QPRnet Blogs

The advent of Rogue junior has certainly curtailed my visits to the keyboard and you can forget watching anything for longer than 15 minutes…unless its something that you don’t have to concentrate particularly hard and is easy to dip in and out of.

Hooray for Euro 2008!!!

Despite having to give up virtually every other viewing pleasure, both his parents have deemed Football, as ideal viewing fodder and as a result I’m fully engaged with the tournament so far.

The Holland-Italy game was great, the Spanish performance was inspirational and Croatia vs. Germany made me feel better as an England fan and ever so slightly worried for the coming World cup qualifiers. Even the Swiss in a paddling pool and the hapless Austrian attempts to score have been thoroughly enjoyed.

The dreamer in me has watched previous football tournaments half considering the possibility of unearthing a gem for the R’s. This was always unlikely in the past given our perilous grip on finances and league position, but now it seems like a worthwhile exercise.

During the World cup you are likely to find an Australian, Nigerian or American that might very well fit the bill. Young, raw and desperate to go shopping on the kings Road, more importantly he’ll be represented by a dozen different agents and once the lottery is played out he could easily end up at your club.

The Euros are trickier, less teams and less available talent. Here you are more likely to end up with an aging Swede than a young player of promise. It’s fair to say we’d end up with and Austrian who couldn’t score or a Swiss who couldn’t defend, neither of which will advance our cause.

While not completely dismissing the lure of West London, money is going to talk here. If, as we like to think, we are at least equal to the spending power of a middling premiership club then we have a chance of picking up a player or two. But is it worth the risk.

AC Milan, who I’m not comparing us to, recently balked at 10 million for Artur Boruc, Celtic’s bigoted and brilliant keeper. Last night he doubled that price with a fantastic performance against Austria. There’ll be no bargains here. Would you be happy with us spending 10 million on any player? Not this year I’m sure.

So maybe now is the time to make a few mental notes for future reference, let me start us off. Croatia’s left wing back, Nicola Pokrivac, 23 plays in France and was a surprise selection for their squad. I thought he was outstanding against Germany…I bet I’m not alone and I don’t for one minute think that he’d swap his current status for championship footy with us, but two years down the line lets see where he and we end up.

I think he’d allow us to forget Chris Barker

Last Wednesday night should’ve been a textbook evening. Despite my worst football fears being realised, Chelsea appearing in a Champions league final, there was every chance that the ultimate indignity would be realised too! Actually losing it!

I’m no fan of JT, as a player or a man. I’m sure he’s a great pro and missing an occasion like this would be heartbreaking for anyone, but I was only surprised that his injury was on the football field not some kind of metal pole/piss/electricity incident in a lap-dancing establishment.

Anyway he made it and I returned in good time from a long drive to Somerset to settle down and watch.

With me was Rogue Junior, hoping to nap through his first final. RJ will not be a regular feature of this blog, but he’s relevant here.

Everything seemed to be going to plan, Utd, as far superior team, swarmed over the hapless hotel team and should’ve been long out of sight by the time that Frank ‘no longer hated because he loved his mum’ Lampards pinball equaliser. It was getting uncomfortable.

At least, I thought, if They win after being so comprehensively outplayed, I’ll be able to find solace there.

But no. Chelsea dominated the second half, RJ slept on, I sank into the sofa. It seemed the tide had decisively turned…but I’d reckoned without the presence of one man! JT.

Again I reiterate, I don’t think he’s anywhere near the best centre back in England, but if you like your defenders cut in classical English cloth, obdurate, slow on the turn and usually in the way, then I can concede his worth. His header off the line from Giggs was nothing short of magnificent. I couldn’t believe it, just as the footballing gods were beginning to see sense, one man was going to drag them over the line.

His influence grew. A minor spat was escalated (his speciality) into a brawl that ended with his own player getting sent off. As a charming rejoinder Terry ’snotted’ on Tevez (who would later accuse him of spitting as I’m sure that the South Americans had never come across this most delightful of acts).

Chelsea hung on; penalties and they had a German…booo!

These were remarkably competent, of course Ronaldo missed and it was left to our hero to step up and consign Utd and my evening (and probably the whole summer to oblivion).

…And then it happened, it wasn’t fate, or the wet turf. Terry missed because he’d forgotten that he couldn’t really play. Rather than smacking the ball like he was clearing his lines or tackling a lap dancer, he decided to be clever…he’d seen others doubt, why not him.
As he planted his standing foot he opened it out, Van Der Sar expecting the rocket had already gone right, Terry had done him, like a Maradonna or a Pele he’d fooled the keeper, but unlike them he’s 15 stone of thud and blunder and all that weight going the wrong way had to buckle and so it came to pass…Jt on his arse, crying like a baby!

The inevitable happened and it was nice that a true mercenary in the new Chelsea tradition ambled forward to strike an indifferent Penalty to lose the Cup…drained, but happy, my night was complete.

Terry was inconsolable, I should’ve been delighted…but I wasn’t. Why? Because of the seven week bundle on my lap.

RJ had a difficult start, took a battering from the forceps and coupled with the usual stretched head look so fashionable with the newborn and a bizarrely tufty hairstyle…he actually looked like John Terry!!!

