Canary (noun) definitions- 1) - Small yellow bird sent down mines to test the quality of the air before the big boys get going. Any sign of danger, gets in a flap, curls up and dies. 2) - Small yellow team sent down divisions to test the quality of the football. Any signs of danger, gets in a flap, pisses in goals, and curls up and dies.
Depending on what flavour you take your football, you could be anywhere between one and three games into your season.
It's early doors, but they're doors that someone has pissed on, superglued the lock, and shoved shit through the letterbox.
I really have the deepest sympathy with my Naardge friends. When you let in enough goals on the first day of the season to almost start needing to use the fingers on the other webbed hand, things are not good.
Only one thing to do when you get beaten 7-1 by Colchester. Nick their manager. I can't help but wonder if Paul Lambert will still be happy with his decision at the end of the season, with the U's continuing their undefeated start tonight, and Norwich losing again.
Elsewhere in the Premiership, we see Tottenham top after beating Liverpool in the opener, and spanking Hull 5-1 tonight, who themselves didn't look that bad against Chelsea - the only other team to have won 2 from 2. Several have still only played the once, but Man Utd somehow managed to get beaten by Burnley tonight, so no perfect start from them, nor points for me from their players.
It's playing merry hell with my Fantasy Team. Whilst picking Jolene Joleon Lescott seemed like a good idea pre season, what with him being touted by Man City, he helped Everton let in 6 goals at the weekend, has been refused a transfer, and has now been dropped following an incident involving a pram, some toys, and a passable Monty Panessar impersonation.
Most importantly of all, Grimsby have got off to a typically heroic start, with three straight defeats. This puts me in a great position to slag off or take the piss out of any other team in the league, because there is nothing that anyone can say or do that can make anything worse that what we are doing to ourselves.
Yazz would say 'the only way is up'. Not true. Okay, we can't move very far in the downwards direction for several months, but after that, there's a fucking huge drop.
At least there's still some Cricket to be enjoyed. I completely expect England to win the last Ashes Test, and therefore retain that magic little urn. And we've got tickets to one of the one dayers to look forward to as well.
But after that it's just the slow inevitability of the days getting colder, the nights drawing in, and Saturday afternoons of despair and despondency as nothing goes right.
As the nights draw in, and the air starts to feel like winter is just around the corner, my mind turns to football.
Hell, it may only have just turned August, but it is a bit nippy out, and having done the necessary research (ie been watching Sky all day), the Premiership season does indeed start next weekend - or sort of. It's the Charity shield or whatever they're calling it this year, and a full fixture list for The Championship and leagues 1 and 2.
So all of a sudden it's time to think long and hard about fantasy teams.
My first foray into Fantasy sport was way back in the early nineties, with cricket. I'm pretty sure The Daily Telegraph was the first place to do it, and as the years have gone by, there is a Fantasy version of everything. I was even asked to sign up for a Fantasy Tour de France this year - sorry Matt - I didn't even reply, having no knowledge or interest in the sport.
Football soon followed suit, courtesy of The Sun. In the early days, you paid to submit a team, and then got updates and scores printed in the paper. To check out your own team, or have a mini league with friends, you had to all add up your own scores and compare.
My early attempts were ok. Not winning amongst my peer group, but still doing myself proud. Scoring was pretty basic too. Points if your player scored a goal, minus points if a defender or goalie let them in. Points for a clean sheet for defenders, and minus points for cards.
As the years have gone by, and the advent of OPTA statistics, scoring has become more convoluted, and more websites have sprung up running similar style competitions.
A few years ago I was running a league based out of the Sun for colleagues at work - this time just for The World Cup, with £10 in for each team - winner takes all. It was starting to get a bit easier to manage leagues, as The Sun was publishing all the players scores on line, so sticking everyone's teams in a spreadsheet and then just copying and pasting the pages from The Suns website meant I could produce a new league table in a matter of minutes after each evenings games, rather than scouring the papers hours on end for each individuals players and scores.
I was planning on distributing the scores as I had done with the previous years Premier League - via works email.
Shortly before the tournament was due to start I received an email from a very senior member of management, entitled 'Fantasy Football'.
