The passing of youth

As I watched England stroll to a victory over Wales, I gawped in awe at just how composed Jack Wilshere looked at the highest level. It hasn't been an isolated thought this season. From Arsenal's first game of the season away to Liverpool, via a Champions League double-header against Barcelona, and through to the present, the young midfielder has been a constant source of joy all year. So why then, as I basked in all this Wilshere-induced glory, did I have a niggling sense of annoyance planted in the back of my mind?

Well, for the first time ever watching a football match, I thought to myself: "he's younger than I am."

When we are young, the stars of the beautiful game tower over us. They are mystical beings. Masters of the most attractive craft. Throughout childhood, we see ourselves as invincible; the world as ageless. Only as our teenage years dwindle do we start to see choices arriving on the horizon. Yet even these decisions seem far  away; mere distractions that teachers and parents have conjured up to make us do a little extra school work. Rarely do the millions of children playing in parks on a Sunday morning possess the self-awareness to realise that their dreams of scoring the winning goal in a World Cup final are just a forlorn fantasy. Even the most devoted of young fans, when following the Under-17 or Under-20 World Cups, see those players as contemporaries: classmates if we'd gone to a different school. It's only when we see a new up-and-coming star that's younger than us - a Wilshere, a Josh McEachran, a Neymar - that the true physical evidence really confronts us: the dream in now over.

Life is defined by these moments. But because sports careers peak and troft at such a young age, often the dream of on-field glory is the one fans awake from first. Most other hopes have years of possibility left. We can still travel the world, write the next great novel, achieve fame and recognition in a host of other fields. But, after that moment as a sports fan, often for the first time in life, one dream is now permanently just a dream. Seeing these young players evokes a strange sadness, or perhaps regret, of chances gone and roads not taken.

Yet for all the sadness and regret, there is joy as well. For the passage of time allows us to form a perspective on history. When we are young, we know who the best players are (or at least who are favourties are) but rarely do we appreciate the intricate details that make them special. Our older friends and relatives can tell us that a player runs faster, passes better or tackles harder than anyone they've ever seen; we can nod, pretending to agree, but because at that age we have no experience, we can't truly appreciate that statement.

Once we have perspective though, once we see a legion of greats leave the game, we begin to acknowledge the beauty of true genius. In the halcyon days of youth everything is new: we can watch 50 different tricks and 50 different ways of scoring that we've never seen before. As we age though, novelty becomes less and less. When I hear Arsene Wenger say: "Jack is the best young player we've ever produced, " I understand how much that statement means. I've watched enough Arsenal youth products come through the ranks now to understand just how special Wilshere is.

There's a physical component to all this eulogising as well. Most of us, if we've ever played football, can recall a moment of personal brilliance: that last-minute winner against your local rivals, the penalty you scored that all your mates say is the best they've ever seen. Yet the moment when our body does what our mind conceives is fleeting. And so we wonder how anyone can score a goal like this or this or do this. Each year though, a flock of exciting, young players give these ideas substance. And isn't that the beauty of the game we love so much?

I may be sad that I will never run an England midfield single-handedly, but I'm still happy knowing that somewhere, someone can.

Motty.

My Favourite Match: Brentford 2-0 Luton Town

If one man has the right to choose the definitive “Favourite Match” it’s author Tom Dickinson. For every time you’ve stood on a cold terrace in December, or damp stand in May, this man has done it thrice over. To find out how, or perhaps more likely why, visit www.92pies.co.uk  or www.twitter.com/92pies.  

Continuing our latest series then, Tom has chosen Brentford v Luton from 2009. Here’s why.

Looking at the favourite matches picked by the esteemed messrs Mott and Buckett it’s hard to argue with their choices.  Those Champions League ties involving United and Liverpool epitomise what makes football the most exciting spectator sport in the world.  Late drama, comebacks, cracking goals, world-class performers reaching career-highs and fans revelling in the glory.  Tremendous stuff!

