Olympic hero

The Euros gave us the opportunity to spend some time in Gdansk and to visit the “Paths to Freedom” exhibition charting the rise of the Solidarnosc movement and outlining its’ role in liberating much of Europe from the grips of Communist Russia.

In touring the exhibition it is evident that the Poles feel slightly aggrieved that the defining moment in the collapse of Communism was the much-publicised knocking down of the Berlin Wall in early 1990, while in actual fact, the real battle to take on the might of the Soviet regime took place in the shipyards of Gdansk and commenced ten years earlier.

The inability of the Russians to achieve a decisive victory in the war in Afghanistan (their “Vietnam”) was a contributory factor in preventing them from adequately diverting resources to solving the issues of civil resistance created by the striking shipyard workers in Poland. Despite several years of martial law throughout the eighties, the civil disobedience continued and intensified and the Russians eventually had to concede defeat and commence negotiations with Solidarity towards the end of 1989.   With their power base shown to be penetratable, other repressed social groups across Eastern Europe went to work and in a domino-manner the corrupt dictatorships collapsed one-by-one in the matter of a few months.  Like thr Arab Spring.  Similar to the deaths of JFK and John Lennon, who cannot remember where they were when Nicolae Ceausescu was assassinated?   It was of course Christmas Day 1989 - I sincerely hope to fuck you were at home.

Anyway back to Solidarnosc and the start of the Olympic Games this week in London.

And Kozakiewicz's gesture.

Competing in the pole vault in the 1980 Olympics, Polish Władysław Kozakiewicz was competing for the gold medal against Soviet vaulter Konstantin Volkov and during a tense head-to-head conclusion to the competition, he was subjected to a highly unsporting display of booing, hissing and jeering by the home crowd as he went through his critical jumps.

Having secured his gold medal position, Kozakiewicz celebrated with a gesture of defiance to the Soviet crowd which was captured by the photographers and transmitted all over Europe.  Its’ symbolism was far-reaching, representing Polish society's resentment to Soviet control in their country, and indeed all over Eastern Europe.

Solidarity in its’ modern form was founded one month after the Moscow Olympics and maybe this gesture assisted in rallying popular support to go against the adage that "might is right".  

Per wikipedia, after the 1980 Olympics ended, the Soviet ambassador to Poland demanded that Kozakiewicz be stripped of his medal over his "insult to the Soviet people".  The official response of the Polish government was that Kozakiewicz's arm gesture had been an involuntary muscle spasm caused by his exertion.  Signs of attitudes to come.

Olympic Games, London 2012.    What underlying politics will play out - what will we fail to see, or more importantly what will we choose to ignore?

Leaving Cert English - Unsung Heroes

One of the great unsung heroes of the football world is undoubtedly Gordon Ottershaw.

Gordon who? I can almost hear you say, so please let me explain.


On the 17th October 1979 the world became aware of Gordon through the medium of BBC television. Gordon Ottershaw - the most loyal fan a team could ever have.

Immortalised by Michael Palin in Ripping Yarns, Gordon is the long-suffering supporter of Barnstoneworth United, a small-town football club playing in the Yorkshire League that has seen better days and is now in the habit of losing week-in, week-out. Gordon spends his entire life surrounded by everything Barnstoneworth, he has named his son Barnstoneworth, and he assists in his schooling by getting him to recite the entire 1922 Yorkshire Premier League Team instead of British Prime Ministers. However this is now 1935 and the glory days of the twenties are long gone. Gordon has therefore developed the habit of coming home after every game (always a defeat) and smashing the furniture in fury, while his poor wife tries desperately to tell him that she is pregnant.

The demise of the team comes to a head after an 8-1 defeat, when the club owner Mr. Foggen decides that the club should be sold to a scrap dealer. A crushing mill to be erected on the Sewerage Works Ground is to be named in the club’s honour. The upcoming match against Denley Moor Academicals is therefore to be the last.

Learning that the club only has four players for the final fixture, Gordon single-handedly rounds up the great 1922 team and arrives with them just at the last minute to allow the fixture to proceed. Amazingly, the Zimmer-framed team win the game with Neville Davitt scoring two “in't last minute” and Frank Haggerty saving a penalty.

Gordon is seen arriving home and the family smash the furniture together in happiness.


