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| It will make sense later. |
I'm not going to Millwall cos, well, I don't have to make my excuses to you do I? Just because you click a link and skim read this shite, doesn't mean you own me does it? Essentially it's cos it's both too much money and time for my life this weekend. Boo.
I'm annoyed though, about how this season works, with it's early start and extra midweek games, as that seems like a number of the decent away games are at stupid midweek times when I can't go as well. It pisses me off that I'm denied going to football so we can have the World Cup in a country that doesn't even like football and is essentially just a massive architects sketch on a great big easel and when you lift the first page with all those generic architect drawn trees and people milling around in the shade of buildings with sweeping lines and pencil shaded estimations of the colours involved, there's a massive Breugel style painting of people with contorted pain filled faces and broken bleeding limbs and grieving relatives being eaten by the spectre of poverty and that's grand in FIFA's world.
I'm not going to pretend I'm more angry about that than the fact I probably can't get to Sunderland cos I'm not knitting yoghurt and saving lives and I'm just a fucking weight on the world like anyone else, but it's not really particularly good that the World Cup (c) is brought to you by Slave Labour (c) and we'll probably have to sit through loads of mawkish shit about how Football (c) brings People Together (c) in the Global Village (c) and how fucking ace that is thanks to FIFA (c) who are well worth the money they cream off a game (c) that could be administered by one lad who knew what he was doing on a computer and someone else who could send an email and stick something on twitter now and again.
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| The World Cup or 'the Triumph of Death' by Peter Breugel? |
This was supposed to be a blog about Micky Apples but it's not heading that way so far.
Lets have a go at an awful tenuous link shall we?
FIFA is a bloated layer of ineffectual bureaucracy that takes a big wage for what it does, which really seems to amount to not an awful lot that couldn't be done with a lot less hoopla. Blackpool's much vaunted transfer strategy and large 'football operations team' on the other hand...
SEE WHAT I DID THERE? IT'S LIKE WATCHING TORVIL OR DEAN TO A TURN ON A SIXPENCE. BUY MY FUCKING BOOK. IT'S FULL OF THAT SORT OF THING. I EVEN PROOF READ IT (badly)
Hilarious topical shade throwing aside (love you Ben), the thing about Appleton is, I'm not entirely sure we can decide what we think with any degree of certainty.
I'll now establish why we can't really decide in a manner that takes far too long. Buckle up and belt up too. You have to pay for everything but some things are for free, so take that look from off your face and lets do this thing!
We seem to be in age where it's not so important what you know, or how loud you sing, or whether you even go to games or not, but how FIRM YOUR OPINIONS ARE.
Why is this?
Football fandom has been fed through the lens of 24 hour rent-a-pundit opinion in which an ex Southampton full back who no one can actually remember having a professional career has to say outrageous things to bait an ex Fulham player who people can only remember for thinking 'fucking hell, we're a bit short of midfielders if they're picking him' when he won two England caps against Austria and Peru in highly forgettable friendlies. If the two of them don't generate 'content' to be shared on social media then they'll maybe have to get proper jobs or drink themselves into oblivion because their glory days have gone and where crowds onces mumbled muted appreciation for them, now everyday is just a yawning chasm that screams 'YOU ARE OLD. THERE IS ONLY DEATH AHEAD'
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| A man with opinions. Actually.. Lets not do this... |
We're constantly exposed to people who aren't Roy Keane but are trying to be Roy Keane and failing to get even close to the scornful incredulous majesty of Roy Keane saying things like, 'y'know what Alan, I know we're only 8 minutes into the first pre season friendly, but you've got to worry for [insert name of manager]' and presenters saying 'Wow! what an opinion! Call us later to let [insert christian name of ex pro] know what YOU think about THAT!'
We're also bombarded by Bobby Ravaged and Vinegar Piss Sutton (note to self, that's fucking awful, never write that again) shouting 'Go on then. Who is going to get relegated? Eh? Eh? Eh? Eh? Who is going to get relegated? Eh? Go on? Eh? Who? Eh? Who? Go on? Say it? Eh? Who is going to get relegated?' and 'You said they'd finish top 4. You said they'd finish top 4, You said they'd finish top 4, You said they'd finish top 4, You said they'd finish top 4, You said they'd finish top 4, You said they'd finish top 4, You said they'd finish top 4' at each other*.
Such quality broadcasting apparently passes for the nation's leading football debate show.