'Shit', thought I. I'm going to be told not to do this on work time. I can explain away that all I do is send an email with the scores in, because not all the players have a home email address. I don't do any of the updating or preparation of tables at work (but only because the website is blocked by works firewall). I'm not making any money out of it, It's not gambling, it's just a friendly sweepstake.....
As it turned out it wasn't an email telling me to cease and desist, rather one asking me very nicely if he was allowed to play, and if so, here was his team, and to whom should he give his £10?
Fucker went on to win it too. Very begrudgingly I had to go to the Management Suite to hand over the cash.
"Have you got an appointment" said the receptionist.
"No" said I, "but I think he'll want to see me if you just buzz to let him know I'm here. I have his gambling winnings for him".
Now the multitudes of websites are free, and the game play even more sophisticated. You can start with a whole squad rather than a team, and pick which 11 actually play each week, allowing you to swap your keepers if your 1st choice is going to be playing against Man Utd, or drop players if they are injured. That is if you can be bothered to log in everyday and micro manage your team. I had Torres captaining (double points) my team for around 6 weeks last year before I decided that I should probably log in and make some substitutions being as he was injured and not playing.
Team selection can take hours, as you decide whether to blow your cash on a killer strike force, or go for a balanced approach.
You ca spend a fortune on 'big players' who either get injured and score nothing, under perform, or who everyone else has bought anyway, so you gain nothing by having them, but lose everything if you don't. Do you save fuck all for defenders so you either have cheap players from big teams who never get off the bench, or whatever you can afford from Fulham, and then just hope that the amount of goals they let in is offset by the millions that Anelka and Berbatov are going to score?
I've decided that most of it is down to a little bit of common sense, and a lot of luck. It's that £4.5 million that you have left to spend on a defender or midfielder. You can't afford anyone you want, so you just look at the price list and pull someone at random, and then they go on to bag up hundreds of points for you. That was JoleonLescott for me last year. This year he's £7.5, but because he did well for me last year, I've stumped up the cash - as have 16% of other people who have registered at the official website.
I've spent a grand total of 10 minutes and £100 million selecting my squad, and as usual, I hope for success, but expect mediocrity.
If you want in, I'm playing at The Barclays League site. If you want to join my mini-league, contact me via email, FB or Twitter for the pin number. The more the merrier, and the further down the points table I can slide.
Sometimes we all have to do things that we find distasteful, amoral, and just downright shameful.
I could list many, but tonight I stoop to an all time low on my social barometer of what is a VERY BAD THING as I find myself faced with a decision that I find thoroughly unpalatable.
I'm supporting Manchester United.
It's not really that I want them to win, it's that I don't want Barcelona to.
Just like Meryl Streep in Sophie's choice, neither going is not an option. It will only prolong the inevitability of a firing squad, so I must choose who to lose, and after weighing up the alternatives, with a heavy heart it is Manchester I cling to as Barcelona are dragged off crying for their mothers.
*GOAL FLASH* Eto for Barca. Bollocks.
It wasn't an easy choice, and I've mentally gone through the pro's and cons of a decision I'm going to have to live with for the rest of my life.
Against Manchester United
They are Manchester United
Ronaldo is a slimy, cheating cunt
Winning two on the bounce will make them so smug
They are Manchester United
They've won enough this year already
They are Manchester United
For Manchester United
They are not Barcelona
They are an English team
They are not a Spanish team
I've got the teeniest amount of respect for Giggs, who maybe deserves it before he retires
I hate Puyol more than Ronaldo (he fucked up a potentially winning World Cup fantasy team for me, and I have never forgiven him. And he has shit hair.
Some of my friends are real Man Utd fans (ie never been there), and the philanthropist in me wouldn't begrudge them a little bit of pleasure.
Twenty five minutes in and it looks like Barcas goal was against the run of play...oh oh..Xavi free kick..........and safe....., so things may turn out right in the long run.
For now, I think I'd better go and get myself a stiff drink. It might make it a bit easier to cope with what I'm doing with a bit of dutch courage and beer goggles.