For the record the Barnstoneworth team on the day was as follows:

Goalkeeper - Haggerty F (1)
Right back - Haggerty R (2)
Left back - Tomkins (3)
Wing backs – Noble (4) & Dobson (6)
Centre-half – Carrick (5)
Wingers – Dewhurst (7) & Davitt (11)
Inside forwards – Crapper (8) & Treadmore (10)
Centre-forward - McIntyre (9)


Part A

Candidates must answer any two from three questions (equal marks apply to all questions):

A. The story is set in working-class middle-England in the nineteen thirties. Describe the underlying family chemistry which would have been prevalent at the time, making reference to the text.

B. The story is a classic tale of a heroic Englishman fighting against the odds to make the dream come true. Discuss. In your answer, make reference to other comic-book heroes who entered national folklore through their sporting achievements i.e. Roy of the Rovers; Tuff of the Track or Billy (of Billy’s Boots fame and not to be confused with Billy, Don’t be a hero by Paper Lace).

C. How close do your own feelings for your team come to Gordon’s level of devotion for Barnestoneworth? Describe the key traits, referring to your own life experience, which makes him the nutter and you the sane man.

Cult hero

Leighton Baines - one of maybe three Everton players who stopped to sign autographs.

Leighton Baines - cult hero

Nice bit of writing by Andi Thomas of the Twisted Blood blog who champions the cause of Leighton Baines as one of the game's all-round cool guys:



If there were any justice in the world, Ashley Cole would have been inflicted upon a tiny island nation with no hope of making a World Cup any time soon — let’s go for the bank-crashing ash-spewing bastards of Iceland, and consider it revenge for the horrors of Sigur Ros — and the international stage would have been largely free of his malign, grotesque super-competence. The path suitably clear, England’s number 3 shirt would fall around the slightly-stooped shoulders of Leighton Baines, an affable man who sounds like he should be a town in Hertfordshire, looks he could have been the tour manager for No Way Sis, and is one of the more remarkable footballers in the Premier League. I have no idea if Leighton Baines’ shoulders are stooped. But I imagine they are, and so – bang! – they are. Writing is fun.

Yes, he’s good at free-kicks and corners and stuff. And he’s a cracking defender, a fantasy football staple, and a vital part of a decent Everton side. Fine. But what I like about Baines is the simple and apparently unshakeable humanity of the man. He turned down a move to Bayern Munich because he didn’t want to uproot his family. Is that lacking ambition? Or is it recognising that, while football is a transient career of moments, children are the rest of your life? It could, of course, be both; “ambitious man” is often code for “greedy fucktard who is using you”. That doesn’t feel like Leighton.

Earlier in his career, he’d only been able to bring himself to leave Wigan for Everton. He’d rejected moves away from the club that had nurtured him out of a sense of gratitude, and in the end only went because the club that came calling were the club in which he’d invested his terrace affections. Then, when he did leave, he admitted to worrying. Fretting. Lying awake at night, asking himself if he was up to it. That’s what decent human beings do. They act out of gratitude. And affection. And they cry into their pillows at their own inadequacy, and the enormity of a world that hates them. I have no idea if Leighton Baines’ has ever lain awake crying into his pillow. But I imagine it, and – bang! – there he is, sobbing like a tiny child. Writing is fun.

What this all means, of course, is that within the machismo-riddled world of English football he is viewed as weak; a perception that reached its peak last summer, when his omission from England’s South African raiding party led to the guttersnipes winking and throwing around the word “homesickness”, which is code for “not a real man”. But, if the choice is between enjoying the summer with the woman you love and the kids you adore, or being trapped in a hotel complex with 24 pathetic, needy, whining pseudo-celebrities, constantly having John Cunting Terry winkling you into corners and outlining his “concerns” that “the manager” might not be “English” enough, and that “the lads” are thinking of staging a “cup de tit snarf honk” against “Meester Crapello snark snark snigger giggle burp” …

No choice at all. Thanks but no thanks. Fire up the barbecue, pass me the apron, and yes, you know, I think I will have a beer. Leave the telly alone, love. There’s nothing good on.

Basically, I’m trying to say: he’s not a twat. Which is a roundabout way of saying: everyone else is. Writing is fun.

Let's home the summer transfers don't shatter Andi's loyalty and affection.