Which makes it slightly contradictory that for my favourite game I’ve chosen a poor-quality and irrelevant League Two match between two teams I don’t care about.  But hear me out....

During the 2008/2009 season I had made a slightly odd life-choice to spend the year attempting to watch a game at all 92 English League clubs, writing about my experiences in my book ’92 Pies’ (PLUG ALERT – Out now!).

 

I had many trials and tribulations over the year, travelling as far as Plymouth and Carlisle in my dodgy old Peugeot 206.  It had been a wonderful yet testing experience watching that much, often shoddy, live football.  For months I thought I wasn’t going to be able to do it, particularly after driving for over 4 hours to reach Crewe on a Tuesday evening in February only for the game to be called off at the last minute.  Devastating.

Anyway, the end of the season was nearly here, and it was at Brentford v Luton, my 91st match, when I realised for the first time that I was going to complete my challenge. 

Brentford had already won League Two with a game to spare, and would be presented with the trophy in front of their own fans today.   West London was braced for a day of glorious celebration.  The contrast couldn’t be any greater with Luton; relegated a few weeks earlier with their 30-point deduction proving too difficult to come back from.

It was a gorgeous sunny afternoon, the last day of the Football League calendar, top versus bottom, Champions v Relegated.    It was a match of zero-importance but maximum excitement.

Griffin Park is a beautiful old ground absolutely oozing character; popping up as if from nowhere in a nice residential area.  Indeed I had heard the legend of a pub on every corner of the stadium, so obviously it was my responsibility, nay, duty to check them all out. 

The atmosphere was building up tremendously; the crowd of red and white shirts was growing by the minute.  I don’t think I had ever seen a group of football fans more relaxed and content. 

I can honestly say that everything about watching the Bees was an absolute pleasure.  True, it was a very good day to see them, but out of the 92 grounds I went to that season I can’t think of a place with a more comfortable atmosphere than today’s at Griffin Park.  The mixture of the edgier earthier football fan with the families, lone football nerds and drunken neutrals (like me and my pal John) was seamless.  

Everything about the club was family friendly, but not in a sanitised 21st Century football club MK-Dons type of way.  There were even 1950s-style rattles going off throughout the match, the noise (perhaps just in my mind) resembling a bee.  More than 10,000 people were in today to see the 11th biggest club in London, a fantastic advertisement for the Football League. 

The game itself was extremely forgettable.  Half-time came and John and I realised that we hadn’t really been watching it; instead soaking up the atmosphere, the songs, and the funny company.  The substitutes were signing autographs and posing for photos when they were warming up.  It was a day for celebration.

The players were showboating, getting around the beleaguered looking Luton back four with some head tennis.  “That’s why we’re champions! That’s why we’re champions!” sang the crowd, right on cue.   People were barely watching the game, but rather waiting for the glory of the final whistle.  There was an almighty cheer however when Brentford took the lead in the 73rd minute through their centre-back Karleigh Osborne. 

The terrace was completely rammed.  We were right next to the base of the floodlight, so we could actually sit on this big concrete base amongst the supporters packed around us and still see the action well.  Full-time was approaching, but there was one last bit of magic when in the 89th minute Adam Newton scored an absolute peach; a curling shot from outside the box.  It was the final nail in the coffin of Luton’s season of misery and Brentford’s season of joy.  

The ref had re-started the game, but as soon as the clock hit the 90th minute the fans began the pitch invasion.

 

It was fantastic! John and I sprinted onto the pitch with the other hundreds and hundreds of Brentford fans.  The feeling was one of slightly naughty childish glee, running around celebrating, but also one of tremendous football ecstasy (despite neither of us actually being Bees fans of course).  “Championeees championeeesss! Ole Ole Ole!”

Eventually a curved archway-shaped champions podium emerged, and as a suited gent from the FA handed over the League Two title to manager Andy Scott, the fireworks went off, and red and white streamers exploded into the air.