But when I wake up tomorrow, all bleary eyed and unsure of what I got up to the night before, I'll be able to look back on this blog, and all the shame will come flooding back.
Am I getting into bed with a stunner, or a munter?
By the time you read this letter you will have hopefully had time to wake up and face the realisation that you no longer have a Premiership team.
For the first time in twenty years, you're in the second tier, and I'm sure there are plenty more tears in your Newckie Brown.
You gave Mr Shearer his millions, with the promise of more if he kept you up, but to what point? He may walk on water, but he can't polish a turd.
I'm glad Manchester beat Hull, despite me cheering for the Tigers all the way, because I know if you'd gone down due to Mr Ferguson playing his second team you'd have cried 'foul'.
But if Hull had won, it would not be because of a team of teenagers that you went down, it was simply that you weren't good enough.
Mr Ferguson had 38 league games to pick teams that would give him enough points to win the league, and get to the Champions League final with a fit, winning team.
He only needed 37 games.
You had the same opportunity, without the added pressure of Europe, and you fucked it up.....
Blame Mike Ashley.
Blame King Kev for walking.
Blame Owen for always being injured.
Blame whoever you like if it makes you feel better, but just face facts, you played shit all season.
Now you can stop telling us about how you're too big a club, and there's too much history, and you've got the best fans in the world, relegation could never happen.
Go ask Leeds, Norwich, or God forbid, Notts Forest.
Spend the next season with your heads down learning some humility. Don't expect to win every game. WANT to, then be grateful when you do.
Do not gloat when you wallop Scunthorpe 5-0 at home, because if you get complacent they might just return the favour on a cold December midweek game.
You still get to enjoy a local derby with Boro, but try not to get too nostalgic as you see the Macams team bus heading off to Manchester...
Now back to your bottle of dog to have a good hard think about what you've done(or rather not done) - I'm off to enjoy my moment of Zen.
I'm facing an almost exciting prospect. Cambridge United are through to the play off finals for promotion back to Division 2, and thanks to some end of the season heroics (and Luton starting the season on -30 points), Grimsby Town have somehow avoided the indignity of non-league football next year, and I could once again see the Mighty Mariners play at the Abbey Stadium.
You can call me a fair weather fan, because in all truth the weather's got to be a damn sight better than 'fair'. It's got to be abso-fucking-fabulous weather for me to drag myself any further than a couple of miles down the road.
I'll stand in the driving rain at the Abbey, safe in the knowledge that a hot bath is only 15 minutes away, but a cold Tuesday evening in Peterborough? Stevenage? Even Histon is an extra 20 minute drive away. Fuck that for a game of soldiers, I'll watch Grimsby if they come to see me, but not the other way round. Not until they buck their ideas up a bit and start playing some decent football anyway.
And because of this disparity of leagues, I'd not been to watch a game for a couple of years, and then all of a sudden, I get 2 games almost back to back, and they couldn't have been more dissimilar.
What did you do for Valentines day this year? I went on a stag do to London, and part of that Weekend jaunt was a trip to see AFC Wimbledon play Bath at Kingsmeadow.
I was stood at the back of the terrace - but not a problem, take 5 steps forward, and I was at the front. Most of the party were so bored by half time that they disappeared into the bar and never came back.
The half time entertainment consisted a keepy-uppy competition in which the Stag participated, but was beaten by a ringer who was ex pro.
His other excuse being, that in keeping with the Blue Square League, the ball was blue and square, which the pedant in me insisted was blue and cuboid. A square ball would not be a ball, it would be a 2 dimensional shape. I'm such a fucking geek.
They did serve some particularly lush bacon sandwiches, and the stall was a little shed in the ground so you would,'t have to miss any of the game. You can just about make it out just at the very left of shot, whilst Matt does a big fat FAIL.
The bar was pretty good too, and very organised for getting pints out swiftly. When with 5 minutes to go , and the score 1-1 following 2 shots all game, the brave few who stuck out the second half rejoined the wanderers in the bar for a swifty before heading out to find a titty bar/muff club, and to watch the rest of the days results stream through courtesy of Jeff Stelling on a big screen.