Bringing a smile into his life

One of these guys is a Spurs legend who sadly got a bit fond of the juice and had to give it up on doctors orders in order to prolong his playing career and to stay sane. The guy sitting down is is Paul Gascoigne.

Star Man

The term “unsung hero” is an over-worked description which generally means that the player under review is actually shite, lacks flair and individuality and, in club terms, they can’t get rid of him. The intended description is usually hidden behind comments pointing out that he’s an ever-present; a tireless workhorse or a dedicated clubman. Bland, trite and often patronising journalism.

Occasionally however you meet a player for whom the phrase was genuinely intended, a player whom seldom attracts the limelight yet through his consistency, dedication and honesty serves as a real example to others. Kevin, or Zinedine, Kilbane epitomises this character.

In recent times, Kilbane has come in for a degree of criticism (abuse?) at Ireland games – he has become the easy target for fans who are frustrated – in many instances at poor selection by Trappatoni, or inadequate performance by the team all around. Kilbane has been chosen probably because of his age, the fact he's now with unattractive Huddersfield and most frequently because quite simply "familiarity breeds contempt".

Kilbane's record of 109 games for Ireland and 65 consecutive competitive games must have meant sacrifices or decisions that other players would not have made. Evidence last weekend where he played against Macedonia on Saturday evening, before travelling back to Huddersfield to sit on the bench for them on Sunday afternoon (without appearing). So many others would not have made this effort for a Championship game.

Over the years he has always made himself available for Ireland (under several managers) and on each time he's delivered an honest and often quality performance. Contrast that with the behaviour of Roy Kease or Stephen Ireland who see the national team as an option, a facility for them to inflate their egos and their carrying value. Such a marked contrast is difficult to find in any other sport.

So well done Zizou and keep going - there's more in the tank yet.

Footnote – as so often is the case, Kilbane’s attitude and approach has probably been shaped by his life outside the game, and the challenges which life can bring. He is a patron of Down’s Syndrome Association in the UK and his seven-year old daughter has the condition. He was featured prominently in the press and on the web this month in connection with the inaugural Premier League Down’s Syndrome Football Festival which was organized by a partnership between the Fulham FC Foundation, the Down’s Syndrome Association and the Tennis Foundation in the UK. Events like these serve to remind us all of our privileged position in life.

Apres Toi

You put your right leg, you put your right leg out,
You put your right leg in and you shake it all about,
You do the Hokey Pokey and you don't look around
That's what the Arse are about.

Oh Obefami Martins, oh Obefami Martins,
That's what it's all about.

Useless Arsenal wankers - top club, I don't think so. Six years waiting.

Brotherly Love

The strange case of Justin and John Fashanu merits a little examination and comment.

When Justin took his life in May 1998 in a lock-up garage in Shoreditch, London, a primary contributory factor lay in his fear of prosecution by the US Authorities following a homosexual encounter with a minor in Maryland earlier that year. Justin, the older of the two brothers, was clearly not a stranger to controversy and inappropriate behaviour, having been convicted of driving offences and of falsifying stories about himself and Cabinet Ministers in an effort to earn cheap money from the tabloid press.

He was also not a stranger to confronting the media and challenging public attitudes, particularly when dealing with his own sexuality. Openly gay, his tendency to frequent homosexual night clubs in Nottingham after his move from Norwich was believed to be the cause of deep-rooted friction with Brian Clough and a reason why (having scored 35 games in 90 games for Norwich) he only played 32 times for Forest (scoring a meagre 3 goals) and began his downward spiral in football (and maybe life) when he left the City Ground.

We then look at his brother, John, and start by examining his current website which outlines him as a sportsman, TV personality, ambassador, businessman and basically all-round cool guy. We all remember him as the male side-kick to Ulrika Johnson on Gladiator - the programme which brought the term “macho” to a new level. Not many gays appeared on Gladiator over the years, I bet.

Add to this image John’s role as a member of the Crazy Gang at Wimbledon in the late seventies and early eighties and his four years learning his trade at Oswald Mosley’s Millwall in the East End of London. No doubt he had to “compensate for his colour” down at the Den by showing other traits familiar and popular with the homophobic, racist and violent fans whom they call supporters. Poor Gary Mabbutt was to learn about these traits at a fixture at the Lane in 1994 when Fashanu’s elbow very nearly cost him his life in one of the most cynical and horrific challenges the Premiership has ever seen.

