gm2jc86w42_clW38FlxsZXGiHvsBlD_h1wTOZxOVUG3HjBLteM78CkFyIzYqq6jY2TxSg/s1600/BG1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><img border="0" data-original-height="183" data-original-width="275" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-ieshQLOVlAW-niutvEhRFOf9AYbWQScx2BA9OCWts_LecteS-r2ufVCGTaxJnSytf-Xy8_gm2jc86w42_clW38FlxsZXGiHvsBlD_h1wTOZxOVUG3HjBLteM78CkFyIzYqq6jY2TxSg/s1600/BG1.jpg" /></span></a></div>
<div style="-ms-word-break: normal; line-height: 115%; margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; mso-pagination: widow-orphan;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Cambria; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-font-kerning: 0pt; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">
</span><br />
<div style="-ms-word-break: normal; line-height: 115%; margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; mso-pagination: widow-orphan;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Cambria; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-font-kerning: 0pt; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">In his first season at Anfield, Grobbelaar went
through the full repertoire.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was a
major culture shock to a crowd accustomed to the steady brilliance of Ray
Clemence.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A nadir was reached on Boxing
Day, 1981.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In a 3-1 home defeat to
Manchester City, Brucie managed to display all the goalkeeping competence of a
blocked sink. There seemed no way back, for both keeper and team. </span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">
</span><br />
<div style="-ms-word-break: normal; line-height: 115%; margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; mso-pagination: widow-orphan;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Cambria; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-font-kerning: 0pt; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">And yet, just a couple of months later, his
rehabilitation was almost complete. An ultimately successful title challenge
was back on track, the European Cup quarter final beckoned. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Grobbelaar had started to repay the faith Bob
Paisley unconditionally placed in him.</span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">
</span><br />
<div style="-ms-word-break: normal; line-height: 115%; margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; mso-pagination: widow-orphan;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Cambria; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-font-kerning: 0pt; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">At which point, the familiar destructive tendencies
once more kicked in.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>CSKA Sofia were the
opponents. Twelve months earlier, a consummate Souness hat-trick had inspired
Liverpool to a 5-1 thrashing of the Bulgarian champions. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>With wounds well and truly licked, they saw
the rematch as a chance for rapid revenge.</span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">
</span><br />
<div style="-ms-word-break: normal; line-height: 115%; margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; mso-pagination: widow-orphan;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Cambria; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-font-kerning: 0pt; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">A 1-0 Anfield home win gave few indications of the
drama to come.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And for much of the
second leg, Paisley’s team exercised a level of control that had long become a
Liverpool trademark. Chances were created, a legitimate Rush effort was deemed
invalid, penalty shouts went unheeded. There was, of course, a grim
inevitability about what happened next.</span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">
</span><br />
<div style="-ms-word-break: normal; line-height: 115%; margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; mso-pagination: widow-orphan;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Cambria; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-font-kerning: 0pt; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">With 20 minutes left, a speculative cross was
punted into the Liverpool area. Like an impatient toddler keen to be noticed,
Grobbelaar saw his chance. He shuffled forward with intent, carefully eyeing
the flight of the ball. He readied himself to gather. As the ball sailed over
his head, it occurred to everyone that, for neither the first nor last time,
his judgement had been seriously awry. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I'm talking ‘Boris Johnson in a thong’ levels
of awryness here.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Awryness all over the
shop.</span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">
</span><br />
<div style="-ms-word-break: normal; line-height: 115%; margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; mso-pagination: widow-orphan;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Cambria; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-font-kerning: 0pt; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">With the goalkeeper occupying the proverbial no
man’s land, CSKA striker and potential Countdown conundrum, Mladenov, had the
simple task of nodding the ball into the unguarded net, sending the game into
extra time.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As Liverpool imploded, the
Bulgarian grabbed a second, to knock the holders out of the competition.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">
</span><br />
<div style="-ms-word-break: normal; line-height: 115%; margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; mso-pagination: widow-orphan;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Cambria; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-font-kerning: 0pt; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Now clearly, there are no guarantees in football
and we should be wary of jumping to unsustainable conclusions.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But Aston Villa went on to win the European
Cup that season. </span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">
</span><br />
<div style="-ms-word-break: normal; line-height: 115%; margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; mso-pagination: widow-orphan;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Cambria; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-font-kerning: 0pt; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Cheers, Bruce.</span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">
</span><br />
<div style="-ms-word-break: normal; line-height: 115%; margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; mso-pagination: widow-orphan;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Cambria; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-font-kerning: 0pt; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Fast forward twelve months.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The same stage of the same competition.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Opposition from Eastern Europe once again, this
time Poland’s Widzew Lodz.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And a repeat
of the same dire spectacle, played out as if to reassure those doubting the
conceptual validity of déjà vu.</span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">
</span><br />
<div style="-ms-word-break: normal; line-height: 115%; margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; mso-pagination: widow-orphan;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Cambria; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-font-kerning: 0pt; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">This time it was the first leg.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A comfortable stroll against moderate
opponents transformed into an insurmountable deficit thanks to Grobbelaar’s
uniquely erratic decision-making tendencies.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Again it was a high ball.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Again
there was no logical need for him to attempt to collect. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But that’s exactly what he did.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>One-handed.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Like the world’s worst juggler, trying to catch wet soap, blindfold, on
a trampoline.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Obviously, he spilled it. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Obviously, the result was a Widzew goal.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Followed, as Liverpool poured forward to
atone for their goalkeeper’s well-honed profligacy, by another.</span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">
</span><br />
<div style="-ms-word-break: normal; line-height: 115%; margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; mso-pagination: widow-orphan;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Cambria; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-font-kerning: 0pt; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">As some kind of warped encore, in the return leg
Bruce again raced from his line to concede a penalty, after an uncharacteristic
Souness blunder.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There was no way
back.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>European glory was put on hold for
one more year.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">
</span><br />
<div style="-ms-word-break: normal; line-height: 115%; margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; mso-pagination: widow-orphan;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Cambria; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-font-kerning: 0pt; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">In Rome, redemption, of a sort, was achieved.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As Liverpool secured their fourth European
Cup, Grobbelaar was cast in a leading role, with wobbly-legged capers conferring
legend status on the madcap gaffe magnet. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">
</span><br />
<div style="-ms-word-break: normal; line-height: 115%; margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; mso-pagination: widow-orphan;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Cambria; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-font-kerning: 0pt; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Not for me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I still have visions of two ruined campaigns.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Of two lost cups.</span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">
</span><br />
<div style="-ms-word-break: normal; line-height: 115%; margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; mso-pagination: widow-orphan;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Cambria; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-font-kerning: 0pt; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Some grudges take a whole lot of shifting.</span></span></div>
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Neil Scotthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11872828266696255582noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7836296097742863219.post-83220184425385486572017-03-27T17:43:00.002+01:002017-10-24T09:01:08.472+01:001981/82 - THE START OF A BEAUTIFUL RELATIONSHIP<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">[Originally published in Well Red magazine, </span><span style="font-size: 12pt;">February 2012]</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt;">______________________________________</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9I9TWfr71npxzyYzPMd1XwW8oxhqdqff2o2FgfgqgvLhYlSpFjliXghAIXdw_L-tbUP8A1mK6Dk3VB5jDUCmfrxr169wt6xFA39BH_jJDTJr4WYOj8ckYmc3lOvMRtzP63LRtZAWw9_8/s1600/221807_60_news_hub_multi_630x0.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="242" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9I9TWfr71npxzyYzPMd1XwW8oxhqdqff2o2FgfgqgvLhYlSpFjliXghAIXdw_L-tbUP8A1mK6Dk3VB5jDUCmfrxr169wt6xFA39BH_jJDTJr4WYOj8ckYmc3lOvMRtzP63LRtZAWw9_8/s320/221807_60_news_hub_multi_630x0.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">Some seasons
stick in the memory more than others. It
just depends which set of experiences you choose to fall back on. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">As anyone
who followed <st1:place w:st="on">Liverpool</st1:place> in the ‘70s and ‘80s
will tell you, it seemed that every campaign was a treasure trove of memorable
games and defining moments. Silverware
arrived with unprecedented regularity, icons were born and, when the time came,
were replaced by newer, shinier models.
The juggernaut kept on rolling, leaving the Uniteds, the Evertons, the
Arsenals – let’s face it, the whole of <st1:place w:st="on">Europe</st1:place>
– crushed in our wake. It was a good
time to grow up a Red.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">In the midst
of this glorious procession, it’s fair to say that I came of age as a <st1:place w:st="on">Liverpool</st1:place> supporter.
From spending games perched on my Dad’s knee in the Main Stand as a
giddy 7 year old, to standing on a home-made stool in the Anny Road end,
craning to see anything other than the back of some oversized docker’s neck, to
my Kop apprenticeship (same spot each week - just to the side of the right-hand
stanchion), to the relative comfort of a Main Stand season ticket (relative to
the comfort enjoyed by, say, a hostage chained to a radiator), and back to the
sweaty, tobacco-fuelled embrace of the Kop.
A host of vivid memories to cling to in the wilderness years.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">It was
whilst happily bathing in the warm glow of such reminiscences that I was struck
by a chilling, yet unavoidable realisation.
It is now 30 years since my first season as a fully-fledged regular
match-goer. 30 years. How did that
happen?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">I’d been to
my fair share of matches prior to 1981/82, odd games here and there when the
opportunity arose, but this was different. I was 14 now, old enough to single-handedly navigate
the hazardous 3.6 mile journey from the mean streets of <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placename w:st="on">Orrell</st1:placename> <st1:placetype w:st="on">Park</st1:placetype></st1:place>
to Anfield. Or, as was usually the case,
blag a lift off my Dad to the junction of <st1:street w:st="on"><st1:address w:st="on">Walton Lane</st1:address></st1:street> and <st1:street w:st="on"><st1:address w:st="on">Anfield Road</st1:address></st1:street>. The sense of independence, the thrill of the
new, was all-consuming. This was where I
belonged, these were my people. It was
like becoming part of an elite club, albeit one with questionable toilet
provisions and an admittedly lax dress code. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">Now all that
remained was to settle back and wait for the LFC Class of ’81 to sweep all
before them, as tradition dictated they would.
Simple, really.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">Except this
was to be a season unlike most others.
Alright, it culminated with <st1:place w:st="on">Liverpool</st1:place>
cast once more as the country’s pre-eminent team, with both the League title
and League Cup safely tucked away. No
change there. But there were to be more
twists along the way than you’d get in an Eastenders Christmas special. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">_____________________________</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><o:p></o:p></span><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">Having
captured the European Cup for the third time just a few months earlier, it
seemed that <st1:place w:st="on">Liverpool</st1:place> were entering the
1981/82 campaign in typically robust shape.
However, those supporters who observed with some alarm the team’s
disappointing 5<sup>th</sup> place finish the previous year had genuine cause
for quiet concern. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">The remorseless
crushing machine of 78/79 was by now starting to show the inevitable signs of
ageing. Players who had scaled the ultimate heights at Anfield could no longer
produce the consistency or vitality needed to sustain yet another title
challenge. A staleness had crept into <st1:place w:st="on">Liverpool</st1:place>’s game.
Without rejuvenation, the squad would struggle to compete with the
vigour and drive of reigning champions Aston Villa (no, really) or UEFA Cup
holders <st1:place w:st="on">Ipswich</st1:place> (yes, I know).<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">Naturally,
no-one was aware of this more than Bob Paisley. His immediate response was to bolster his
options with a trio of eye-catching signings. In Mark Lawrenson and Craig Johnston, <st1:place w:st="on">Paisley</st1:place> saw players of immense promise, relative youth
and, above all, real pace. In Bruce
Grobbelaar, he had earmarked a potential long-term successor to the great Ray
Clemence. With prodigiously talented youngsters
like Ian Rush and Ronnie Whelan waiting hungrily in the wings, the foundations
were in place for a gradual transition.
As it transpired the need to rebuild soon became more urgent than even <st1:place w:st="on">Paisley</st1:place> had envisioned.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">Just two
weeks before the opening game of the season, Clemence decided to pursue the
fresh challenge offered by perennial dilettantes Tottenham. After more than a decade as <st1:place w:st="on">Liverpool</st1:place>’s
undisputed number one, his loss was a grievous blow. As a result, Grobbelaar’s credentials would be
tested a lot sooner than either he or <st1:place w:st="on">Paisley</st1:place>
expected.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">As the
campaign progressed, it quickly became apparent that all was not well. Just as the new boys struggled to impose
their identity on the team, so the old hands failed to recapture the
consistency and level of performance that we had become accustomed to. Seasoned internationals were making the kind
of mistakes more commonly found in the schoolyard; Anfield’s reputation as a
fortress was in danger of being undermined by a series of disappointing
displays and results; I began to fear that my presence on the terraces was
having some kind of adverse effect, an inverted Midas Touch, turning all I
surveyed to cack.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">Clearly, the
transition was going to need a bit of gentle coercion.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"> _____________________<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">The tipping
point came on Boxing Day. A calamitous
home fixture against <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placename w:st="on">Manchester</st1:placename>
<st1:placetype w:st="on">City</st1:placetype></st1:place> ended in a
thoroughly dismal 3-1 defeat in a game notable for a number of reasons. It was
already the third reversal Anfield had witnessed (along with three draws) in just
nine matches – by comparison, the previous decade as a whole had produced only
five home losses. It saw the erratic
Grobbelaar reach a nadir, his handling disastrous, his decision-making bizarre
and his confidence shot to pieces. It
marked Phil Thompson’s final game as Liverpool captain, with <st1:place w:st="on">Paisley</st1:place>
handing the armband to Graeme Souness in the aftermath, an attempt to stem the
alarming dip in Thompson’s form (and a decision which was to sow seeds of
long-lasting personal resentment between the pair that has never been fully
resolved). <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">It meant
that <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placename w:st="on">Manchester</st1:placename> <st1:placetype w:st="on">City</st1:placetype></st1:place> jumped to the top of the table, an
event considerably more noteworthy in the days of the Peter Swales comb-over
than it is in today’s cash-soaked times.
And it left <st1:place w:st="on">Liverpool</st1:place> languishing in 12<sup>th</sup>
place, disjointed and off-the pace, our title chances seemingly in tatters.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"> But if we’ve learnt anything from this club’s
history, it’s surely to know not to write it off when the odds are stacked against
it. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
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<st1:place w:st="on"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">Paisley</span></st1:place><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"> understood that the team’s prospects depended on its
response to his decision to ease some of his long-serving stars out of the first-team
picture. Despite the previous stellar contributions
of the likes of Ray Kennedy, David Johnson, Terry McDermott, even Thompson
himself, he was not one to let sentimentality stand in the way of progress. And he was canny enough to know that, sooner
rather than later, his remodelled squad would find its feet. When it did logic, and history, suggested
that the rest of the division wouldn’t be able to live with it.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">The revival
began almost immediately. High-flying <st1:city w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Swansea</st1:place></st1:city> were clinically
dispatched, 4-0, on their own turf, in a one-sided FA Cup tie. The confidence and consistency flooded
back. The fledgling Dalglish – Rush
partnership began to flourish, the revitalising effect on Kenny’s career clear
to all; Whelan and Johnston brought some much-needed energy and directness to
the midfield; at the back Lawrenson and Hansen forged an understanding, based
on the kind of ball-playing ability rarely seen in defenders on these shores,
that would come to be unrivalled in the club’s history; even Brucie managed to
rein in some of his more damaging excesses.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">The juggernaut
was back on the road. After the City
debacle, twenty of the next twenty four league games were won (including, in
one spell, eleven consecutive victories).
Devastating displays mixed with battling performances, full of character
and purpose. The League Cup was secured
after another belated comeback at Wembley against Ray Clemence’s
Tottenham. Villa, Everton, United and
City were blown away in front of their own supporters, the latter a 5-0
massacre that excised the pain of the Boxing Day disaster. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">One by one,
the teams above us in the league were reeled in and overtaken. Until finally, in the season’s penultimate
game, with Spurs again the hapless victims, second half goals from Lawrenson,
Dalglish and Whelan confirmed <st1:place w:st="on">Liverpool</st1:place> as
champions for the thirteenth time. Given
the circumstances, it’s easy to understand why <st1:place w:st="on">Paisley</st1:place>,
a man who knew a thing or two about championship success, saw this as his most
satisfying triumph.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"> ____________________<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">As for me, my
debut season as an Anfield regular was a momentous one. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">It included my first Wembley visit (which was
followed by accidentally jumping a taxi queue at Lime Street station in front
of an understandably miffed-looking Kenny Dalglish and Sammy Lee), my first Goodison
derby (smack in the middle of the Gwladys Street End, which made celebrating
Craig Johnston’s mis-hit clincher an exercise in failed restraint) and my first
exposure to the talents that would sustain a new era of success. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">It ended
with the intense anti-climax of being locked out of the title-decider with
Tottenham, having arrived 90 minutes before kick-off, the very fact that such a
game was a ‘pay-on-the-gate’ affair acting as a stark reminder that these were
very different times. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">There have
been lots of games, lots of trophies, lots of memories since then. I’ve grown
older, wiser, more cynical, more tolerant, more inclined to treat results, good
or bad, with a rationality I would have once thought impossible. I’ve seen our club at its highest and at its
lowest and realised that, sometimes, real life makes football seem irrelevant. Sorry, it just does.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">Time passes,
things change, people move on. Even the
most treasured of memories eventually start to fade. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br />
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="border-image: none; border: currentColor; padding: 0cm;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">But, 30 years on, there’ll always be a part of me that’s
still back on the Kop in 1982. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
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Neil Scotthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11872828266696255582noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7836296097742863219.post-81692057599120829882017-03-27T17:30:00.002+01:002017-10-24T08:57:04.069+01:00Shankly's Last Stand<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">[Originally published in Well Red magazine, November 2013]</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">_________________________</span></span></div>
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlqXJsUNl4bu67Aqy3dtrzFxdAgtA-fRbKe7otezGzNKlSXcbR-PGJ7uwTPBOTbabMNoWecwjDdFKc_gXHPC0-Z1t3naUhGKh7SoTNd-5h-IkrO29tPyO2H23ilTOD2pSpXv7Lk4CNBRY/s1600/Shanks+74.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlqXJsUNl4bu67Aqy3dtrzFxdAgtA-fRbKe7otezGzNKlSXcbR-PGJ7uwTPBOTbabMNoWecwjDdFKc_gXHPC0-Z1t3naUhGKh7SoTNd-5h-IkrO29tPyO2H23ilTOD2pSpXv7Lk4CNBRY/s320/Shanks+74.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Of course,
none of us realised at the time. To the
massed ranks of Liverpool fans crammed into Wembley that May afternoon in 1974,
we were simply witnessing further confirmation of Bill Shankly’s Midas touch. Another trophy for the collection, following swiftly
on the heels of the previous season’s League and UEFA Cup double. There were plenty
of reasons to be optimistic that the Shankly Empire would continue its
inexorable journey towards football supremacy. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">It would be
another couple of months before reality intervened, bringing the events at
Wembley into stark focus. Because the emphatic Cup Final defeat of an impotent
Newcastle side would herald not just an addition to Anfield’s burgeoning trophy
cabinet, but, unthinkably, the end of the Shankly era. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Many
theories have been put forward to explain Bill Shankly’s decision to resign
that summer. And while it’s no doubt
true that there were multiple contributing factors, the football idealist in me
leans towards the romantic explanation – that he saw the Cup Final performance
as the culmination of 15 years work, the point where all his hopes and dreams
for Liverpool Football Club coalesced magnificently in one devastatingly
ruthless performance that provided a template for the club’s future success.
