Where have all the centre backs gone? England at the 2014 World Cup

There has been a lot of talk of British values recently, and the wide-ranging debate shows that it is largely a matter of opinion what is a British value and what is not.
That said, there is one British value which is beyond question: that of big centre-halves heading footballs and generally acting with a courage which happily boils over into full-blown craziness. When faced with someone smaller and more skillful, the English way is to use our brains not to out-think our opponent, but as an all-purpose blocking device.

We have always been knee-deep in this kind of unsubtle, fairly terrifying type of footballer: in my memory, this long line of lunatics begins with Terry Butcher and carries on through Tony Adams, Martin Keown, Steve Bruce, Sol Campbell, Jamie Carragher and John Terry, with the addition of two centre halves who could also, astonishingly, play football – Rio Ferdinand and Ledley King.

Lunatic: Terry Butcher displaying British values
Lunatic: Terry Butcher displaying British values

It’s worth noting that Steve Bruce, despite being a mainstay of Manchester United’s defence when they first started winning everything, never played for England. We simply had too many big, thuggish lads to get their heads on things, and so he was not required. Similarly, Jamie Carragher, who played 500+ times for Liverpool and won the Champions League, retired from the international game because he couldn’t get in the team.

Centre halves have always been the foundation of English football. In 1990, when we got to the semi-finals, Bobby Robson, in his wisdom, picked three centre-backs – Des Walker, Terry Butcher and Mark Wright – and another centre-back, Paul Parker, at right-back.

Let’s remember that at the group stage, England conceded one goal in three games, with clean sheets against the Dutch and Egypt. In total, we conceded four goals in six games – the same number of goals conceded in two matches at the 2014 World Cup.

Getting in the way - Sol Campbell
Getting in the way – Sol Campbell

In 2002 and 2006, Sol Campbell was named in the World XI at the end of the tournament, the only Englishman to gain that honour. What did he do to gain the world’s admiration? What England have always been better than anyone: getting in the way of shots, heading away crosses and, occasionally heading goals from set-pieces.

Which is why it is so sad to see Rio Ferdinand – one of the greatest English footballers – sitting in the BBC studio last night having to explain where it went wrong against Uruguay.

His analysis, to paraphrase, was this: Johnson, Jagielka, Cahill and Baines were not good enough. For the first goal, someone should have blocked the cross, and if it got into the box, someone should have headed it away. For the second goal, a defender should have headed the ball away, and if not, been in a position to block the shot.

That’s what Englishmen have been doing for decades. That’s what Jack Charlton did in ’66, what Butcher did in ’90, and what Adams did in ’96 (three goals conceded in five matches). The fact that our only properly good defender, John Terry, is currently heading beach balls rather than playing for England is perhaps the main reason for our utter defensive ineptitude at this World Cup.

While it is all very well wanting our national team to play more expansively the focus must be having a squad packed with robust centre-halves who will do anything to block shots and crosses.

Those are the values we must remember, before we try to do anything so frivolous as trying to score goals. So, if Mr Gove wants to become a populist figure, perhaps he should, after children have had double-Dickens in the morning, insist they have heading practice in the afternoon, so we can ensure that no England team will be so sadly weak at the back again.

The last of a noble lineage: John Terry heading a football
The last of a noble lineage: John Terry heading a football

Extremism? Or British values in practice?

I’m coming a bit late to this issue of extremism in English schools, so forgive me if I’ve not grasped the whole situation.

It appears that a few people, who originally come from former colonies, have come to Britain and then asserted themselves in positions of power, namely on the governing bodies of schools in Birmingham. Once they had gained power they began to dictate a quite different leadership style than those schools had been used to.

Apparently, this has turned into something of a furore, and certain people are saying that these extremists are not displaying good British values.

Well, to that, my grandmother, who was British herself and lived in Yorkshire all her life, would say: “Give over, lad!”

If going to a country, getting into positions of power and then telling the locals how things are done aren’t traditional British values then this isn’t the country I know and love.

Perhaps instead of knocking these people, we should applaud them for echoing our own highly effective policies which, lest we forget, built our empire and made Britain great.