Turns our Wimbledon won 3-2. We must've missed a pretty exciting 5 minutes whilst getting pints, but I think the call for beer was the correct one at the end of the day.
Roll on 8 weeks and again I'm at a football match, but this time I'm still waiting for Matt, and we're a little out of our comfort zone.
Mrsslippy and I have caught a taxi to the Maracana in Rio to watch the semi-final of the Carioca Cup between arch rivals Flamengo and Fluminense.
Matt said he'd meet us at this statue at 3 o'clock.
If I look a bit hungover it's because I am. It's the day after the wedding and I suspect I drank at least a bottle of Scotch, and god knows how many ciaparinhas and how much champagne. At 6 in the morning I didn't think I'd ever be able to lift my head from my pillow, but then my gut forced my hand, or rather it's contents, in a glorious fountain that I only just managed to get to the bathroom on time for.
So half past three, still no sign of him. We'd positioned ourselves near some friendly looking policeman, and were thick in the Flamengo stronghold. We'd seen a few thousand all come running towards us, hemmed in by mounted police. I bit of pre match banter I'm sure, but still a bit daunting. They were also accompanied by the real police.
The ones we stood near had guns and batons, but these guys were in full body armour, and packing 5 foot bats, shotguns, automatic rifles, and grenade launchers (which I'm sure were just for tear gas canisters, not real grenades, but still pretty hardcore).
As we stood watching, mouths agape, the newly married Matt arrived, apologised for being late, and told us that we were probably standing around at the wrong area (despite it being his idea, what with him having all the local knowledge and that), as the Flamengo fans are 'fucking nutters'. So hyped up for aggro, if they haven't got any rival fans to fight with, they'll fight amongst themselves. If we went in the Fluminense end we'd be much safer,as they only fight other supporter...
....and Gringos....
Still, as the lesser of two evils, and with Whiggy for added security we went round to the other side and entered what is the most remarkable ground I've ever seen.
Built for the 1950 World Cup it held 200,000 before it went all seater, but now holds a rather more sedate 100,00 - and none of them were sitting today.
There were parades of gigantic flags, fireworks, smoke bombs, but not a single safety steward to tell you to stop blocking the aisle, sit down, and stop letting off rockets in peoples faces. The only security was those impressive policeman who had now formed a loose perimeter around the pitch (which in itself is protected by a dry moat). I got the distinct impression that they didn't really care what we did to each other, just as long as nobody got near the pitch or the players.
I'd like to say it was a great game, but sadly, it was pretty run of the mill. The Flamengo players were all very proficient at the dive that's fortunately rarely seen in the Premiership now (although Ronaldo used to try it on). You know the one I mean, the one where the defender doesn't make contact, but somehow manages to apply backspin onto the opposing player, so after rolling over three or four times in one direction, he suddenly reverses polarity and starts spinning back towards the defender again.
Both teams had a player called Everton, which left me pondering why anyone would choose that as a nickname. Presumably because they have a twin brother who plays more attractive football, and is far more successful.
Despite it being perhaps the widest pitch I've ever see (either that or the shortest - it's almost a perfect square), both team seemed to have forgotten about the 15 yards of grass either side of the central strip, and just hoofed and fell and rolled and protested all over the same little bit of real estate.
Flamengo's goal was lame; a tame shot that the Flu keeper pushed under his own arm and into the net as he fell to the ground. Very poor.
In the second half a shot that he managed to deflect, and was then cleared off the line by a defender was met wit such jubilation that the pair of them had this whole bromance thing going on for the next two minutes. Sorry to break up the love-in boys, but you've saved fuck all. You're still 1-0 down, and would be better advised to stop going down on each other and paying attention to whats happening elsewhere on the pitch. That equaliser isn't going to score itself - and it didn't....
It's pretty clear that although Brazil may produce some of the best footballers in the World, they don't play over there. We've got them all in Europe.
And for all the pomp and circumstance, posturing and bravado, fireworks and spectacle, the football itself is not a patch on the Premiership. We've got the best league in the World. Love it.
