Articles of Faith (7 page)

When organising warm-up gigs for the forthcoming, final leg of my current tour my tour manager, Ian (City), and manager, Nik (United), asked if I wanted to keep Wednesday night free for the England match. Whether the game against Croatia is of any relevance will be determined tonight in Tel Aviv when Israel play Russia – if Russia don’t win then England can still qualify for the European Championship with a victory against the group leaders at Wembley.

In effect, my response to this inquiry will define me either as a patriotic optimist or an indifferent pessimist. Or, as is often the case in these times, there is a third way: I could remain essentially optimistic but affiliate myself only with the claret and blue corner of England where Bow Bells chime and bubbles blow, like a Cornish separatist imagining new borders around a principality of the heart.

‘Only 38 Englishmen played in the Premiership. I don’t want to get all Oswald Mosley but is that enough?’

We all know of the pledge, of course, where we swear to never again be seduced by a national side that only ever lets us down, an oath that is easier to remain faithful to if you’re a fan of Manchester United or Arsenal and have a happy and successful domestic football life than if you follow Huddersfield, no disrespect, or even West Ham. But perhaps that constituency is now being diminished. Fans of the MK Dons could find more joy and triumph following their local team than by going to all the bother of daubing a St George’s Cross with Milton Keynes and traipsing off to Vienna.

I can’t seem to give up my England habit: although I’ve never seen them play I have been inveigled by the trappings. Esso World Cup coins, for example, which bore the faces of the Italia 90 squad were as prized as
richly as golden doubloons by my teenage self and while people fret and query the benefits of adopting the euro I campaign tirelessly in my mind to have them made our sole legal tender – a Peter Beardsley for a loaf of bread, a Chris Waddle for a day pass at Thorpe Park and a weeping Gazza for unlimited lap dances at Spearmint Rhino (they were very rare).

Last week only 38 Englishmen played in the Premiership. Now I don’t want to get all Oswald Mosley but is that enough? We’re approaching the point where if you are a top-flight English footballer you can assume you’ll be in the squad, just turn up at the airport in your PE kit and demand a chance. So perhaps Michel Platini and the brave Steven Gerrard are right, that there ought to be a cap on foreign players or players should run out for the nation in which they earn their money.

That might be quite good actually, not just because then ‘England’ would be bloody brilliant but also David Beckham would have to play for the United States, probably as skipper, affording me the delightful opportunity to write an article entitled ‘Captain America to the rescue’ which would be a breeze. It might even help to loosen the stranglehold that nationalism still has upon us, and our atavistic tribal instincts, to the point where we abandon the concept of the individual and gather in stadiums just to cheer the idea of collective consciousness – it would be much harder to tell who’d won or when the game had finished and some people would still struggle with the offside rule but it might herald an age of global peace.

When I was a lad and Liverpool won everything, folk would harp on about Sammy Lee being the only English player because that side was made up largely of home nations players. Others would say he was like a little barrel that had come to life in a Disney film set in a brewery but they contribute nought to this argument and can just eff off.

I suppose what I’m saying is that England will always underachieve, and it doesn’t seem to be something we can correlate to club football in a direct way. If we don’t qualify there is talk of having a home nations tournament, presuming that Scotland are also available, and some of my mates are more into that idea. ‘Four meaningful matches,’ said John
(Liverpool) and I’d be interested to watch such a tourney, but it might feel a bit like the third-place matches in the World Cup where two teams of disillusioned failures vie for mediocrity.

We’d be pretending to care about our mini-matches but actually in our heart of hearts we’d know we were watching a consolation cup, for little girls in their mum’s high-heels tottering around, fancying themselves all adult but not contributing to the gas bill.

I’m doing my warm-up gigs on Monday and Tuesday night and keeping Wednesday free because I make decisions with my heart (especially now my goolies are out of action) so Wednesday I’ll be watching England and I hope it’ll be consequential. I know it’ll be a lot more relaxed than the front room in Yarm where Steve McClaren will watch tonight’s other group matches with his sons and a loudly ticking clock.

I first became anxious when I realised that beneath the twirling, hypnotic umbrella seeking shelter from the lightly drizzling rain permitted by the broken roof at Wembley stood the manager of our national team, Steve McClaren. I was at the match in incredible seats with my mate Nik and David Baddiel and his brother Ivor.

We were right behind the dugout in posh leather-look seats having enjoyed the delightful hospitality of one of the lounges which was a bit embarrassing for us all in the sense that it’s quite far removed from the authentic trudge and bilge that’s synonymous with the football of our youth. Actually though I do like a bit of luxurious nosh and privilege in this the final flush of capitalism before the revolution levels us all, a revolution that seems all the more attractive now the beautiful distraction of Euro 2008 has been smashed to bits.

‘I bumped into a Croat in the lavvy and was unready for good-natured prittle-prattle so I neglected to ablute’

It seems daft to harp on about the subsidiary consequences of England’s failure to qualify because the immediate effects are so upsetting; after a knife wound to the heart one is unlikely to lament the blood stains on your T-shirt and this crimson blot will take at least three years to rinse away. I wonder if Brian Barwick’ll feel embarrassed in South Africa at the World Cup qualifiers draw? If he’ll avoid the pitying glare and condemnation from his counterparts?