All the right boxes were being ticked now.  Shower of confetti? Check.  Players wearing silly red afro wigs? Check.  Champagne poured over the staff’s heads? Check.  Players walking around the pitch with their kids on their shoulders, mingling with the fans? Check.

John began chatting to a player who could have been the star man or could have been a reserve team member, as is our lack of knowledge of the Brentford team.  But it didn’t matter, for during this final pitch invasion, these men were stars. 

As the Luton fans were watching the celebrations come to an end, I caught the eyes of some looking forlorn and desperate at their last sight of the Football League.  The contrast of the two seasons, Brentford’s and Luton’s, show why football is the best sport in the world.  How can two such different emotions be caused by the same game?

With silver streamers in my hair and some stolen Griffin Park grass in my pocket I was in a state of slightly drunken wonder as we exited the ground and went into the fourth and final pub. 

 

On a personal note I had one game left to complete the 92 in one season, up at Bolton, my own club, a week later.  I suppose my car could have broken down on the way to the ground or I could have caught leprosy and been placed under house arrest, but failing either of these happening I was going to complete my challenge. 

So there you go.  I could have chosen the best win for my own team I have seen (Chelsea 1-2 Bolton or England 5-1 Germany), the best actual game I have ever seen (Huddersfield 3-4 Port Vale) or the best team performance I’ve ever seen (Barcelona 5-0 Real Madrid) but no.  My favourite game is the happiest that football has ever made me feel, at a small ground in West London with a pub on every corner. 

My Favourite Match: Port Talbot Town 2-1 Swansea City

Mark Pitman is a Welsh football journalist, regularly contributring to several blogs and publications, including  In bed with Maradona and The Ball is Round, all of which can be found via his own website http://www.markpitman1.com/. 

Continuing our "My Favourite Match" series he details the 2007 FAW Premier  Cup tie between Port Talbot Town and Swansea City. Enjoy.

When people reflect on their favourite moments and matches in football, it is easy to base judgement primarily on the result before considering the full ninety-minutes or more that had taken place. For my favourite match however, the occasion and reflective glory starts nine days before as the scene slowly sets itself for one of the Welsh Premier League’s crowning moments and a match widely regarded as the best ever for South Wales side Port Talbot Town. Sadly the FAW Premier Cup competition is now defunct but there are stirrings within FAW headquarters that the lucrative tournament may soon make a return, if the powers that be need any further justification to bringing back the competition that mixed the best of the domestic top-flight against their Welsh compatriots in the English pyramid system, then they should read on and enjoy one of it’s most romantic tales to date.

Having disposed of league rivals Haverfordwest County and Rhyl in the two previous rounds, Port Talbot Town entered a quarter-final draw that also welcomed in the English pyramid trio of Swansea City, Cardiff City, Wrexham along Welsh Premier League champions The New Saints. The quartet would be away from home in the last four, and the draw handed Port Talbot Town a lucrative South Wales derby against League One side Swansea City. With strong support for the Swans in the South Wales town a bumper crowd was expected for the match that would take place on Tuesday, 9^th January 2007. While realistically thinking only of the bumper attendance and significant prize money that the draw would offer Port Talbot Town, the club also remained quietly confident that Swansea’s FA Cup run and 3^rd round tie at Premier League side Sheffield United the Saturday before would offer them half a chance of claiming a huge upset.

That thought carried more weight in one way and less in another as Swansea City went to Bramall Lane and convincingly took Neil Warnock’s side apart with a 3-0 victory in one of the cup upsets of the season. Alan Hansen and company offered nothing but praise for the performance of Kenny Jackett’s side on Match of the Day that evening and as the highlights rolled, Port Talbot Town began to fear what could happen on Tuesday night. Jackett also offered a sarcastic warning in an post-match interview – “As the dressing room reminded me, the big game is on Tuesday night - we've got Port Talbot away in the Welsh Cup.” The win guaranteed a bumper crowd for Port Talbot Town that Tuesday night, but as queues formed outside the ground, the weather decided that the fixture would not take place.

