Football

Lords laid on a nifty do the other day for the British Sports Book Awards, which was a great reminder of the quality of so much sports writing here. The best books duly won — Gideon Haigh’s perfectly pitched On Warne (Simon and Schuster), and the Sunday Times journalist David Walsh’s biblical Seven Deadly Sins: My Pursuit of Lance Armstrong (Walsh must by now have an Armstrong-themed trophy cabinet the size of Sir Alex Ferguson’s). But if you want a tip for next year, keep an eye on my former colleague Jon Henderson’s staggeringly well-researched life of Stanley Matthews, The Wizard (Yellow Jersey Press). It’s the first unauthorised biography of a man who was a global celebrity, and the most famous footballer in the world for a time.

‘We hate Tottenham!’ If they had shouted it once they had shouted it 100 times. I wasn’t sure why, as we were watching Chelsea v. Basel. But I knew enough about a girl’s place at a football match not to turn to my male companion and ask what would no doubt turn out to be a stupid question. I love going to Stamford Bridge, just every now and then, you understand. I know nothing about any of it. I have never claimed to understand the offside rule. But every so often, when a male friend invites me, I dust off my Chelsea shirt. I find the action on and off the pitch affords one the most fascinating glimpse into human behaviour. In the past, I have had to sit in the corporate seats because that is where the ex-broker boyfriend always sat.

Over the next few days, we'll all have to swallow gallons of journalistic effluvium about the great Alex Ferguson, who announced his resignation this morning. We will be told about the legendary gum-chewing manager who transformed humble, working-class Manchester United into a world-topping global brand. We should, however, be expressing relief that a man who has done so much damage to English football is at last quitting. First off, we now have the cheering possibility that Manchester United's boring dominance of top-flight football will finally end. This year they won the Premier League without at any stage playing all that well. Other teams just couldn't get their act together. This makes a mockery of the Premier League's claim to be the best in the world.

I shall be ringing the Crown Prosecution Service later today to insist that they bring a prosecution against the footballer Rio Ferdinand for having concurred with a tweeted suggestion that his colleague Ashley Cole was a ‘choc ice’. The term is deeply racist and offensive, given to mean that the person is black on the outside and white on the inside. Similar terms are, I believe, Oreo and coconut. Rio, perhaps realizing his transgression, has since insisted that he meant that Ashley was a ‘fake’; but I think we should let the courts decide that one, shouldn’t we?

I’ve always rather taken the George Best line on David Beckham’s footballing abilities:  ‘He cannot kick with his left foot, he cannot head a ball, he cannot tackle and he doesn't score many goals. Apart from that he's all right.’ But you have to say nonetheless – Beckham’s a thoroughly likeable and decent bloke and I wish, after all the work he’s put in, he’d been awarded a place in the British Olympic © football team. The England coach Stuart Pearce seems to be under the profoundly mistaken illusion that anyone in the country gives a monkey’s about our Olympic football team. We’ve had enough of the hubris of football, for a bit; we don’t care if they lose in game one to St Kitts and Nevis.

Past experience demonstrates that Rangers supporters won't find anything funny about this: As I say, Rangers fans are immune, even at this late stage, to even gallows' humour. Everyone else? Well, not so much. After all: If this - and sending Rangers into the stygian depths of Scottish football - constitutes success in the corporate restructuring world one scarcely dares contemplate the horrors of failure.

If England had won that penalty shoot out against Italy it would have been a travesty. The press has been very kind to the national team this morning, partly because — as we kept being told — ‘expectations were low’ and partly because everyone still likes (with some justification) Roy Hodgson. But from the middle of the first half onwards, England performed as poorly as I have ever seen them, and it wasn’t simply down to the might of the opposition. Indeed, the Italian defence is ponderous and porous, as we shall see when they play a team which dares, from time to time, to attack. England’s problems were partly a consequence of team selection, and partly tactics. Rooney should not have been on the pitch; he was there as a consequence of blind hope.