And, as a boxing devotee, Shankly knew that the best time to go out is when
you’re at your absolute peak.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"> <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: 18.66px;">______________________</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><u><br /></u></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">In many
ways, the 1973/74 season would be a defining one in terms of shaping the ethos
that would eventually allow Liverpool to dominate both home and abroad. Although Shankly was always ready to refine
his approach and had long prioritised players with game awareness who were
comfortable in possession, one particular opponent caused a rethink in the
famous Bootroom as the campaign progressed.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">In the
autumn, Yugoslav champions, Red Star Belgrade defeated Liverpool in the second
round of the European Cup. While Shankly was never one to accept a loss with
good cheer, this felt somehow different.
Not since the defeat to Ajax seven years earlier had he seen his team so
comprehensively out-thought, let alone outplayed. It emphasised that, if Liverpool were to
reach the next level, they would need to adopt the basic tenets of the
continental game and blend them with their own tried and trusted methods.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">With a nod
to both Red Star and the wildly effective Dutch team spearheaded by Johan
Cruyff, the structure of the new Liverpool would be firmly rooted on principles
of retaining possession, building from the back and positional fluidity. Traditional stopper, the previously
ever-present Larry Lloyd, was sacrificed.
Players with greater technical qualities, Hughes, Smith and the
fledgling Thompson, all with experience of operating in midfield, were asked to
redefine themselves as ball-playing defenders.
Heighway and Keegan interchanged across the front line, Cormack, Hall
and Callaghan were intelligent enough to switch roles in line with the
development of play. Students of Brendan
Rodgers’ Liverpool can trace the origins of his much vaunted philosophy back to
Shankly’s realisation, in the wake of the Red Star tie, that the need to adapt
was fundamental to prolonged success.</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">______________________</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><u><br /></u></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">In the
domestic league, Liverpool had been unable to overhaul a Leeds team finally
fulfilling its immense potential. A
second place finish was respectable enough.
But it wasn’t first; it wasn’t a trophy.
<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">The FA Cup,
now derided, undermined and staged more as a corporate sponsorship convention
than an historic sporting event, was still, in 1974, the most glamorous
football tournament in the calendar. It
also held significant sentimental value for Bill Shankly; the 1965 triumph, the
club’s first in the competition, would always be his most treasured memory.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Having
dispatched perennial bogey-team, Leicester City, in a semi-final replay, with
the Toshack – Keegan partnership in perfect synchronicity, Liverpool prepared
for the challenge of an unpredictable Newcastle United at Wembley.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">The build-up
was dominated by talk of how Newcastle centre forward, bow-legged braggart
Malcolm Macdonald, was going to destroy the Liverpool back-line. That such talk emanated, in the main, from Macdonald’s
own mouth couldn’t disguise the fact that Newcastle, at their best, would
provide a stern test. In fairness, Macdonald
had notched a hat-trick against Shankly’s team on his Newcastle debut a couple
of years earlier and had grabbed a brace in the semi-final with Burnley to
secure the Magpies’ place at Wembley.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">But if
Macdonald’s bravado was a clumsy attempt to wrestle the psychological
initiative away from Liverpool, he overlooked the fact that, in Bill Shankly,
he was dealing with the master. Without
so much as a word, Shankly pinned Macdonald’s threats up in the team hotel
prior to the game. Effectively, his
team-talk had been done for him. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
_____________________________________</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><u><br /></u></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">The match
started cautiously, both sides probing without genuine intent, each wary of the
danger posed by the other. Gradually,
Liverpool established a degree of control, though scoring opportunities were
few. There was, however, a sense that
Newcastle were becoming increasingly stretched, that they were exerting maximum
effort to merely keep Liverpool at bay.
Liverpool, you felt, had higher gears to ascend to.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">In the
second half, to tumultuous effect, all gears were engaged. It was as if Bill Shankly had entered the
dressing room at half time and said to his players, “Show them what you can
do,” giving the green light for a performance of confidence, incisiveness,
mobility and crushing superiority.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">The nominal
4-3-3 system Shankly now employed, with defenders encouraged to carry the ball
forward to start attacks and positional flexibility paramount, provided full
license for Liverpool’s array of talents to be displayed. Keegan buzzed like a hyper-active bluebottle;
Heighway’s intelligent probing opened crevices in the Newcastle back-line;
Callaghan offered tireless running and unerring accuracy; Thompson deposited
Macdonald, mouth and all, in his back pocket and left him there for the rest of
the afternoon.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">It was just
a matter of time. Lindsay rampaged from
his own half deep into Newcastle territory, collected a rebound and exploded a missile
of a shot from an oblique angle into the roof of the net. One of the great cup final goals. Disallowed.
An over-zealous linesman flagged for offside, wrongly assuming the
return pass had come from Keegan; replays confirmed the injustice. As an aside, the look of utter dejection on
Lindsay’s face when realisation dawns is enough to crack the steeliest heart.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">But this was
justice delayed not denied. Shortly
afterwards, the deluge began. Keegan
controlled on the edge of the Newcastle penalty area before lashing a fierce
volley into the top corner. 1-0.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Heighway
latched on to a Toshack flick, cutting in from the left wing, Keegan’s run drew
two defenders away from the middle, Heighway arrowed a low diagonal drive of
control and precision back in the direction he’d just come from. 2-0.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">Further
chances were spurned, as Liverpool put on an exhibition that was as close to
the fabled ‘total football’ of Rinus Michels’ Holland as anything yet seen from
a British team. The final goal only
served to emphasise it. In a sequence of
play resembling a ‘pass and move’ masterclass, during which Keegan started on
the left wing, Tommy Smith toyed with the ailing Newcastle defence down the
right wing and Cormack finished up as centre forward, the </span><span class="hw1"><span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">coup de grâce was applied from close range by Liverpool’s
number 7. 3-0. Game over.</span></span><span class="hw1"><span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
__________________________________</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><u><span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></u></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">In the
immediate aftermath of Liverpool’s second FA Cup triumph, all seemed well. The club basked in the praise that came its
way, as the most complete Cup Final performance in recent memory was widely
acknowledged. With a team ready to prove
itself the best in the land and a manager who inspired unparalleled devotion
from players and supporters, the prospects were brighter than they had been for
nearly a decade.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Shankly knew
the club’s future was assured. He also
suspected that the structure he had established, and the knowledge base honed
over the previous fifteen years, would ensure a line of continuity long after
his departure. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">And,
unbeknown to most, he was tired.
Traditional Messiahs granted themselves a day on which to rest; Bill
Shankly had no time for such luxuries.
For him Liverpool was an all-consuming passion – 24 hours a day, 7 days
a week, 52 weeks a year. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">So, he felt
it was the right time to step aside, safe in the belief that a secure,
long-lasting framework for sustained success was in place. And, regardless of his later regrets and the
fractured relationship with the club he built (but not the supporters – never
the supporters), in that he was absolutely spot on.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<br />
<div style="border-image: none; border: currentColor; padding: 0cm 0cm 1pt;">
<div class="MsoNormal" style="border-image: none; border: currentColor; padding: 0cm;">
<span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Shankly had the satisfaction of seeing all his work come to
fruition. The performance at Wembley in
1974, where Liverpool reached heights few even aspire to, stands as a fitting
testament to everything he created.</span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="border-image: none; border: currentColor; padding: 0cm;">
<span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
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Neil Scotthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11872828266696255582noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7836296097742863219.post-81421452489892064822017-03-22T11:52:00.000+00:002017-03-22T11:54:31.315+00:00Brookside Closed<br />
<div style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";"><em><strong>First published in the The Anfield Wrap magazine, issue 5 - December 2013</strong></em></span></span></div>
<div style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"><strong><em><span style="font-family: "calibri";"><br /></span></em></strong></span></div>
<div style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"><strong><em><span style="font-family: "calibri";"><br /></span></em></strong></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkSpU2I_hDg2nKpk1f7oYGYOWq6SPsMTaiYYxlmsedTXJR2OPZQ8AF8sYfklXt6QRPFy131fFNLfJFm89sT2XBk0mN05zfpbWSHaP6gQeQ_1j6DaqeWAgsDfAbhJVeWeq3VVzk1lgXoCE/s1600/Brookie.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkSpU2I_hDg2nKpk1f7oYGYOWq6SPsMTaiYYxlmsedTXJR2OPZQ8AF8sYfklXt6QRPFy131fFNLfJFm89sT2XBk0mN05zfpbWSHaP6gQeQ_1j6DaqeWAgsDfAbhJVeWeq3VVzk1lgXoCE/s1600/Brookie.png" /></a></div>
<div style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";"><br /></span></span></div>
<div style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";"><br /></span></span></div>
<div style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";">It didn’t take long, really. </span></span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";">I mean, we’d heard all the talk that this was going to be a
different kind of soap, that this was a bold departure from the comfortable
insularity of Coronation Street or the creaking melodrama of Crossroads.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And we hoped it’d be a showcase for a
Liverpool that was not usually shown in the media; a Liverpool that consisted
of more than the dole and the riots and the crumbling, derelict buildings that
told of a city left to rot.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In short, we
wanted it to capture just a hint of our real essence, not just pander to
time-worn caricatures. </span></span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";">Halfway through the first episode it was already obvious
that, whatever we were getting, it wasn’t going be pretty. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As Barry Grant defends his errant younger
brother from accusations of graffiti, on the grounds that “It couldn’t be our
Damon – he spells ‘Bollocks’ with only one ‘L’”, you can almost hear the sound
of tea-cups crashing to the floor across middle England.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Throw in a shamelessly glorious altercation between
Damon and his endearingly gormless sidekicks which crowbars two ‘pissings’, one
‘piss off’ and a ‘dickhead’ into a 20 second exchange, and it was clear that
Brookside was setting out its manifesto right from the start. </span></span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";">For the next two decades, it continually managed to defy
expectations while too often failing to grasp just what those expectations
were.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It moved from holding a mirror up
on society’s injustices to feeding the same society’s craving for cheap,
vicarious thrills and in the process it misplaced the very qualities that had
marked it out as special.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>When its end
came, few cared.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And for a programme which
set out to prove that soaps could, indeed should, be relevant, that was the
biggest failure of all.</span></span></div>
<br />
<div align="center" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";">____________________________</span></span></div>
<div align="center" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjT50GA4jEr7j2k67vNxTzI3grgtzksiGCaAInLjGx6JUXPVTOJ72KS0TTg_1tjYoSdxnNZDm3726VYLgIUgDNwNYH9ItYyBqGDrc1y1yxzrd8h3OxDLRT93N4zwywx4CPo3T6O57Q29D0/s1600/images.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjT50GA4jEr7j2k67vNxTzI3grgtzksiGCaAInLjGx6JUXPVTOJ72KS0TTg_1tjYoSdxnNZDm3726VYLgIUgDNwNYH9ItYyBqGDrc1y1yxzrd8h3OxDLRT93N4zwywx4CPo3T6O57Q29D0/s1600/images.jpg" /></a></div>
<div align="center" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";"><br /></span></span></div>
<div align="center" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";"><br /></span></span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";">It had all been so different in 1982 when Brookside first elbowed
its way onto the nation’s television screens, the unpolished jewel in the
infant Channel 4’s ambitious new schedule.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Different in all kinds of ways.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";">It looked different.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>These
were real houses in a real West Derby estate.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>There were no studio sets with their trembling walls and restricted
camera angles.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>When characters went
upstairs we were able to follow them; when they went round to a neighbour’s
house for a chat or a barney, we went with them.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There was no convenient central meeting point
where the inhabitants could congregate and interact, no Rovers Return or Queen
Vic.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This meant that storylines were
largely self-contained, and wherever possible, the focus was on day-to-day
living and what went on within families behind their own front doors.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A bit like real life.</span></span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";">It sounded different.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Of course, by the early 1980s there was nothing new about regional
accents on television, even Scouse ones.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Since the heady days of The Beatles, a certain cachet, a kind of rough
glamour even, had been attached to the Liverpool dialect, though, ‘Boys From The
Black Stuff’ aside, this was very much within the context of what the establishment
was prepared to endorse.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s fair to
say that Cilla, Tarby and Tom O’Connor were perhaps not wholly representative
of a city still trying to put out the fires of Toxteth.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But Brookie changed all that.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This was the sort of language we could
recognise.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Lads called each other
‘dickhead’ and ‘divvy’ every day – why shouldn’t that be reflected in a
programme apparently designed to show us as we were, warts, wedges and all?</span></span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";">Of course, a media outcry ensured that the rougher edges were
soon smoothed down and dialogue more acceptable to an early evening audience
was introduced.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Though it’s interesting
to note that by the time of its demise Brookside had come full circle, then
pushed on a bit further just for kicks, with widespread effing and jeffing and
a return to the uncompromising verbals of its early days.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It wasn’t big and it wasn’t clever, but it was
the last flicker of a flame many thought had long been extinguished.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And, it reminded you that, at its best,
Brookie was never afraid to kick against the pricks.</span></span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";">This was most evident in the issues and themes that ran
through the programme’s early years.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And
in this, the difference between Brookside and its contemporaries was clearly
defined. While Coronation Street could command viewing figures in the tens of
millions, it had become for many an escape from everyday existence, not an echo
of it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Though solidly written and acted,
it had moved away from its kitchen-sink origins to embrace a more absurdist,
cartoon depiction of working class northern life.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Brookside creator, Phil Redmond, wanted his
new soap to be the antithesis of that.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>And to achieve this, he placed the emphasis on social realism and the
inevitable fall-out when families have to deal with the weight of everyday
living.</span></span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";">So we got politics.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Not just the odd murmur about the cost of a pint of milk. Real politics.