He’s settled down now…looks like a baby, but my gaze went from him to Terry I found I couldn’t laugh. I felt sorry for him…

…Having a child does change your life!

Taking a break from the nappy strewn front line of new fatherhood, Rogue Male takes a moment to wonder about the summer to come.

 
The last few weeks have passed as pretty much one long blur! Mostly this is because the machinations of Rogue Junior have taken precedence (for a while he held an un-beaten record as an R’s fan, the miraculous Preston come back was his debut and I really did think the gods favoured us). But to be honest, the club went on holiday early too!

 
Five minutes into the Norwich encounter the season came to an end. I generally have ambivalence to Norwich City, but I was mildly riled by the rather catty comments of Norwich fans over our display. Yes we lay down, but lets not forget how close they came to disaster and to be perfectly honest I can’t see much room for optimism for next years campaign in the flatlands!

 
The referee and to be honest, all right thinking deities conspired to ensure that West Brom were crowned champions at Loftus road. It’s bad enough that Stoke went up without them getting a trophy…in fact if they had to go up, then second was ideal, no championship, no big day out at Wembley.

 
What was missing this year was the huge sense of relief that the season was over. Usually, the avoidance of the play-offs, relegation or just the plain relief that the utter banality of mid-table aimless football was finished was enough to make the average R’s fan go rushing towards the summer with open arms.

 
This year I think we’d have quite happily carried on watching. With the advent of De Canio and the Italian way of life, Loftus road has seen, in patches, something that it was beginning to fear had gone forever…football! Outbreaks of intelligent, thoughtful and committed football!

 
Obviously this is no heralding of a glorious future, especially now Luigi has departed. This was still a team capable of total football and capitulating 4-2 at home, as the home game against Burnley proved. Despite the fact that were not going to run into too many Andy Cole’s, we’ll still manage to engineer enough defeats to happily keep our feet on the ground and in the championship for at least another season. But I did expect us to lose with style. I’ve no idea if that’s still the case.

 
Before that there is the pre-season to negotiate. Previously we’d have been looking forward to trips to Aylesbury, an ill-thought out tournament on a holiday Isle and a drubbing by Celtic. What’s going to happen this year? Real Madrid? Juventus? I’d have thought  we’d at least be looking at some kind of all-star Grand Prix XI involving Michael Schumacher!

 
We’ve also got used to failing to shed deadweight, vague rumours of transfers and then an unseemly scramble for a couple of decent loans before August begins. Is all that a thing of the past? A few weeks ago the club, without too much fuss, announced that five young players were surplus to requirements. Of these only Sefan Bailey had made much of a mark. But from the moment Flavio appeared on the Uxbridge road you knew his days were numbered. This new efficiency is rather thrown by Nardiello returning, it’ll be interesting to see how the club sorts him out?

 
What will be interesting is who’ll be coming in to the club…and who’ll be buying them.

Obviously we are being linked with everyone at the moment, though rarely anyone you’d want. How many of us are excited by the new arrivals Radek Cerny and Peter Ramage?

Now I’m not one to start shouting for anything other than prudent progression, but surely we can be looking at some more inspiring signings. Can we prise proven performers at this level away from lucrative contracts. Bobby Zamora, Kevin Phillips, Danny Shittu or Steve Sidwell? If we really are going to push for promotion surely this is the calibre of recruit that ought to be being mentioned.

 
As the departure of Luigi De Canio was announced my first thought was …who is going to be buying the players? On balance I’m sorry to see De Canio go. Under him we’d begun to play some proper football, and despite his inability to make any progress with his English I thought he was starting to build something of substance.

 
I’m sure the Billionaires know what they are doing!

They do, don’t they?

Wait a minute…Season tickets!

Since the Petrol heads took over the column inches surrounding the bizarre juxtaposition off little ol’ run down QPR and the glitterati of the Formula one circuit has threatened rainforests.

Perhaps the most illuminating and most disturbing was the recent Observer Sport Review article where a Rangers supporting journalist was given open access to the world of Briatore’s QPR. Not a combination design to perhaps fully critique this new dawn, but it had its insights none the less.

One was struck by the way Briatore had bought into the whole shoebox Loftus Road thing. He appeared, and I accept that his sense of personal PR may be more acute than messes Thompson, Wright, Davis, Power and Paladini, to intrinsically understand what made us QPR.
In stark contrast was the reaction of ‘the son in law’, his barely disguised contempt at the facilities showed that this director was not likely to put up with it for very long. Any man who’s father in law had lavished £30 million pounds on his wedding and bought him a fifth of a football club is thinking Ashburton Grove not Shepherds Bush.

I suspect that those of you living out towards the M4 will soon find your journey to the R’s improving.

That wasn’t the disturbing part mind, the Home dressing room at Loftus Road proved to be an enlightening section of the piece.
I’d seen it before, a cold, cramped, damp space, usually with Olly gathering his charges and dispensing a mixture of West Country homily and foul expletive. Lots of shouting and bouncing followed, usually, by a drab nil-nil.

Not anymore, now the scene is one of bacchanalian splendour, toga clad figures, wreathed in mud and sweat idle in conversation, muscled frames posed statuesque in languor. Dressing Room or Turkish bath? A modern day Roman Emperor swans around the room, dispensing fine words, an occasional pat or ‘European’ caress. A carefree indulgence that only the truly rich can get away with.
His troops, to a man in awe of this god like figure, display gratitude and insouciance in equal measure. Delicately balancing pasta in one hand and their manhood in the other. What greater display of their prowess, their importance to the team…I eat and I am potent!

