Time to find out if Gareth Bale has the cojones for La Liga.
And what a game it proved. A famous stadium. A famous scoreline – same as the incredible 1960 European Cup Final – harking back to days of Di Stefano and Puskas. The sense of history celebrated and history in the making was immense.
Continue reading On the Bale trail – Real Madrid 7 Sevilla 3
Lewes is weird. They’ve been blowing up the Pope here for centuries at Britain’s best free show, the attractively lawless Lewes Bonfire night celebrations.
The football club is a strange cove too. And has been reflecting its slightly arty-farty status with some great match posters.
Is it crisis over now? And finally there’s been an outbreak of trust and hugs and kisses all round? Did the FA say to Chris Coleman in the communal showers after: “We were always going to keep you, Cookie – this was a test.”
I hope so. And I think it’s the least he deserves. We can all move on then. To new Welsh football fiascos and debacles. Or maybe with the world’s most expensive footballer in our ranks and Britain’s best player (Ramsey) we can finally achieve something concrete.
The only highlight so far of the Welsh international football season came in the 80th minute of this match.
Time was, when the surreal stuff, the weird and wonderfully wacky ways of Welsh fans were the defining characteristic of a trip and indeed, the sole reason for going. Away games were the closest we might get to a journey to Mars or being in a rock band.
I can remember the concierge of Baku’s Hotel Grot, as it should have been called, asking me: “Why your friends throw TV from 16th floor window?” He wouldn’t have understood the answer: “Because they’re from Bala.”
Continue reading Monty Python and the Holy Bale – Macedonia 2 Wales 1
Time to see if all this ‘Swansealona’ stuff is all West Walian huff and puff.
The vile old Vetch had virtually no redeeming features except that, looking back, you sensed how watching football might have been in the 1930s. At one Cardiff-Swansea game the atmosphere was largely down to the howling of police Alsatians.
Liberty – the replacement – is pretty much the plainest new arena of all. A great achievement, no doubt, but Dullsville bog standard. The stadium cladding has school uniform greyness about it. The interior seating is black and white – reflecting the Swans’ kit obviously. It’s one of the few grounds where the advertisements are a bonus – they hide large swathes of the slabby grey concrete.
It’s almost as if the architects walked up the long, snaking High Street and took inspiration from its terraced grit, not-very-enticing pub exteriors and fast food outlet frontages and decided to put up something of similar tone. They’d taken Dylan Thomas’s ‘lovely, ugly town’ description on board.
Malmo seemed to join in the general dowdiness with a horrible black kit – like 11 refs from the Eighties had set up a side. Mr Wallander would have approved of it.
Even the Swans’ one dash at colour – a purple and yellow second strip reminiscent of an obscure East European team trying to look snazzy for effect – seemed to be striving too hard to impress. That too, is awful.
But then all the glitter’s in the team. You read about Michu, watch his best bits on the telly but in the flesh he really is just as good as people say and it’s surprising to see that he’s still at Swansea this season.
With him and Craig Bellamy at Cardiff there’s probably never been two players of such standard playing regularly in Wales since the era of Ivor Allchurch.
He scored the first with aplomb after a defender slipped, and then hurtled towards a centre half to win the ball from the restart, setting up another attack. He’s got a Rush and Rooney-esque ability – rare these days among attackers – to win the ball for his team. I counted three lost causes won by his tenacity. His touch was excellent and even if you allow for Malmo’s inadequacies, he was worth the admission money on his own.
He set up Wilfried Bony’s second goal by hitting the post so Bony could poach the rebound.
Bony, the boy from Bingerville, Ivory Coast, seemed a bit hesitant but having two goals laid on a plate for him will help him settle. His goals – he scored loads for Vitesse Arnhem last year – and Michu’s magic should see Swansea easily survive in the Premiership.
Malmo disintegrated and by the end looked like a middle-of-the-road plucky Championship side, Barnsley, say.
The fans roused themselves to create a good atmosphere. The Wales games here have been poor in terms of backing and the only fevered atmosphere I recall was the Cardiff-Swansea cup game in 2008 when locals were literally foaming at the mouth at their victory.
In all, an enjoyable performance. Back in 1989 Panathinaikos played at the Vetch, I remember an excellent 3-3 draw in front of about 6,000 fans with the Swans scoring through Robbie James and Andy Melville, twice. Memorable for a first sighting of flares at a match – Greek fans lit them up in the big expensive white elephant stand and the smoke drifted across the pitch. It was a taste of European adventures to come, following Wales.
This was nowhere near as exciting but a couple more vibrant nights are on the cards if Swans can negotiate the play-off round later this month.