Discussions, arguments about the issues that were genuinely affecting the
people tuning in.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The despair of unemployment,
the impact of redundancy, the emasculation of trade unions, the conflicts and
consequences of industrial action, the alienation of the young, the black
economy, the NHS, the impact of religion on personal relationships.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>All
played out against a backdrop of Thatcher’s ideological war on the north, its
industries and its social values.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It may
not sound like a recipe for prime-time success but for a while it made for compelling
television.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And it showed that a soap could
be gritty and serious and issues-led whilst maintaining the personal
interactions and lighter touches that viewers had come to expect.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Over at the BBC someone was clearly taking
notes, as within 3 years Eastenders was launched, eager to poke its head
through the door Brookie had kicked open.</span></span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";">Of course, it would have been easy to dismiss Brookside’s
approach as patronising and opportunistic, had it not been for the quality of
its contributors and the artfulness and conviction with which they brought the
storylines to life.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It became a breeding
ground for a generation of writers and actors who went on to achieve great
things and who are rightly acknowledged among the best in their field.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>People like Jimmy McGovern, Frank
Cottrell-Boyce, Shaun Duggan and John Godber, all of whom cut their writing
teeth on the Close.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>People like Sue
Johnston, Ricky Tomlinson, Amanda Burton and Anna Friel, whose skills were
honed and whose careers were launched via Brookie’s suburban dramas.</span></span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";">While we’re at it, it also threw up some of the most intriguing,
well-developed, perhaps morally ambiguous, characters yet to be seen on British
television.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Of course there were the
staples, the Grants (the anchor and heart of the programme for its initial
years), the Jacksons, the Collins’s and the Corkhills.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But even on the periphery Brookside was a
treasure-trove of charismatic wannabe gangsters and loveable oddballs,
encapsulated by the formidable Tommy McArdle and personal favourite, Gizzmo
Hawkins, a greasy teenage mix of Roy Cropper and Bobby Gillespie.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We will never see their like again.</span></span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";">Inevitably, it had its faults.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>At times, it was guilty of portraying a
questionable attitude towards female characters.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Perhaps reflecting the struggles of a society
in transition, the Close’s women were frequently defined solely in terms of
their relationships with men and, as such, largely excluded from any position
of economic power.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Attempts to advance
beyond the traditional confines of the kitchen resulted in their on-screen
‘punishment’, through any combination of rape (Sheila Grant), guilt-tripping (Patricia
Farnham), domestic violence (Mandy Jordache), accusations of infidelity (Doreen
Corkhill), murder (Sue Sullivan) or the eventual side-lining and departure of
the character (Chrissy Rogers).<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Though
this also served to highlight the insecurities of the male protagonists, its
main function was only to reinforce established gender stereotypes.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It represented a chance missed.</span></span></div>
<br />
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<span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";">____________________________</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";"><br /></span></span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";">For a programme that had blazed a trail in the 1980s, its
decline and eventual demise were a symptom of both a changing political climate
and a shift in the media landscape.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The introduction
of the Brookside Parade, a development of shops, restaurants and bars, marked a
geographical shift away from the Close and mirrored the growing national
obsession with entrepreneurship.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It also
marked the point at which Brookside abandoned its political and social roots and
began the evolution towards increasingly outlandish, melodramatic plots.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As quickly became apparent, there’s a fine
line between cutting-edge drama and gratuitous sensationalism. </span></span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";">Perhaps the battles of the 80s had all been fought and there
was no more call for a programme documenting what were largely working class
concerns, particularly when the working class was, to all intents and purposes,
in retreat.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Thatcher had gone, to be
replaced by John Major’s neutered, cardboard cut-out approximation of a Prime
Minister.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The viciousness of Tory
ideology had ostensibly softened (or rather, had gone into hibernation before
brutal rebirth 20 years later), leaving in its wake a watered-down facsimile
that inspired apathy rather than outright hostility.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In the eyes of the media, we were all middle
class now.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And, so the premise ran, we
wanted to be entertained, not preached at.</span></span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";">And, as the battle for viewers intensified, we got ever more
ludicrous storylines.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Incest, the body
under the patio, sieges, the lesbian kiss, Lindsey Corkhill the drug smuggler,
religious cults, a killer virus, Lindsey Corkhill the gun-toting gangster, bombs,
explosions, more sieges.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>When Lindsey
Corkhill (of course Lindsey Corkhill) got embroiled in a lesbian love triangle
with her own mum, it was clear that Brookside hadn’t so much jumped the shark
as parascended over Sea World and pissed in Flipper’s eye.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And when a police helicopter fell from the
sky onto the Parade, it seemed as much an act of mercy as a desperate grab for
ratings.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";">So, after 21 years, it was yanked off our screens.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Oddly, in its death throes it managed to
recapture at least some of the spirit that had once made it essential viewing.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In the final minutes of the final episode,
with the darkness, and the credits, closing in for the last time, uber-scally
Jimmy Corkhill held court in an armchair on the lawn like a Scouse Canute,
raging, raging against the dying of the light.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>In a scattergun polemic that could have been titled ‘Phil Redmond’s Last
Stand’, Jimmy rails against all manner of power structures and cultural elites –
television, newspapers, the ruling establishment, food distribution, drugs
policy, religion.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Yes, it was
self-pitying, self-serving and frankly all over the place ideologically, but it
was also kind of thrilling.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It harked
back to a time when Brookside wasn’t afraid to confront the political consensus
head on and offered one of the few dissenting voices in the mainstream media.
And it serves as a reminder that Russell Brand wasn’t the first drug-addled
scruff to shine a torch on the failures and hypocrisies of the governing
class.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Jimmy Corkhill was there ten
years before him.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Face it, you never got
that with Ian Beale.</span></span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";">But then Brookside always was a different kind of soap.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It might have moved away from its roots; it
might have turned into the kind of programme it initially offered an
alternative to; it might have ended up pulling its punches.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></span></div>
<br />
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<span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";">But for a while, at least it knew who
to punch.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And that’s no bad thing.</span></span></div>
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Neil Scotthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11872828266696255582noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7836296097742863219.post-52283939190629290012014-08-14T21:39:00.000+01:002014-08-14T21:53:02.173+01:00Breaking On Through<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; tab-stops: 49.8pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><em><strong>[Originally printed in Well Red magazine in Summer 2013]</strong></em></span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"></span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">You may not have noticed but Ray
Manzarek, founder member and keyboard boffin of 60’s legends, The Doors, died
recently.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>For someone who fully bought
into the whole Jim Morrison mythology, and once spent a particularly fraught
afternoon trawling through a Paris cemetery to locate the grave of the
erstwhile Lizard King, the passing of Manzarek was a sad occasion.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He always came across as an overly eccentric
uncle, slightly frazzled by the excesses of an acid-drenched culture,
stubbornly clinging to the last vestiges of hippy idealism.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But basically a decent sort, happy to trade
on his memories and his musical legacy.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"></span><br />
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"></span></span><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><o:p></o:p></span></span> </div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; tab-stops: 49.8pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">It was while thinking of Ray that a
quote came to mind, often erroneously attributed to Morrison but more likely to
have been conjured by the bespectacled organ lieutenant. It goes like this:<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; tab-stops: 49.8pt; text-align: justify;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">“There are things known and there are things unknown.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And in between are the doors.”<o:p></o:p></span></span></i></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; tab-stops: 49.8pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Now if I was some kind of lazy cleric,
desperately trying to fabricate a tenuous connection between his faith and what
he perceives to be the modern world, perhaps as a futile attempt to disguise
his fear of women and gay people, this would be the point at which I’d say
something like “…and, in a funny sort of way, that’s a bit like God.”<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; tab-stops: 49.8pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">But I’m not.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’m a militant atheist.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>So all bets are off, really.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; tab-stops: 49.8pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">However, in an equally spurious
manner I’m happy to take Ray Manzarek’s quote and, in an attempt to reawaken
your no doubt flagging interest, apply it to an area that will hopefully
resonate more strongly than long-gone psychedelic rock bands and hip priests
craving appreciation. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; tab-stops: 49.8pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Clearly, I’m talking about Liverpool’s
defence.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Bear with me.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">There are things known.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We know that there is a glaring need to
address certain deficiencies in our back-line.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>A vulnerability to set-pieces, an inclination to sit slightly deeper
than was anticipated when Brendan Rodgers took over, a lack of concentration
which has too often resulted in goals conceded.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>The retirement of Jamie Carragher, arguably still our most potent
defensive force last season, may have exacerbated such troubles, though the
signing of Kolo Toure could well turn out to be a shrewd piece of
business.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">True, the team had a creditable
clean-sheet record, but this was offset by a disturbing tendency to crumble
under pressure, encapsulated by the 17 league games in which our opponents
scored two or more times.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Despite the
growing influence of sports psychology, it seems that resilience and mental
fortitude have not yet become fully embedded within the Anfield dressing room.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">There are things unknown.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We don’t know which defenders will or won’t
be at the club by the time the transfer window closes.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>With Carragher gone, speculation has been
rife that Skrtel is on his way out, while murmurs persist that any or all of
Agger, Johnson and Enrique may follow.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Simultaneously, we are linked to a
host of potential replacements ranging from the effective yet limited
(Williams) to the promising yet unproven (Ilori), via the cult figure cum
borderline psychopath (Papadopoulos).<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Although, as most of these links are circulated by on-line fantasists whose
cravings for attention make Jessie J look like Syd Barrett, you might want to
hang fire before dangling a Greek flag from your bedroom window.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">And in between are the doors.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>At the risk of stretching an analogy to a
point previously only attempted in the Director’s Cut of ‘Fight Club’, the
doors in this scenario could well be our route to defensive salvation.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>For our purposes, flinging open the doors may
reveal the future.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>For, standing
patiently, waiting for their cue to stride forward and kick the bloody things
down, are Martin Kelly and Andre Wisdom.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; tab-stops: 49.8pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">There has been much talk of the need
to bolster our defence, to cast our eyes far and wide in the search for the
next Carragher, the next Hansen, perhaps even, given our desperation, the next
Phil Babb.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Now there’s a prospect to
chill the blood.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; tab-stops: 49.8pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">So, what if there are a couple of
ready-made solutions already under our collective noses?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In the limited time Kelly and Wisdom have
spent on the pitch they have displayed the kind of assurance, commitment and,
most importantly in this context, defensive aptitude more commonly seen in
considerably more senior players.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Sure,
they have a rawness to their games that reflects their inexperience at the top
level.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>That’s inevitable.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; tab-stops: 49.8pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">But if Brendan Rodgers is prepared to
take a deep breath and, either separately or as a bold dual statement, offer them
the opportunity to prove they are worthy of a regular first-team place, it
could be a move to both define and validate his managerial credentials.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; tab-stops: 49.8pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Kelly, in particular, has already shown
himself capable of excelling on the biggest stages.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He has started games at Old Trafford and
Stamford Bridge, the Emirates and the Etihad.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>He’s survived the Mersyside derby maelstrom and shone in European
competition.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s easily forgotten but,
thanks to the impeccable judgement of renowned football visionary, Roy Hodgson,
he’s also an England international.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; tab-stops: 49.8pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Typically deployed in the right back berth,
Kelly has demonstrated the composure and solidity to indicate that he can be
more than just a back-up player.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>With Glen
Johnson’s performances falling anywhere between ‘sublime’ and ‘Degen’ on the
competence spectrum, it would be no surprise if Kelly, with his consistency,
his physical presence and his hair like a less-punchable Vernon Kay, became a
fixture on the teamsheet in the coming season.</span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"></span></span><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9LMYN3KZ0kKhji_fFTwp1RNkD8fyXM4OepvQQIh4XADJtErCDQXVM9_6fB10EUl4p316Zj2JO448_4Ayk-z2aaMLY8T48KqykEm84IeWWuhdkvy_w3ZnZfcHWmxvHSD_DAlf3aznTvbc/s1600/Vernon.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9LMYN3KZ0kKhji_fFTwp1RNkD8fyXM4OepvQQIh4XADJtErCDQXVM9_6fB10EUl4p316Zj2JO448_4Ayk-z2aaMLY8T48KqykEm84IeWWuhdkvy_w3ZnZfcHWmxvHSD_DAlf3aznTvbc/s1600/Vernon.jpg" /></a></div>
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><o:p></o:p></span></span> </div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; tab-stops: 49.8pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Though, like many others, I am
convinced that Kelly’s long-term future lies in the heart of defence.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He presents all the attributes required to
excel in a central position, his pace and comfort in possession seemingly
fundamental qualities for a defender in a Rodgers team.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>If he can overcome his susceptibility to
injury, something which has badly impeded his progress in the last couple of
years, Kelly could establish himself as a latter-day Lawrenson, which, I must
emphasise to those familiar only with his joyless mission to rescue the art of
football analysis from the high-brow musings of Alan Shearer and Robbie Savage,
is a very good thing.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; tab-stops: 49.8pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Now 23, Kelly seems ideally placed to
exert his claim.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; tab-stops: 49.8pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Wisdom, though less advanced in the
pecking order, is just as intriguing a prospect.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Still a rookie in the wider scheme of things,
it’s rare to find a young defender with such confidence, aggression and
positional understanding.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Thrown into
the first team in the early part of last season, he never looked out of
place.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Like Kelly, he’s mainly been
deployed as a right back; also like Kelly, he seems naturally suited to a more
central role, where his decision making and leadership qualities can be given
free rein.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; tab-stops: 49.8pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Whereas other newcomers to the
backline have struggled to adapt to the demands placed on them, consequently
appearing easy prey to forwards quick to sniff out their vulnerability (<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">*cough* - </i>Coates - <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">*cough*), </i>Wisdom stood out as someone who thrived on the responsibility
of the position.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>That’s a rare quality
and one which, if nurtured correctly, should see him become an integral part of
tomorrow’s Liverpool.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; tab-stops: 49.8pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">In fact, I’ll go further and suggest
that if, in 5 years’ time, Wisdom isn’t captaining both club and country, working
on his second autobiography and progressing to the latter stages of Strictly
Come Dancing, something will have gone very, very wrong.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>That’s
the kind of career development I think all of our most promising youngsters
should aspire to.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; tab-stops: 49.8pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">It seems that the club finally
understands the benefits of building up and promoting our emerging home-grown
talent.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It is the way of the football
hipster to bemoan British players as essentially dog-muck; to opine that the
only way to ensure real quality is to recruit from more exotic climes, be it
Spain, South America or, er, Armenia.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Our
recent experiences do little to contradict this.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; tab-stops: 49.8pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">But, as ever, the truth lies in the
margins.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Why don’t we look at the
standard of players we already possess, whatever their passport says, and give
them the confidence to attain the levels we all want them to reach?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>If
that means cultivating lads who have grown up as part of the club, who are more
likely to be fully in tune with its history, demands and culture, and who may
be less inclined to jump ship a few years down the line, then that surely is a
strategy we can all get behind?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We acknowledge
the need to replace Carragher and Gerrard, players who have become part of the
fabric of the club, but struggle to accept that their (eventual) loss will be
felt as much for what they represent as anything they have achieved.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; tab-stops: 49.8pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">So let’s look to Martin Kelly.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Let’s look to Andre Wisdom.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Let’s smash the doors down and watch the new
breed storm through. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; tab-stops: 49.8pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">It’s what Ray Manzarek would have
wanted.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; tab-stops: 49.8pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">And, as his oppo, Jim Morrison, once said,
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">“No eternal reward will forgive us now
for wasting the dawn.”<o:p></o:p></i></span></span></div>
<br />
<div style="border-color: currentColor currentColor windowtext; border-style: none none solid; border-width: medium medium 1.5pt; mso-element: para-border-div; padding: 0cm 0cm 1pt;">
<div class="MsoNormal" style="border: currentColor; margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; mso-border-bottom-alt: solid windowtext 1.5pt; mso-padding-alt: 0cm 0cm 1.0pt 0cm; padding: 0cm; tab-stops: 49.8pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">I’m not sure precisely what that
means but I’m sure you’d agree, in a funny sort of way, it’s a bit like God….<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
</div>
Neil Scotthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11872828266696255582noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7836296097742863219.post-81418100577184032462014-03-17T00:09:00.000+00:002014-03-27T21:27:13.021+00:00Losing My Perspective<em><span style="color: red;">[This piece was first published in the final printed edition of Well Red magazine, in December 2013. Our title-winning form since the start of 2014 has, in my head at least, given it even greater relevance.]</span></em><br />
<em></em><br />