Now, call me old fashioned, but I didn’t need to know any of that. Not only am I struggling to cope with the idea of having your tea in the bath (I had a mate who tried to save time by having his Spaghetti Hoops on toast in the bath before he went out, it all went wrong…nightmare), but the unsightly observance of Akos, absent mindedly toying with ‘little Akos’ was at best unnecessary.
We even got photographic evidence…some of those towels seem to be staying up too easily, I know it was a good win, but even I don’t get that carried away.

I know football is constantly changing, media access is all encompassing, but I reckon some things are best left behind closed doors.

ESPN sports, otherwise known as channel 442 for those of us who have bought in to the Murdoch miracle. (The rest of you probably have it too, but I know not the number of your particular beast). The destination channel for when you’ve flicked around the bewildering and ever lengthening available stations. A comfort blanket for when you think you may just have to watch ‘I’m a Celebrity…’

Most of the time it’s a series of relatively un-important Football/Cricket/Rugby games where the over-riding conclusion tends to be that old sport was pretty poor. I re-watched a number of Five Nations Rugby International, including England’s Grand Slam year and frankly it’s rubbish. Obviously the rules have changes but I don’t remember knock-on’s, forward passes or permanent offside being actively encouraged let alone outlawed…maybe the referee’s have just got better.

Football doesn’t escape here either. We all, well those of us of a certain age, bemoan the advent of the ‘protected player’, watching 1990 Coventry v’s West Brom, part of ESPN’s sometimes curiously named Dead Good Match series makes the free-flowing modern game seem a miracle.

The channel have carefully mined the vaults of the BBC and ITV, the ghosts of Brian Moore and Jimmy Hill (I know he’s not dead but he definitely haunts people) are released from their sweet slumber. Obviously there are some seams that have been hard to bring to the surface. As far as I can tell the only Queens Park Rangers games that were ever on television between 1970 and 1999 were defeats. This clearly isn’t true…so why are they never shown.

Most recently I found that as part of their ‘Happy Endings…Spurs’ series, the 1982 cup final and Replay. For many of us this brings back a wealth of emotion. Personally I always remember this final as the sign that Venables knew what he was doing and that the good times were just around the corner. In darker moments I recall that I was in the midst of a disastrous string of ‘o’ levels that, mixed in with a timely dose of Glandular Fever, combined to deny me a replay ticket and ultimately stop me getting a proper job until the 1990’s.

The first game I remember better, though not the foul weather. My brother, eight years younger had based his choice of Football team on brazen glory and the winners of the ‘81 trophy became his obsession. (I should take this moment to add that in some 25 years of following Spurs he’s never actually witnessed them score a goal…he’s been to enough games to be genuinely considered a jinx, long may it continue). He developed, pretty much straight away, his method of watching football…high-pitched indignance and uninformed ranting. So watching the game without his incessant whine was surreal.

The first thing that you recall is Clive Allan. Any hope we had was based upon the goal poacher extraordinaire. He just wasn’t fit. My pre-game dream, where Allan scored the winner in a mud bath (which was strangely prescient) and wearing our mid 70’s Feyenoord away kit wasn’t going to happen. Rangers were disjointed and often hanging on. Attacks tended to revolve around Simon Stainrod trying to control the ball and kick as many Spurs defenders as possible. Spurs weren’t much better mind. The much-vaunted silky skills of Galvin, Hoddle and Hazard were shackled by conservatism, Crooks and Archibald were blunt and their solid, dependable and borderline thuggish defence remained largely un-interested.

They created chances, but not great ones and even if they had the magnificent Hucker was more than a match. In my circle we talk about a person’s magic moment, the moment when a giant finger appears from the sky and a monolithic voice booms out… ‘this is your perfect moment, it will not get better than this’…and you’d be there, squirting mustard on a hotdog and your arm thinking ‘this can’t be it, this can’t be my moment’! Not Hucker, he had two. Never has a man appeared out of mediocrity and grasped magnificence like this. In the space of Five days he became a god.

You could define that first game as Hucker v’s Spurs; you could define the two as Hucker v’s Archibald. It lends the contest an epic quality that in truth it lacked. Certainly in that first game neither side played well. As the heavens open showering the players with displeasure at their collective performance another 30 minutes extra time seemed unnecessary. Weary bodies dragged themselves around, desperate lunges and over hit passes were the order of the day. Then it happened, fate intervened, tired of the endless stalemate. The referee, a seemingly ineffectual figure decided to make his mark. Balking Waddock he delayed the ginger stoppers progress towards a 60-40 with Hoddle. Despite the self-idolising poseur being favourite for the ball he still contrived to step over it and rake Waddock’s shin. The referee was obviously too close or in awe of the occasional England internationals’ gleaming thighs, ignoring the foul Hoddle progressed, bouncing a pass off the hapless Hazards shin he collected a shot towards Huckers goal.

