JAMES: I Don't Like Football

You know what I hate about Russian Dolls? With the South Africa World Cup in full swing (and England playing Germany at time of writing), it seems appropriate to tell you why football is just not my cup of tea.

I've a lot of respect for anyone that is world class at what they do, footballers included. The list of reasons I'm entirely indifferent to the "beautiful game" itself is not short, but essentially the idea of 22 grown men chasing a ball around a field in knee-high socks for an hour-and-a-half does little to excite me. That, however, has little to do with the price of eggs or this rant.

My beef with football (or soccerball to our cousins across the pond) is not so much the game itself, rather that cheating is such an integral element of it. There are few heroes. Players take the easy way out all too often. You're rewarded for falling down and then lying about how you got there. "I've fallen, gimme a free kick. He hit me so hard on the shin pad that my face hurts, I might never walk again. But I've got the medicine: a penalty will cure all ills."

Perhaps my cynicism is unjustified? Maybe that is the sign of a hero; someone who falls in action to an opposing hoard bent on seeing your demise, suffering a career-ending injury in a valiant act of sacrifice? You're drifting, heading towards the light, hearing the call of the ferryman... but no! Must get up.... Can't get up... Must. Get. Up...

When your country depends on you, what choice do you have other than to man up and stagger forward? None. You hear the whistle, turn away from the light, shake off your mortal wounds, and against all the odds, strike the ball with all the passion, patriotism, love, faith, honour and guts you can muster. The ball flies true. To everyone else it seems the air itself has parted to make way for the white arrow of justice streaking from your boot and towards victory. But you know it was just the gods holding their breath out of respect.

Boom! GOOOOOOAL!

You came back from the brink and you did it. You eschewed your deserved place in Nirvana, to return to the physical realm, took your fate by the scruff of the neck, smote your enemy and saved your nation from certain annihilation and, more importantly, humiliation. How selfless. How noble. How brave...

But I'm most definitely a cynic on this one. You fell down intentionally. I saw you lift your own feet off the floor. You feigned injury to part of your body that has probable never been touched by anyone other than expensive champagne-addled prostitutes, let alone the poor deluded sap on the other team who got it into his head he was supposed to try and take the ball from you. I saw that too. So did the tens of thousands of people who forked out their hard-earned cash to sit in a crap plastic chair around the other side of the world just to support you. So did millions upon millions of less fortunate fans who gave up two hours of their life to watch you ply your devious trade.

But what do they know? And what do they deserve? Each month you get paid enough to buy a large house filled to the rafters with tawdry shit, so you're doing something right, right? Morals are for losers, and you're not a loser. Kids don't look up to losers, kids don't put posters of you on their bedroom walls on because you're a loser. Kids have no concept of morals either, so dubious and unsporting tactics will go unnoticed. Not that you employ dubious or unsporting tactics, of course. You're simply willing to do what it takes for glory.

People are stupid, but you're not. You're a winner.

NO YOU'RE NOT! You're a fucking cheat, you fucking know it and you should be fucking ashamed of yourself and I hope your parents are fucking ashamed of you too. You've fucking cheated your way to any titles you may have won. If you haven't won any, it's because someone is a better cheater than you and that is a sad state of affairs.

The money in your bank account was earned by cheating, the house you live in was bought by cheating, your kids clothes bought bought by cheating, you paid for that cocaine around your nose by cheating, your wife's tits were paid for by cheating, the food in your stomach is from cheating, even the Tesco Clubcard points you got from buying that food comes from fucking cheating. None of it is fucking yours, so give it all back.

We've all seen Wall Street; if you make ill-gotten gains behind closed doors on the stock market, your arse goes to jail. But if you do it in plain view of millions on a football pitch, you won't go to jail. You'll be celebrated and paid more than Gordon Gekko ever was. Either way, I imagine the showers to be an unenviable gauntlet to run.

How anyone who plays any sport - let alone the most popular sport on the planet at the highest level - with such flagrant disregard for honour, sportsmanship, respect for themselves, their supporters, team and country, can sleep at night or look their friends and family in the eye, I cannot begin to fathom.

Why fans, governing bodies, football clubs and officials don't make more of a point of putting a stop to this embarrassing trait of the sport I have no idea, but it disgusts me that people can make a living in this fashion, and I pity those who worship the perpetrators.