Feast

Richard Purnell's avatarAVERAGE FOOD BLOG

feast (1)

I was at the Barbican recently, watching some high-end jazz piano, which was so-so if truth be told, and in the interval I was looking for a livener

and you know, because you are in a major arts venue, they have one of those glass-fronted freezer cabinets full of little pots of ice-cream, with flavours which dress the thing up, such as Madagascan Vanilla and Dulce de Leche, giving you the feeling that if you weren’t out of your depth with the extended jazz improv shit going on in the hall, you certainly would be with the ice cream, retailing at a modest £3.45.

After a moment of reflection, I concluded: fuck all of that. When there’s only a 95p difference between your miniature pot of ice cream and a bottle of overpriced bevy, the ice cream is not getting my vote.

This preamble is by way of outlining how…

View original post 406 more words

A trip to the shops…notes from Yerevan, pt. 2

You know those people who take acid, the ones who take acid and can’t stop talking about how they took acid and had the most transcendental experience, and saw the world with new eyes, and everything that was drab and boring was now magical, and you say, magical how, and they say, well, I was sat in my room, listening to flute music, staring at my shoe, and you say, that shoe, and they say, yes, that shoe, I looked at that shoe for eight hours, just looking at it, the eyelets and the stitching and the leather upper, and I saw that even this shoe, where did you get it, you say, and they say, it doesn’t matter where I got it, and you say, okay, even though you think it does matter, and they say, if you must know, these are Clarks, and you say, I thought they were Clarks, I’ve always thought Clarks shoes could change your life like that, and they say, you’re not taking this seriously, are you, and you say, no, you’re not, and then they tell you to fuck off and that’s one less boring cunt in your life

well, the point is, those people, the boring LSD people, have a point. When I’m on holiday, I do as little as possible, and am fascinated by everything. This is how I enjoy myself. On my first day in Armenia, I went to the shops and bought some bread and cheese, and other bits and bobs like that. And it was the most interesting thing I did all day. It was also the only thing I did all day.

I was somewhat nervous going in there, despite it being quite a westernised supermarket, because I can’t speak Armenian, and they have their own alphabet, (some wise chap dreamt it up in the fifth century), so I was hobbled when it came to knowing what is what. Moreover, I haven’t got the shopping stature of one of those old women who can walk into any shop anywhere in the world and start feeling the produce to see what is fresh and haggle mercilessly with the shopkeeper until they end up paying below wholesale price for their vegetables, and the shopkeeper thanks them for it. I’m not like that. When shopping, I’m timid, yet curious.

Despite these reservations, I got my trolley and trundled into the shop. First section, vegetables. Which, being a vegetarian, is my domain. (Like the Americans so endearingly say: “I GOT THIS!”) I picked up tomatoes, onions and carrots, which a shopping assistant weighed and put into bags for me.

Next, I went down an aisle which could be described as: tins/jars. I found myself staring at tins of kidney beans, wondering if I needed kidney beans (does anyone ever need kidney beans), and if 720 dram was a reasonable price for them, when another shopping assistant appeared and asked in Armenian, then Russian, then English, if she could help.

First of all, coming from London where you can go to the supermarket, fill a basket and pay for everything without speaking to a soul, I was astonished to be asked. Getting to the question, however, the truth was, I am beyond help. What person gets transfixed by cans of kidney beans and stares at them for several minutes wondering if they want them or not? What kind of help could she provide? A week in a sanatorium, perhaps? Thinking the truth somewhat beyond the language barrier, I politely declined and shuffled off

to the dairy section, where another jovial shopping assistant was handing out free samples of President butter. Which is just the kind of free sample the right-thinking supermarket shopper wants to have. As an endorsement of the promotion, I plonked a block of the good stuff into my basket, which, in an Armenian supermarket dairy aisle kind of way, made me quite the Billy Big Bollocks.

Then there was the 33.3% of the supermarket devoted to pig. On my flight from Moscow, I had noted several men with extremely generous waistlines and wondered how they had acquired such impressive physiques. Here was the answer. Sausages, bacon and hams ran across several counters, all attended by larger shopping assistants than were found on the aisles, as if to suggest: “if you buy this, you could end up looking like this!”