There won’t be many that get to see domestic football in North Korea in their lifetimes, but luckily guest writer Tim Hartley went to a match in Pyongyang under the shadow of the bomb, and shares his fascinating experience…
Pyongyang 2 v 1Amrokgang (14.04.2013)
You’ll not hear Jeff Stelling saying, “There’ll be dancing on the streets of Pyongyang tonight,” anytime soon. Or anyone else for that matter. Because the North Koreans take their footie as seriously as their politics. And that is very seriously. But this was the country’s match of the day – Pyongyang, from the capital, versus Amrokgang, the crack army outfit.
The game was a sell-out though you’d never guess it. As we entered the 50,000 seater Kim Il-Sung Stadium below the watchful eye of the Eternal President and Great Leader, not forgetting his son Kim Jong-Il, there was no-one to be seen. There were no queues, no turnstiles…
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Not fair. Not fair. Not fair. The Conference is host to football’s most fiendish final – a brutal bastard of a contest.
No dancing snowflakes this time. Although it did hit -2C. It was time to make footballing history – the first sighting of Partick Thistle headgear at the Olimpiskyii.
Staring up into the sky at Hampden was to be mesmerised by nature.
Dancing, darting, dazzling snow swirled in the floodlights like a billion fireflies.
It cavorted up, down and sideways before descending slowly and settling gently, apologetically, on your clothes or face. No cheek-chafing sting from this ‘blizzard’ – the flake caressed your skin, it felt like your mum dabbing dirt from your face with a wet hanky.
You’d think these would have been the worst conditions to watch a game in and, had we lost, maybe you’d be right.
But the snow, the difficulties it caused and the sheer thrill of Hampden meant it was like no other Welsh win I’ve witnessed on the road.
Hampden Park. For me, the most glorious mecca of football in Britain. Yes, even better than Kenilworth Road. Always wanted to go. The lore of the famous roar. Di Stefano. Real Madrid. 7-3. Jimmy Johnstone. Haggis and ‘chupps’ £3.80 in the chippie next to the ground.
Weather-wise, the closest rival to this match was the Bulgarian blizzard in 1995 when the Sofia pitch was cleared, 65,000 crammed in, teenagers were mainlining heroin in the bar next to the ground – here it was Irn Bru that was being ingested – and Ryan Giggs was pelted with an avalanche of snowballs every time he took a corner, sparking police charges into the locals to disperse the culprits. We lost 3-1.
Standing in our end, we shifted constantly, like a horde of penguins nursing their eggs, to keep warm.
The game was nearly thrown away in the first 25 minutes and nervy Scots did everything bar score an own goal to make it easy for us. Rarely have Wales looked classy. But that was the appropriate word.
Then of course Hanley’s opener looked like it would turn Scotland round and the obvious gulf in class appeared to be temporary by half-time.
We took refuge from the fast-melt flakes on the concourse above the seats.
Half-time ‘entertainment’ was provided as a leading Keep Cardiff Blue campaigner was accosted by a Redbirds supporter.
Repeatedly pushing the victim (a friend of mine) he kept up a goading cascade of vicious bile, trying to provoke a fight. “You anti-Cardiff English cunt,” he snarled, wholly inaccurately, in his face from two inches, before my pal headed back for his seat. No punches thrown but a rare sour note.
Cardiff idiots have occasionally targeted other Welsh club’s fans at Wales games. This took the biscuit.
It didn’t get any better. Bale was off, though he hadn’t been brilliant. The Tartan terrors next to us roared their delight.
And unlikely heroes sprang from the sleet to join the roll call of honour. Our own heroes of Hampden.
Gunter and Robson-Kanu can’t be classed in the same galaxy as Di Stefano but both had marvellous games – Gunter back to his best of three/four years ago with a sporrantastic surge and cross to win the game-changing penalty.
RK got the winner in style after Jonny Williams (isn’t ‘Joniesta’ the worst nickname ever in Welsh football?) and Andy King (presumably known as ‘Kingy’, which wouldn’t be far off Williams’s ranking).
All over and time time to reflect. Glasgow, one of the great football cities of the world. The sport enhances the city and the sectarian rivalry poisons it.
Great players adorn its history.
I can remember Gordon Strachan in his pomp – a one-man riot of small-man chippiness. He was in the same squad as David Speedie, whose visible agitation made him stand out every time he played. Only gabbling Gascoigne ever matched him for watchability. It was like there were more molecules, including ones that have yet to be discovered, inside Speedie fighting each other to get out and express themselves.
Souness, well let’s go there briefly – no one in the world has matched his ogre-like presence since Roy Keane retired. A man who would happily look the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse in the eye before setting about them with extravagant, moustachioed glee.
And now the Scots are rock bottom. They must be, because they’ve been badly beaten by us – Wales, for God’s sake – four times in the last ten years. You have to laugh.