I bumped into a Croat in the lavvy straight after the match and was still unready for good-natured prittle-prattle so I neglected to ablute to avoid handshakes. I bore them ill-will even before the final whistle because of what I perceived to be a needlessly fascistic form of chanting throughout the match. Perhaps this says more about my prejudices than the
philosophy of those fans but it did seem terribly well organised – two huge, adjacent sections of the stadium spent the entirety of the match indulging in a terrifyingly simplistic call-and-response mantra that unnerved me as much as the sharp, acerbic presence of Slaven Bilić on the touchline first in a woolly hat and an awful off-white coat that the whole Croatian operation had been forced to wear, then when he re-emerged for the second half, assured of victory, in a shoddy suit.

Why I’ve reserved my vituperation for this obviously talented manager and former West Ham centre-half is a mystery when a more fitting candidate for wrath stood like Gene Kelly or more latterly Rihanna meekly concealed beneath his brolly awaiting a holiday in the Bahamas that it turns out he’d already booked. I was distracted in that fabulous stadium. David was agitated by the fact that the roof hadn’t been closed and queried whether it was a misjudged tactical flooding under the assumption that the Croatians would never have encountered a ‘greasy surface’ before.

When we later discovered that the bloody thing simply doesn’t work it was merely added to the list of heartbreaking metaphors that cluttered up the abominable evening. I was transfixed by Bilić – he has menace in his eyes, and in my nervous mind I likened him to an Eastern bloc pimp masquerading as a mini cab operator in Soho. I berated myself for being so racist, whilst my head still hung; ashamed by the comical escapades occurring on the pitch and my own misuse of stereotypes the Croatian fans again brimmed over into their regimented yawp.

Poor Scott Carson looked all daft in his yellow costume. After his initial error, so ludicrous that all present paused to establish that it had actually happened and was not just a big stupid David Copperfield-style illusion before letting the nausea kick in, he became from then on merely some matter filling an outfit standing in a goalmouth. Every time the Croatians surged forwards, mostly on the break, a goal appeared likely and Ivor’s remark that England seemed not to have prepared in any way for the specificity of playing Croatia and their ability to inflict punishing counter attacks but simply assumed that a side, already qualified would be happy for an evening out, was judged to be the most perspicacious of the evening.

Though it received little in the way of competition from me I confined myself to attacking the Croatian team’s coats which I judged to be rubbish, particularly in comparison with the rather dapper England attire – in my mind a sartorial competition became the only kind of encounter in which we could triumph.

In the second half David Beckham, dear derided, adored David Beckham offered hope, he knew it was him alone who could offer it. Eighty thousand people scanned the pitch searching for something to be optimistic about and it wasn’t till his arrival that that need found a destination. It was for him alone that I remained to applaud as he left the field, dignified still, saluting the crowd, teased to the precipice of a century. Who knows what will occupy this wasteland when, if he ever surpasses his 99th cap?

McClaren had already sought sanctuary in the dressing room knowing his holiday was already assured along with his severance. Better to be abroad – his umbrella can offer little protection from the current storm.

Having José Mourinho as England manager would almost make up for our failure to qualify for next year’s tournament. In a pointlessly constructed parallel European Championship where England qualified one can only assume that we would be attending a competition rife with potential embarrassment and eventual disappointment, although it seems a bit stupid to go to all the bother of manufacturing an alternative reality which is also disappointing so we might just as well imagine one where we triumph.

In fact, I’ll be in the team as player-manager, in goal will be Robert Green of West Ham United, Morrissey will partner me up front and at half-time of our opening game (at Upton Park) Daniel Craig and Lindsey Dawn McKenzie will do a live sex show.

‘I bet if you went out with Mourinho he’d never call hack when you wanted him to, he’d flirt with other people and sometimes just broodily stare off into the distance’

The FA’s decision to appoint a ‘world-class’ manager is a good one but makes me wonder what the previous paradigm might’ve been. A ‘jittery’ manager? A ‘malleable’ manager? A ‘nice’ manager? The manager of a team of millionaire athletes needs to be big. And preferably swarthy. When was the last time England had a manager with even an ounce of ‘swarth’? McClaren if confronted with swarth would piddle. Sven was chic but at the last World Cup Big Phil Scolari’s low-swinging sack of swarth sent his tackle on an inward flight. Keegan, Hoddle, Taylor, Robson, all lovely in their way but compared to a gent with Mourinho’s obvious sass unlikely to scorch the retina.

I’ve been dying for an opportunity to like Mourinho ever since he entered the English game but his position at the Bridge meant mine remained a secret and shameful affection. I squirmed like Humbert Humbert when he announced his own and Barcelona’s teams a day before their infamous Camp Nou clash – ‘Oooh he’s such a dirty tinker.’ Mind games and arrogance are an intriguing and beguiling brew, even from the manager of a detested rival club.

