QPRnet Blogs

During the current whirlwind of news Rogue Male craves your indulgence as he goes a little off topic…

Friday the tenth of August, early on a surprisingly sunny evening. I like many a good solid, middle class, middle England male, am filling my dishwasher and staring at the number of empty wine bottles gathering above it, wondering how we’d managed to consume so much since the previous weekend. A news channel is on in the background, just noise really, I’m not really concentrating.

Just for a few moments I tune in, I hear news that makes me feel, for a few seconds at least, as desolate as I ever have. For those few fleeting moments I am crushed by a barely bearable weight of sadness. Tony Wilson has died.

I don’t know whether this is a northern thing or perhaps it’s to do with the age I’ve managed to get to, but I find myself stopped in my tracks by news like this. It’s not like losing a family member or close friend that is an agony that must be almost indescribable. The Death of Tony Wilson or Anthony H Wilson as he had latterly styled himself feels more like losing a part of me. I can only think that its akin to realising you can’t wear tight jeans anymore or the weekly 5 a side game you considered more important than the Champions League is now beyond your puff. Something you considered important to who you are and how you became that person is no longer around.

This isn’t the first time this has happened, the untimely deaths of Joe Strummer and John Peel both struck me the same way, I even cried at the end of John Peel’s biography, something I’d not done for years before, not even at the millennium stadium or since.

What they all have in common is when they became important to me, Strummer and Peel are more obvious to fathom. They spoke directly to me at a point in my personal development when I was struggling to define myself. Both in their own particular way, helped. When Tony Wilson was shaping the type of man I am, I barely knew who he was.

In Granada land, the north west of England, not Andalusia, Tony Wilson was the plumby voiced counter point to Bob Greaves on Granada Reports, they along with the now infamous Richard and Judy went head to head with Look North West’s Stuart Hall, all pink shirts, bling jewellery and ‘fond farewell’s’ and John Munday a big teddy bear of a man who’s main notoriety was our illicit knowledge that he lived with Roy Barraclough, Mr Bet Lynch on Corrie. If I’m being honest, in our house Hall and Munday usually won, I found Wilson a bit creepy, a bit of a nerd. I don’t think I was alone, but that never mattered to him.

What was really important and where Granada always beat the Beeb, was with music, thanks in no small measure to Wilson’s commitment and swagger. So it goes was remarkable and frankly for a fairly new teenager, a bit scary. A hippy, who’d shed his Granada Reports suit and was telling me that Iggy Pop was the most important man in the universe.

I was just too young for Punk, I bought No More Heroes, then took it back because the man at Dawson’s had put Mull of Kintyre in the bag by mistake and I can remember the excitement of getting London Calling the day it came out, but in truth Punk preceded me.

But I wasn’t one of the hundreds of people who claim to be amongst the forty or so who witnessed the Pistols at the Free Trade Hall in Manchester, I can say I was around as the bands that would form the first vanguard of Factory’s assault on the music industry were starting to appear.

You did try to spread yourself thin though, living between Manchester and Liverpool meant you were dividing yourself between the surreal, psychedelic pop of Bill Drummonds ‘pool and the driving, hard-edged, bastard funk of Wilson’s Manchester. It was hard to position yourself for posterity too! I decided quite early on that A Certain Ratio were going to last longer than Joy Division…not for the first or last time I’d be doing some hasty backtracking later on.

Nowadays, these are often referred to as dour, long coated days of questionable politics and even more questionable haircuts. I believe ‘Control’ the new film about the life and death of Ian Curtis, Joy Divisions doomed front man, buys into and perpetuates this monochromatic, bleached out myth.

That’s not my recollection of those times, personally I prefer to remember Wilson’s own version of events, brilliantly captured in Michael Winterbottom’s 24 hour party people. It may not have exactly happened like that, but history is written by those with the best lines, Tony did and said some crackers.

Stricken with liver cancer, Wilson, who always maintained he was the only person not to make any money from Factory, was forced to take help from friends and colleagues to afford the drugs that kept him alive. Nobody was spared the irony of The Happy Mondays, who Wilson had funded a decades worth of drug abuse, paying for his supply.  Last weekend, Anthony H Wilson went to his final rest; I sat down and watched 24 hour party people again.

Cheers Tone!

