Who wins the Premiership will probably be decided this afternoon when Chelsea play Liverpool at Anfield.
My relationship to footer is about the same as the average Briton’s to politics. I’m not in the least interested most of the time, I’m occasionally revolted by the participants’ on-pitch antics, and almost invariably disgusted by their off-pitch shenanigans, but I’ll watch a big cup-tie or a crunch match with some interest, and I can appreciate sheer brilliance or courage or willpower when I see it. And much as your average voter will feel some affinity for one political party over another for tribal or regional loyalties or because they prefer yellow to red or because they think Nick Clegg reminds them of their son’s nice history teacher, I find myself supporting certain football teams and loathing others on equally amorphous grounds.
I had very little interest in football when I were a lad – we didn’t tend to use jumpers for goal-posts amid the slag-heaps and belching factory chimneys of Wimbledon. My older brother was much more informed and partisan, and I basically absorbed his enthusiasms: Manchester United, Tottenham Hotspur (because of Jimmy Greaves and Alan Gilzean) and Don Revie-era Leeds (discipline, method), plus Italy and Brazil on the international stage. (Oh, and England, of course.)
Like most of the rest of the country, I thoroughly enjoyed the romance – the sheer unlikeliness – of Brian Clough’s Nottingham Forest winning the European Cup twice in a row.
To this day, if trapped by my own laziness in front of the TV when the football results are being read out, or when skimming through the Telegraph sports section, I still experience an utterly irrational twinge of pleasure upon hearing that Manchester United, Spurs or Leeds have won. And I know absolutely nothing about the current Leeds team, and everything I’ve heard about Revie’s Leeds since their heyday makes them sound quite revolting – they were evidently as brutal, nasty, dishonest and corrupt as Cloughie always maintained.
Similarly, and just as irrationally, I’ve always loathed Liverpool and Chelsea, so much so that I enjoy it whenever they’re kicked out of European championships. Oddly, the first professional football match I ever attended was at Stamford Bridge. A crazed Chelsea fan of Armenian extraction took me to see them play when I was 11 or so. All I remember was being cold and bored, and the home crowd giving one of their own players – Bert Murray was his name, I seem to recall – a very hard time, which struck me as an unattractive form of mass bullying. I’ve felt sorry for the poor chap ever since, which is the only reason I remember his name: I hope he’s had a great life. And it gave me a lifelong horror of bullying (I know that sounds priggish and self-serving, but it’s true) – so at least I learned something from the game.
But that first visit didn’t altogether turn me against the club: that came later when Peter Osgood was a goal-scoring centre forward for them, and Ron “Chopper” Harris was brutalizing opponents. They struck me as yobs of the first order – as did many of their team-mates. I’ve never liked gangs, and this bunch gave the impression of being a rather unpleasant gang.
The current Chelsea team has the same feel about it. Even before John Terry’s philandering became public, I’d never much liked the cut of his jib: always whining, and bitching and ranting. And Ashley Cole? Evidently another charmer and all-round stand-up guy. As for Didier Drogba, he may many personal qualities apart from his ability to score goals, but they aren’t immediately evident. And all that stuff about Frank Lampard’s personal travails last year waspretty nauseating. Ballack? Arrogant tosser with very little to be arrogant about, far as I can see. And, of course, being bankrolled by a Russkie zillionaire hardly renders them more appealing – the only reason I’m enjoying Mourhino’s team, Inter-Milan, doing well in the Champions League is knowing how fantastically galling it must be for Abramovich.
As for Liverpool, I just never found Bill Shankley amusing, ugly arch-thug Tommy Smith struck me as horrible, and Emlyn Hughes was utterly beyond the pale: I remember being disgusted when, as England captain, he openly jeered at his Argentinian counterpart as they walked off the Wembley pitch at half-time – his yobbish gloating was as unworthy of the captaincy as Terry’s later petulant displays.
Still, now that Liverpool can’t sneak into Europe next year, I hope theybeat Chelsea today (they almost certainly won’t) and I hope Manchester United win their next two matches. United are decidedly ordinary in this transition period, but more acceptable on a human level given the absence of that preening slimeball, Ronaldo (did any Briton not roar with laughter watching this creep slope dejectedly off the pitch after Real’s defeat by Inter?) and that tiresome tit, Tevez (whose presence in the Manchester City team means I’m rooting against them winning fourth spot).
As I said, it’s all entirely irrational, based on pure, blind prejudice.
When it comes to politics, of course, I resemble one of those hardcore fans who support the same club for a lifetime, through thick and thin, no matter how badly they play, or who’s leading them, or how vilely the players behave off the pitch. And I feel the same vague contempt for the floating voter who changes their allegiance every four or five years as the fancy takes them as I suspect devotees of one football club feel towards floating supporters.
Oddly, given my preferences, Chelsea are the Conservatives in this election - they’ve suffered three humiliating campaign defeats in a row following a period of huge success, they keep snatching defeat from the jaws of victory, the rest of the country basically doesn’t like them (partly because of their rich backers), yet they’re strongly placed to win if they don’t make any major cock-ups over the next few days.
It’s a funny old game, politics.
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