So hopefully next season I can again go and watch Grimsby play again. I can't say it'll be anything like the experience of 100,000 nutters at The Maracana, but the football might be of a similar standard, and certainly better than a Valentines Day watching AFC Wimbledon and Bath.
Following on from yesterdays bloggage, and comments on my Facebook page from Stoxie, it is probably time to come clean and say
I was once a terrible football hooligan.
I'm not proud of the fact -not because I used to hack at complete strangers with a Stanley Knife, or chuck bricks through windows in random shopping centres in strange and alien towns.
Oh no, not me.
I didn't do that.
This is not a 'Once upon a time I was a very bad man' story.
This is a 'Once, just once I was a hooligan at the football.'
And not terrible as in 'I maimed and assaulted', terrible as in, 'I made a really shit job at it.'
I've already established the pre match ritual for a discerning Cringleford lad. After legging it from McDonalds we would make the happy pilgrimage to Carrow Road in order to be at the turnstiles when they opened at 1pm, ready for the 3pm kick off.
To sustain our growing bodies during this 2 hour wait (as if the cockles & mussels, McDonalds sans gherkins wasn't enough), we'd call into the newsagents close to the ground for a few packets of Soccer Shields.
Soccer Shields were the boys equivalent of Love Hearts in the 8o's. Made by Swizzles, they had a football teams name, and their nickname on each sweet, and had a club sticker on the inner packaging. I can't find any pictures online, but as I finished the wallchart that the stickers went on, I reckon it would be worth a few bob these days. And a great way to learn all those club nicknames, particularly the obscure Scottish ones.
The appearance of Norwich (The Canaries! -oh yes - he's still got it - even the little clubs), would be lucky, and herald the imminence of a goal if produced mid game.
But on the 21st March 1987, the red mist came down, and it all went wrong....
I don't remember the exact date, but I think Norwich were at home to Luton, I'm pretty sure I was in the 3rd Year at High School, and positive it was around my little sisters birthday, so that's the date that seems to fit the bill. I'd been shopping before the game, that's how I can be sure of the date. I'd bought something I needed for school for a class I dropped in 4th year, and a birthday present for Bec....
So there we were, with 2 hours to kill, standing behind the goal in the River End, taking it in turns to squash whoever it was that was closest to the side rail in the little penned in area behind the advertising hording.
Starting to have a bit of a sugar rush from all the Root Beer and Soccer Shields, I thought I might see if I could hit the helmets of the two passing policeman with said sweets as they circled (or is that squared?) the ground.
I was getting pretty good at it, but unbeknownst to me, the rozzers were well aware of my bit of fun, and were about to put a stop to it.
After a clean shot to one of the Bills helmets, the Soccer Shield bounced off his shoulder, and was neatly caught in his black, leather gloved hand.
Turning quickly on one heel, he just raised a solitary finger and pointed at me. If he'd squealed like Donald Sutherland at the end of Invasion of the Body Snatchers, I don't think I could have been more scared.
Except I didn't show it. I just stood there grinning like a loon, high on sugar.
He asked me if I'd thrown it, to which I naturally shook my head, still grinning.
I don't think he was convinced, as his response was 'Yes it was, and you've been doing it every time we walk past.'
Next thing I know, I was being dragged over the hoarding, and frog marched towards the exit.
I think I was lucky that they didn't clock me for the hardened criminal that I was, and just ejected me out of the ground. Lucky they didn't check my carrier bag and find what I was packing.
Because these are the objects that not only date the event, but have caused me grief from friends over the years whenever this story crops up, and would have caused me so much more had the police revealed them in front of the terraces.
It was my 3rd year at school, because we were still doing Home Economics, and that meant needle work, and as part of a 'project' I'd bought a length of shiny pink material.
And Becs birthday, because I'd bought her (not Farmyard Animals Matt!) a set of 'Sylvanian Families.'
Little mice dressed to look like people.
If those items had been produced in front of the Norwich massive, I'd have never lived it down, and barely do in some circles to this day.
The record shows that the score was 0-0, so I didn't really miss much.
Yes dear reader, I was once a terrible football hooligan. Just once, and a really terrible one at that.
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