Rants and Ravings of the modern football game.

“ There is a truth to sport, a purity, a drama, an intensity, a spirit that make it irresistible to take part in and irresistible to watch. London 2012 seeks to capture all of this, London 2012 will inspire a generation...For us too, for every Briton, just as for the competitors, this is our time, and one day we will tell our children and our grandchildren that when our time came, we did it right” I remember as I watched that fantastic opening ceremony, that brilliant speech afterwards by Lord Coe, my head was constantly comparing what the Olympics was, what it stood for, and what it about to produce, to the one sport I’ve only really ever known. The game of football is a constant course of utter brilliance, utter devastation, and scrutiny, infuriating riches, impeccable green pitches and filthy rich overseas billionaires. Its constant barrage of criticism has been ever so obvious to me as it went from 10 to 10 trillion on the ridiculous scale as the 21st century hit. It’s what I’ve grown up with, constant change on a near daily basis, it’s what I’ve loved and loathed. But as I watched the Olympics unravel into this beautiful, historical, world breaking phenomenon, I couldn’t help but feel almost embarrassed by football, how at times it turns out, how it shows its unwanted side all too much. Personally at times I get the sense of disappointment by the way it’s turning out; by the way it never panned out how I wanted it too in my head. Obviously a child’s imagination is one far from the reality, but I still felt what I built up in my head was a fair ideal as to what it should be all about. I’m talking about sportsmanship, gamesmanship, diving, etiquette on the pitch, etiquette off the pitch, how youth are developed, and fan culture to name a few all but brief ideas. Hundreds of articles have been written about the working class fans being pushed out of the game, not deliberately (I hope), but as money signs fill those Sheik’s eyes, so to do the money signs fall down the grid for the common fan standing outside the Red Lion pub, chippy in hand that is now twice the price as it was a year ago, soaking wet programme that should be laminated and gold encrusted for the price paid, son in the other hand who crying out for a bag of sweets, but alas, its £16 for a fucking flump because the sponsors SAID SO. He’s upset, he misses the 60 minutes his new hero gets before being substituted, but instead of clapping the fans he walks straight down the tunnel, staring and cursing at his manger, who’ll later fine him 1/500 of his weekly wage (around £10000 I’d guess). A tweet will then follow about how fuming he is at not getting enough game time as he drives his pink diamond coloured Lamborghini out of the stadium back to his Cheshire mansion. The son from earlier can’t even show his frustration by throwing that bottle top from his £9 coke bottle because he’s had it taken off him by Derek the security man because NOT ONE modern day fan can be trusted to take anything into the ground because certain idiots can’t hold their coppers for 90 minutes +added time when their team scores a goal. This son instead begins to cry as his dad drags him back home after watching the opposition team scrape a draw thanks to a dubious linesman decision which apparently meant the ball crossed the line well before the line was in sight, a decision made simply because those incessant imbeciles at FIFA and UEFA won’t sign a few papers to draft in goal line technology NOW, the one good thing that might make the referees job a lot less stressful. 50minutes from planned they finally get out of their parking space because he couldn’t get past the 40 police officers on horses because as I said before, certain idiotic fans can’t hold their bricks and stones (they’ve ran out of coppers because they are all in Rio Ferdinand’s left eye) as they smash in their local pub ran by their own Aunty but of course they don’t know that, because they are too full of ale. After seeing this the son is so scarred that not even £16 flumps can ever help him, and 20 years later after years of therapy to get over those traumatic events he saw as a young 6 year and seeing his own father go bankrupt because he couldn’t afford THAT Hereford away game on THAT Tuesday night in January in THAT 3rd round F.A Cup replay which we should of won but never because the linesman didn’t give THAT goal that touched the net but he didn’t see it because those zealots from FIFA and UEFA are drawing balls out of a container for the draw for the 5th consecutive World Cup in Qatar, made possible by Sheik ‘I’ll pay you off and give you oil if you give your corrupt game to my country forever and ever’. Although the sons team did beat Hereford and make it all the way to the cup final, the game had to watched at home because the game was held in an all corporate stadium, designed only for leather seats and the finest tendered steak. The half time match report contains only the news reporter, saying ‘Budweiser’, wearing Budweiser, drinking Budweiser and being Budweiser for 45 minutes, because that’s how long the corporate meals take to make, and even though there is enough time to eat it, no fan walks through those sliding luxurious doors till 15 minutes after kick off, because their heated seats aren’t yet fully heated and the closing roof is taking too long to stop that light drizzle that’s soaking them and the players’ now £20000 boots because Adidas SAID SO through. The son, now a father himself, doesn’t go to the games anymore, he plays table tennis with his mate Derek (that security guard who took the bottle top off him alllll them years ago), who is unemployed and severely overweight. Derek and the thousands of other employees who once worked for their local clubs all got laid off because that Sheik in Qatar, together with FIFA developed a robot to oversee every job involved in a football match, even a police horse prototype. As well as doing Derek’s job, ‘Droid 1900 Powermax’ also cooks and serves the food to corporate (who are all later found to be half human, half robot), cleans the whole stadium, sings the national anthem (in a rather croaky voice I’ll add), is ALL of the ball boys and girls, the manager, the assistant manager and the players in fact. It’s even the goal. Derek though trudges on, and enjoys his weekly game of Table Tennis with that son, who’s 3 kids watch on with no interest for sport or football, because the game gives them no enjoyment. ...Ok I’ll admit, my outlook on it all is a little bit too much, but this sarcastic, over the top look on the present and future has some meaning to it. I am very worried for the future of the game, very worried for the common fan and the well being of what I perceive to be the best league and game in the world. I’m rather old fashioned with my passion for the game. I love the old stories of all the workers getting half a day off work on Saturdays and all coming together to watch their team play.......to watch their team, full of lads they knew, they lived next door too, fight for a shirt they grew to love. Football had to develop, had to grow as a sport, as an institution. I’ll be the first to admit that, and a lot of it has given me some of the best times of my life. It’s still utterly mesmerising, beyond surprising and I’ll continue to have unshakeable passion for it and my team. But certain things have to change about it before the money becomes too much, the fans become disinterested in the ridiculous-ness of it all, before players become so disconnected they no longer work on our wavelength, as the proper fan. I’m only hitting the surface with this problem, I realise that, and there is also things being done about it, for example the UEFA financial fair play rules coming in. Again I don’t know enough about this but plan to get to know more about it. It may be the start of the solution; it may even be the start of the end but who knows, time can only tell. There’s so much work to be done to level out football, to stop the silly transfer fees and unbelievable weekly wages as well as ever increasing seat tickets and more expensive travel. For now though, the Dad and his son are still in those hollowed terraces, just.