I also think the fact that football has been ensnared by gambling doesn't help. I've nothing against gambling. I'm not Oliver Cromwell marching on your palace of fun saying 'stop it or I'll do nasty shit and are there any Irish sorts around I can be a cunt to while I'm at it' but I think it's slightly dicey how much we're implored to BET, BET, BET to have FUN, FUN, FUN! (like, football isn't really fun in and of itself) - I don't remember football being a thing anyone I knew who gambled gambled upon once upon a time, but now, it's all anyone I know who gambles gambles upon.
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| BET ON THE FUCKING CUNTING FOOTBALL YOU CUNT OR I'LL FUCKING HAVE YOU |
This leads us to a point where a lot of fans actually have a literal stake in having a very clear prediction of future events and therefore drawing conclusions from the available evidence is a literal industry. LOOK AT THE XG! LOOK AT THE POSSESSION STATS! LOOK AT POINT PER GAME WITH JIMMY HUSBAND AT LEFT BACK! LOOK AT EXPECTED SECOND PASSES IN THE THIRD PHASE WHEN THE BALL RECEIVER IS OVERLAPPED AND ONE FULL BACK IS OUT OF SHAPE ON A TUESDAY WHEN THE MOON IS IN THE EAST AND THE DOW JONES IS HIGH!
We're constantly coming up with ways to convince ourselves that football is deeply scientific really and that if we can find the right pundit, the right metric, the right source of wisdom, really, we can predict the future. That might be simply for the right to say 'look, I was right all along!' or it might be so we can win £50/500/5000/50000 and maybe have a chance of some heating and lighting this winter.
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| It's ok darling, the house isn't at risk - I've looked at the heat maps for last week and West Brom will leave a gap our winger will exploit. Would you mind if I stake the black market value of your liver on it too? This time, I think we'll win BIG! |
This isn't me trying to be a 'proper football man' - For one thing, proper football men don't intersperse their blogs with art references or sometimes random obscure avant garde music references. It's me trying to say that however you look at it, football is a game of randomness and chaos where any number of factors can disrupt any attempt to read into it.
To draw a firm conclusion about football, you need a lot of data. Using little bits of data is about as much use as any proper football man truism - in fact, a trusim is likely the result of a subconcious human processing of a lot of data, so is probably more use than most of the poor quality data floating about...
It is fair to say that 'Stats show that Joe Nuttall doesn't appear to be a world class forward in the mould of Haaland' as we've got enough evidence for that and analysing a single player over time, is fairly easy to do.
Assessing the impact of a manager though and making claims about their long term prospects for success on the basis of a few games is much more like deciding if a complex recipe is going to succeed or fail when the chef gets the first onion out of the bag and puts it on the chopping board.
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| WARNING - here after, the blog gets a bit weird. I know I'm adopting a grumpy tone this week, but I do esteem the readership really and I think it's fair to point out the stuff hereafter is a bit tenuous. |
If I may continue with this culinary metaphor (I dunno why I'm asking you, no one ever comments anymore anyway, so fuck it, I'm going to stretch it as far as I humanly can) ol' Micky Bigarms has been gifted a really shit bag of ingredients.
Imagine being him. He's got to cook a meal for us, so he he chats with the supplier (Mansford's fresh meat and veg we'll call them - completely random name I've chosen there) - He decides to cook, lets say, a (4-3-)3 Cheese pasta bake. He rings up, places his order for the supplies and preps the kitchen.
"Hi Mike, sorry, bad news, I know we said we were getting you that cheese and those herbs, but we're out, the weathers been bad, blight, that sort of thing, we'll have them for you in a few weeks...Chow for now! Or not as the case may be Ha ha ha... Chow - it means both 'eat' and 'goodbye' *snort* I make myself laugh y'know - Got to go, got some blood to get out of a stone... Toodles!"
Michael decides he'll have to alter the menu. He looks at what he's got and decides, it's ok, he's got some cupboard staples and does a simple tomato pasta. It's not what he wants, but the business is just opening and he'll get to it in time.
Eventually the supplies arrive. "Sorry Mike, we've been trying to source the good stuff. It's taken a bit of time I know, but we think this is the way forward. Hope it goes well, can't chat, got a date at the golf course with (another utterly random name here...) Jonty"
One night, he knocks up a lovely dish. It tastes divine. Everyone enjoys it. We're in business he thinks. Cooking on gas!
The next morning he turns up at the kitchen, ready to set up the next meal. Unbelievably, there has been a power cut and all the lovely special ingredients his premium quality suppliers eventually provided him have gone off.