<em></em><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg19EWIqp0NkytIGEzxq57f2BxxjbtDxq2Jz0MOXL4NV4hdc1TgwX1aJYC9Qitsfwwo6l4f6Q0de6TbUD5vlRKRw2tZIVwHfP3O7BbYv8y7bI-7xLxHIiZWBRg_3GFXFOZw4bqniZTN_po/s1600/Kenny+Dalglish+Parts+Company+Liverpool+FC+sJG6ITapOyzl.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg19EWIqp0NkytIGEzxq57f2BxxjbtDxq2Jz0MOXL4NV4hdc1TgwX1aJYC9Qitsfwwo6l4f6Q0de6TbUD5vlRKRw2tZIVwHfP3O7BbYv8y7bI-7xLxHIiZWBRg_3GFXFOZw4bqniZTN_po/s1600/Kenny+Dalglish+Parts+Company+Liverpool+FC+sJG6ITapOyzl.jpg" height="266" width="400" /></a></div>
<em></em><br />
<em></em><br />
<em></em><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Perspective.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Something
we’re always being told we must maintain a sense of, yet no-one can
definitively state what it does or doesn’t entail.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>An unflinching optimist’s perspective will
differ wildly from that of a committed misery-guts and it seems pointless
trying to establish any common ground between the outlooks and values they each
hold.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Usually, they’ll just end up
getting cross and calling each other bad names on the internet.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">To confuse
matters further, perspectives change as the years pass.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>An example: in 1990, it would have been inconceivable
to consider a time when Liverpool were not winning league titles.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Granted, we’d just secured our tenth
championship trophy in fifteen seasons and had established a dominance not
previously seen in the domestic game.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Perspective was a shiny silver trophy with red ribbons tied to it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">By contrast,
for your average Manchester United fan perspective was a series of continual
disappointments.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It had been 23 years
since the Best, Law, Charlton vintage had delivered their last title triumph,
in 1967.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Busby had long gone, Atkinson
had flopped and Ferguson had only escaped the chop due to a redemptive FA Cup
win.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It would have taken a brave man, or
a delusional one, to predict a reversal of the existing order anytime soon.</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><strong><em>PANTS<o:p></o:p></em></strong></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">23 years.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s now been more than that since the sunny
April afternoon in 1990 when Liverpool were last crowned champions.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In the same period United have won thirteen
titles, employing a subtle mix of subterfuge, hubris, voodoo and possibly human
sacrifice.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And, to a much lesser extent,
because they’ve been quite good at winning football matches.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Sticks in the craw, doesn’t it?<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">I remember
what it was like in the ‘80s.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Year after
year we knew that we’d be challenging for the league and, if we played to our
potential, chances were we’d finish on top.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Villa, Ipswich, Everton, Arsenal – they’d all had their moments, all
threatened to gate-crash our perennial end-of -season party.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But we’d always come back even stronger.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Meanwhile, Old Trafford’s drought was
extended by another season, and another.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>How we laughed at their misfortune, derided their underachievement and
gloried in their disarray.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">No-one saw
the end coming.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Not really.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>True, we might have had some concerns about
the manner of our victory in ‘89-90.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We
had laboured uncharacteristically on occasion; for the first time Kenny’s
judgement was being questioned in some quarters; an increasingly unsettled
Anfield crowd had begun to vocalise its disquiet.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But, with the only real challenge coming from
an over-performing Aston Villa team, Liverpool did what was needed without ever
reaching the devastating heights of two seasons previous, when Barnes,
Beardsley and Aldridge shredded defences throughout the division, in much the
same way that Paul Merson shreds the English language every time he opens his
pie-hole.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">If, at that
precise point, someone from the future had emerged from an electrical storm
like Arnie in The Terminator, to warn us that we were about to be plunged into
a bleak 23 year long wilderness, and that the forces of evil, which had lain
dormant while we feasted, would soon establish a reign of terror that would
blight the land, we’d have locked him in a secure unit and hidden the key under
a vase or something.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I don’t know.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I haven’t really thought this through.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We’d definitely have told him to put some
pants on though.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Of that I have no
doubt. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Effectively,
that’s what happened.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Not the stuff with
the pants.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>That would be hideous.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But the wilderness thing and the reign of
terror propagated by Ferguson’s grunting orcs.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>They became ugly reality.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And our
sense of perspective has never recovered.</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><em><strong>JELLY<o:p></o:p></strong></em></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Most people
blame Graeme Souness.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And in truth,
they’d have a strong case.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Though the obvious candidate to replace
Dalglish when the pressures of Hillsborough finally took their toll, Souness
oversaw a seismic overhaul of both the club’s culture and its personnel.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>To a degree it may have been needed, as an
ageing squad and new restrictions on numbers of non-English players, combined
with a spreading complacency, meant that action was required.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But the decisions taken, the players brought
in and the abrasive methods used to bend people to his will, meant that within
two seasons Souness’s Liverpool had lost the air of invincibility that had
sustained the club for so long.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">When the dust
settled, we were left with a Liverpool that found itself back amongst the
mortals.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>That this co-incided with a
United finally getting its act together and quick to capitalise on the
newly-created Premier League’s status as a Murdoch-funded cash-cow, was an
accident of timing that could not have worked out much worse.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">What was
perhaps most painful was the knowledge that our expectations would have to be
adjusted.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As much as we all still clung
to notions of red supremacy, stark reality had a painful habit of intervening.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>However much we fought against the need to
keep a level of perspective that reflected our position, we knew that things
had changed.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There was no turning back
the clock; this was our future and it sucked, big time.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">As the years
went on, we grew accustomed to our role.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>For a while, Roy Evans gave us hope that we could close the gap.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He instigated a style of bright, progressive
football that appealed to our aesthetic sense, but which lacked the steely
pragmatism of genuine contenders.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The
winning mentality that had underscored our dominance had been replaced by a
fragility of mind that, isolated instances aside, we have struggled to
overcome.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Houllier,
too, made us dream of resurrection.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He
reminded us what winning trophies felt like, built a solid foundation and took
us back to second in the table.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But we
were unable to make the final leap, ultimately reverting to the now familiar
story of squandered opportunity and entrenched disappointment. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">With
Benitez, it seemed different.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In
bringing us European success, he showed that he was prepared to challenge the
biggest and the best head on.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He
convinced us that we had nothing to fear and, just to prove it, he took on
Mourinho and Ferguson at their own game and left them shaken.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>For probably the only time since 1990, we saw
a genuine title push and, as Benayoun crashed home a last-gasp winner at Craven
Cottage to take us top with seven games to play, we believed it was on.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This time it was really on.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">We all know
what happened.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Despite the cliché, it’s
hard to see a failure as glorious.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But
Christ, we came close.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Just four points
separated us from the title.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>For once we
were entitled to let our sense of perspective run away with us.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We were back and our coronation as champions
was merely postponed, not cancelled.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">But as we’ve
discovered over the years, perspective can be a slippery bugger.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And, almost inevitably, ours was soon brought
back into line, like a disobedient pooch that’s soiled a carpet.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">What came
next was a master-class in expectation management.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Hicks and Gillett, stetson-wearing Horsemen
of the Apocalypse, brought the club to its knees. Hodgson, trumpeted as a safe
pair of hands, instead resembled a man with grease smeared on his palms
attempting to catch jelly as it was fired at him from a cannon made entirely of
lard.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Kenny returned to steady the ship
and restore our pride, but was then undone by a combination of poor results,
badly-perceived transfer deals and executive haste.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Given the vitriol that some of our own
supporters aimed at our greatest living legend, it was easy to conclude that he
was better off out of it.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><em><strong></strong></em></span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><em><strong>TROUSERS</strong></em></span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"><br />
<span style="font-size: small;">
<span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">It is now
Brendan Rodgers’ turn to see if he can end the wait.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We all knew it was a huge ask.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As the season kicked off, we weren’t just up
against the traditional powerhouses, the Uniteds and Arsenals, or the
bankrolled behemoths of Chelsea and City.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>There was also a newly vibrant Tottenham to contend with, not to mention
our increasingly competitive neighbours.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Amid that sort of opposition, not many people seriously saw us as
genuine title challengers.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Not really.<o:p></o:p></span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">As we know,
all that’s changed.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>United have been
Moyesed into oblivion; Tottenham have proved that cashing in on your biggest
asset can unexpectedly backfire; Everton have struggled to maintain their
early-season form and suffered from a quality shortfall.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
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<span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">We’ve forced
our way into genuine contention, playing a brand of football both incisive and
effective, and which chimes with the traditions of the club.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We’ve shown the consistency and creativity
that has often been lacking in our recent past.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>We look capable of winning any game by a landslide, no matter the
opposition, and it doesn’t take a top pundit, or Andy Townsend, to point out
that that’s a solid base for any team to have.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>And we’ve got a manager of conviction and imagination, who has fully
bought into the Liverpool ethos and who has the rare gift of coaxing the very
best out of his players.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
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<span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Put all that
together, stand back, and enjoy where this ridiculous ride takes us.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
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<span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Yes, we’ve
had false dawns before.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We’ve become
experts at envisaging the oak tree while the acorn is barely in the soil.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But isn’t that what football should be
about?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Hope?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Expectation?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Daring to dream?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
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<span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">I’m done
with lying in the gutter.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You just end
up with a bad back and mucky trousers.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Let’s aim for the stars.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Let’s
decide that this is the year and go all out to make it happen. Let’s win the
sodding league.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>What’s the worst that
could happen?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Don’t answer that.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
<div style="border-color: currentColor currentColor windowtext; border-style: none none solid; border-width: medium medium 1.5pt; mso-element: para-border-div; padding: 0cm 0cm 1pt;">
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<span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Me, I’m taking my sense of perspective for a long walk and
pushing it in a lake.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>After all these
years, I’ve realised I don’t need it anymore.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>This Liverpool team have given us a new set of ‘what ifs’ and there’s no
point holding back now.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We’ve got big
fish to fry.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">Doesn’t it feel good?</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;"></span> </div>
</div>
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Neil Scotthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11872828266696255582noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7836296097742863219.post-73570485887792782522014-01-11T01:17:00.000+00:002014-01-11T01:17:16.678+00:00After The Gold Rush<em>[Originally published in Well Red magazine, September 2010]</em><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiOx3t6z-Y5KZPh82WUYZ3xWy66RCJ7nfJZlAyF4ktYoGAFtExE2PJgfKYGD_BgkuYZgAxrMklTohTSmKhkh4Ru6TSHdWEF_UZ8HD9OlFjmad4VBnvMR2eB4U0es61ARam0egS30yqk2DQ/s1600/Ian-Rush-005.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiOx3t6z-Y5KZPh82WUYZ3xWy66RCJ7nfJZlAyF4ktYoGAFtExE2PJgfKYGD_BgkuYZgAxrMklTohTSmKhkh4Ru6TSHdWEF_UZ8HD9OlFjmad4VBnvMR2eB4U0es61ARam0egS30yqk2DQ/s1600/Ian-Rush-005.jpg" height="192" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><span style="font-size: large;">I</span> remember the first time I saw Ian Rush in a
Liverpool shirt.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>1981.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The League Cup Final Replay.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>West Ham in the role of plucky yet ultimately
doomed opponents.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Kenny Dalglish provided
a moment of sublime invention, latching on to a probing McDermott through ball
to hook a subtly executed volley over a bemused, immaculately coiffed Phil
Parkes.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Alan Hansen headed the winner,
via the outstretched thigh of luckless Hammers skipper, Billy Bonds.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And a scrawny 19 year old from North Wales
gave a tantalising glimpse of the future, a future that was to be defined
by an almost supernatural capacity for scoring goals and a largely
unprecedented accumulation of silverware. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><o:p> </o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">Unusually, Rush didn’t score in that game. Indeed, it
wouldn’t be until his ninth outing that he managed to open his account for the
club, a typically instinctive strike against Finnish minnows, Oulun
Palloseura.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Given that the match took
place the day after Bill Shankly’s untimely death, the significance of Rush’s goal
was not immediately apparent.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But for
those who believe that football, on occasion, has the capacity to transcend its
populist, media-fuelled status and attain a sense of the mythic, it seemed to
represent the passing of the Anfield torch from one glorious generation to the
next.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Shankly, more than anyone, would
have appreciated the symbolism. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><o:p> </o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">From that moment on, there was no stopping Ian
Rush.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>With a game based on an explosive
turn of pace, unmatched anticipation and a calmness in front of goal not seen
since the days of Jimmy Greaves, he quickly established himself as the most
clinical striker in the country.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>For the
next six seasons it was a genuine privilege to witness Rush consistently
terrorise opposition defences in tandem with the peerless Dalglish, a
partnership which came to redefine the concept of a ‘telepathic
relationship.’<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Where Kenny crafted and
probed, all guile and artistry, the consummate sorcerer, his apprentice applied
the rapier thrust.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Time and again Rush
was on hand to pierce even the most stubborn of rearguards, with a
predictability that would have bordered on the monotonous if it hadn’t been so
uniquely thrilling.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">Five times in this spell he exceeded the elusive ‘30
goals in a season’ target; twice he reached the 40 mark.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Last minute winners, hat-tricks, crucial cup
final strikes, all were included in his repertoire. You didn’t just hope that
Ian Rush would score - you expected him to score, you knew that he would score.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>More often than not, he didn’t disappoint.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><o:p> </o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">Examples of Rush’s goalscoring proficiency spring
readily to mind.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There was the historic
four-goal haul against habitual victims Everton at Goodison in 1982, a performance
later to be immortalised in enduring Kop anthem, ‘Poor Scouser Tommy’; a
devastating triple strike on a frozen pitch at Villa Park, including a fiercely
lashed volley and a delicate lob bordering on the facetious; a decisive pair in
a bitterly fought European Cup semi-final in Bucharest; and, of course, the
goals that twice denied Everton the FA Cup, each a masterpiece of composure,
execution and timing.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">For many Liverpool followers though, even these
towering achievements were eclipsed one murky afternoon in October, 1983.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>With Luton Town playing to perfection the
part of sacrificial lambs, Rush gave arguably the most complete exhibition of
the striker’s art ever seen at Anfield.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>It wasn’t just the fact that he found the net five times that day.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Nor was it simply the quality and diversity
of the strikes, which encompassed instinctive close-range finishes, a flying
header and a thunderous volley taken at full pace to despatch a 60 yard Rubble
through-ball (one of the great ’forgotten’ Liverpool goals).<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>No, what was most profoundly memorable for me
was that this was the first time I saw an entire defence consumed by fear.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Rush’s mere presence provoked the kind of
outright panic seldom displayed on a football pitch, his every touch causing
visible consternation and dispute in the Luton ranks.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was like watching a skilled matador toying
with a confused bull, patiently circling his forlorn prey before administering the
fatal attack.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was a brutally
efficient, coldly clinical demonstration, showcasing a master craftsman at the
peak of his powers.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">It’s probably fair to say that Ian Rush’s second spell
at Anfield, after a troubled though not entirely fruitless season with
Juventus, never quite reached the same predatory heights. In fairness, he’d set
a standard that was impossible to live up to.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Liverpool’s style of play had evolved in his absence, with the attacking
emphasis now largely focused on the power and delivery of John Barnes from the
left wing.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Rush, who was accustomed to feeding
on the kind of defence-splitting, slide-rule passes perfected by the likes of
Dalglish, Molby and McMahon, did not initially appear comfortable in this
formation.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>However, as with all truly
great players he was able to adjust and develop his game and was, within two
years of his return, once more the goalscoring fulcrum of a Championship
winning team.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">So, just how good was Ian Rush?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Was he as fearsome a finisher as his domestic
contemporary, gurning crisp whore, Gary Lineker?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Did he match up to Geordie Messiah, Alan
Shearer?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Could he really be classed
ahead of Red icons like Hunt, Fowler, Owen (in the days when his integrity was
still untarnished) and Torres, as our finest ever striker?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">For me there is no debate.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I have never seen a forward more incisive in
front of goal, more selfless in support of the team aesthetic, or more reliably
consistent when called on to prove his worth than Ian Rush.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It is a tribute to his quality that, in a
team overflowing with genuinely world-class performers, he was the most sought
after and the most feared talent, as highly regarded on the continent as he was
on home shores.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He could be kicked,