If he were to be appointed it would legitimise my interest, like a knicker thief suddenly made manager of a launderette my prurience would be seen as diligence – ‘I was merely sniffing to see if the Lenor had worked.’ The position requires a substantial character. One can only truly love someone if they exist to some degree outside the sphere of your control; if in a relationship you can dominate someone completely how can they offer salvation? How can they place their self between you and death?

I bet if you went out with Mourinho he’d never call back when you wanted him to, he’d flirt with other people and sometimes just broodily
stare off into the distance and when you asked what was wrong say ‘Nothing’ – all moodily. McClaren would bring you breakfast in bed wearing a novelty pinny. The England team would have to respect José, he’d demand it and whilst I suspect there was some breakdown in his relationship with senior Chelsea players towards the end of his tenure that, in my opinion, is because he was sabotaged.

That wouldn’t happen at England. Sir Trevor Brooking will do a wonderful job in the meantime as a caretaker, he was marvellous at West Ham; revealing unimagined inner wrath on the touchline, it was like seeing a deputy headmaster gobbing at Hell’s Angels.

I think the FA should do whatever it takes to get Mourinho, not just because of my silly crush but because I think he could galvanise our crestfallen nation. He could handle the press, the players, the ever-shifting tactical requirements and I don’t think we’re in any position to quibble about flamboyant football, what we need is success.

It’ll be a drag watching events in Austria and Switzerland next year while the English game thumbs its impotent crutch but knowing that José was at the foot of the bed in a baby doll nightie would make the process seem almost tantalising.

Brian Clough, for all his extraordinary achievements as a player and a manager, is still often remembered as the best manager England never had. I am reading Duncan Hamilton’s
Provided You Don’t Kiss Me
, in which he chronicles 20 years of interviewing Clough whilst, initially, working for a local Nottingham newspaper. I’ve not yet progressed beyond the early chapters so Clough is still in his prime; virile, volatile, passionate and frequently unreasonable.

What I enjoy most about this beautifully written and tender account of the relationship between a nervous young nit of a provincial reporter and a football genius is the sense of genuine proximity to its subject, so that Clough’s obvious flaws seem forgivable and even beguiling, rather than cruel and unbearable.

‘Mourinho’s future is yet to be written but let’s insist that it is strewn with leading Blighty to glory’

In the introduction Hamilton recounts an occasion where, whilst he was still in his teens, Old Big ‘Ead viciously coated him off in the home changing room in front of the wet and nude first team, effin’ and blindin’ with such ferocity that he feared for his safety while Garry Birtles stared embarrassed at his own nude tootsies. The severity was such that Hamilton assumed that his relationship with Nottingham Forest was finished forever. Naturally, within 24 hours, Clough had called instructing him to get to the City Ground at once and that the argument had been a mere trifle.

From what I’ve read so far this is a wonderful book but I suppose I ought to reserve judgement – perhaps in later chapters Hamilton loses all regard for his work and just scrawls slogans across the page in nail varnish, which would be absurd and not altogether unrewarding. What I can be assured of is that Clough will descend into alcoholism and stay at
Forest for 18 months longer than he should have, which gives even these early episodes a hue of sadness.

I’m a shade too young to have been fully cognisant of goings-on at FA headquarters at the time that Clough ought to have been made national manager, but have strong memories of his enormous and compelling personality. Once, during a non-aggressive pitch invasion, I think after Forest had won an important cup tie, he clipped one of his own supporters round the ear like an aggressive dad. He was a very potent man with an incredible life force and often such characters are sniped at and undermined rather than elevated and celebrated.

In his pomp Clough would’ve been a marvellous England manager – he vibrated on a plane of consciousness that made him a formidable leader but unnerved administrators. It is widely assumed that the reason he didn’t get the job is because the FA didn’t think they’d be able to control him – and they probably couldn’t have. That’s one of the reasons he’d’ve been bloody good.

If you have not yet guessed that I’m building towards a rather grand fanfare in support of the appointment of José Mourinho then you don’t deserve a newspaper and I suggest you take this copy of the
Guardian
, God’s newspaper I call it, and thrust it into the palms of an orphan who will be grateful for the nourishment. I think that by appointing Mourinho we can as a nation atone for the criminal neglect of Clough’s talent. Mourinho is his natural heir, more than Martin O’Neill, who admittedly played under him, more than any of the potential candidates. Who could be better? Who could inspire a nationwide buzz in the way that the sexy dog smuggler has so effortlessly done? Wenger or Ferguson? Why, they only have one European Cup between them and two full-time jobs.

I read that Brian Barwick, when asked about the likelihood of Mourinho being offered the job, just stared into space and mumbled bizarrely. Well, that’s the wrong attitude, no one ever got anywhere by staring into space and mumbling bizarrely except, maybe, Nostradamus, but it is more for his perspicacity that he is admired than his mumbling and staring. Barwick must immediately cease this mumbling and staring and get on the phone and avenge the errors of the past and give us something to feel optimistic about.

Mourinho’s future is yet to be written but let’s insist that it is strewn with leading Blighty to glory. Let’s as a nation embrace unique and gifted individuals rather than suspiciously eyeing them as they subdue unspent ambition with toxic, bottled anaesthetic.