Justin remains the only footballer in the history of the Premiership to “come out” - a fact that says more about the homophobic nature of the game than the laws of mathematical probability. Our beautiful game remains littered with a class of supporter, and player, whose singular focus is on conformity to their norm, and mindless hatred towards anyone who fails to meet their standards. Think of the dangerous Neil Lennon twins in front of us at Goodison. Is it any wonder that other gay footballers have not had the courage to confirm their sexuality when so much in football still centres around the behaviour and preferences of the mindless?

Going back to John’s website, you really are left scratching your head. How can a man who publicly disowned his brother when he learnt he was gay, describe himself as “playing a keen role in a raft of charities focusing on the needs of underprivileged children. In the past he has held the post of UNICEF Ambassador for Africa, as well as working with Barnardo’s, Yanga (Street Children Care International), CenterPoint, and Jubilee Action (Against Child Prostitution) to name but a few.” John then goes on to advise us that “He soon found that he was personally involved in over thirty five individual charitable organisations.”

Something just doesn’t add up, and while I’m quite prepared to give John Fashanu the benefit of the doubt and credit him for the good work he does, I just wish I hadn’t got the lingering thought of that dark garage in Shoreditch in my mind as I read his list of achievements. Charity is supposed to begin at home.

I need to finish on a football note - do you know what, (and here’s the beauty of it all) - in his more successful career John Fashanu never came anywhere near to displaying the skills his older brother did – all John’s goals were built on physical power and aggression where he buried the ball, defender and keeper in the net from three yards - no doubt after a precisely punted free-kick or corner. Ireland in the Nineties.

So go on John, have a look at the BBC Goal of the Season from 1980 and marvel at the skills your deceased brother had. Don’t you wish you had half the skills?

Hero or villain?

Many people believe that England’s demise as a football nation can largely be attributed to one man.

Now if I was to ask you who you thought it were, it’s hardly likely you’ll choose a man who achieved greater notoriety as a singer of daft songs on a late night football comedy program than he did on the playing pitches of England. A man whose death appeared in the Sunday papers we read as we munched through breakfast in the Aer Lingus hotel in Kensington on our London trip in January 2002.

Yes, indeed, arise Sir Jeff Astle.

To understand the logic behind the theory, you’ve got to go back to 1970 and the World Cup in Mexico. England went there as World Champions, expectations were high and a second consecutive win would have surely have spurred them onto a prolonged period of higher achievement, at least in Europe.

And what happened - they finished second in their group thanks to a 1-0 defeat to Brazil and were consigned to a quarter final pairing in Leon with the Krauts, who as is the custom in post-66 days, sent them packing swiftly. A few years later Tomaszewski, followed by Norwegian commentator, Gazza’s crying in Italy and A Brazilian lobbing Seaman in the States.

So why blame Jeff Astle? Well here’s why. England v Brazil group game, second half, Brazil a goal up and the ball drops to Jeff, unmarked a few yards out. A nation holds its breadth – most of them 5500 miles away in the middle of the night. Only Felix, the weakest Brazilian in a brilliant team, to beat.

Displaying all the prowess of a dead cat, Jeff controls the ball and strokes it wide of the left hand post. And with that glaring miss (a sitter in schoolboy terms), England’s die is cast and the future is orange (flamboyant Dutchmen), and blue (artistic Frenchmen – 1998 not 2010) and green (plucky never-say-die Irishmen) but certainly not white or red. The Cross of St George has since then only been raised in anger. Competition after competition, they scourge themselves with new feats of underperformance.

Poor Jeff Astle – he deserves better. A lifetime devoted to the beautiful game on England’s mucky pitches and a possible cause of death linked (by the coroner) to the brain trauma he suffered as a result of repetitive heading of the heavy leather footballs used in the sixties. And at the end, he is remembered for one moment of indecision in the Mexican sun.



Jeff swinging from the big gates in the sky.

Don't you just love this kind of guy?

Karl Power.

Superstar all-rounder.

Stories of the fake Togo team which turned up to play (and did play) a friendly against Bahrain recently brings you round to thinking of the maverick genius that is Karl Power. Anyone who gets himself banned from Old Trafford for life is a genius in my world in any event, but his antics there and elsewhere in the sporting world place him stratospheres above virtually all civilisation.