buffeted, barged or elbowed, marked man-to-man or targeted for intense
provocation.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But, at his peak, he could
not be stopped.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He just carried on doing
what he did best.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">He scored goals.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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Neil Scotthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11872828266696255582noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7836296097742863219.post-27190643975347099502013-10-05T02:13:00.000+01:002017-10-24T08:58:52.890+01:00The End Of A Dark, Dark Day<em>[Written on the day Kenny Dalglish was sacked, 16th May 2012; published in <a href="http://liverpoolfc.wellredmag.co.uk/">Well Red magazine</a>]</em><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZ2AUjb6pFWlW3GDDDWBMp5JzrtqvwxkafO3r4MHAFdlXuo8793Mj4Zm-MlgvwoXDgywN5YbEoP2yqQk0X6z6fzH6qpU9Y4XaxkRMo6zcMWEKJoYEm2SuQknUOjqst0liUSE14XiJiYTw/s1600/kenny-dalglish-v-man-utd.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="317" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZ2AUjb6pFWlW3GDDDWBMp5JzrtqvwxkafO3r4MHAFdlXuo8793Mj4Zm-MlgvwoXDgywN5YbEoP2yqQk0X6z6fzH6qpU9Y4XaxkRMo6zcMWEKJoYEm2SuQknUOjqst0liUSE14XiJiYTw/s320/kenny-dalglish-v-man-utd.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">It was the headline on Sky Sports News that got me.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><o:p> </o:p></span></div>
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">‘<st1:place w:st="on">Liverpool</st1:place> sack Kenny Dalglish.’<o:p></o:p></span></i></b><br />
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><o:p> </o:p></span></i></b></div>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">Screaming gleefully into our front rooms, clear as day, garishly
presented on a bright yellow background for added impact.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><o:p> </o:p></span></i></b></div>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">Read it back.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Think about what it
means, what those four words say about our football club and where it is at
this precise moment.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><o:p> </o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">Our greatest living legend.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The
man who won us the European Cup at Wembley; who defied history and logic to
lead us to the double in his first season as a manager; who created a team that
brought fantasy football to life, the ultimate in artistry and consummate
style; who carried a city on his shoulders in its darkest days, at the expense
of his own health and well-being; and who answered the call to rescue us from
the smouldering ashes that engulfed our club in the aftermath of Hicks, Gillett
and Hodgson.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><o:p> </o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">Yes.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>That Kenny Dalglish.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Sacked.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>By hedge fund managers and accountants and people who are infinitely
more comfortable with a balance sheet than they will ever be with a team-sheet.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><o:p> </o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><o:p></o:p></span><span style="font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">Welcome to <st1:place w:st="on">Liverpool</st1:place> Football Club,
2012.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><o:p> </o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">Because apparently one season is all a man like Kenny Dalglish
deserves.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I know this is so because I’ve
seen people say it on Twitter and across forums, even at the match.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He’s past it, Dalglish. Hasn’t got a clue
anymore.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And so what if he did deliver
our first trophy in six years, and come tantalisingly close to a second?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>That means nothing to the new breed.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Not when we could be battling it out with <st1:city w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Newcastle</st1:place></st1:city> and Tottenham
for fourth place.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>That’s where the real
glamour is.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The kudos.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The cash.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><o:p> </o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">Except, that’s not the way I expect my club to behave.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><o:p> </o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">We’re meant to be different from the rest.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We laugh at <st1:city w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Chelsea</st1:place></st1:city> with their plastic flags and their
plastic fans and their revolving door policy when it comes to managers.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We assume an air of self-aggrandising superiority
and hark back to history, to tradition and to the ‘<st1:street w:st="on"><st1:address w:st="on">Liverpool Way</st1:address></st1:street>.’ <o:p></o:p></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">Well, there’s nothing to laugh about now.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Because our owners, the hedge fund managers
and the accountants, emboldened by the acquiescence of many of our own
supporters, have taken that history and pissed all over it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And we’re happy to accept it, in the name of
brand optimisation and maximised income streams and the viability of ‘the
project.’<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Effectively, we’ve just become
the new <st1:city w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Chelsea</st1:place></st1:city>.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><o:p> </o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">And if that means telling the club’s most revered servant that one full
season is all he gets to build a team to compete at the highest level, even
after two years of stagnation and crippling internal conflict, then so be
it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><o:p> </o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">But be warned.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The benchmark has
been set.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And if the next manager,
whether it’s Martinez or Benitez or David sodding Moyes fails to get us near a
Champions League place next season then don’t start whinging about knee-jerk
reactions or short-term thinking when he is thanked for his contribution and
sent on his way.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><o:p> </o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">We’re now looking for our fourth manager in two years.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>That’s the same number we employed in the 32
year period between the arrival of Shankly and the resignation of Dalglish in
1991. Any notion of continuity, of stability, belongs to a Liverpool of the
past.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>All that matters now is short-term
achievement, sponsorship deals and kit marketing.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><o:p> </o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">But what price the soul of the club?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>What price our reputation as a club that has a unique DNA, an unseen
umbilical bond linking all who hold the Liver Bird dear?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>For me, part of that died yesterday.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><o:p> </o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">I know all the arguments that are coming my way.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>That I’m allowing sentimentality to cloud
hard business sense.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>That I’m living in
the past.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>That I’m suggesting that Kenny
Dalglish should be judged by a different set of criteria than any other
manager.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><o:p> </o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">I don’t deny any of that.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And
what’s more I’m proud of it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Because if
we can’t apply emotion and bias and the experience of our formative years to
discussions of football, then when can we bring them into play?<o:p></o:p></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><o:p> </o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">And for me, Kenny Dalglish has done enough for this club to warrant the
kind of consideration that no other manager should rightly receive.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Because otherwise, you’re telling me that we
should judge him in exactly the same way, and by the same set of values, that
we judge Roy Hodgson.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And whether you
like it or not, that won’t be happening.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><o:p> </o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">Only one man has come out of this debacle with his dignity intact.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s the man I stood outside Melwood in
August 1977, the week he signed for the club, to get an autograph from.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The man who amazed me week after week with
his bravery and craft and commitment.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>The man who turned football into art and made that art something we
could all enjoy.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><o:p> </o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">So farewell, Kenny.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In the end,
we didn’t deserve you.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><o:p> </o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">It’s been a dark, dark day.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
Neil Scotthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11872828266696255582noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7836296097742863219.post-38452837689976554102013-09-12T09:38:00.000+01:002013-09-12T09:38:55.150+01:00All Apologies<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<img border="0" closure_lm_211327="null" height="195" isa="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOwerlwHztiAJ2dR9R5YlwjLHTTKt5SLkrtVoAmWFx2Qr37n2o5PLad3Trl6BbqoFbFTm-h4GK3Pve2V0wsLzpxFwwb4c4KSHUTFCN2N80ID3jOY3Im4Hy67pNiNjqKu8UFgXLWjvbH2g/s320/Hillsborough_Independent_Panel_report.jpg" width="320" /></div>
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[This article originally appeared in Well Red magazine, September 2012, in the wake of the publication of the Hillsborough Independent Panel report.]</div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: Arial; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">It’s always the same.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You wait 23 years for an apology.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Then loads of them turn up at once.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: Arial; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">In other circumstances that might well be a cause for frustration, perhaps even fury. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But this was different. This was unchartered territory. Instead, the overriding feelings were ones of incredulity, righteousness, and immense satisfaction.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: Arial; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">The findings of the Hillsborough Independent Panel were of such clarity, such magnitude, that the urge to apologise to the families of the victims and, by extension, to the city of <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:city w:st="on">Liverpool</st1:city></st1:place> as a whole, spread like wildfire.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>That such an urge had been absent for so long only made it more remarkable.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: Arial; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">David Cameron set the ball rolling. A Tory Prime Minister expressing his regret at the actions of an establishment that, to all intents and purposes, he was a product of. And the possible collusion of a government he holds as a shining beacon of modern conservative ‘values.’<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And doing so with what appeared to be genuine sincerity and commitment.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>All this from a man who, less than a year earlier had compared the campaign for justice to ‘a blind man in a dark room, looking for a black cat that isn’t there.’ From that moment, we knew that we were witnessing something truly momentous.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: Arial; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">Ed Miliband quickly followed suit, reminding us that his party too had singularly failed to support the Hillsborough families.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Jack Straw, who, when Home Secretary, judged there was insufficient evidence to sanction a fresh inquest, shifted uncomfortably in his seat.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: Arial; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">The floodgates opened.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And the authorities who had long been complicit in negligence, incompetence and blame shifting were queuing up to get in on the act, as if desperate to offload vast reservoirs of empathy and compassion, reservoirs which have lain untroubled for 23 years and now, we were expected to believe, were overflowing with earnest and heart-felt remorse. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: Arial; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">Sheffield Wednesday FC, whose ground was woefully ill-suited to stage such an event, who failed to ensure a valid safety certificate was in place and whose primary concern, according to the Hillsborough Panel, had been “to limit costs.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Sorry.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: Arial; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">The current Chief Constable of South Yorkshire Police, David Crompton, who, in fairness, made no attempt to diminish the well-documented failings of those whose actions had now unequivocally been shown to have led to the disaster.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Sorry.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: Arial; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">Boris Johnson.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Loveable, bumbling, victim-blaming gobshite Boris. Sorry.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: Arial; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">Dominic Mohan, editor of The Sun, bravely seeking to bolt the stable door 23 years after the horse gleefully dropped its muck all over the people of <st1:place w:st="on">Liverpool</st1:place>.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Sorry. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: Arial; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">Kelvin MacKenzie. Vermin. ‘Sorry.’<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: Arial; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">The FA, whose culpability for the catastrophe has long been underplayed, be it in neglecting prior concerns as to the suitability of Hillsborough, ignoring crowd safety issues at previous semi-finals, or failing to insist that the safety certificate was in place.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And who pressured <st1:place w:st="on">Liverpool</st1:place> into making a decision on replaying the match or face expulsion from the competition within days of the disaster.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Sorry (“…that the tragedy occurred at a venue the FA selected.”).<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: Arial; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">Irvine Patnick, whose eagerness to believe the most vicious lies without a shred of evidence (and who made damn sure the media were fully aware of them) went a long way towards establishing the narrative of drunken corpse-robbing, police-beating hooligans that was to run for more than two decades.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Sorry.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: Arial; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">Norman Bettison, who appears hell-bent on instigating a cover-up to hide his involvement in the original cover-up, issued a statement reeking of arrogance and self-preservation, and which refuted his need to apologise. Then he apologised for it.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: Arial; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">What is it they say about sorry being the hardest word?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Not anymore. Not when we’ve seen those pricked by a guilty conscience or terrified that their collusion may be exposed practically falling over each other to profoundly, solemnly, sincerely, profusely declare their deepest contrition.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: Arial; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">23 years.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>What kept you?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: Arial; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">After all, it’s not as if this was all a big surprise.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Most of the evidence has been in the public domain since the interim Taylor Report was issued, just four months after that dark April afternoon.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There was no grey area, no obfuscation.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><st1:place w:st="on"><st1:city w:st="on">Taylor</st1:city></st1:place> spelled it out, without caveats or provisos: “<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">T</i></span><i><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: Arial; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;">he main reason for the Disaster was a failure of police control.”</span></i><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: Arial; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"> <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: Arial; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">Where were the apologies then?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>When they might have actually counted for something? <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: Arial; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">Hillsborough Panel member, Phil Scraton, has written a number of books outlining the causes.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He highlighted the systemic police campaign to discredit the <st1:place w:st="on">Liverpool</st1:place> supporters.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He pointed out that all the victims, children included, had been tested for alcohol consumption. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He revealed that scores of statements which threatened to portray a negative picture of police competence had been doctored.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He spoke passionately of <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">“</i></span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: Arial; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;">institutional complacency and gross negligence by those in<span style="mso-bidi-font-style: italic;"> </span>positions of power ….and deceitful allegations that attempt to shift<span style="mso-bidi-font-style: italic;"> </span>responsibility onto the victims and their families</span></i><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: SohoPro-Light; font-size: 9pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: SohoPro-Light; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;">. “</span></i><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: SohoPro-Light; font-size: 9pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: SohoPro-Light; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;"> <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: Arial; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">So why have the families been running into judicial brick walls for 23 long, painful years?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I guess it’s just a lot easier to hide behind collective apologies after the fact.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Saves all that messy ‘liability’ business.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And if the reputation of an entire city is dragged through the gutter in the process, that’s a small price to pay to maintain the Establishment equilibrium.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: Arial; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">At this point, what does an apology mean anyway? Beyond an attempt to salve individual guilt?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And possibly try to head off any further repercussions down the line?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: Arial; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">Although anything that helps to give the families comfort, and smoothes their path to a form of justice they are able to accept, is to be welcomed, ultimately it’s not apologies that we want.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s proper accountability.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s a fresh inquest.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s explanations.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: Arial; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">We know the police were negligent, that the FA and <st1:place w:st="on">Sheffield</st1:place> Wednesday were complicit and that the media were happy to spread misinformation.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The Independent Report spells this out – logically, clinically, devastatingly.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Thanks to the Panel everyone now knows what happened.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: Arial; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">We need to understand why.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Who gave the orders? Who was at the heart of the cover-up? How high did it go?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: Arial; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">Because this matters.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Don’t let people tell you it doesn’t.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Watergate brought down a President yet ultimately it stemmed from little more than a bungled break-in at a <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:state w:st="on">Washington</st1:state></st1:place> hotel.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>At Hillsborough, 96 people lost their lives.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>No-one in authority lost so much as a day’s pay.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Is that the kind of society you want to be a part of?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: Arial; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">The Truth is now out there.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Those who continue to ignore it or actively choose to believe their own self-concocted vitriol have been thoroughly discredited.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They’ll probably always be around, twisted by hatred, compelled by tribal loyalty, nourished by ignorance.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But now they are the ones who are out of step, marginalised, derided.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>If the apologies have done anything they have established a new consensus and, for once, it’s on our side.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: Arial; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">The reaction within the city brought back memories of a <st1:place w:st="on">Liverpool</st1:place> I used to know. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Not the self-pity city of media legend.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Not the benefit claiming, militant bogey-man of the right wing press. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Not the <st1:place w:st="on">Liverpool</st1:place> of brand optimisation, soundbites and PR-enhancing documentaries.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This was a city defiant, proud and, above all, united.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A city that refused to give in when told again and again that this was a fight it couldn’t possibly win.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: Arial; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">And those who have been at the forefront of the fight will always have our heart-felt thanks.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>To the lengthy roll-call of glorious names in our club’s history, to Shankly, Liddell, Paisley, Dalglish, Hunt, Hughes, Rush, Barnes, Gerrard, we must now add the likes of Aspinall, Williams, Hicks, Coleman, Rotherham and Burnham.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Their tenacity, commitment and unswerving determination to uncover the truth warrant the highest possible recognition.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: Arial; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">The bereaved will never get over the pain of their loss.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>All we can hope is that the wheels are now firmly set in motion and that they finally receive the answers, the comfort, and the justice for which they have pleaded for so many years.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: Arial; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">They deserve so much more than apologies.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