Tony Currie was a magnificent footballer, utterly right for Rangers and generally bestrode the pitch like a passing colossus, but he’ll be mostly remembered for the unfortunate interventions in two FA Cup finals. This was his first, Hoddle’s shot was good, but Hucker would not have been beaten. The ball, however, brushed the unfortunate Currie’s inner thighs the ball arrowed into the corner. Ten minutes left and no real sign of the energy to come back.

By this time Spurs had released one of their archetypal players into the game, Gary Brook. Tubby, neat and probably a decent bloke, but destined, as most Tottenham youngsters are, to drift down the leagues into obscurity. Tottenham now buy everyone else’s youth in order to waste their talent, but in those days they developed their own future cab drivers and delivery boys.

As I recall, I think I’d settled for ignominious defeat, my brother had shouted himself out and the game appeared to be drifting to a close…but it didn’t. Rangers sort of rallied, forced a corner or two and then a throw. Stainrod, he of chiselled jaw, sharpened elbows and bristling with belligerence trotted over and proceeded to hurl the ball into what I can only describe as a near-deserted area. Nowadays, 1-0 up in the dying embers of a cup final, the team defending this most precarious of leads would have the whole team back in the six yard box. You’d see camels straining through needles rather than gaps in which you’d thread a shot. But here there appeared to be a couple of Ranges players and Spurs going man for man.

The magnificently random Bob Hazell, 100% brilliant or 100% arse depending on whether it was an odd or even minute, rose. He headed the ball across the rapidly ageing Clemence’s box and time stood still…
…Well, not really, as I remember, Fenwick had nodded in and was running towards the mass ranks of befuddled ‘Tottingham’ fans before it had registered that we’d equalised. Even watching it 25 years later it doesn’t seem real.
I’m pleased for Fenwick. He had two good games here, particularly the second and built the foundations of a good career. He was never really England class, but made the most of what he had and I’ll always have time for him.

The seconds ticked on, then the whistle. Some gentle taunting of my brother and checking to see what time Match of the Day was on…Saturday drifted on.

The advertising break between the two programmes doesn’t really match up to the five days of waiting for the replay. Tickets were easier to come by. But the difficulty of living four hours away could not be changed and any thoughts of being there were shelved.

I’d obviously missed the little introduction to the first programme, now I was treated to Phil Cornwell, who despite his incarnation as Gilbert the Green Monster, tends to look like a bloke doing an impression of someone you can’t quite recognise and some bloke from the production office possibly pretending to be a Spurs fan, such was his ignorance. They, misty eyed and brimming with emotion described how magnificent Spurs were in this replay and one of them lyrically remembered Roberts gliding past at least 15 Rangers players before being chopped down when about to pass the ball into an empty net…hmmm! Utter-cock!

Before the first game at least four of the superstars of Spurs were supposedly carrying injuries that threatened their participation, all four played, all four managed 120 minutes in appalling condition and all four were ready again come the replay.
Rangers were not so fortunate. The luckless Allan failed to make the replay and the Rangers captain Glenn Roeder, straight of back an possessor of the sweetest step-over before Christiano drew breath, was hit by that most iniquitous of punishment…the delayed suspension. You can debate about whether football has progressed in the last 25 years, but there’s no debate about the ending of this ridiculous system.

Fenwick moved into the centre, Warren Neill, who’d had a profound effect in previous rounds came in at right back. Gary Micklewhite who had an effective game as a sub on the Saturday, started instead of Allan. Steve Burke, one of a host of Rangers left wingers who came and went without leaving too much of a trace, was on the bench.

From the kick off, Spurs had their best 10 minutes of the whole replay. The early eighties were synonymous with a number of footballing fashion statements, most obvious in this game were the short-shorts, pulled up a little further to accentuate the thigh. Most noticeable here was Glenn Hoddle, shirt pulled down to give the impression he wasn’t wearing shorts (one assumes). His is a career that promised much, but so often disappointed when it was most needed. This was to be no different, but for that first ten minutes he was the dynamic presence on the field.
Spurs pushed the ball around, probed the re-built Rangers defence and after only seven minutes, found the breakthrough.

I didn’t believe my eyes at the time, I certainly didn’t believe the deluded ‘fan’ at the start of this programme. I can only assume the parting of Rangers midfield at the approaching Graham Roberts meant that they couldn’t believe it either.
Lets take a moment to remember Roberts. Only a Spurs fan could love him, a triumph of will over skill, given the careers of the likes of Terry Butcher and John Terry, I’m surprised he didn’t get more than 6 England caps. He was basically Paul Miller but with basic football ability.

Picking up a loose pass, he trundled through the non-existent midfield, he didn’t actually beat anyone, they all went missing!
Most spectacularly of all was Bob Hazell. Like a moribund Russian missile he flew at Roberts, arriving some seconds after the ponderous lump had moved on and ending in an unexploded heap on that most hallowed of turf.

By now Roberts was in the area and he could’ve pulled the trigger, but you’d not have backed him to beat the imperious Hucker with the angle he had, defenders were closing in, but unfortunately it was a midfielder who got there first. Tony Currie got nowhere near the ball and the tree like Roberts came crashing down.

Hoddle neatly despatched the penalty and probably expected to be able to stroll through the next 83 minutes before checking his hair and then lifting the trophy. For a few minutes it looked like that would happen, Rangers were shell-shocked and looked markedly more tired than the opposition.