Of course not all footballers are guilty of being nancy-boy cheats (in fact I imagine most are probably decent, hard working and honest) and by no means are all fans are guilty of turning a blind eye to the nancy-boy cheating that is so rife. But enough people let it slide for it to become an accepted part of the game, and that is why I don't like football.

- James

P.S. Germany just put England over her knee and spanked all three lions senseless. That is why I'm glad I don't like football!

TOM: I Like Football

My love affair with the beautiful game started at the age of six, when my Dad took my brother and I to see Burnley play Swansea in 1992.

If I remember rightly Burnley lost 2-1. Despite the loss, from then on we were hooked. We wore the shirts, pretended to be Marlon Beresford and Andy Farrell on the school playground and my Dad bought season tickets and took us to Turf Moor every weekend.

After near oblivion in the eighties Burnley started something of a recovery in the early nineties, finishing as champions of the last ever season of the Fourth Division in 1991/92 before the league reorganisation the following season. In 1994 they headed to Wembley for a play-off final game against Stockport, with a place in Division One at stake. Unfortunately we didn't get to go for reasons I can't remember now, but I still remember the game distinctly. Burnley won 2-1 with goals from Gary Parkinson and Burnley legend David Eyers. I still have the official Burnley VHS on my shelf.

Turf Moor had two terraced stands, the Bee Hole End behind the goal on the east side of the ground, and the legendary Longside which spanned the northern edge. We watched a couple of games from the Bee Hole End and the atmosphere on the terracing was amazing but it felt a little primitive for modern football. The final game played in front of the Longside was in 1995, when it was replaced with the mightily impressive two-tier James Hargreaves stand. The Bee Hole End was torn down shortly afterwards and replaced with the Jimmy McIlroy stand where my Dad, brother and I spent quite a few seasons.

Recently Burnley have had a bit of a resurgence. They finished fifth in the Championship in the 2008/09 season and went on to win the Play-offs against Sheffield United at Wembley. My brother and I went, along with a few friends and 36,000 other Burnley fans, and it was just mind blowing to see that many people wearing claret and blue, singing the songs and rocking the whole stadium. The atmosphere was just electric, especially when the full-time whistle went and everyone went mental.

It was one of the best days out I've ever had, just to be a part of something so big with so many local people. The day after the team paraded through the town in an open top bus and the whole town centre was awash claret and blue, people chanting and there was just good vibes, a buzz, about the whole town. If you've never been to Burnley it's a pretty run down and deprived place, something like football can really lift the spirits of the town and it was reported in the local news that during the season of the team's success crime figures had dramatically dropped. That's how much of an effect the game and the team can have on the place.

Football is vital to the community in many areas, it gives young people a goal to aim for when the club is so intrinsically involved in the health of the community. Jay Rodriguez's story is exemplary of that. Rodriguez is, despite the name, a Burnley native who worked his way up the ranks of the youth academy and finally signed his first professional contract in 2007 at the age of 18. His first goal was an 88th minute winner in the Carling Cup third round against Fulham.

It's a primal instinct to support your local team. People say it's like Trigger's broom, as players, managers and other staff come and go, is it still the same team? Well, yes. It's the history, it's the place. It's a geographical thing. People will come and go but the history of the team will always endure. It's not necessarily the actual players you support (although obviously as long as they're wearing a Burnley shirt, they'll get the fans support), it's the actual club.

It's Burnley Football Club, not Marlon Beresford/Kurt Nogan/Robbie Blake Football Club. Burnley are a historic team, being one of the original twelve founder members of the Football League, and it is that tradition and history I support. I want to see the new players and managers add to it, to create new history, add to the silverware in the cabinet.

It's not just the 'institution' of football I love though, the actual game is a pleasure to play and watch. There's nothing quite like striking the ball on that sweet spot and seeing it fly into the top corner past the outstretched hands of a despairing goalkeeper. Seeing a Burnley legend like Robbie Blake scoring a volley that would be envied by most world class strikers to secure a 1-0 at Turf Moor against the then reigning champions Man Utd last August is one of the best football memories I have. It was such a phenomenally good hit but the circumstances are make it that extra bit special.