Rogue Male

It was the best of times; it was the worst of times…

The season has begun, the Saturday papers were awash with previews and the Sundays were jam packed full of big match analysis…all of which was largely left unread. Obviously I spent most of Saturday evening trying to get a glimpse of our goals and I’ve pretty much devoured our write ups in both the Observer and the News of the World…I’ve already surpassed the sum total of words. Anyway we are up and running.

What really caught my eye this week was coverage of two ‘hot’ football topics and their impact of two quite similar players in my mind. Dennis Wise and Jamie Carragher, both, I think, made the very utmost of their talent and probably have done as well in the game as anyone could have expected.

Dennis on Thursday was genius. He made those endless hours trawling through repeated chunks of nonsense spouted by increasingly wooden presenters on Sky Sports news so much more worthwhile.
Why? Leeds lost their appeal against the 15-point penalty. Of course they lost the appeal, like the other team who tried to avoid the penalty on the last game of last season, Boston, they’ve received just desserts. The extra five are all down to Ken Bates’ shenanigans through the summer.

But it was Dennis who really starred here, he came across as a cheap hood whose boss had been sent down and who knew that retribution was just around the corner. He was obviously trying to sound threatening but with Dennis you know that he won’t strike until you’ve turned your back.

It’s hard not to feel sorry for him at Leeds. It doesn’t matter if he leads them back up, they’ll never like him. They see him as a ridiculous glove puppet with Batesy’s hand doing the necessary and who would argue, Ken is the godfather of Wise’s son.

For Leeds this season was always going to be difficult as Sheffield Wednesday andd we know, reputations count for nothing and every team want to beat you. Leeds fans will be fleeced for as much as King Ken can get and they won’t expect to be thanked. I know not everyone will agree with me, but I wouldn’t wish this on any Football fan.

I found myself listening to Alan Green on 606 on Saturday evening; now we all know that he is definitely not…I repeat NOT a Liverpool fan, honestly! He was defending Jamie Carraghers qualities as a footballer, he was having to do this because the central defensive hole created by England’s premier lump, JT, means that Carragher’s decision to announce his International retirement means that the spectre of Sol ‘I could be an actor’ Campbell getting a recall has raised It’s Easter Island like head.

I’ll be honest, I don’t care who plays next to Ferdinand, I don’t think Terry’s any better than Carragher, Campbell or a whole host of contenders. I’m not bothered that the increasingly smug, bombastic and shouty Green has little idea as to what his job is, (just tell us what is going on and stop pontificating), what I’m focusing on is the concept of a bit part player, hard working as he may be, feels he is of sufficient status that he is in a position to ‘announce’ his retirement…Pele, ok, Beckenbauer, yes I can cope with that, Cruyff, always a controversial figure, so yup…announce away Johan. But Carragher?

He’s not the first, I was similarly annoyed by Shearer, who realising that he probably wouldn’t be allowed to run the England team as he had under Keegan decided that he would ‘retire’ (before suffering the ignominy of being dropped maybe?). What about Scholes, I hear you ask, and I could easily be wrong here, but it’s so much easier to make my point, I ‘m fairly sure that Scholes told England, who then chose to make it public…anyway, let’s get back to Jamie.

Frankly I reckon you should earn the right to make a decision like that and I’d like to think that the player doing it should at least be missed!

Maybe he just thinks that it’s a far, far better thing he’s doing, than he’s ever done before and the Champions League is a far, far better rest I go to than when playing for England before.
(Apologies to ‘Dickensy’)

Rogue Male

So the dark clouds are gathering in the once golden south. Families and friends are thrown into turmoil as optimism fades and the relentless pressure rises.

No, there you go again with the weather…alright, the Cotswolds does look like Bangladesh, but you are just catching up, that’s all…where I come from this is a drop of light drizzle!

This approaching disaster is no act of God, it’s purely man made and while it has seemed at many points avoidable, it now appears inevitable.
This disaster will mean years of pain and soul searching, a deperate fight for survival will replace lofty ambition.

It’s our Football club that’s sinking, not an Oxfordshire village. A journey that probably started long before the age of the Thompson’s is approaching its destination. The false dawn of the post-administration years is beginning to spiral down the plughole.

We’ve travelled a treacherous path these last dozen years, suffering a crew that wanted out, an enthusiastic amateur out of his depth and a bunch of faceless nobodies prepared to pay top dollar for any acne-riddled youth who managed not to tie their bootlaces together. Finally we have been left with our current company, a rag tag, motley squabble of pirates and weekend sailors, wanabees and never would-be’s playing at running a football club.