It’s testament to the Venables built Rangers resilience that this didn’t continue. This collection of ageing pro’s, journeymen and youngsters suddenly started to compete. They got slap bang in the faces of their self-regarding opposition who didn’t like it. Stainrod, Gregory and Flanagan were putting challenges in whether they were required or not. I believe the phrase is…get in to ‘em, **** ‘em up!…and they did.

With it came a new confidence, to survive on the much-maligned plastic pitch this Rangers team had become a decent passing outfit and suddenly it was being unleashed. Spurs were chasing shadows and while there were no real clear-cut chances being created they were feeling the pressure. Either side of halftime they survived a number of scares. Clive White, the referee almost certainly knew all the Spurs players first names, this must have helped his interpretation off a penalty shout and an ‘offside’ goal at the end of the first half. The latter proving that whatever the confusion of the current rule, its got to be better than this interpretation which cost us so dear.

The second half continued in much the same way. Spurs had breaks, but more often than not the mere sight of Hucker put the million pound marvels Archibald and Crooks off.

Rangers had a second penalty claim waved away, the referee rightly guessing that Tony Currie’s legs had just given up running. Gary Waddock produced probably his only shot of the season to extend Clemence, Stainrod bristled with menace and was causing the Spurs back four all kinds of trouble.

Then our ex-manager John Gregory produced the moment that for Rangers fans everywhere that probably signalled the end of our cup dream. A neat build up found Stainrod on the left, he worked space for himself and floated a superb ball to the far right of the area, Gregory had stolen in behind the back four and deftly (unless it was meant to be a cross) lob-volleyed the static Clemence. The ball floated on…and on, striking the crossbar and bouncing out. From that moment the game was up really. Burke was thrown on to little effect, a few goal mouth scrambles but the big moment had come and gone.

There was time for Archibald to go one on one with Hucker, despite Motson’s (as rubbish then as he is now) assertion that the blond Scot had finally beaten Hucker, replays revealed that the now giant keeper had got a hand to the rifled finish and had deflected it on to the post. In many ways this defined the two games and Hucker had defined himself as the stand out player.

At the final whistle the men in red sank to the floor, some 210 minues on the notoriously draining Wembley pitch had taken its toll. At the time i felt a strange pride at our performance and no little hope for the future that life with Venables promised.

I do remember the charmless Keith Burkinshaw, the then Spurs boss, when asked after the game to comment on the plucky losers could only muster, ‘a year from now people will only remember that we won’. Not me Keith, my memories may well be hoop-tinted, but i’ll not forget this final.

Last weekend saw the first taste of the big time since the arrival of the big boys on the board. The weekend papers were full of the ‘two richest teams’ guff and were particularly enjoying the tables being turned on the Village Hotel XI.

Very enjoyable it was too! In some cases illuminating…we have the same GDP as Croatia! But, as with the game which i suspect went with a whimper, this honeymoon period isn’t going to last and i think we should be bracing ourselves for a long and sometimes undignified backlash.

There are lots of teams who deserve help, there are lots of teams that could manage a fraction of the money at our disposal, very well and with good grace. They are all going to look at our good fortune with no little envy and find it hard to swallow.

We were one of those teams, for most of us the decade that has just past has been long, desperate and humiliating. I for one had begun to question whether i’d ever see us compete again. While i doubt our recent set ups could manage any budget with good grace or sense, we are now very comfortable and appear to be commited to spending whatever it takes to get back with the big boys.

But no one is going to like us for it.

Rightly or wrongly we built up a reputation for being a nice little club who played good football and competed with bigger teams with more resources, our neat little ground was known a great place to go (even though you wouldn’t be able to see properly) and a good day out. We’d produce or develop the occasional gifted player who we’d eventually see achieve their full potential at a big club or grace the national side. We toddled along quite nicely.
A decade of dysfunction has put paid to that.

We are about to re-emerge as a putative behemoth, possibly in a faceless stadium out towards the M4 and prepared to buy success with a mercenary bunch of players. Thats what its going to look like anyway.

Chelsea deserved all the crap that was thrown at them. They bought success and often use their wealth to stop others from competing (do you think Mourinho really wanted Ballack or Essien?) Their profile under the odious Kenyon has disintegrated. They are the chinless nobodies who pay the biggest boys to hang around to ensure they rule the schoolyard. They are an example a to how not to behave.

It won’t stop the stick from coming. On saturday evening, on 606, a Chelsea wag rang in to talk about the giant killing his team had performed…ho ho!
It reminded me of the first thing we have to avoid. Yes we will get a bigger stadium, yes we’ll have to attract new fans to fill it, yes i might be priced out of going eventually…but please, please, please, whenever you or i talk about being a Rangers fan, whether its in a pub or on the radio or wherever. Don’t do what every Chelsea fan i ever hear does…don’t start whatever you are going to say with the words ‘been an R’s fan for thirty years’. No one who does not know you believes you!

Hold on to your dignity, you and i know how long we’ve been here, waiting for these times, doesn’t matter what anybody else thinks…FORZA QPR!

Rogue Male

Well, it’s about as reasonable an explanation as anything else doncha think?
Multimillionaires are flocking…actually…multibillionaires are flocking to our aid all of a sudden. Why for so? You incoherently ask!