The next morning he turns up at the kitchen, ready to set up the next meal. Unbelievably, there has been a power cut and all the lovely special ingredients his premium quality suppliers eventually provided him have gone off.
"Fuck my life" thinks Micky and unfolds his arms and refolds them again in a devastating display of emotional frustration. What can he do?
Luckily he remembers. He has a pantry too and in the pantry is a big slab of beef. It's from a rare breed of cow 'Bovinus Madineus' that is an acquired taste, but definitely could work. He wasn't planning on making steak and ale pie - it's a bit obvious for him, but fuck it, needs must. Cooking on Gaz so to speak...
He slaps it together, he puts it out. It's not bad. It's quite good in fact. Maybe. At least acceptable. Things are ok. The supplies will be here sooner or later so it's just getting by and frankly, it could be worse.
"What the fucking fuck?" Michael has not only folded and unfolded his arms but has also looked up to the sky and breathed out quite heavily. This is as close as he gets to tears. He's holding a letter from the food standards agency saying that 'Bovinus Madineus' has been banned from culinary use for a period of weeks due to some shit they made up that no one understands.
What has he got left now? A fridge full of stuff he can't use, a pantry of things he can't cook with. He's got a load of flour, a couple of eggs and 7 onions.
Personally I feel sorry for the chef in this scenario. I find it strange that anyone would draw a firm conclusion as to the chef's abilities given such misfortune. I'd prefer to judge the lad when he's actually able to put some food on the table that resembles the recipe he originally chose.
Sure, somewhere along the line, he's probably put too much salt or not enough pepper in something but who doesn't do that sometimes?
Football is a chaotic and capricious game - the one metric we can be relatively certain of is that the teams that pay the biggest wages over the longest period of time will be far more likely to succeed than the teams that don't. That's been shown beyond doubt by studies that span decades, continents, hundreds and thousands of divisions
There have been issues in the games we've played for sure. Some of the players we've got aren't playing well at all. There have also been mitigating factors. Our midfield situation has been akin to Ten Haag trying to play Ten Haag football with only Scott McTominey available. That wouldn't work. It wouldn't just reflect badly on Scott McTominey either, it's likely the other players would also look less good. Liverpool looked rank bad without Thiago. We've been missing for one reason or another six creative midfielders and the one player that can make a reductive style (i.e. how you have to play with no creativity) work got banned cos the game was on Sky for an action that, even in my most objective mood, I can't really say is more than 60/40 deliberate.
We also sold the best player we've had in a decade (clue, I don't mean Reece James) and on that note, I'll finish with a random anecdote (I wish you stayed on topic more MCLF - fuck you, I wish you read another blog.)
I'm reading Duncan Hamilton's fucking brilliant book on George Best - I've never been that bothered about George Best cos I'm too young to remember him and who gives a fuck about Man Utd and all that, but it's a wonderful story told with skill I can only marvel at. - Anyhow, I've just read the bit on the European Cup Final in 68 and I'll ask you this - what United player had the most impact that night?
Yes. It was...Best, Charlton, Law, Styles, John Aston... (???)
Best and Charlton both scored, but Best finished the game frustrated. He'd been marked out. Double and at times triple marked. John Aston wasn't in the same league as him, not by a million miles but he was gifted freedom, left 1:1 with his full back time and again because Best was drawing so much attention, pulling the other team out of shape defensively, messing with their heads, disrupting their plans. He didn't play especially well, but that doesn't matter, his mere presence was enough to gift a lesser player the space and time to damage the other team.
I think we underestimate sometimes the impact Bowler had and how without that magic, we become a much more routine task to defend against. I suppose, if you like, for Micky Apples, the loss of Bowler was like discovering the restaurant owner had decided to sell the chef's high class frying pan and replace it with one he'd borrowed from the restaurant down the road for a bit that may or may not be any good. That only makes me feel more inclined to root for the chef in my frankly horrific metaphor.
I dragged it out far too long, but hey! We're 260-ish blogs in and you should be amply prepared for that by now. Reading it and wishing it was shorter or to the point is like buying beans with 'beans' written on them and then wishing they were spaghetti hoops. It fucking says what is it on the tin.
Anyway, the point is, judge Appleton on a fair set of circumstance, not a fucking shambles in the background that he's had to try and make sense of. I could have just written that on twitter I guess.
Sorry. (not sorry)
Luckily he remembers. He has a pantry too and in the pantry is a big slab of beef. It's from a rare breed of cow 'Bovinus Madineus' that is an acquired taste, but definitely could work. He wasn't planning on making steak and ale pie - it's a bit obvious for him, but fuck it, needs must. Cooking on Gaz so to speak...