If there is one thing guaranteed with Port Talbot Town, it is that games will not be called off due to a waterlogged pitch. This night however, possibly the clubs biggest night ever, would prove to be the exception to the rule. With a heavy bed of sand and even heavier investment into the playing surface, the ground boasts incredible drainage, but the visit of Swansea City would prove to be one of the very few occasions when wet weather would dictate matters and the much-anticipated fixture would have to be re-arranged.

As desperately disappointing as it was unavoidable, the match was called off an hour before kick off as torrential rain and a forecast of more to come left both Jackett and Port Talbot Town boss Wayne Davies to concede that the match would have to wait another week. The crowd dispersed and an announcement soon followed that the match would now take place on the following Monday night. One week later the crowds again arrived, milling around the surrounding streets for parking spaces and forming long queues into each turnstile. A change in the weather meant that the fixture was not in doubt and a record crowd of 2,640 prepared to witness FAW Premier Cup history in the making.

Swansea City treated the competition with respect and named a strong squad with a smattering of youth as Jackett rested a handful of his FA Cup heroes but still rewarded the crowd by naming established stars such as goalkeeper Willy Gueret, defender Alan Tate and star striker Lee Trundle in the starting line-up, in addition to some of his League One regulars on the substitutes bench should things not turn out as expected. Port Talbot Town named a number of former Swans in their starting line-up including Matthew Rees, who scored Swansea’s first league goal under Kenny Jackett, leading out his side as captain. As the two sides took to the field, Port Talbot appeared to have already made as much from the match as they could with a record crowd, but there would be a lot more to come.

Under the guidance of manager Wayne Davies, the home side were expectedly organised and cautious as Swansea City enjoyed long periods of possession in their own half. There were chances at both ends, although Port Talbot Town goalkeeper Kristian Rogers, a former Wrexham player and one-time Swansea City target, was the busier of the two. Matthew Rees came close for Port Talbot Town while former Swansea City striker Chad Bond, recently released from the Swans by Jackett, led the front-line alone but could not turn his half-chances into anything more as both sides went into half-time with the game level and goalless. A significant substitution at half-time by Swansea City showed that Wayne Davies was the happier of the two managers as Kenny Jackett brought on £300,000 signing Rory Fallon for young Joe Allen. Jackett appeared keen for the visitors to claim the victory inside ninety minutes with the introduction of the New Zealand International, but the dogged determination and exceptional stamina of Davies’s Welsh Premier League side would again prove frustrating for their high-profile opponents as the second half began.

After 58 minutes however, it seemed that Port Talbot’s battling performance would be in vain as youngster Kyle Graves scored from outside the area with a deflected shot that beat Rogers after playing a one-two with Lee Trundle. The relief was evident across the Swansea City fans, players and bench but the unfancied home side were not about to let their hard work be undone and continued to prove their worth as they pressured their opponents in midfield and substitute Martin Rose, replacing former Swan Bond on the hour mark, came close to scoring an equaliser. A fine save from Gueret followed and it seemed Swansea City would hold onto their lead.

That would all change on 74 minutes. A free-kick from Lee John in the middle of the pitch brought a well-guided header back across goal from influential midfielder Dean Johnston that would ask questions of Gueret and his fumbled attempt to catch the ball offered the challenging duo of Matthew Rees and Richard French the opportunity to score from close range. French was credited with the goal although Rees appeared to make just as much contact as the home faithful at the Burns Road End celebrated their equalising goal. The tide had turned and the match would move into extra-time. Swansea City had substantially strengthened their side with the arrivals of Adebayo Akinfenwa and Tom Butler, a two-goal hero in the win over Sheffield United, but it was Port Talbot Town who looked the fitter of the two sides in extra-time as they enjoyed more possession and even hit the top of the crossbar through midfielder Dane Williams early on in the additional thirty-minutes.