Could it be Oil, Diamonds, Gold or plain old real estate? Could it be the elegance and poise of Bolder, the balance and robustness of Nygaard or the sight of Ainsworth running in an exaggerated Victorian manner? Just what is it that has attracted this strange bunch of moneymen?

We are about to see the first fruits of this new found wealth, the ready made hero Buzacky, successful loanee’s Vine and Ephraim (fingers crossed). But it’s the supplementary players that’ll make the difference.

After Malcolm’s appearance snoozing on the outside lanes of a motorway recently one hopes his spluttering pilot light has gone out and the United right back loanee ought to be his replacement.

It’s the towering presence of an intelligent centre back that I’m most looking forward to see arrive, don’t mind who, but the continuing absence of such a figure is the biggest threat to our rosy future. We’ll get enough goals through the season, but I’d like them stopped at our end…especially those last minute ones!

We’ve scored some really good goals recently too! Buzacky’s second against Colchester and Rowland’s second against Watford were absolute crackers and it’s very nice to see Blackstock, despite not contributing goals, linking up very effectively with the likes of Buzacky.

New Year is the chance to reassess our hopes and fears and resolve to do better. Personally I hope we are patient, that we don’t try to do it too quickly, but continue to press for good football and a sound foundation for a solid future.

I fear that the Mittal connection is merely a chance to get an idiot son in law out of his hair…no evidence, just couldn’t believe my ears. I also hope that QPR will not become Chelsea…money should be a comfort not a stick to beat others with.

Here’s to a great 2008!

Rogue Male

Rogue Male is typing this the morning after Israel’s last minute rescuing of the Mclaren era of English football. Never has the result you were hoping for elicited such bemused feelings. Watching England in major competition is difficult. So much expectation and fervour and so quickly deflated such is the experience of following the national team. Generally we are left to hope that our poor performances mean that the team is saving itself for a big push later, we are always wrong. 2004 was a pleasant change. The team, despite carrying a clearly unfit Beckham played with purpose and no little style, letting France off the hook but still qualifying in comfort. Swept along by the exuberant Rooney and the emergence of King as a real option in midfield or defence, they looked capable of taking anyone on. Disaster struck, Rooney injured, King at home with his pregnant wife and perhaps most significantly, Ferdinand’s enforced absence meant Terry was exposed to one if his most unfortunate displays in an England shirt. Home early again, but for a few days the potential was there for all to see. After a miserable 2006, the majority got their way and a true man of Albion would be at the helm. No one seriously believed that Steve Mclaren got the job because he was the best man; no one really believed that he could knit a disparate bunch of millionaires into a potent football unit…but he was at least English. We know what we were getting, the press knew, the fans knew, the FA knew. We had all been here before. For Mclaren read, Graham Taylor or even Kevin Keegan. Both had limited success as a league manager, both thought that their motivational abilities would get them through. Both were wrong. In reality there was little difference in their ability than say Bobby Robson, the best thing Bobby did was to appoint Don Howe as coach. Makes no difference I hear you say, well would you have Don or would you use Phil Neale or Derek Fezackerly as Taylor and Keegan did. I know what Terry Venables chose to do when he replaced the hapless Taylor. Mclaren chose his Middlesborough colleague, Steve Round…no, me neither, but it’s interesting that Gareth Southgate was very happy to see him leave for England. Managing and coaching players is all a bit of a smokescreen though. Mclaren’s chief crime has been his interaction with the media. From day one every statement he’s made had been carefully thought out and scripted, rather than impose his footballing philosophy he chose to pander to the press. Disaster, from day one he tried to second-guess the mood of the country. He chose to show himself as a strong leader by publicly dropping Beckham. Wrong, wrong in so many ways. Beckham isn’t everyone’s cup of tea and he’s not the future of England, but in the short term at least he was England’s most effective player, setting up or scoring a heavy percentage of their goals. Mclaren gained a small bump in popularity buoyed by meaningless friendly thrashings but as the real business of qualification got going it was clear that we were in trouble. A smart man would have used Beckham to build his own popularity, make play of getting him to 100 caps and talk about his value to the squad. Thus letting him know that he was no longer first choice, but would still have a part to play. It is possible that Beckhams resurgence of form last year would not have happened without the snub, but I’ve never known him give less than 100% for the cause, I doubt anything would’ve changed. Like all England Managers, Mclaren tried to build his little cliques, his inside men. John Terry and Steven Gerrard were singled out as his lieutenants. In the way of these things, they would have a say in selection and would in turn be difficult to leave out. Mclaren had built his own gallows. Terry, committed and forceful still continued to make mistakes at the highest level. You always felt that Ferdinand and Campbell trusted each other, but I always think that Ferdinand has half an eye on Terry when things get desperate. Stevie G is more interesting, identifying him as a key man made Frank Lampard continually under pressure and his form suffered. Gerrard isn’t always onside either; if he’s unhappy we’ll all get to know about it. England managers, since Ramsay, have always had their favourites, no one since Sir Alf would’ve left out Jimmy Greaves. Ron Greenwood disastrously turning to the unfit Brooking and Keegan in Spain 82, Sir Bobby’s Captain Marvel, Graham Taylor…err Carlton Palmer? Terry Venables would’ve played Gascoigne pissed, Kevin Keegan practically gave Shearer carte blanche on who his striking partner would be. Hoddle was a notable exception here. He seems hell bent on ruining the careers of any player who might eclipse his own legacy to English football. So why worry about who is in charge if they are all going to continually make the same mistakes? Well, let’s not, let’s not give two hoots. The English game once ruled football and it can again. The Path is simple, effective and tried and tested. First, get rid of the idea of England Manager. Fifty years ago a committee men would gather in smokey rooms and select eleven ‘good eggs’, chaps who wouldn’t ‘rock the boat’. They would present their choice to a nominal coach, basically a glorified physio come kit man; I’m thinking Ray Clemence is pointless enough to assume the role. He would ensure the chaps turned up on time and didn’t pinch the kit. The eleven selected would then go out and perform admirably against Northern Ireland and the like. The press have no one to moan about, the committee would assume the 1950’s long gabardine coats and bowler hats, so that nobody could be singled out. Cheery fans, ruddy faced in the cold would happily spin their wooden rattles as England attacked. But is there a flaw in my plan…what about the great footballing nations of the 21st century? Surely Pace, purpose and prowess will undo all our good intentions? Qualification may well become harder to achieve. Not if we don’t enter the competitions! To regain our rightful place in World football all we need do is to ignore World and European competition. It worked before and we were a powerhouse of World Football…we just chose not to prove it. So now I settle down to watch the big game, only a draw needed. No Ferdinand, Terry, Neville, Rooney, Heskey or Owen. This all suggests a very gloomy Thursday and maybe a re-appraisal of my master plan. By then it may not seem so far fetched. Rogue Male.