This week the Kelvingrove ARt Gallery opens a six-month exhibition “More than a Game – How Scotland shaped world football.’ Shame it didn’t start a week earlier as I’d love to have seen it.
It’s almost a recognition that there’s not much else to offer. You have to cry.
Strachan afterwards did a good line in gallows humour. To paraphrase one of the papers I read: “I slept three hours. I didn’t say anything to Snodgrass. He couldn’t have felt worse than he already looked. I should have invited him into my room – we could have just sat there for hours, saying nothing.”
At the end I feared some locals might be a bit miffed after the game. They looked a bit cranky.
But they trooped out dejectedly. Not angrily so, as though they had expected to be dejected and came well prepared for a bitter setback. It was a bit like us after a lot of Wales games. No one bitched or sought excuses. All, like Strachan and Snodgrass, saying nothing. As silent and benign as the snow.
Fortunately there was to be no Glasgow Kiss, just Glasgow bliss.
At last, nearly 30 years after leaving the place, time to finally watch a match at Aberystwyth Town FC.
Previously the football club was the scene of student discos and the chief memory was of Simple Minds‘ Lovesong always blaring out at some point in the night.
This match never met those heights and was not a wonderful spectacle for the 300 or so who turned up.
But, as in the eighties, there were plenty of off-pitch highlights. The clubhouse is a treasure trove of pictures and heartfelt love for a club.
Was a bit surprised there were no photos or reports of games played by Chelsea up here in the eighties. They were regular visitors I seem to remember.
But that was more than made up for by the John Charles lounge, which is, in effect, a part of the clubhouse adorned with terrific pictures of the legend in action, without quite clarifying why they were there. Presumably Charles DID play at some point for Aber on his travels. And even if he didn’t, so what, he deserves this sort of tribute.
Welsh Premier League is a huge contrast now with the English. Just before kick-off an Aber urchin on the terrace quizzed one of the players: “What number are you?”
“16,” he replied.
“Are you any good?”
Well he came on as sub later but by then the cause was lost.
A comedy own goal gave Aber the lead, Bala’s keeper saving well only for Tony Davies to unwittingly knock the rebound over his own line, for an unlikely lead.
Bala bounced back with Davies netting an overhead kick as the keeper was unable to fist away a superb corner.
Second-half saw Bala seal the win with goals from Hunt and Brown. 3-1 was about right on the right and a miserable evening was compounded for Aber when Matty Collins went off with a broken shoulder.
Incidental highlights included seeing a Welsh international on the field – Mark Jones for Bala. The sight of ex-Hereford Kenny Lunt, for the visitors, was also a surpise. For Aber it was good see the famous Welsh surname Cadwallader in the team line-up. And a stirringly named Glyndwr Hughes in the home team line-up.
Everton the carrot, the FA Cup‘s favourite team, Hereford, were back in action.
Cheeky Cheltenham chanted at their visitors: “You’re Welsh and you know you are.” So that was recommendation enough for this fan who decided to quietly follow the Bulls from the Cheltenham terrace.
In fact, they barely chanted anything else all night – the most genteel fans I have ever witnessed in the Football League. Nary a sour word all night. Just quiet frustration at being largely outplayed by the big beasts from up the road who are surprisingly a division lower down the leagues.
Programme was a bit thin but had a decent feature on Clive Walker, ex-Chelsea, the first player to score 100 league goals and 100 non-league goals, many for Cheltenham. Now working for radio in London.
Interesting to note that Hereford’s Bowman had aged 20 years since his appearance last month against Shrewsbury. 39 according to the programme, which also showed that the core support here is about 2,500. Tonight there were nearer 6,000.
The first half started with a bang and provided Cheltenham’s most impressive football. Minxy McGlashan darted down the right and his powerful cross was backheeled in by Shaun Harrad. Gloriously cheeky.
Hereford bounced back three minutes later with the equaliser from Joshua O’Keeffe and should have taken the lead not long after with a brilliant move that produced a good save from Brown.
At half-time, 1-1 looked like it would be the appetiser for a second-half goal feast but Martin Foyle had other ideas. Dull ideas.
After the break, Hereford just contented themselves with sitting back and trying to hit on the break. Sensible enough given a replay will help them financially next week. But Cheltenham never looked much of a threat and McGlashan – such a worry in the first 45 minutes – came off well before the end.
In fact it seemed the host players didn’t really want the responsibility of trying to create a chance and a replay was the least Hereford deserved
So David Moyes, Leighton Baines, Phil Neville, wotsisname Fellatio et al will have to wait a bit longer to find out who they will face in the third round.
But I fancy the Bulls to win it.
Miles from Nowhere 