With their main three strikers in Akinfenwa, Fallon and Trundle now occupying the forward positions it was inevitable that Swansea would create chances in extra time, but for every attempt they created on goal, Port Talbot Town seemed to respond by creating two of their own. A strike into the corner of the net from outside the area by Richard French appeared to be heading for the back of the net before Gueret made another fine save, and the match was now just five minutes away from heading to penalties. With undoubted quality in the Swansea City forward line, a shoot-out did not seem the best option for Port Talbot Town, if they were to win they would have to score in open play. They did.

Enter Andrew Mumford. A 111^th minute substitute for Dane Williams, Mumford was a familiar face to the Swansea City crowd as he had been named the clubs Player of the Year just a few seasons before. Released from the club by former manager Brian Flynn, Mumford was now back in his previous surroundings of the Welsh Premier League, but his performances had not even warranted him a starting place for what would be a very personal occasion for the midfielder. Within five minutes of his arrival however, Mumford had moved from squad player to the hero of the hour, as he scored an incredible winning goal against the club that had ended his Football League career.

Defender Craig Hanford is a talented player in his position and regarded for his tackling ability far more than for his creative ball-playing skills. On this night of all nights however, things would be very different, as Hanford picked up the ball outside the area before threading a perfect ball between to Swansea defenders and onto the run of Mumford. With the pass from Hanford matching his long strides into the area, Mumford hit the ball first time and into the same corner that French had seen his shot saved in minutes earlier. Gueret had saved the first effort, but he would not save this one. With four minutes left in extra-time, Port Talbot Town were ahead for the first time in the game.

Desperate defending followed for what seemed an age, but after just over 120 minutes of action referee Steve Hames brought the game to a close and with it signalled emotional celebrations from the players, management and supporters of Port Talbot Town. The side from the Welsh Premier League had beaten the FA Cup heroes of Swansea City. What was important about the victory however was the manner of it. As the game had progressed Port Talbot had become the better side, Port Talbot Town had deserved their victory. As the post-match interviews rolled, Wayne Davies echoed the above – “I think we were just a little bit too good for them”. He was right. There was also a memorable quote in the South Wales Evening Post newspaper the following week, as sports reporter Mark Orders stated in his review of the week - “A good week for Port Talbot Town – Imagine what they would do to Sheffield United.”

The opening line of this reflective blog stated the following – ‘When people reflect on their favourite moments and matches in football, it is easy to base judgement primarily on the result before considering the full ninety-minutes or more that had taken place’. On this occasion the result and performance were indeed matched by so much more, and that is why it was chosen. The drama started with Swansea City defeating Premier League Sheffield United in the FA Cup just a few days before the original fixture, this was then followed by the unheard of postponement due to a waterlogged pitch at Port Talbot Town. Roll forward a week and with a record crowd in attendance, one-time Swansea City Player of the Year Andrew Mumford scores the winning goal against the club that released him, after latching onto a previously unheard of perfect pass from Craig Hanford.

But there was something else, something far more poignant and significant than the story that unfolded on the field, as the match also marked the opening of the ‘Gerald McCreesh Stand’. With a safety certificate granted on the morning of the match, the 750-seater stand would be used for the first time and also filled to capacity for what would subsequently be a fitting occasion. Named in memory of the clubs late Vice-Chairman after his untimely passing, no better script could have been written, planned or played out than the two-hours of football that would mark the opening of the memorial to the outstanding contribution he made to the football club that he loved.

People remember certain games, people remember certain moments from games, others reminisce on football occasions and stories that take place outside of the ninety-minutes. From the build-up the week before to the emotion of the victory and the occasion, to the stories that evolved on the field to the fact that a record crowd were there to witness, the match did indeed have it all. Standing behind the goal and in the same corner as Andrew Mumford’s winning strike, the initial impact of the result over-shadowed the sub-plots and romance that would evolve form the victory, but it is the collective memory of the match and its accompanying stories that single it out from countless others.

If this article has excited you as much as it has us, check out the extended highlights of this fantastic game here.