After buying bread and picking up a selection of the local ales, I went to the till to pay, where a woman took my money, and a man packed my bags and wanted to carry them to my car, until I explained I didn’t have one. So, despite my complete lack of Armenian, I had a supermarket shopping experience which is not possible in England, due to improvements. And with those cultural differences to reflect upon, I took the rest of the day off.

Meeting the neighbours…notes from Yerevan pt. 1

Tpagrichneri, str., Yerevan, Armenia

I am woken by the door bell being rung repeatedly, the same bell I had ignored on my first morning in Yerevan. Today, I scramble into t-shirt and trousers and answer the door, to find a small, severe, grey-haired woman, all handbags and narrow eyes, stood there. She speaks in tones equal to her appearance, first in Armenian, then in Russian, at which point I declare that I am English and, consequently, haven’t a clue.

She takes my lack of understanding as a ploy, and not a very good ploy, and we are both talking across each other, she jabbing her finger at me, me lifting my shoulders and showing the palms of my hands, Larry David-style, when an elderly gentleman appears from across the hall and asks, in English, if I am English.

“Yes,” I confirm.

He gives a wave of the hand, as if to say, leave all this to me, and picks up the thread with the old lady. After a few moments he reveals that she is a tax collector, which doesn’t surprise me in the slightest. If ever there was a woman who was purpose-built for scaring people into handing over their hard-earned, this was the woman. I give her a phone number, and she retreats down the stairs, displeased but, temporarily, defanged.

I turn to the old man, suntanned, baldheaded, charming, and after exchanging names and handshakes, he says, “I am leaving Armenia…I have a brother in California…the Russians, they are coming…I remember the Soviet days, not good…they want to build another empire, they are too strong…we cannot stop them.” I agree in a noncommittal way (just in case there are any Russians lurking on the stairwell, taking notes), before we return to our respective flats.

***

Later that day, the doorbell rings again, and once again I am woken by it, despite it being early afternoon. (I’d had a late breakfast, and subsequently gone to bed to read, and – would you credit it, I mean would you?? – dozed off.)

It is the suave old man from across the hall. He invites himself in and sits down delicately on the sofa.

“You are tired, maybe?” he asks, and I deny it, although I can feel that my face is red and blotchy from sleep. I sit up, cross-legged on a chair and look attentively at him, in his old man summertime clobber of polo shirt, khaki trousers and tennis shoes.

“Perhaps you would like some work…smuggling?” he says to me, enquiringly. “My friend has an Iranian passport and it is very easy.”

I look at him as if he is a character in a Graham Greene novel, which, given his vintage, isn’t impossible.

“I am on holiday,” I say, which he ignores.

He proceeds to talk in a casual, elegant, if mildly intimidating fashion about The Russians, Iran, the Twin Towers, The Russians again, Edward Snowden and British spies of yesteryear, the Taliban, a forthcoming terrorist attack in London, which will happen, very soon, The Russians yet again, before waving his hand and summarising with, “these things, they are connected.”

I wonder if I should ask some questions about the type of smuggling he had in mind, and what the pay might be, but think better of it as it might encourage him, or, worse, make me laugh. Either way, I keep quiet.

Eventually, he asks, “Why are you in Yerevan?”

“I am on holiday,” I say again. “I might go to the museums and galleries.”

“Museumgallery, yes you might go,” he says, dismissing this as implausible. “And what is it you do?”

“I work in PR.”

“Public relations?” He muses upon this for a while. “Well, if you want to earn some money, you know where I am.”

And with that, the elderly gentleman rises, shakes my hand, and leaves the flat.

Yerevan's lovely central square. My flat, me and my neighbour are just off to the right somewhere.
Yerevan’s lovely central square. My flat, me and my neighbour are just off to the right somewhere.