Rouge Male contemplates the journey to ‘turning the corner’.

Every time we see Mick Harford mumbling the words ‘I don’t know how long I’ll be picking the team’ post match, whilst quite clearly his mind is chanting ‘kill, kill, kill’, we add another mile on what might be the longest bend in the history of ‘corners to be turned’.

The glorious oneniller thriller against Norwich has now been backed up by a ‘gudpoint’ against those other denizens of the east coast marshes, Ipswich. Better still we didn’t let fellow strugglers Preston steal a lead on us. Still bottom, but in times like these you take what you can get.

Currently we are assuming that Mick Harford is perpetually on the cusp of being relieved of his duties, but despite the many and varied rumours, shortlists and informed inside tips, we don’t appear to be close to a new man at the helm.
What if Harford remains through Christmas, will we be forced to rely on other managers being afraid of upsetting the ‘legendary hard-man’? Will his gambit of employing a slow-motion left back continue to distract the cream of the championship? And will he ever smile?

I’m convinced that while most of us like to deploy hundreds of facial muscles, Harford has one, which works his bottom lip in the same way Gerry Anderson got the Thunderbirds to talk, the rest of his face has calcified with the ousted muscles redirected to the space between his ears, thus rendering any articulated wisdom unfathomable. Sort of a one-man Mount Rushmore, oh-oh now I’m picturing Cary Grant hamming it up on his forehead! Maybe we are going to have to get used to ol’ stoneface?

Not since the Honeymonster was seen hugging Gerry Francis (two ridiculous figures in one Ad!) has Loftus Road seen Heat photographers attending matches, it would appear that as long as you can get whisked in and out without suffering the vagaries of the tube or walking through the leafy estates, we are the de-rigueur ticket!
There was a time when Manager difficulties meant the cameras scanning the crowds for likely replacements, if this is still the case then the likes of Warnock and Ollie are going to have to really up their game if their post match rants are going to make an impact. Imagine having to compete with Naomi Campbell chucking a phone at Geoff Shreeves and offering out Garth Crooks for suggesting that Chris Barker was less mobile than Simon Barker (now!).

Were they really there at all? Well obviously, yes. Sky’s deep pockets don’t run to cgi supermodels, though they could save money by using any old pub pundit to replace the pointless Gary Birtles. But why were they there, all dolled up in their chic little R’s scarves? Could it be that the cameras were there?

It would seem that our next manager will be Italian…any Italian, and most have been mentioned on the boards although I was interested by the news that John Collins had been sounded out (I know he’s supposed to have turned us down, but go with me on this one). He strikes me as ideal, he’s done a good job in a fairly similar league, he’s worked under financial constraints and must be looking for a career progressing move, money to spend in the Championship must have some appeal wherever we are.
Ideally we must look for the next Aidy Boothroyd, someone whose spent a while coaching, has ambition and is still relatively young. It’s entirely possible that may just leave Aidy Boothroyd and I can’t see that happening, but I’ve provided the blueprint, it’s for Gianni Paladini to finish the job.

Whoever is in charge, you’ve gotta love Big Flav, his was a Man of the Match performance against Norwich. Like Nero wondering if he could smell burning and trying to remember where his violin was, Flav’s imperious dismissal of the hapless referee was genuinely inspiring. I’m looking forward to seeing more of him. I’ve never seen a man look so monied before. He doesn’t wear it obviously, there’s no bojangles about him, and it’s a quiet casual wealth, a circumspect power that says ‘I could buy you, or have you killed but I’d rather eat’.

The last three results and to a certain extent the performances give me a little confidence that even if we don’t appoint straight away we’ll be ok, but I wouldn’t want to still be on this corner in March!