Visit http://www.markpitman1.com/ for links to all blogs, news stories, features, reports and opinion as the big Welsh football news stories break. You can also follow Mark Pitman at www.facebook.com/1markpitman and www.twitter.com/markpitman1.

My Favourite Match: Southampton 4-3 Norwich

Next on our list of favourite matches, we're truly "keeping it in the family" as Rob Buckett, cousin of Sam, recalls Southampton v Norwich from the 2004-2005 season. It's better than it sounds, honest.


Inevitably seeing this game in the midst of all the other fantastic matches that will be on the blog, this gem will be under estimated. It shouldn't be. This particular season in the Premier League was arguably one of the most enthralling in terms of exciting games. Arsenal beat Everton 7-0 in typical Gunners fashion, also narrowly beating Spurs in the North London derby 5-4 at White Hart Lane. This particular weekend was to an extent somewhat overlooked as the Champion's League semi-final between Liverpool and Chelsea was to be played out the following week. But for fans of Southampton, Norwich, Crystal Palace, West Bromwich Albion and Fulham, only one thing mattered in the next few weeks. Getting points necessary for survival.

At the tender age of nine, I personally had never been more nervous about a football match (barring my first competitive game, a 10-1 loss to Faringdon U'10s). Neither had my Dad. The Saints had struggled all season only winning five games, compared to Norwich’s six. For the first time in my life, I was concerned for the fate of my beloved club. The amount of times my Dad and I shared words, even eye contact, were very few. Nerves seeping through, just like it does for any football fan in this situation.

Home games at St. Marys had been limited in excitement for us that season. Loosing against Mourinho’s frustratingly brilliant Chelsea, drawing to Palace, City and Arsenal brought little excitement, with the exception of David Prutton pushing over Alan Wiley in an act which can only be described as ‘Di Canioesque.’  However, seeing such players as Didier Drogba and Robin Van Persie was a treat compared to what we had been used too: Paul Telfer and Jason Dodd didn’t really compare but the mighty Saints had a decent little team, or so I thought. Kevin Phillips, Jamie Redknapp and most of all Peter Crouch. So against a Norwich team that were as poor, if not poorer than us, we expected a cracking game. And what a cracker it was.

The game started at a high tempo with Norwich taking the lead after three minutes through the on-loan David Bentley, moments later Saints hard man Matt Oakley equalised.

After a shaky start, the following fifteen minutes portrayed the Southampton fans faith in their team, chanting ringing around St. Marys. On the twentieth minute their support was duly rewarded when some good interplay between Kevin Phillips and Jamie Redknapp allowed Peter Crouch the opprtunity to volley home.  The support from the home crowd was visibly encouraging the Saints players to take control of the game, only for them to throw the lead away once again; Norwich playboy Darren Huckerby forcing Danny Higginbotham to put the ball into the back of his own net. Thirty-one minutes played, four goals scored, let's just all calm down. Veteran Graeme Le Saux disagreed with my sentiment minutes later, rifling an unstoppable volley into the roof off the Canaries net past Rob Green, I didn't take it personally. Pleased to have regained the lead, Saints fans headed in for their nerve replenishing pint, only for Leon McKenzie to draw his side level once again via a Dean Ashton cross. Three-three at half-time.

For the first time in my spectating career, my half-time tea and Kit-Kat, were unenjoyable ones. What was to follow could likely define Southampton’s fate in the Premier League and as the teams arrived for the second forty-five, I was more nervous than I'd been before kick off.

Moments back in to the game and tensions grew furthermore on the South coast as Antti Niemi pulled off two world class saves from the efforts of Dean Ashton and Simon Charlton. Groans rang round St. Marys as Henri Camara replaced Graeme Le Saux. A change of shape wasn't the issue; a poor season from the Senegalese striker had left fans acclaiming him with the pace of a cheetah, but the skill of a donkey.  Opportunities came and went for both sides, with neither willing to over commit. However, as the game drew to a close, just as nails were getting to an unbearable level on the finger, the aforementioned Camara rifled in a twenty-five yard strike that whistled into the bottom corner, sending his side four-three up with minutes left to play. Old 'Arry had pulled it out of the bag, and as Southampton saw the game out, the Mule had won it.