Yes, really, a poem about daffodils in the spring-time

Daffodil-flowers-30709818-1600-1200

Yellow daffodil, how uninspired you are
year in, year out
it’s always the same with you, isn’t it?
Always the same gaudy yellow
a colour once bright and joyful
made drab by its predictability

One would think, wouldn’t one
that one could shake things up a bit
a bit of black piping
a few white spots, perhaps
but no
new season is always old season with you

People might say, ‘So nice to see the daffs back again!
I might write a poem about them!’
They would be lying, yellow daffodil
they would be humouring you, with English politeness.
Behind your back they are saying terrible things
terrible, nasty things
comparing you unfavourably to the geranium
lower even than nettles, with their supposed life-giving properties

What do you give, yellow daffodil?
What do you give, apart from a gentle reminder of springtime past
a splash of colour where previously there was none
a glint of sun-like warmth, hinting at the summer to come?

In fact, yellow daffodil, forget we had this conversation.
Carry on, as you always have done.
On your way out, could you leave the door open,
and send the chrysanthemum in?
I need a few choice words with him.

Solutions to the flood crisis: an open letter to the Daily Telegraph

 

Middle-class people flooded: who is to blame?
Middle-class people flooded: who is to blame?

Dear Sir,

While it is right for leading thinkers within the Government, such as Eric Pickles, to call on Lord Smith, the chairman of the Environment Agency, to resign, rightly blaming him for his role in the flooding of homes built on a flood plain, it is clear that Smith is not solely to blame. Yes, he is responsible for spending the money the Government hasn’t given him for the dredging of rivers and maintaining flood defences.

However, while it is inarguable that Smith must go, is there not a greater culprit? We are thinking, in particular, of the gentleman directly responsible for the rain, the wind and the waves. And that responsibility, as we all know. lies solely and squarely with God.

God, in his infinite wisdom, has decided to deliver incessant rain, not on Labour voters in Scotland, the North and the Welsh valleys, but on Middle England, where the decent, hard-working, Tory-voting rich people live!!!

Let us be fair. God isn’t getting any younger, and we should all respect our elders. But when He utterly fails to discriminate between the dole-blagging Scottish and the Southern English, serious decisions must be taken.

Therefore, we modestly and meekly propose that God, while having done much good, in particularly in His creation of England, public schools and the game of cricket, should be allowed to step aside and make way for someone with new ideas, someone who knows right from wrong, right from left, and rain from shine.

That new man, we feel, should be a woman. And that woman is Mrs Thatcher. At first glance, Mrs Thatcher might be a controversial choice. For one, she is widely believed to be dead. But those rumours are wide of the mark. Yes, her earthly body has slowed down over recent years, but her spirit very much lives on.

We, the Southern Anglican Thatcher-Inspired Seekers of Freedom from Immigrants and Environmental Distress (SATISFIED) passionately believe Mrs Thatcher is the right person to get our weather systems in order so that rain pours unremittingly on the northern mining towns, and on southern England only during the latter stages of Test matches when the English cricket team is trying to stave off defeat against one of the colonies. This will ensure that this country gets back in order so that we can carry on accumulating wealth, eating roast beef and bulk-buying Barbour jackets.

Sincerely yours,

SATISFIED (Datchet branch)

All good Beatles

1-2-3-4-5-6-7
All good Beatles go to heaven
I don’t think so
I don’t think so

You think God’s gonna put up with all that hippy dippy shit?
He’s got Biggie and Tupac loungin’ in his crib
Freestyling

He’s got Jimi Hendrix blazing his guitar
And up in heaven Lou Reed’s top of the charts
I think so
Yes, I think so

I’m telling you George
I’m telling you John Lennon
Can very well imagine
That there is no heaven
Cos they’re burning
Yes, they’re burning

You think God’s gonna put up with Love Me Do
He’s got Janis and Amy singing the blues
And Ol’ Dirty

And you know that God don’t wanna be mean
But Ringo you know where you’re going with your Yellow Submarine

And as for Paul
Well, Paul, you’re an intelligent man
Or maybe not
In which case, repeat after me

1-2-3-4-5-6-7
All good Beatles go to heaven
I don’t think so
I don’t think so

John and George, just out of shot
John and George, just out of shot

 

God approved rappers: Biggie and Tupac
God approved rappers: Biggie and Tupac
Imagine there's no heaven: John Lennon
Imagine there’s no heaven: John Lennon

 

Hovis Wholemeal Granary. A poetic assessment

A poem of mine about a particularly weighty issue… Hovis Wholemeal Granary bread

Richard Purnell's avatarAVERAGE FOOD BLOG


Hovis went in.
Rightly chastised that their Best of Both wasn’t anything of the sort
they have come back.
Hard.