Neil Scotthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11872828266696255582noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7836296097742863219.post-23553093462755527942012-12-09T01:18:00.000+00:002012-12-09T01:22:12.883+00:00The Cup That Time Forgot[Originally published in Issue 7 of <a href="http://liverpoolfc.wellredmag.co.uk/">Well Red magazine</a> - April / May 2011]<br />
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<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><span style="font-size: x-large;">R</span>ome. <st1:city w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Istanbul</st1:place></st1:city>. <st1:city w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Paris</st1:place></st1:city>. <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:city w:st="on">Dortmund</st1:city></st1:place>. Wembley.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The settings for some of our greatest triumphs. Occasions that are embedded in <st1:place w:st="on">Liverpool</st1:place> folklore. Matches that live on in our songs and in our memories. Trophies that illuminate and define our history.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>For, as was often said, before Ian Ayre and his bean-counting bosses moved the goalposts, Liverpool FC exists only to win trophies.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">The longer we went without success, the more intense our yearning for silverware. It is therefore only right that we approach each new season with a burning desire to be victorious in every competition we enter, be it the smugly self-regarding Premier League, the unjustifiably pompous Europa League or the sporting equivalent of Netto’s own-brand cornflakes, the Capital One Cup.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">But it hasn’t always been like that.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Mention the name “Screen Sport Super Cup” to Merseyside football supporters of a certain vintage and you’re likely to be met with a weary shrug of indifference and the same kind of resigned apathy that enables slack-jawed charisma void, Vernon Kay, to maintain a media career free from the threat of chemical castration. To the uninitiated, victory in the ironically-titled Super Cup represents further confirmation of <st1:place w:st="on">Liverpool</st1:place>’s 80’s pre-eminence. To those unfortunate enough not to have expunged all traces of it from their memories, it was a tournament that no-one wanted to enter and no-one was bothered about winning.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In hindsight, it was doomed from the outset. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">One of the by-products of the expulsion of English teams from European competition in the wake of the Heysel disaster was the loss of lucrative revenue streams for the qualifying clubs.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In an attempt to plug the income gap the Football League, under the adroit governance of human raincloud, Graham Kelly, hit upon the idea of a tournament involving those teams directly affected.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And so, with notions of glory and the pursuit of excellence taking a backseat to cold economic pragmatism, the Super Cup was born.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">Admittedly, the prospect of a midweek trek to <st1:city w:st="on">Norfolk</st1:city> or Salford was shrouded in slightly less glitter than a trip to <st1:city w:st="on">Vienna</st1:city> or <st1:city w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Bilbao</st1:place></st1:city> (or Runcorn, if truth be told), but beggars, we were reminded, could not afford to be choosers. However, given the lack of enthusiasm from the competing parties, the diffidence of the television companies and the failure to attract worthwhile sponsorship, an inter-club Top Trumps championship may have held more widespread appeal.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And would certainly have carried greater prestige.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">Effectively, the Super Cup brought together some of the biggest names in the football stratosphere – Liverpool, Manchester United, er…Norwich – locked them in a disused warehouse, encouraged them to chuck pieces of mouldy cake at each other for a couple of hours and then forgot about them. It was an exercise in futility, derided, devalued and unloved, and ultimately amounted to little more than a passing curiosity, a scribbled postscript at the bottom of <st1:place w:st="on">Liverpool</st1:place>’s extensive roll-call of honours.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">Which is not to say that it was a competition totally without interest.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As one of the 16,000 people at Anfield for our opening game, against an equally unenthused <st1:place w:st="on">Southampton</st1:place> team, it was a rare treat to witness a situation where the voices of the players drowned out the noise of the crowd.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>If nothing else, it was a valued insight into how life must be as an Everton season ticket holder.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">Similarly, the sight of Ron Atkinson’s Manchester United finishing bottom of their three team group behind both Everton and Norwich, winless after four matches, provided amusement to rank alongside Paul Walsh’s mullet-gone-wild or Howard Kendall’s IMAX forehead.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">With the bare minimum of effort, Liverpool progressed to the final, a two-legged affair against our beloved neighbours, although it was by now abundantly clear that this was a tournament to rank somewhere alongside the coveted ‘Tidiest Moustache’ award on the club’s wider list of priorities.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">Like a bloated Dr. Frankenstein acutely aware of the horror of its creation, the Football League belatedly realised it had to destroy the Super Cup.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>What better way to achieve this than to shunt the final, the showpiece event, back a season, staging it more than twelve months after the competition’s initial commencement?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And, in bitter acknowledgement of its failure to fire the imagination of the media, to rename it after the unknown cable channel that eventually agreed to sponsor it, at a market rate rumoured to be the equivalent of seven Chomp bars and an old Billy Joel album? <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">In fairness the two-legged final provided much to enjoy, with an Everton team containing players of the calibre of Peter Billing, Kevin Langley and Neil Adams meekly surrendering, both home and away, to an oddly motivated Liverpool. Although the 7-2 aggregate scoreline is remembered now principally for Ian Rush’s five-goal haul, my personal highlight took place in the first leg at Anfield, when Steve McMahon’s long range header exploded into Bobby Mimms’ net, a strike that contravened several commonly accepted laws of physics and geometry. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">Passage of time makes it easy to over-romanticise such incidents.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Take Jan Molby’s legendary goal against Manchester United in 1985.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In my mind’s eye I still see Big Jan ploughing through United players like a portly Robocop on a mission to rescue an imperilled kebab, before detonating a shot to leave keeper, Gary Bailey, with a face coated in black ash in the style of <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Wile E. Coyote after a cartoon explosion.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Similarly, to me McMahon will always be suspended eight feet off the ground somewhere near the Anfield centre circle, the ball exploding from his forehead with the velocity of a speeding truck, accompanied by the thud of 20,000 jaws simultaneously hitting the floor in awed wonder.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This is my Super Cup memory and no-one can take it away from me.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">Legend has it that, during the lap of honour after the Goodison victory, Ian Rush presented the Super Cup trophy to one of the ball-boys and told him to keep it in his bedroom.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Whether he did as instructed or exchanged it for a pack of Panini stickers in the schoolyard the following morning has gone undocumented. Suffice to say, it was never required again.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The competition was abandoned as a failed experiment with as much haste as it was introduced. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">But at least it was a trophy.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Wasn’t it?</span></div>
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Neil Scotthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11872828266696255582noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7836296097742863219.post-23099923884798111552012-07-05T00:26:00.001+01:002012-07-05T00:33:04.723+01:00Teenage Kicks: The Magic of Brazil '82<em>[This article was originally published in the first issue of </em><a href="http://www.latetacklemagazine.com/"><em>Late Tackle magazine</em></a><em>, Sept-Oct 2011]</em><br />
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<span style="font-size: x-large;">T</span>he thing about memories is they're always there for you. They sit patiently somewhere round the back of your cerebral cortex until summoned into action on a moment’s whim, to provide a rose-tinted window to a time long gone. <br />
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Like many compulsive nostalgists, a great number of my fondest memories are football-related. Years are defined by Cup Finals, summers by World Cups. To me, the word ‘panini’ will always evoke the youthful excitement of tearing open a pack of pristine football stickers, and the inevitable deflation on finding yet another Paul Mariner, rather than being some fancy shorthand for a squashed Italian sarnie. <br />
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It is, however, easy to romanticise childhood memories. Generally speaking, a wide-eyed 14 year old is more easily impressed than a jaded 40-something and, with passage of time often serving as an aid to embellishment, it is only wise to approach an old man’s reminiscences with a certain amount of caution. That said, and with a clear mind and an unshakeable conviction, I urge you to cast aside your scepticism, to charge your glasses, be upstanding, and raise a toast to the purveyors of the most beautiful football this weary cynic has been fortunate enough to witness.<br />
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In most cases, a football team’s greatness is affirmed by its successes. It is rare for a team to ultimately fail yet still be widely regarded as the best of its generation. Notable exceptions include Hungary in the 1950s and Holland in the 1970s, sides which captured the imagination of the world despite falling at the final hurdle.<br />
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That the Brazil team of 1982 failed is undeniable, but never has failure looked quite so magnificent. Were it not for them, the World Cup in Spain would have been remembered chiefly for Gerry Armstrong’s bustle, Claudio Gentile’s savagery and Kevin Keegan’s inability to find an empty net from six yards out. We owe them our deepest thanks.<br />
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<strong><em>The Pictures On My Wall</em></strong><br />
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<strong><em> </em></strong><strong><em></em></strong>The names have been ingrained on my consciousness for nearly 30 years now. Valdir Peres. Junior. Leandro. Oscar. Luizinho. Cerezo. Falcao. Zico. Socrates. Eder. Serginho. If I close my eyes I’m instantly back there, rushing home from school to take up my place, transfixed, in front of the telly, a Texan Bar in one hand, a Rubik’s Cube in the other (it was the ‘80s, it’s what we did - ask Peter Kay). <br />
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With a freedom of expression seldom seen either before or since, this Brazil team produced football that spoke of endless opportunity and breathtaking spectacle. Their endless fluidity and failure to follow conventionally prescribed tactical formations would reduce modern day analysts to blubbering wrecks. This truly was, in the prescient words of Alan Partridge, ‘liquid football.’ <br />
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A nominal 4-2-3-1 set-up would typically convert to something that loosely resembled a 2-1-5-2 approach, but in reality even this fails to do justice to the positional flexibility of Tele Santana's team. Orchestrated by the irrepressible genius of Zico, ably abetted by the chain-smoking, expansively bearded, toweringly elegant Socrates, Brazil's attacking philosophy was crystal clear. In basic terms it was the ultimate manifestation of several age-old clichés: “Let the ball do the work.” “No matter how many the opposition score, we'll score more.” “Attack is the best form of defence.” <br />
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Whereas the currently dominant Spain team specialise in intricate short passing patterns, content to bide their time to prise out an opening, Brazil opted for 30 yard one-twos, overwhelming opponents by the sheer variety of their play and the range of options that they fashioned at will. One-touch, two-touch, pass and move and move some more, flicks and tricks. <br />
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They could exploit the width offered by perpetually overlapping full-backs, Junior & Leandro, the direct (in every sense) precursors of Roberto Carlos and Cafu. They could drive through the middle, with Zico dropping deep undetected to take possession before crafting passes of such precision it was as if they has been designed using nanotechnology.<br />
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In truth, they could do whatever they pleased. There was no obvious game-plan, no agenda, no secret formula. There was a ball and a million different ways to get it into the net.<br />
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All of which is not to say that this was a team without weakness. Perhaps inevitably, any concept of defence seemed an afterthought, as if it was an unsightly blemish on the overall aesthetic. Whether this reflected naivety or arrogance, ultimately it was to be their undoing. <br />
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They fielded a goalkeeper who bore all the physical hallmarks of a disillusioned accountant and performed like a man who felt that goalkeeping was something that disillusioned accountants really shouldn’t get involved in. <br />
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And centre forward Serginho was the only Brazilian in history to be able to control a ball further than most players could kick it. Stepping in at late notice to replace the injured (and more obviously talented) Careca, Serginho was in the mould of a classic English number 9. Big, strong, good in the air and as subtle as a housebrick to the back of the head. It was, in some ways, akin to adorning Michelangelo’s David with a pair of plastic comedy breasts and a jester’s hat.<br />
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<strong><em>Totally Wired</em></strong><br />
<strong><em><br /> </em></strong>Their path through the World Cup was littered with moments to treasure. I implore those who remain unconvinced to undertake the requisite YouTube search. Start with the two late goals in the opening match against Russia, after the hapless Peres had casually ushered a speculative long range effort into his own goal, as if he felt his teammates needed a bit more of a challenge.<br />
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The response was unequivocal. First Socrates exploded a shot of such force into the roof of the net it could have conceivably demolished a tower block, while Eder, with a flourish that seemed to suggest this was a team intent on cementing its legacy, teed up a rolling ball and unleashed a swerving, dipping volley that left Russian keeper Dasaev, considered by many the world's best, rooted to the spot like a rusty oil-rig.<br />
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In the next match, against a Scotland team that could boast the likes of Souness, Dalglish, Wark, Strachan and Hansen, Brazil gave a masterclass of relaxed, inventive attacking football. After again falling behind to an early Narey effort, they simply stepped up to a gear that was beyond anything most teams could envisage. Zico curled a free kick into the top corner that could not have been more precise had its trajectory been plotted by NASA, a triumph of technique and unerring accuracy. But even this was upstaged by a sublime angled chip from Eder that left hapless Scottish keeper Alan Rough wondering whether repeated World Cup humiliation was some kind of karmic retribution for once sporting the worst footballer’s perm since Bob Latchford.<br />
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Zico again took centre stage against Argentina, poking home from close range after an Eder free kick, which changed direction more than a latter day Radiohead album, crashed against the crossbar. He followed this up with an exquisite, defence garrotting pass to the rampaging Junior, which didn’t so much ask to be converted as vehemently insisted. There seemed no limit to what this team could accomplish. We were entering uncharted territory here and, for a generation of English teenagers raised on a decade of international failure, it felt like the romance and the wonder of World Cup football was finally, thrillingly, revealed. We were all Brazilians now.<br />
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At which point it all came crashing down. <br />
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<strong><em>Shot By Both Sides</em></strong><br />
<strong><em><br /> </em></strong>Brazil went into the final second-stage group match against Italy needing only a draw to progress to the semi-final. There was nothing to suggest that it would be anything other than a routine exercise. Italy were in many ways the antithesis of Brazil – cautious, disciplined, occasionally brutal – and appeared over-reliant on a 40 year old goalkeeper (Zoff), a defender prone to acts of dubious legality (Gentile) and a misfiring striker recently returned from a two year match-fixing ban (Rossi). The outcome, surely, was a formality.<br />
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Well, not quite. This was the day Brazil's defensive failings were finally, fatally exposed. In a match still remembered as one of the finest in World Cup history, they fell behind on three occasions to an Italian team suddenly perfecting the art of the counter-attack. The previously anonymous Rossi struck a hat-trick, in a devastating display of predatory finishing; in response Brazil threw caution to the wind, unable or unwilling to abandon their free-flowing philosophy. It was an enthralling, compulsive spectacle, which, in hindsight, was as much a fight for the soul of the game as it was a struggle for a place in the last four.<br />
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With twenty minutes to go, a sumptuous Falcao strike brought the scores level at 2-2, which was enough to send Brazil through. A time surely for restraint, for prioritising the bigger picture at the expense of immediate glory? For most teams, yes. But the Brazil of 1982 were anything but most teams. And they weren't about to forego their principles if it meant settling for a draw.<br />
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So they kept on attacking. And, inevitably, it cost them the World Cup. An unmarked Rossi grabbed his third goal; Zoff denied logic in keeping out a last minute Oscar header; and Brazil, shockingly, were beaten. In the words of Zico, it was “the day football died.”<br />
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The result left a scar on Brazil's footballing psyche. It wasn't just a team that had been defeated in the Spanish sun, it was an ethos. Their failure may be seen as the point at which pragmatic, results-driven, safety-first football became the default, with flair and expression increasingly sacrificed at the expense of discipline and tactical rigidity. To this day few teams have successfully replicated the Brazilian template, the elusive 'jogo bonito,' although certain elements may be detected in the Liverpool of 1988, Arrigo Sacchi's AC Milan and the currently dominant Barcelona.<br />
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As for Brazil, they have captured the World Cup twice since the trauma of 1982, each time with teams that were largely lacking the fantasy of Zico and his colleagues. Were these victories any less sweet for being achieved through the harnessing of individual ability within an organised, practical outlook? I doubt it.<br />
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But don't expect me to think of them the way I think of the team that shone so brightly back in 1982. When Zico and Socrates and Eder and Junior showed that football could be magic. And when teenage kicks were played out in yellow and blue. <br />
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They're my memories and they'll always be with me.<br />
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<br />Neil Scotthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11872828266696255582noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7836296097742863219.post-74529802928564316082012-04-21T19:07:00.000+01:002013-09-05T22:47:35.977+01:00It Used To Be Special<br />
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<em>[This article was originally published in </em><a href="http://liverpoolfc.wellredmag.co.uk/"><em>Well Red magazine</em></a><em>, issue 5, December 2010, at the height of the maelstrom that engulfed the club under Roy Hodgson. It was updated to reflect Kenny Dalglish's return to the manager's position. It has now been revised again, as we commemorate the 100th anniversary of Bill Shankly's birth, and as Brendan Rodgers begins his second season in charge. ]</em><br />
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We’ve all seen the footage. The great Bill Shankly on the steps of St. George’s Hall, arms outstretched in messianic triumph. Below, thousands of exultant Liverpool fans hang expectantly on his every word. The rhetoric has passed into legend – “I’ve drummed it into our players….privileged to play for you….if they didn’t believe me, they believe me now.” Classic Shankly – humble, charismatic, inspirational.<br />
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What was perhaps most remarkable about this show of triumphant defiance was the immediate context. For this was never meant to be a celebration, the aftermath of some historic, trophy-yielding victory. Instead, the people lining the streets of the city centre that May afternoon in 1971 were still coming to terms with the previous day’s narrow Cup Final defeat against a functional, though hardly expansive, Arsenal team. <br />
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To Shankly, the result was almost an irrelevance. What mattered most was that the club he had built, its players and supporters, were united as one single, pulsing force. No part could function without the other; there was no ‘us’ and ‘them.’ And, inevitably, Shankly was the catalyst. <br />
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No other leader could ever hope to command such unswerving devotion from his followers, be they on the pitch or on the Kop, by sheer force of personality alone. He set the template, establishing a bond between Liverpool manager and Liverpool supporter that all his successors are expected to live up to. Four decades down the line, it’s a challenge that can still make or break a career.<br />
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<em><strong>The Need for Solidarity</strong></em><br />