If a tear didn’t fall from the long suffering eyes of a Southampton fan on that day, they should be ashamed.

Since that very day, I’ve never been to a more exciting football match, which is probably understandable as I have seen Southampton through to now League One football. To be perfectly honest I wouldn’t have it any other way providing three quarters of the attendance at the Johnstone’s Paint trophy in which we won four-one makes me proud to be a Saint.

Perhaps also worth a mention would be the surprising two-nil win against Blackpool as recently as January this year, in which Ian Holloway labelled the Southampton fans for vocally questioning his club’s Premier League credentials. We may well see who is “having a laugh laughing” at the end of this season, when both clubs could once again face each other in the Championship.

I can concede the fact that the result didn’t provide a trophy, nor a penalty shootout and neither a place in the prestigious history books, but in the circumstances it left my Dad and I in ecstasy. For the first time we believed, believed that we would hold Premier league status for at least one more year.

Why do I dislike Barca so?



Last summer, two major transfers were played out like soap operas within the throngs of mass media. David Villa (signed) and Cesc Fabregas (who didn't) both pledged themselves to Barcelona, leaving Valencia and Arsenal looking like a man whose girlfriend had just been pinched by an entirely charming, beret-wearing poser, who also managed to do a really good job of assuring them they should be entirely flattered by all the attention. Barcelona are experts at this. The most widely fawned-over of all clubs, theirs is a velvet-gloved type of imperialism. It is time someone took a stand against all this, and showed the world what Barcelona really are: the world's most annoying club.

Mainly, it's to do with their swooning self-entitlement; not so much the idea, but the manner in which they paint themselves as 'mes que un club'. The fact is, all football teams are 'more than a club'. Oxford United do some cracking work in the community.

Even more annoying is Barcelona's unshakable conviction that they are intrinsically better. Never mind the fact that they are such tyrants in Spanish football that they negotiate their own television deals. They've even now neglected their one redeeming feature, and gone from Mother Theresa to Bono with the signing of a $400 million sponsorship deal with the nation of Qatar. No other football club anywhere insists with such needy, weepy fervour that you love it. This is an intense batting of eyelashes and I refuse to swoon.

Then there is Barcelona's cultural imperialism. This a more subtle form of home invasion, than say, a shirt-flogging friendly in the Far East. Instead, Barca style themselves as an elite product: the kind of brand-obsessed people who feel they are above buying brands. Barcelona are an iPad team, a Bang & Olufsen team; something undeniably good, but yet somehow tarnished by the accumulation of universal approval. With this in mind, it's easy to be annoyed by manager, Pep Guardiola. He's clearly bright, probably very nice, but he spoils this by looking like a smug advertising-type; the sort of person who owns a vintage, stylishly chipped wall-length mirror.

Above all, I dislike their tippy-tappy, non-contact style of play; deemed, like Barcelona themselves, as intrinsically 'good'. The popularity of this style owes a lot to the fact that it looks good on TV: a televisual style, suited to the armchair fan. It is so obviously and demonstrably high end. Ohh look - a backheel. This is good football, even if you know nothing about football. Accessibly high-spec, like a bottle £50 Sauvignon Blanc. Of course, it's nice to watch, but that doesn't mean it's 'better'.

Those who know me will see this as a complete contradiction; for when Arsenal take to the pitch, I always see myself drawn to them. "It's beautiful to watch", I'd say; "there's nothing like them in the Premier League". But really, it's the fact they've won nothing playing that type of football that draws me in. There's nothing more satisfying than seeing something beautiful smashed in to a thousand pieces.

And perhaps that's the point: Barcelona have won trophies. Barcelona are brilliant. And Barcelona know it.


Motty