Hovis Wholemeal Granary is so heavy
your bowels start preparing a rock solid shit while you’re still buttering.
They should have just called it Pandemic, and had done with it.

This bread is some archaic, backdated, prison tattoo on the face-type shit
with no rightful place in this wifi coffee shop world in which we live.
This is bread to threaten your kid with
bread targeted at men who lift Atlas stones and pull locomotives

This bread is the opposite of Drake
equivalent to your Bavarian grandmother’s Christmas cake
whatever density this bread is,
it’s the only loaf you could tie to a dead body and send to the bottom of a lake

This bread is like looking at monumental brutalist architecture and saying you don’t like it.
Think it…

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Morrissey autobiography: that joke is, now, actually rather funny

I can smile about it now...
I can smile about it now…

Miles Davis is at a dinner hosted by US President Ronald Reagan. He is sat next to a politician’s wife, who says to him:

“What have you done that is so important in your life? Why are you here?”

Miles, in his Autobiography, says:

Now, I just hate shit like this coming from someone who is ignorant but who wants to be hip and has forced you into a situation where you’re talking to them in this manner. She brought this on herself. So then I said, “Well I’ve changed music five or six times, so I guess that’s what I’ve done…Now, tell me what you have done of any importance other than be white, and that ain’t important to me, so tell me what your claim to fame is?”

You have to feel sorry for the poor woman. Invited to a presidential dinner, and forced to sit next to Miles Davis, a man who is not only a jazz musician, but who also believes that jazz music is important and his place within music of great importance. No doubt she went home and spoke with her politician husband and tut-tutted and used the word ‘uppity’ and perhaps some other less delicate words to describe the hurt that she felt at having to share a dinner table with such a hubristic and obnoxious man.

It is a similar hurt that many people, many esteemed people within the world of literature are feeling today with the publication of Morrissey’s Autobiography on the Penguin Classics imprint. This, let us not forget, is the hallowed place where all of the greatest works of literature are published: Homer, Shakespeare, Balzac and Wilde among them.
These writers are all happily dead, and have been, whilst they rest in peace, adjudged and analysed and welcomed into the canon.

And now, a songwriter, who is merely the greatest pop lyricist this country has produced, has the temerity to demand, yes demand, that his autobiography should be published, without anyone from the wider literary establishment reading it, within the realm of Penguin Classics.

Well, isn’t that just like sitting at a presidential dinner and having Miles Davis insult you to your face?

“This isn’t about the redefinition of ‘classic’, but abject surrender. Penguin has with breath-stopping cynicism flogged its crown jewel – a precious place on the roster of the world’s most enduring literary works – to the moody maverick.”

The sound Boyd Tonkin, Literary Editor of the Independent, choking on his soup.

“To package as a classic a book that no one except Morrissey and a handful of fawning acolytes has read is to instantly reduce the worth of all classics”

said someone on the Telegraph who may as well, except to his mother, remain nameless.

Morrissey, just like Miles Davis all those years ago, should have kept quiet, known his place, and slunk off to the obscurity that his songwriting within the horribly besmirched and irrelevant world of pop music deserves.

Because we should listen to the literary editors and the politician’s wives. We should listen to the voices of those who contemporaneously would have said that Shakespeare was too bawdy, Dickens too populist, Beckett too repetitive, Austen too flippant, Proust too long-winded, and that Oscar Wilde deserved his prison term.

Morrissey, like Miles Davis, is revered in many countries across the globe, including England. The English establishment, perhaps taking into account his open and gleeful hatred of the royal family, still views him with disdain.

Those hundreds of thousands of us whose lives have been enriched – some would say saved – by Morrissey’s words, feel sorry for those suffering great hurt today. However, we do this with the archness and irony learnt from our hero as he marches triumphantly into the citadel known as Literary Establishment, and takes his rightful place among the greats.