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<em><strong> </strong></em>Football clubs are built on relationships. Relationships between players, between players and manager, between manager and board, and between board and owners. Under the calamitous regime of Hicks and Gillett, talk of fractured relationships at each level dominated whenever Liverpool’s affairs were discussed. The cumulative impact of such sustained negativity led to a steady deterioration in on-pitch performance and an associated rise in supporter disenchantment. <br />
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In such times, it is of vital importance that the fans feel a sense of solidarity and an understanding that they share common goals. The problem is that a united front can only really flourish under a universally-accepted figurehead. Someone with the capacity to command respect, to inspire belief and to provide assurance that collective dreams can be realised. <br />
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A leader. <br />
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Given Liverpool’s unique, sometimes tragic, heritage, at Anfield more than anywhere else this is perhaps the most significant relationship of all – the one between manager and supporters. A failure to fully appreciate this can lead to an irrevocable breakdown in trust which, once lost, can be impossible to recapture. Just ask Roy Hodgson.<br />
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It is not an exaggeration to suggest that no other Liverpool manager managed to alienate such a large proportion of the club’s fanbase in such a relatively short space of time. Whilst this was, to an extent, dictated by a series of unsatisfactory results and disappointing performances, there remains a real sense that something else may have been at play here. It seems very much as though Hodgson paid the price for failing to live up to the supporters’ ideal of what a Liverpool manager should represent. <br />
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<strong><em>The Manager as Charismatic Leader</em></strong><br />
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We have come to demand certain standards of our managers. It goes without saying that, as a bare minimum, this should include tactical awareness, a winning mentality and a deeply ingrained knowledge of the game. But we also ask more. Just as the Catholic Church regards the Pope to be God’s representative on Earth, and committed Satanists hold up Simon Cowell as the physical embodiment of true evil, so to Liverpool supporters the manager acts as our ambassador in the dug-out. As such, we expect him to absorb and reflect our concerns, to fight our corner, to defend us against external attacks and, ultimately, to give us something to believe in. Simply put, we look to the manager to lead us into battle, and we follow, not blindly but willingly and with a keen appreciation of our collective strength. <br />
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Our club’s history suggests that, in order to fully galvanise this communal loyalty, the manager must exhibit some of the characteristics usually associated with political or religious leaders. Chief amongst these is the kind of personal charisma that commands high levels of devotion and serves to legitimise his authority in the eyes of the supporters. <br />
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This may almost be seen as an adapted form of ‘personality cult,’ where the aspirations and objectives of the leader become synonymous with those of the wider organisation or state (in this case, the football club itself). In this context, Shankly’s famous reference to the Liverpool supporters displaying a show of strength greater than Chairman Mao himself could summon, during that same 1971 homecoming speech, takes on an added significance.<br />
<br />
All of which is not to say that a manager can survive and prosper on personality alone. Nor is it intended to suggest that someone less naturally given to charismatic flourishes will inevitably fail to elicit respect. We only have to look at Bob Paisley and remember the esteem in which he was held by Liverpool fans to see the flaw in that idea. However, it is perhaps true to say that, for all Paisley’s unprecedented on-field triumphs, he was never quite seen as the terrace advocate that Shankly, or even Benitez, was or engendered the kind of unequivocal adulation once reserved for Dalglish. <br />
<br />
Whether by accident or design one of the by-products of the manager as ‘charismatic leader’ is his elevation to figurehead status, where the relationship with supporters becomes almost a symbiotic one, each side drawing from the intense conviction of the other. Although we can trace the origins of this bond back to Shankly and his inimitable rapport with the Kop, the canniest of his heirs have also understood its value. With varying degrees of success, Dalglish, Houllier and Benitez have all tried to re-establish the link, be it a conscious strategy or a consequence of shared adversity. Unfortunately for him, Roy Hodgson’s failure to engage the supporters in such a way more closely resembled the tarnished reign of Graeme Souness than any of his more illustrious predecessors.<br />
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<strong><em>The Special Relationship</em></strong><br />
<br />
Before Shankly, the manager’s primary responsibility had always been to satisfy and live up to the expectations of the board members. Though the manager (usually) picked and trained the team, there was never any doubt where the balance of power within clubs truly rested. Supporters, if they were considered at all, were a long way down the footballing food-chain, expected to pay their money, swing their rattles and accept that they had little influence in the affairs of the club they followed. <br />
<br />
Shankly changed all that. To him, the club belonged to the people who stood on the Kop, not the board of directors, not the owners, not the cigar-chomping businessman with a seat in the executive box and a barely-suppressed yawn of indifference. When he spoke of football’s ‘holy trinity’ – the players, the manager and the supporters – he did so with an acute appreciation that the fans were the one constant factor in the union and made it his quest to reward their loyalty by instilling in them a sense of pride, purpose and belonging. To accomplish this, Shankly himself became Liverpool’s biggest fan. And because his fellow supporters could see this, and could see that every decision he took, or player he signed, or wisecrack he made was ultimately intended for the greater good of the club, the bond of trust became an unbreakable one. This, more than anything else, was his enduring legacy.<br />
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<br />
Despite the undoubted regard in which Liverpool supporters held both Paisley and his short-term successor, Joe Fagan, it took the appointment of Dalglish, initially as player-manager, to restore the sense that the man in the top job was someone completely in tune with their ideals. Obviously it helped that he was already regarded by many as the club’s greatest-ever player, and so was immediately afforded the sort of goodwill that was arguably withheld from Hodgson, but over the course of his stewardship Kenny proved time and again that the interests and well-being of the fans were his priority. <br />
<br />
He swatted away Alex Ferguson’s juvenile barbs like a woodsman dispatching a diseased elm; he created a team that brought fantasy football to life; and, most poignantly, he bore the suffering of Hillsborough with unmatched dignity and provided the kind of leadership in the aftermath of the tragedy that will never be forgotten. Ultimately the immense burden told on Dalglish, but his continued deification amongst followers of Liverpool FC is testament to his success as someone who has always understood what the club means to its fanbase. <br />
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Ironically, this was only emphasised by the actions of another playing legend-turned-manager, Graeme Souness. In selling the story of his heart surgery to the same publication that had printed baseless, repulsive lies about the supporters, Souness effectively destroyed any prospect of emulating the sort of relationship with them that his two countrymen had forged. As he learnt to his cost, betrayal, of the supporters, the club and its tradition, is one thing that will not be tolerated.<br />
<br />
<strong><em>The Outsiders</em></strong><br />
<br />
On paper at least, it follows that any manager will find it significantly more of a challenge to establish the reciprocal closeness with the fans that Shankly and Dalglish enjoyed if they are, to all intents and purposes, ‘outsiders.’ Scousers are, by nature, initially suspicious when someone with no prior connection looks to advance in their city and, by extension, their football club. Though respect may be given, genuine, unqualified support will not be forthcoming until the interloper’s intentions and methods have been squarely ascertained. Both Houllier and Benitez were astute enough to see that their chances of success would be enhanced if they could harness the power of a staunchly committed support. <br />
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It is now often overlooked but up until his penultimate season in charge, Houllier enjoyed almost universal acclaim from the Liverpool fans. The fact that he restored the club’s pride and moulded a team that was again able to compete for (and win) silverware undoubtedly influenced his standing. However, there was also a real belief that Houllier understood the Liverpool ethos and was following the blueprint laid down during the ‘60s revolution. On more than one occasion, the chant that went up from the Kop was “Are you Shankly in disguise,” a mantra that was as well-intentioned as it was premature. <br />
<br />
Eventually, Houllier was undone by his tactical inflexibility and his failure to build on the foundations he’d put in place, but it was also felt that a prickly arrogance and growing lack of humility were traits not befitting the role of Liverpool manager. Despite his achievements, there were few dissenters when his tenure came to an end.<br />
<br />
By contrast, the Benitez regime spawned some of the most zealous and fiercely protective displays of loyalty that any ex-manager could hope to witness. This is perhaps unsurprising given Rafa’s continued efforts to position himself firmly on the side of the supporters and the widely held notion that, for the latter part of his time at the club, he stood alone against an untrustworthy, discredited hierarchy. Although not averse to exploiting his popularity in the interests of political manoeuvring, there can be no doubt that Benitez fully embraced both the club and the city’s unique fibre. <br />
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<br />
Endless attacks by ill-informed media drones and Ferguson’s moribund old-boys’ network only heightened his iconic status in the eyes of many supporters, while his integrity, passion and willingness to stand up for what he believed in resonated strongly with those old enough to remember the Shankly years. Crucially, in the eyes of some these traits only served to highlight his successor’s perceived deficiencies.<br />
<br />
Roy Hodgson was not the manager most Liverpool fans wanted. <br />
<br />
From the outset he was met with guarded suspicion and a nagging belief that, in different circumstances and with a more stable structure in place, he would not even have made the short-list. It took only a handful of league games before such misgivings gave way to hostility and, increasingly, open resentment. What was most noticeable was the speed at which this antipathy took on a personal tone, as internet forums quickly raged with comments ridiculing his appearance, his speech, his age and (perhaps justifiably) his tactics. <br />
<br />
At the heart of this lay an overriding, though uncomfortable, truth. Hodgson wasn’t one of ‘us.’ He didn’t comprehend what the club represents to the supporters, he failed to grasp the basic tenets of humility and dignity that Shankly laid down, and his public utterances were self-serving exercises in buck-passing and negativity. In short, he was a symbol of a despised and dysfunctional regime.<br />
<br />
Amidst the tumult, legitimate criticism was frequently overtaken by vitriolic abuse. Oddly, much of the fiercest censure stemmed from those who, six months earlier, had insisted that Benitez should be afforded appropriate levels of respect and patience. That the same courtesies were not extended to Hodgson is testament to both his unrivalled unpopularity with supporters and the desire to see the manager’s post filled by someone capable of upholding its fundamental values.<br />
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<strong><em>The Return of the Native</em></strong><br />
<br />
In asking Dalglish to replace Hodgson, the new Liverpool owners demonstrated a canny understanding of the importance, at that particular time, of re-establishing the bond between manager and supporters. The need for stability, for everyone to be seen to be pulling in the same direction after the upheaval and disharmony that had passed, was paramount. And there is no man more in tune with what that entails than Kenny Dalglish. <br />
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For the first time in years, bitter recriminations and internal rifts were put to one side. The Liverpool of old was back, as dignity, empathy and ambition usurped sniping, self-interest and defeatism. For a while at least.<br />
<br />
However, it is perhaps a sign of the times that even the King of the Kop, a true icon of the club, fell victim to the kind of shabby denigration from professed Liverpool supporters that would once have been unimaginable. That this, on occasion, crossed into the kind of unacceptable, ugly invective that plagued Hodgson (and, to an extent, Benitez) may be seen as a sign that the relationship with the fans has been damaged, perhaps irreparably.<br />
<br />
It now falls to Brendan Rodgers to add his name to the illustrious roll-call of managers who have served the club with distinction. Though his first season was often an uncomfortable one, starting as it did in the wake of Dalglish's brutal sacking and the apparent snubbing of Benitez, there are clear signs that Rodgers has come to terms with the demands of his position and is establishing a structure and a rapport that bode well for the future. It goes without saying that the more successful the team is, the more willing the Anfield crowd will be to accept him as one of their own.<br />
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Whether the current Liverpool manager can live up to the supporters’ expectations remains to be seen. But, like Shankly outside St. George’s Hall, if he can get them to buy into his vision, if he can take them with him and build a potent, unified force, then this special relationship could once more be the springboard to lasting success. <br />
<br />Neil Scotthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11872828266696255582noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7836296097742863219.post-54342927994012543682010-12-17T15:02:00.047+00:002010-12-17T16:04:16.177+00:00THE END OF THE LATE SHOW<a href="http://static.guim.co.uk/sys-images/Admin/BkFill/Default_image_group/2010/11/26/1290812503635/Roy-Hodgson-Liverpool-007.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" src="http://static.guim.co.uk/sys-images/Admin/BkFill/Default_image_group/2010/11/26/1290812503635/Roy-Hodgson-Liverpool-007.jpg" style="cursor: hand; display: block; height: 276px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 460px;" /></a><br />
<div>Something weird happened to me whilst watching Liverpool’s latest attempt to single-handedly decimate Channel 5 viewing figures. It wasn’t the realisation that my time would be better spent juggling steak-knives or frowning at spiders. Nor was it the comforting thought that, no matter how bad things may appear, there’s always another Jean Claude Van Damme film just around the corner to put everything into perspective.<br />
<br />
No, this particular epiphany occurred roughly three quarters of the way through the ‘action’ and related to a remark made by the increasingly desperate, incident-starved commentator. As Liverpool prepared to plant a corner squarely on the forehead of a grateful Utrecht defender a flicker of excitement entered his voice and, with baseless optimism temporarily overcoming grim reality, he confidently asserted that this was the time when the home team were at their most dangerous. Now I don’t have the precise quote to hand, struggling as I was to simultaneously retain consciousness and the will to live. But I swear that was the gist: that Liverpool’s threat is at its greatest in the closing stages of a game.</div><br />
<div><strong>Bald</strong><br />
To qualify the statement, it was quickly pointed out that this applied in the main to Europa League fixtures. Indeed, the bald truth is that we have scored a highly creditable six goals so far this season after the 75th minute mark (a figure I have decided to use as an arbitrary ‘lateness indicator’) in that tournament alone. Admittedly three of these occurred in a single game, the Steven Gerrard hat-trick against Napoli. But still. Six late goals. Mustn’t grumble.<br />
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It was then that I let my mind wander which, given the paucity of activity on show at Anfield, was a distraction to be warmly embraced, like a wealthy relative in a hospital bed. I cast my mind back to happier times, when trophies arrived with the frequency of raindrops in an English summer, and when Liverpool’s status as ‘masters of the late goal’ was unchallenged.</div><br />
<div><strong>Jelly</strong><br />
Back then, throughout the ‘70s and ‘80s, it seemed that Liverpool matches followed one of two distinct patterns. Either we destroyed teams, overpowering them, outplaying them, handing out football lessons like jelly at a crèche. Or we bided our time, tested the opposition’s resistance, absorbed their best efforts, before striking in the nick of time, breaking the hearts of those deluded enough to think they could hold us at bay. The amount of games that were won as the final whistle approached passed into legend.<br />
<br />
Sadly, as the demise of the ‘90s took hold so the late-goal baton made its way along the M62, taking up residence at the shrine of brashness, self-aggrandisement and wispy little moustaches, Old Trafford.<br />
<br />
Which isn’t to say that we suddenly stopped scoring late goals, as if they had somehow been banished by Graeme Souness along with winning football and moral decency. It's just that, given our failure to consistently challenge for the highest honours, the importance of those goals was proportionately lessened.</div><br />
<div><strong>Notched</strong><br />
All of which led me to undertake a bit of research. Because I was fairly certain that, for all our epoch-defining, heroic escapades in European football's version of the X Factor auditions (difficult to watch, low on quality, and faintly embarrassing to be involved in), late goals had been conspicuously missing from this season's league performances.<br />
<br />
So, taking the 75 minute mark as my guide, I attempted to discover the reality. How many late goals have we notched this season? How many have been conceded? And how do the findings stack up when compared to totals from the last decade?<br />
<br />
Roy Hodgson, you may wish to look away now…<br />
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In 17 games Liverpool have so far played in the Premier League this season, Maxi Rodriguez’s late strike in the away win at Bolton remains the only goal we have scored beyond the 75th minute. That’s it. One goal. Meanwhile, Andy Carroll’s bludgeoned injury time effort past Pepe Reina in the disappointing defeat at Newcastle was the sixth goal we have conceded in the same time-frame. That paints a fairly disconcerting picture however you want to look at it.<br />
<br />
By way of comparison I also looked at the overall statistics for every season since Gerard Houllier’s first campaign in sole charge (1999/00). Now it should be pointed out that the figures represent the total number of late goals occurring over the course of the entire season, rather than in the first 17 games, and, as such, do not provide for a like-for-like evaluation. But they do underline the fact that, to even come close to matching the performance over the previous decade, major improvements are required in the second half of the season.</div><br />
<strong>Goals Scored After the 75th Minute</strong><br />
<div></div><br />
<i>Season</i> -------------<i>For</i>-------<i>Against<br />
<br />
</i>2010/11---------------1 --------6<br />
(after 17 games) <div></div><br />
<div>2009/10--------------15--------7</div><br />
<div>2008/09--------------27--------7</div><br />
<div>2007/08--------------19------- 9</div><br />
<div>2006/07--------------10--------4</div><br />
<div>2005/06--------------15--------7</div><br />
<div>2004/05--------------10--------7</div><br />
<div>2003/04 -------------14--------8</div><br />
<div>2002/03--------------15--------15</div><br />
<div>2001/02--------------15--------5</div><br />
<div>2000/01--------------17--------9</div><br />
<div>1999/00--------------12--------3</div><br />
<div><br />
<br />
As the table shows, the general pattern suggests that, on average, since 1999 Liverpool have scored just over twice as many goals in the closing 15 minutes of league matches as they have conceded. Give or take a couple of seasons that may be seen as anomalies in the wider context (2008/09 for goals scored and 2002/03 for goals conceded), this statistic remains constant throughout the Houllier and Benitez eras. It takes neither a mathematical nor a football genius to see that, under Roy Hodgson, we have so far failed to offer the kind of threat late in games that, historically, we have come to expect, and our capacity for resisting pressure in the closing stages is significantly reduced.</div><br />
<div><strong>Bieber</strong><br />
Of course, it is only fair to look at these findings in relation to the performance of other teams within the division. Perhaps Liverpool’s record is on a par with our rivals, perhaps it just hasn’t been one of those seasons where late goals fly around like pheromones at a Justin Bieber concert.<br />
<br />
Well, not quite. Examination of similar data for all the other top flight teams paints a predictably grim picture. Taking Liverpool out of the equation, the average number of goals scored per Premier League club after the 75th minute is a wholly respectable 6.8. Or, to put it another way, nearly seven times the total managed by Hodgson’s team. Even worse, our single late goal is comfortably the lowest tally in the division. The teams currently occupying the bottom five places have each scored four goals in the closing 15 minutes of matches, whilst even fellow strugglers Everton have struck late on seven occasions. At the top of the pile, Arsenal have amassed 11 late goals so far, closely followed by Man United, West Brom and Bolton on ten.<br />
<br />
The six goals conceded by Liverpool in the final stages is in line with the average for all Premier League teams this season, and is perhaps the only crumb of comfort to be gained from this exercise.</div><br />
<div><strong>Van Damme</strong><br />
So what does all this tell us? Apart from the fact that I clearly have too much time on my hands?<br />
<br />
Well, it’s all just supposition but questions may conceivably be asked of the team’s mentality, fitness and approach. Particularly in away games our tendency to sit deep as the match progresses, inviting pressure and diminishing the chance for sustained possession in the opposition half, inevitably results in more goal-scoring opportunities for our opponents. Similarly, there has been a pattern in recent home games of Liverpool establishing a lead and then preserving the advantage as the second half progresses, rather than decisively looking to add to the score. It’s a safety first approach which, though when deployed from of a position of clear advantage may help to secure a result, at times only emphasises the fallibilities of an underperforming squad.<br />
<br />
I have been less vocal than many in my criticisms of Hodgson this season, accepting that any new manager requires a bedding-in period to enable his vision for the future to be developed and implemented. Given the turmoil surrounding the club at the time of his appointment, and the fall-out from a desperately disappointing season that ultimately cost the previous manager his job, it was only to be expected that progress would be slow to arrive.<br />
<br />
However, the only conclusion that can be drawn from much of the available statistical evidence is that, on the pitch at least, Liverpool have gone into regression. Be it late goals, away wins, possession figures, number of defeats, points won from a losing position, the signs all point to a team struggling to translate the ideals of the manager into a successful formula. At which point those ideals must come under serious objective scrutiny, as there is little point in flogging to death a plan that repeatedly fails to come to fruition.<br />
<br />