It’s disorientating when a momentous event happens while you are away from anything remotely resembling a 24 hours rolling news service. My Parents were in Canada when 9/11 happened and they now equate the epoch making event with a free extra weeks holiday, although a week is long enough to see everything in Vancouver.

Now, in the week Chelsea began the inevitable return to their rightful place, I was left with BBC world to keep me up to date. I’m sure you’ve all experienced the delights of BBC world, in order to maintain a sense of well-being in the world, the BBC have created a channel which takes the dullest most pointless news stories and interviews and repeat them through the day. The point is, I think, to lull you into a pleasant holiday stupor…relax, enjoy yourself, there’s nothing to worry about anywhere else.
Somebody ballsed up, along the strap line at the bottom came the bombshell, Mourinho out at Chelsea!

Whoa!

The evening before I’d been faintly amused by Chelsea being held by Norwegian part-timers, but in truth I’d been more concerned about Plymouth at home and having to wait two days to get a paper and the score. This year I’d steeled myself not to use the phone, the £100 bill for monitoring a nil-nil draw against Tranmere a few years back had been a harsh lesson on the cost of using your WAP abroad.

But now I need to know, could it be true, the last vestige of humanity, humour and entertainment, finally stripped from the Hotel Football team?

Despite the BBC’s attempts to keep me in the dark, I piece the story together and it was true, Chelsea had finally lost patience with their most successful manager ever. The one nagging, annoying sense of approval you felt when Chelsea was mentioned had been removed. I felt a strange elation.

Friday’s (well Thursdays when you are stuck on a mountainside in Italy) papers brought confirmation and detail. Roman had a toy’s out of the pram moment and finally despatched Mourinho, although the words mutual were being used I suspect when you are a Russian Billionaire your dictionary definitions are a little skewed.

Back in blighty and Sunday’s papers bring more to the table, The Observer went to town. I suspect they are one of the papers that Chelsea and John Terry are going to sue, but frankly I like their story and until the truth is revealed its the one I’m going with.

There’s little doubt that Terry and Mourinho had a spat, I’m no fan of Terry, he’s an adequate centre back who’s ability has been inflated by idiot pundits and playing next to proper defenders like Carvalho. I think Mourinho was coming round to my way of thinking. Terry had recently negotiated a ridiculous contract making him the highest paid premiership player and a clause that guaranteed him parity with any superstar that arrived at Chelsea. One of the Observers claims was that he’d also demanded an option to manage at the end of his career and had started his badges…Chelsea are moneydumb, but even they laughed out loud at this one.

The story goes that Mourinho had the temerity to question Terry’s performance and part in their opponents goal during a fractious half time on Tuesday night. Terry like the man he is, whined and then pretended not to listen. Rumours persist that after Mourinho leaves the dressing room, Roman pops in to instruct Essien on where he should be passing the ball! For anyone with even a passing interest in seeing Chelsea in turmoil this is fantastic.

The next part, I believe, is the most disputed. Terry, if we believe these reports, goes running to Roman saying that nasty Jose is going to take his ball away. This is the final straw, despite having won two championships, Fa and Mickey Mouse, sorry Carling cups the Russian is no fool and he’d finally realised that he’d not bought Arsenal…Mourinho must go!

When you have that much money you don’t get your hands dirty, fortunately close at hand is the increasingly toad like gargoyle, Peter Kenyon. Kenyon, to be played by an exhumed Peter Lorre in any future film (the smell is similar I’m told), slimes over to Mourinho and lays down Roman’s law. Then releases a press release that back tracks on virtually everything he’d told the press over the last year or so. Nothing new there then!

I’m savouring every minute of this, next up…the replacement, the man who is going to bring champagne football to the bridge…Avram Grant! Oh lovely, the man who made ‘one nil to the Is-ra-el’ a fact. This must be a temporary measure or is JT pulling the strings?

If your trust of paper reports still holds, there is deep unrest in the ranks, some players, new in, only signed to play for Mourinho, some, despite trying to get out of Chelsea are now openly praising Jose…c’mon Didier get your story straight and some like Frank Lampard have just seen their money-spinning move green lit! So it would appear that Terry has a job on his hands if he is to turn this runaway train around.

They didn’t get off to a particularly auspicious start, a fairly flat trip to Old Trafford; admittedly the ref didn’t help them, but who cares. They booed Roman in and every shot of him framed the Emperor with a succession of international managers, all awaiting his lucrative call. The new Chelsea were defined, I hope, by Joe Cole’s lunge to hack Ronaldo down and the last ten minutes where the increasingly hapless on field ‘leader’ Terry let his thuggish inclinations take over as he tried to intimidate Ronaldo and Rooney in turn. Unless you are a nightclub bouncer with your back to the England captain, I’m not sure it works John. It’s at this moment I realise who Terry has replaced in the national conscious. I’m sure he thought himself the new Bobby Moore when the England captaincy was unwisely bestowed upon him, but I’m convinced that in every possible way, John Terry is the new Martin Keown.

The best thing about these last few days is that It’s been a little light relief from our own little soap opera. It’s also a cautionary tale about the vagaries of money coming into a club. While I hope we never become as desperate, grasping and seedy as Chelsea we should be prepared for a rocky road to a hopefully brighter future.

It is my heart-felt desire that we pass Chelsea going the other way!

Rogue Male