In the top tier of English football for the first time in 33 years, the smallest team to ever play in the Premiership, in terms of both town, squad and budget size, and punching above our weight like that was really something special. Whilst in modern day football money does a large amount of the talking, anything really can still happen. It's not just a game of physical endurance and skill but the mental ability and strength of a single player in a single moment can shape a game in such a dramatic fashion.

That feeling it gives you is something else, the adrenalin, the atmosphere, singing with 20,000 other fans in either joy as your team beats their rivals or in despair trying to spur the boys on to snatch an all important goal is something almost inexplicably comforting. The sense of togetherness with these random people as you all do what you can to fight for the same cause. To win the game.

Yes there're problems. Diving needs to be stamped out and there are measures being tried out to help this, such as fines, suspensions and other disciplinary action, and money is starting to take over, but measures like wage ceilings and transfer budget caps are being talked about by FA officials. So there are reassurances that the top brass still care about the game and the fans.

What I love about football is that when done right, it is seriously pleasurable to the eye, but most importantly it is the people I've met and the fun I've had because of it is something I don't think I would have experienced otherwise through any other sport.

- Tom

JAKE: The Confident and the Dim

The beauty of the blog...

I live on the fifth floor of a block of flats. Each flat has a small balcony, about big enough to fit a couple of chairs and an ashtray on. For the last two days, this summery feature has enabled my new neighbour to share his personal phone calls with his ex-girlfriend with the rest of the south facing residents of the building. Now these conversations weren't particularly loud or aggressive, nor were they particularly sorrowful. In fact they seemed pretty civilised.

Tonight I decided to have a smoke on the balcony and had the pleasure of officially meeting my new neighbour who I already felt so intimately acquainted with. Joshua was the name, having just moved to study water-sports science or something in that vein, Joshua enjoys surfing, drinking, sharing his personal life with strangers and from the sound coming from his flat, Father Ted.

Josh seemed like a perfect subject for my first attempt at blogging, which as I understand it is sometimes informative, educational, insightful or though provoking, but usually an egocentric demonstration of ones ability to both make childishly simple observations about life and string two sentences together in a style which is perceived by the author as witty. It is this second great tradition of viral mental masturbation which I intend to adhere to.

And so begins my belly flop into the world of Blog.

Josh seemed a perfect subject because he beautifully represents the soon to be educated elite of this great hemisphere. He is as confident as he is dim. I sat for at least an hour and a half, slowly working my way through a bottle of wine, and trying to figure out how to reason with a man who kept on referring to the inhabitants of Sweden as the Swiss. The reason that the Swedish featured at all in the conversation was so that he could declare, in no uncertain terms that Swiss(-dish) women were amongst the hottest in the world. I suppose everyone has had a similar conversation and this alone would not constitute any particular affront to reason were it not for the fact that he thought it criminal for a Swiss (-anese) woman to be a brunette.

Whilst on the subject of women, I got to learn more about this famous ex-girlfriend of his who I had heard so much about before even meeting him. He had met her in February and really liked her. One day she had asked him to treat her a little meaner, she was sick of him being so nice all the time. Not wanting to disappoint her, he had driven her to a beach 25 miles away and spent the day threatening to leave her to make her own way back. He later admitted both that he didn't understand women and that he wasn't too good at psychology... no shit Joshua!

Half a bottle of wine and more ridiculous chit-chat later, I find myself running back to the command centre of my judgement making, first-stone tossing, denigrating starship of Truth to write this conversation up and I find myself struggling with an internal conflict. Despite his general bamboozling ineptitude regarding simple observation and analysis, and despite having to sit through 15 minutes of a conversation with his ex-girlfriend, this time sat in the front row, and despite having heard him claim to hate female scuba divers (both the most obscure claim and the most stupid one I've heard all week), I quite enjoyed our chat. Why? Because it made me feel good about myself.

Josh felt quite happy with the lot that he's been given and despite costing the rest of us a few brain cells, he's not hurting anyone, he is both representative of so much I dislike about my fellow students and responsible for none of it. And retrospectively, I feel rather guilty about spending so much time thinking about what I dislike about Joshua and not having taken the time to see beyond it (obviously not guilty enough to either get to know him, or not to write this entry).

So there it is, and if you feel that this entry was non-committal to both ideas I tried to develop within it, well then you can fuck off. But I'd never say it to your face, and that's the beauty of Blog.

- Jake