The alternative, one which an increasing number of Liverpool supporters favour, is to dispense with the manager. It’s certain that John Henry and his associates will give careful consideration to every option. The decision they reach will determine whether Liverpool can start to claw their way back to the pinnacle of European football. Or whether a lifetime of Jean Claude Van Damme films is the best we can look forward to.</div>Neil Scotthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11872828266696255582noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7836296097742863219.post-12490502913478260042010-02-23T13:15:00.006+00:002010-12-17T16:06:09.237+00:00The Noble Art of the Own GoalLet’s face it, everyone loves an own goal.<br />
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Be it a lumbering centre-half wildly slashing a loose ball past his team’s immobile keeper, an over-compensating beanpole striker forcefully nodding a last-minute corner into his own net or Gary Neville aiming a lazy punt at a particularly uncooperative divot in the England 6 yard box, there’s something inherently and unashamedly comical about the whole shabby business.<br />
<br />
If I were to analyse it on a psychological level, I’m sure I’d blow out some old guff about ‘schadenfreude’, the extraction of pleasure from the misfortune of others or, in the sage words of Lisa Simpson, ‘shameful joy’. But in reality it’s even more basic than that. It’s pure slapstick. If lab-coated boffins were to magically teleport Laurel and Hardy into the 21st century they wouldn’t waste their time trying to manoeuvre oversized pianos up ominously steep staircases. No, they’d be lining up alongside Titus Bramble in Wigan’s back four, firing a steady stream of over-hit backpasses at Chris Kirkland’s oddly shaped nut.<br />
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Look at Jonathan Woodgate’s Real Madrid debut. After being ruled out for the best part of a decade with a succession of ruptured hair-slides, how did the mop-topped student stomper mark his inaugural appearance at the Bernabeu? By carefully boncing a friendly long-range effort past a frankly miffed-looking Iker Casillas, of course. That he followed this up by getting himself sent off only confirmed Woody’s status as the clown prince of continental defending. Rumours persist that a desire to swap his gleaming Mercedes for a collapsing tricycle and his insistence on wearing an oversized, suspicious-looking flower in his lapel only served to hasten his Madrid exit.<br />
<br />
And who could ever forget Bury’s Chris Brass? (Alright, you can put your hands down now, I was being rhetorical. Pedants!) He’s the poor sap who attempted an intricate overhead back-post clearance but succeeded only in volleying the ball squarely into his own mush, for it to rebound like a bunny in a catapult into his own net. And, to add injury to insult, name-calling and a fair bit of pointing and laughing, he managed to break his nose in the process. Genius. Pure genius.<br />
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Of course, the mirth is tempered somewhat when the hapless protagonist plays for your team. And Liverpool games have involved more than their share of notable own goals over the years. From the heartbreaking to the hilarious to the downright bizarre, our matches have thrown up some of the classics of the genre. So, without further ado, and after much deliberation, I present to you my rundown of the 10 Greatest Liverpool-Related Own Goals. Think of them kindly.<br />
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10 – <strong>Steven Gerrard</strong>, v Chelsea, Carling Cup Final, 2005.<br />
The Liverpool captain does his bit to assure anxious fans that rumours of an imminent move to Chelsea are unfounded. By heading a late equaliser for Mourinho’s unlovely gang of mercenaries, cheats and wideboys. Thankfully, he resists the urge to leap into the arms of an adoring John Terry whilst being offered a pork scratching by Big-Boned Frank. Grim rather than funny this one. Oh well.<br />
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9 – <strong>Delfi Geli</strong>, Alaves, UEFA Cup Final, 2001.<br />
Clearly aware of Liverpool’s record in penalty shoot-outs, the Alaves defender takes the honourable way out and opts to fall on his sword, ostentatiously deflecting Gary McAllister’s last minute free-kick past a stranded keeper.<br />
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8 – <strong>Brian Laws</strong>, Nottingham Forest, FA Cup Semi Final (2nd match), 1989<br />
Whilst this semi final was rightly overshadowed by the horrific events of the original fixture, it is hard to forget the Forest full-back’s contribution to an ultimately comfortable Liverpool victory. He planted a perfect header firmly into his own net, before suffering further indignity as a delighted John Aldridge playfully patted him on the head, in the same manner that an indulgent dog owner would reward an obedient pooch for fetching a stick.<br />
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7 – <strong>Avi Cohen</strong>, v Aston Villa, Division 1, 1980<br />
The “Beckenbauer of the Middle East” made his name in this game, which ensured that yet another title would be winging its way back to Anfield. In the first half he sliced a clearance which looped over Ray Clemence’s head in a perfect arc before nestling snugly in the bottom corner. Made amends by firing home in the right end to seal the victory. He never got over the shock.<br />
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6 – <strong>Jamie Carragher</strong>, v West Ham, FA Cup Final, 2006<br />
Another of those ‘funny in hindsight, though at the time I could have strangled a kitten’ incidents. If you watch Carra’s feet closely, he is clearly trying to back-heel the ball out of harm’s way. Unfortunately, he misses, connects instead with his standing foot, topples face first into the Cardiff turf and sets West Ham on the way to a 2-0 lead. Walks away with a face redder than Bradley from Eastenders. But of course, we forgive him. After all, it’s Carra, for God’s sake!<br />
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5 – <strong>Phil Neville</strong>, Everton, Premiership, 2006<br />
Now this is more like it. After all, what could be funnier than seeing an Everton player, an ex- Man. United player, a Neville, leave his own keeper clutching at thin air in the Anfield derby. It’s like winning the National Lottery, only as an added reward they’re going to throw in a lifetime’s supply of Scampi Fries, a pair of x-ray goggles and a helmet made out of giant magnets. Outstanding.<br />
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4 – <strong>Sandy Brown</strong>, Everton, Division 1, 1969<br />
This effort will always hold a special place in the hearts of Reds of a certain age. Some wing trickery from Peter Thompson down the left, a curling cross delivered to the edge of the 6 yard box, a stunning dive header from the Everton clogger performed with all the grace of hippo on a skateboard, the sound of 10,000 jaws simultaneously dropping in the Gwladys Street end. Priceless.<br />
<br />
3 – <strong>Ronnie Whelan</strong>, v Man. United, Division 1, 1990<br />
By this stage in his career the Irish magician and latter-day simpleton had developed a reputation for spectacular, long range curlers which left goalkeepers rooted to the spot. Usually the goalkeepers in question belonged to the opposition. Not in this case. Happily this was nought but an amusing distraction in what was an otherwise routine stroll to a 2-1 Old Trafford victory. But in terms of quality, style and execution it should have walked away with the Turner Prize.<br />
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2 – <strong>Djimi Traore</strong>, v Burnley, FA Cup, 2005<br />
Like the shooting of JFK, the downfall of Thatcher or Bez winning Celebrity Big Brother, no-one who witnessed it will ever be able to forget where they were the night Djimi Traore’s mind was possessed by the spirit of Johann Cruyff. Unfortunately nobody bothered to pass the message on to Djimi’s feet. Just to clarify, fancy drag-backs a yard in front of your goal are inadvisable even with the footballing ability of an Alan Hansen, let alone an Alan Titchmarsh.<br />
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1 – <strong>Gary Sprake</strong>, Leeds United, Division 1, 1967<br />
Quite simply the greatest thing a Leeds player has ever done on a football pitch. For the uninitiated, this is what happened. Wales goalie Sprake, no stranger to the blooper reel as it was, collected the ball in the Kop goalmouth and looked to quickly bowl it out to hatchet-faced left-back, Terry Cooper. However, whilst in the act of throwing he changed his mind, attempted to clutch the ball to his chest and, to levels of hilarity unknown outside of Russ Abbott’s Mad House, somehow managed to fling it purposefully over his shoulder and into his own net. Cue the Kop erupting as one into a chorus of popular anarchist singer Des O’Connor’s latest chart-topper, ‘Careless Hands’.<br />
<br />
And so a legend was born, a career was in tatters and the power and mystery of the humble own goal was firmly established as a part of football’s ragged tapestry. Just ask Chris Brass.Neil Scotthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11872828266696255582noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7836296097742863219.post-10948857361680995462010-02-06T22:49:00.011+00:002010-02-09T13:01:42.179+00:00The Importance of Beating Everton<a href="http://images.icnetwork.co.uk/upl/liverpoolecho/feb2010/6/9/dirk-kuyt-987787341.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 300px; height: 180px;" src="http://images.icnetwork.co.uk/upl/liverpoolecho/feb2010/6/9/dirk-kuyt-987787341.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a><br /><br /><br />There's never a bad way to win the derby. Granted, not every victory sparkles like a Cup Final triumph, a four-goal Rush demolition or a last minute Gary Mac miracle strike. But in terms of performance, commitment and overall context, it's hard to think of a more satisfying result against the Blue-Nosed Barbarians than the one on Saturday.<br /><br />Because, and without wanting to veer into the realms of melodrama more suited to the Sky Sports production office, this was a game Liverpool really couldn't afford to lose. For all kinds of reasons.<br /><br />Of course, a defeat in itself wouldn't have signalled the end of our top four aspirations. Nor would it have provided compelling evidence of a seismic power-shift in Merseyside's football landscape. But it would have been perhaps the sharpest dagger yet in the hearts of supporters slowly rediscovering a measure of belief, in their team, in their manager and perhaps in themselves, in the midst of this most tumultuous of seasons.<br /><br />Whilst not performing with the remorseless intensity or unyielding conviction of the previous campaign, we have in recent weeks quietly established the foundations for a sustained push up the table. Six games unbeaten, five without conceding, pointed to a team regaining its solidity and, although the football on display was often functional rather than fluid, it's been enough to send the media vultures flitting away in search of fresh carrion (dutifully provided by relentless charm vacuum, England's Brave John Terry).<br /><br />To have endured another setback here, against our bitterest (in all senses of the word) rivals, would have reignited the debate about Benitez’s competence, a debate that has been framed in such a way by the popular press as to leave no-one in any doubt as to the conclusions they are meant to arrive at. And, as is generally the case with such an emotive issue, the resulting divisions and recriminations serve only to foster the kind of instability that seldom ends well for anyone.<br /><br />So the importance of Dirk Kuyt’s sharply-taken 55th minute header can not be over-stated. In truth, this was the kind of game Kuyt thrives on. He’s never going to be found wanting when commitment, hard work and physical presence are the essential requirements, and his performance here was a timely reminder to those who have questioned his worth and his place in the team. Quite simply, Kuyt was an example to all - tireless when Everton were in possession, closing down, harrying, intercepting, yet always available as an outlet when his team were on the offensive. His performance typified Liverpool’s grim determination to take three points, a conviction only heightened by their numerical disadvantage.<br /><br />Referee Atkinson’s decision to dismiss Kyrgiakos could perhaps be justified given his view of the incident, which emphasised the centre-back’s lunge whilst masking Fellaini’s ugly follow-through. However, many of his other judgements revealed a degree of eccentricity, ineptitude and wrong-headedness on a par with Jedward covering the Velvet Underground’s ‘Heroin.’<br /><br />How Pienaar managed to escape with just a yellow card for his despicable over-the-ball challenge on Mascherano would have left David Blaine flummoxed; that he received the exact same punishment for an innocuous leap towards Gerrard only emphasised the referee’s failure to exert any consistent measure of control. Similarly, Fellaini could count himself fortunate to receive no censure when attempting to volley Kuyt’s head from his shoulders.<br /><br />Happily this was to be a day, unlike many this season, where inadequate refereeing did not materially affect the final result. In fact, it may be said that the loss of Fellaini, a man with the appearance and demeanour of something living in a ditch on Sesame Street, had a greater impact on Everton than the dismissal of Kyrgiakos had on Liverpool, given his aerial prowess and combative nature. The introduction of a half-fit Arteta as a replacement ultimately worked in Liverpool’s favour, given the lack of time and space in midfield and the relative ease with which his ambition was suppressed.<br /><br />This was a victory to belie the oft-repeated notion of Liverpool as a two-man team. That’s not to denigrate the contribution of Steven Gerrard, who gave a performance of thoughtfulness and controlled passion to indicate at last that his peak form is returning. But collectively, Liverpool were immense. Matching Kuyt’s guts and industry every step of the way were Mascherano and Carragher, each displaying the kind of commitment and leadership that were perhaps absent earlier in the season. Reina, surely a shoo-in for the Player of the Year shortlist, was as dependable as we’ve come to expect; Insua demonstrated that he possesses the defensive capabilities to complement his attacking instincts; N’Gog ensured that the Everton defenders were constantly under pressure and underlined that, if he can only improve his decision-making, he could become a significant force at the highest level.<br /><br />In terms of organisation, character, composure and ultimately, elation, Saturday’s derby brought back memories of the first Champions League semi-final against Chelsea. Obviously, and without wanting to go too far down the road of belittling Everton (which, after all, is never the most challenging of tasks), there exists a vast gulf in the quality of opposition in the two matches. But, from Liverpool’s perspective, getting somewhere near that level of self-belief and unity can only be a positive.<br /><br />It remains to be seen whether we can build on this and achieve the kind of consistency required to push for a top four finish. In this respect, the next two games will be hugely instructive. But with the likes of Torres, Benayoun and Johnson to return, and with Gerrard, Aquilani, Rodriguez and Riera getting closer to full fitness, it’s fair to say that, after what seems like a long, miserable winter, we can finally allow ourselves to look ahead with cautious optimism.<br /><br />That's what a derby win can do for you. And that's why we should treasure every one.Neil Scotthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11872828266696255582noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7836296097742863219.post-91570218095833665422009-12-23T16:04:00.018+00:002010-01-14T12:36:38.939+00:00PiL - Leeds O2 Academy, 16 December 2009<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimEl8oNvLxq0ktMQrE4ZNJvkdReYUXXhBoLJECiPyQ11QlvScGPwBAx5ilLKFhKuuPgQ02scakmb-MbeR9vu20nri3YOGwNJuCMTKHpyClGpMqiSQJxqN8tfRsSr7ND2UZ1dLb_tif1Mk/s1600-h/4203475625_3fdebb99e6.jpeg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5426571165273663458" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 226px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimEl8oNvLxq0ktMQrE4ZNJvkdReYUXXhBoLJECiPyQ11QlvScGPwBAx5ilLKFhKuuPgQ02scakmb-MbeR9vu20nri3YOGwNJuCMTKHpyClGpMqiSQJxqN8tfRsSr7ND2UZ1dLb_tif1Mk/s320/4203475625_3fdebb99e6.jpeg" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><div><strong>‘Proper Music for Proper People’<br /></strong></div><div><br />…with five words that effectively combine knowing flattery and assured arrogance, and which, at a stroke, serve to whisk us away from a landscape of joyless karaoke mannequins and corporate death-merchants, John Lydon takes the stage.<br /></div><div><br />It’s been a long time.<br /></div><div><br />A time spent in and out of the public gaze. A time when the legendary Rotten sneer has been co-opted by the mainstream to flog butter or to engineer pantomime dread for prime-time reality shows. A time when the most notorious band on the planet was repeatedly blu-tacked back together to provide vaudevillian nostalgia kicks in the name of filthy lucre, with Uncle Johnny content to ham it up as leery cheerleader.<br /></div><div><br />It’s not as if the world has been crying out for PiL. If anything, the world has been getting along quite nicely thank you, what with Oasis and Kylie and Gareth Gates and Jay-Z and Lady Gaga and everything. There’s not been much call for darkly experimental, stark and uncompromising post-punk. Or if there has, demand has been sated by the slew of neo-Joy Division copyists, encompassing the good (Interpol), the bad (Editors) and the hideous (White Lies).<br /></div><div><br />So, to choose this precise moment for the not-altogether-hotly anticipated relaunch of PiL, the venture closest to Lydon's heart and the one that captures his essence more precisely than any number of Pistols reunions could ever hope to, seems a typically perverse and defiantly risky act. And one that, right now, in the midst of a naturally sceptical Leeds crowd, makes perfect sense.<br /></div><div><br />In short, Lydon is mesmerising. Patrolling the stage like an evil scout-leader, he's a whirlwind of activity - in turn cajoling, clowning, preaching, upbraiding, confessing, emoting, showing-off; he is surprisingly avuncular and, on occasion, touchingly tender. Unlike Head Bunnyman, Ian McCulloch, at the same venue 24 hours earlier (who seemed intent on cultivating an atmosphere of tension and confrontation), Lydon takes the audience with him, firmly coaxing them out of initial reticence into untethered delight and, eventually, something approaching full-on rapture.<br /></div><div><br />What is perhaps most startling is the voice. Lydon's trademark yelp has been analysed, dissected, ridiculed and dismissed in the years since the Pistols first exploded into the national consciousness, to the point where it practically exists as a cultural artefact in its own right, carrying with it more baggage than Mariah Carey's wardrobe assistant. What is perhaps less often noted is that it is also a thrillingly potent weapon, an instrument in its own right which pointedly defies categorisation or lazy stereotyping. Nowhere is this more evident than in a hauntingly powerful 'Death Disco,' a masterclass in anguished howling, pleading desperation and the dredging of raw emotion from grief-riddled memories. It is a moving, uncomfortable, oddly uplifting experience.<br /></div><div><br />Of course, PiL worked best when Lydon was surrounded by musicians who shared his vision, and who were able to translate it into the kind of conflict and creativity often required to produce something of lasting artistic worth. Admittedly, the 2009 vintage does not include a Levene, a Wobble or a McGeoch. But few bands do. Instead we have a sharp, solid, experienced outfit injecting a welcome freshness into well-loved songs that have lain dormant for too long, whilst never threatening to snatch the spotlight away from the main attraction (as if Uncle Johnny would ever allow that to happen).<br /></div><br />Which is not to say that there isn't the occasional glitch, most noticeably when ex-Pop Group drummer Bruce Smith brings one song to a close a verse early. But whereas Lydon would once have responded with insults, psychotic glares and threats of violence, he now manages to rein in his obvious irritation with recourse only to the mildest of rebukes. It's like watching Pol Pot playfully ruffling the hair of a child who caught him with the old 'pull my finger' gag. Truly, this is a dictator reborn.<br /><br />With Scott Firth valiantly attempting to approximate Wobble's elastic dubbiness, it is left to multi-instrumentalist Lu Edmonds to provide the sonic trickery and invention. Despite a somewhat worrying resemblance to Oliver's Fagin after a night on the class A's, Edmonds gives an impressive virtuoso performance, switching effortlessly between electric and acoustic guitars and a range of instruments that a more musically literate chap than myself would probably be able to identify without much bother. As it stands, I'll say that they seem vaguely Eastern European and a bit, well, 'funny'-looking. Technical minutiae aside, it is a rare treat to watch a man attack his guitar strings with what looks like an illuminated miniature face-fan.<br /><br />After an exultant run-through of hard-dance Leftfield collaboration, 'Open Up,' an exhausted Lydon departs. He has pulled it off. He has reclaimed his throne and has a mass of disciples hanging loyally on his every utterance. Just the way he likes it. Who gives a shit about 1976, or, for that matter, next week? For now, for two hours, PiL is once again the only band that matters.<br /><br />Mummy, why can't all music be proper music?Neil Scotthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11872828266696255582noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7836296097742863219.post-71459777219964948762009-11-29T00:32:00.007+00:002009-11-29T02:32:13.769+00:00An Introduction, Of Sorts...<span style="color:#333300;"></span><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi52Qg4wDErO22o2SqiDYz1EHwgg4WFIOR7Mj9MCggSQ1LyzrHbjsmaurgEeSQV9398CkdStxmHcqhGxu1YQG2bsyEGOOlsIdGTpRUTWAlDvzbi7IppHRnP86DkQsYYMlzRvk3kQyBFMc0/s1600/funny_people_mingers.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 258px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5409319070359681682" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi52Qg4wDErO22o2SqiDYz1EHwgg4WFIOR7Mj9MCggSQ1LyzrHbjsmaurgEeSQV9398CkdStxmHcqhGxu1YQG2bsyEGOOlsIdGTpRUTWAlDvzbi7IppHRnP86DkQsYYMlzRvk3kQyBFMc0/s320/funny_people_mingers.jpg" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><span style="color:#000000;">There's nothing cool about being the first person to arrive at a party. At least that's what I assume. Given that I haven't actually been invited to a party (nor, now I come to think of it, any other form of social gathering where actual interaction with fellow humans is required) for at least 10 years, perhaps I'm not best placed to judge. My point is that you wouldn't have found Jim Morrison turning up at some Bacchanalian LA booze orgy whilst the mini-kievs were still lining the baking tray and the number of people ingesting their own vomit remained in single figures. He'd have been far too busy carousing with beardy beat poets or sharing a jacuzzi with a dozen nubile space cadets or howling along with Hendrix at an after-hours blues den or suchlike. The fact that he'd probably have ended up face down in a bowl of half-chewed catfood is neither here nor there. Why ruin a good analogy?</span><br /><span style="color:#000000;"></span><br /><span style="color:#000000;">It is the spirit of Jim that I invoke in hesitantly making the leap into the 21st century, a mere 9 years late, as I lovingly embrace the lonely world of the online blogger. Considering my previous reluctance to actively engage with any sort of technology more complex than the snake-belt, it's a minor miracle that I've got this far. But seeing as I have, it'd be churlish in the extreme to back out now, although in truth churlishness has long been seen as one of my more attractive character traits.</span><br /><br /><span style="color:#000000;">So join me in a whimsical, far-fetched, unreliable and frequently half-cocked journey deep into the heart of a troubled and terrifying landscape. A place where Vernon Kay is celebrated as a latter-day Monkhouse instead of being spat at in the street by tiny children, where a song is worthless until it's been mangled by fame-besotted, plastic-souled, dead-eyed Cowell doom-merchants, and where Kelvin MacKenzie is allowed to breath the same air as Kenny Dalglish. A world, in other words, gone badly wrong.</span><br /><br /><span style="color:#000000;">I'm not necessarily saying that I have all the answers. Even though I do. I'm just not saying it. </span><br /><span style="color:#000000;"></span><br /><span style="color:#000000;">I'm not saying that I'll update this on anything like a regular basis. Chances are I'll be too busy, too lazy or just too asleep. But then, that's the life of an award-winning breakdancer for you. </span><br /><br /><span style="color:#000000;">Suffice to say, the party's dying on its arse, someone's spewed on the curtains, I'm with Jimbo in the kitchen and I'm all over the Twiglets.</span><br /><br /><span style="color:#000000;"></span><br /><br /><span style="color:#000000;">Be seeing you...</span>Neil Scotthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11872828266696255582noreply@blogger.com0