Building on the success of his appearance for Manchester United in a Champions League game against Bayern Munich, Power has since played at Wimbledon Centre Court against Tim Henman, stood on the winners podium at Silverstone (surprising Michael Schumacher) and attempted to bat for England against Australia at Headingley. Excuse the pun, but absolutely powerful stuff.

Whether the Togo team go on to achieve such success is debatable, but you have to admire their bottle. The game, won 3-0 by Bahrain, appeared on FIFA’s website, but the Togolese football federation (FTF) stated the players who had faced the Bahraini national team were not from Togo.

According to "Europe 1" a fake football agent, whose name or nationality is not yet known, sold the match to Bahrain, who are preparing for the Asian championships. The feeble performance of the squad during the friendly had stunned members of the Bahraini Football Association (BFA), who only found out the truth after the game. "The very bad game of the ‘Togolese’ players surprised us, but then to discover that we had been dealing with a fake team was incredible,” said a member of the BFA. Togo’s Sports Minister Christophe Tchao told Jeune Afrique that nobody back home was aware of the encounter. “We will conduct investigations to uncover all those involved in this case,” he said.

Long live Karl Power, and all those who seek to emulate him, Togolese or not. Let's face it the alternative is not worth thinking about - a team led by Emmanuel Adebayor? Thanks but no thanks.

Chelsea's disrespect for Cardiff

Wouldn't it be nice if Robin Friday was still around?

If that was the case Terry would be glad he's off tanning his fat (and often offside) arse in sunny Dubai.

Robin Friday is best described as a maverick genius. Plying his trade in the lower leagues his path led eventually to Cardiff City who he joined from Reading in 1976 for the knock-down price of £30,000. The Cardiff City manager commented that he felt he was taking advantage of Reading, but was simply told "you'll see". Robin gave a signal of what was to come by being arrested at Cardiff railway station on the day he arrived, having travelled from Reading with just a platform ticket. His irreverence, and his disdain for the conventions of everyday life, immediately made him a cult hero with the Cardiff fans who voted him their all time Cardiff City cult hero in a poll conducted by BBC Sport.

His playing career with Cardiff started spectacularly, scoring twice against a defence directed by Bobby Moore, but arguably reached its' pinnacle in a game against Luton Town where his after-goal celebration earned him a honorary place in football's list of "idols you wished you had seen play".



The cover of the Super Furry Animals single "The Man Don't Give a Fuck" featured the famous photograph - interestingly the dejected goalkeeper is Milija Alexsic, later to win a cup-winners medal with Spurs. Have a look at the garb of the supporters and think back to the 70's.

Not unexpectedly his career with Cardiff only lasted twenty-five games before he simply left football for good. Whilst playing against Mark Lawrenson for Cardiff against Brighton on the 31 October 1977, Friday became agitated by the future pundit, kicked Lawrenson in the face and received a red card. Having been sent off, he proceeded to defecate in Lawrenson's kit bag in the dressing rooms. Hard to see Dimitar Berbatov up to the last trick.... or maybe not....

Sadly, like many wayward geniuses of this nature, Friday died prematurely - he was found dead in his London flat on 22 December 1990 at the age of 38, having died of a suspected heart attack.

Oh Robin it would be nice to see the likes of you at the Bridge every now and then.

This man was my bombers, my dexy's, my high ......

Times were tough in the late seventies for the Blues with several barren years, compounded by the rise of the hateful Rovers, inspired by the legion of returning emigrees - Gilesy, Treacy, Dunphy - and the foreigners from West Brom - Lynex, John Osborne and the like. We had precious little to sheer about until a young lad from Everton arrived and set the place alight. Single-handedly he challenged the authority from Glenmalure.

The pinnacle may have come later (with the Cup Final win against Pat's in 1980) but the day that we'll always remember him for was the cup semi-final at Dalymount Park in 1979 against the Hoops - three minutes left and Syd strikes home a penalty, then climbs on the fence in front of the Shed as the surge of hatred from the Hoops fans commenced. What did it matter that he looked like a total poof - we all did in those days.

That evening we drank in the Merrion Inn, with the sound of "Hit Syd" still loud in our ears.