He slaps it together, he puts it out. It's not bad. It's quite good in fact. Maybe. At least acceptable. Things are ok. The supplies will be here sooner or later so it's just getting by and frankly, it could be worse.
"What the fucking fuck?" Michael has not only folded and unfolded his arms but has also looked up to the sky and breathed out quite heavily. This is as close as he gets to tears. He's holding a letter from the food standards agency saying that 'Bovinus Madineus' has been banned from culinary use for a period of weeks due to some shit they made up that no one understands.
What has he got left now? A fridge full of stuff he can't use, a pantry of things he can't cook with. He's got a load of flour, a couple of eggs and 7 onions.
Personally I feel sorry for the chef in this scenario. I find it strange that anyone would draw a firm conclusion as to the chef's abilities given such misfortune. I'd prefer to judge the lad when he's actually able to put some food on the table that resembles the recipe he originally chose.
Sure, somewhere along the line, he's probably put too much salt or not enough pepper in something but who doesn't do that sometimes?
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| Why have you made me a plate of mashed potato? Cos I've only fucking got potatoes you ungrateful bastard. You can eat lice or worms if you'd prefer. |
Football is a chaotic and capricious game - the one metric we can be relatively certain of is that the teams that pay the biggest wages over the longest period of time will be far more likely to succeed than the teams that don't. That's been shown beyond doubt by studies that span decades, continents, hundreds and thousands of divisions
There have been issues in the games we've played for sure. Some of the players we've got aren't playing well at all. There have also been mitigating factors. Our midfield situation has been akin to Ten Haag trying to play Ten Haag football with only Scott McTominey available. That wouldn't work. It wouldn't just reflect badly on Scott McTominey either, it's likely the other players would also look less good. Liverpool looked rank bad without Thiago. We've been missing for one reason or another six creative midfielders and the one player that can make a reductive style (i.e. how you have to play with no creativity) work got banned cos the game was on Sky for an action that, even in my most objective mood, I can't really say is more than 60/40 deliberate.
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| Seminal Cover for the album 'Gary Madine on the FA CCTV cameras (Peel Session)' by indie legends ''TALKSTOOMUCHSHITE' |
We also sold the best player we've had in a decade (clue, I don't mean Reece James) and on that note, I'll finish with a random anecdote (I wish you stayed on topic more MCLF - fuck you, I wish you read another blog.)
I'm reading Duncan Hamilton's fucking brilliant book on George Best - I've never been that bothered about George Best cos I'm too young to remember him and who gives a fuck about Man Utd and all that, but it's a wonderful story told with skill I can only marvel at. - Anyhow, I've just read the bit on the European Cup Final in 68 and I'll ask you this - what United player had the most impact that night?
Yes. It was...
Best and Charlton both scored, but Best finished the game frustrated. He'd been marked out. Double and at times triple marked. John Aston wasn't in the same league as him, not by a million miles but he was gifted freedom, left 1:1 with his full back time and again because Best was drawing so much attention, pulling the other team out of shape defensively, messing with their heads, disrupting their plans. He didn't play especially well, but that doesn't matter, his mere presence was enough to gift a lesser player the space and time to damage the other team.
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| This is not the footballer John Aston - I put the picture in to demonstrate how obscure the memory of John Aston is, because, despite being the MOM in the first English European Cup Win in a game of tremendous legend cos of all the Munich emotion, this other John Aston lad is searched for more often than him and he appears first on a Google image search. He's some kind of science bloke I think. We don't really care what he is do we? The point is made. Lets carry on. We're nearly through... |
I think we underestimate sometimes the impact Bowler had and how without that magic, we become a much more routine task to defend against. I suppose, if you like, for Micky Apples, the loss of Bowler was like discovering the restaurant owner had decided to sell the chef's high class frying pan and replace it with one he'd borrowed from the restaurant down the road for a bit that may or may not be any good. That only makes me feel more inclined to root for the chef in my frankly horrific metaphor.
I dragged it out far too long, but hey! We're 260-ish blogs in and you should be amply prepared for that by now. Reading it and wishing it was shorter or to the point is like buying beans with 'beans' written on them and then wishing they were spaghetti hoops. It fucking says what is it on the tin.
Anyway, the point is, judge Appleton on a fair set of circumstance, not a fucking shambles in the background that he's had to try and make sense of. I could have just written that on twitter I guess.
Sorry. (not sorry)
UP THE FUCKING POOL!
Onward
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