So, becalmed, awaiting our fate, we speculate on our limited choices. Haphazardly drifting on, preying for twentieth place and a player or two to sell each season. Eleven thousand becoming ten, ten becoming nine. Each desperate year the manager talking vaguely of the playoffs until the leaves start turning and ‘getting points over Christmas’ becomes the winter mantra…the only difference will be the manager, we won’t always have he one who doesn’t realise he’s looking more and more like Lionel Blair.

If this scene is not to be played out then it would appear we have two stark choices, roll over into administration and hope to resurface someway further down the food chain, battered but hopefully still intact or like fifty or so other league clubs we could continue scanning the horizon for a sugar daddy (or Mummy…I’m not sexist). The latter is often suggested on the myriad boards, a seemingly easy option that will wipe our tears away and ease our collected furrowed brow. Is this really an answer? Do we really want an Amnesty International pursued ex-dictator arriving on our doorstep, talking about the Champions League and frozen assets? Maybe we do a Leeds and sell our souls to the Devil?(Albeit a devil that looks like Father Christmas!).

I know what you are thinking, another whiney article bemoaning our state and offering nothing constructive, no possible solution. Those that sit and moan are part of the problem…all right, all right, calm down!

I have a cunning plan…well a thought to throw at our plight.

The news recently talked of a future superpower, growing rapidly, who have sectioned off vast quantities of working capital from its gross national income to invest in western concerns. What if a football club, failing, but with a little bit of history, a reputation (fast fading) for good exciting play and players and in desperate need of regeneration was to be open to new money. What if this country already knew of this club, had already established ’sporting’ links?

Oh yes…we sell to the CHINESE!!!!

Whaddyathink, huh! C’mon, don’t dismiss it out of hand…alright we’ll need to mend a few fences, but…wait a sec…Don’t press the back button, I…(CLICK!)

Rogue Male

Ah! The deluge has begun…this isn’t a bit of spleen about the weather, it doesn’t make it any better to have somebody moaning about it, it’s just a case of getting wet!

No, the deluge I’m now focusing on is the pre-season friendlies. For some the prelude to a season of hope and expectation, for others, the harbinger of doom and gloom.

For me, it’s always a bit of a surprise when the R’s get their season rolling, yes, the official site will have mentioned fixtures in exotic locations, usually Aylesbury or Penge! But by the time the players have returned from their two-week caravan holidays in Norfolk, I’m generally heading off somewhere myself, or at least thinking about it.

These fixtures do tend to be fairly familiar, some non-league or lower division fixtures and a couple of home money spinners against a big European Club (Celtic?) and a premiership game, which we usually do ok in and bowl into the season with crazed optimism…wholly misplaced.

These old friends have recently been supplemented by adventures in Europe, our finest hour (recent times) the glorious Ibiza cup triumph, a victory which came at the cost of a number of disruptive injuries and the shambles of the Italian job on the Amalfi coast, which, though we didn’t know it at the time, proved to be a very accurate indicator of the season to come.

Much has been made of the disappointing pre-season we waded through last year and we’re all keen for this season to get off to a flyer. There’s been a lot talk about the performance of our suspiciously dark haired leader so far, but as far as I’m concerned, he’s judged from July the First. So far he seems to have had an ok time in the market and (frantically searches for wood to touch) we’ve had no real media disasters in the first two weeks of this season.

Celtic is out of the way. There’s no real way of judging the result, we’re likely to react just as pessimistically as we might have been wildly optimistic when beating Chelsea 3-1…wither Leroy Griffiths? What we do know is that we desperately need the next three games and frankly at least one more until Wycombe.

Ideally you’d want any new faces to be in and playing before we hit Bristol, but a club like ours, living off scraps, will perhaps have to wait until well into August before we know who’ll be joining us and, indeed, leaving. The squad feels a bit more manageable, although one would hope that we can get some success in the loan market, otherwise we look a bit light on quality.

Obviously a goalkeeper is due at some point and you’d like to think that we’re looking at a raft of young wide players…if anybody at the club expresses shock, surprise or a lack of preparation for the sale of our one asset then heads should roll.

As I type, footballing genius Lawrie Sanchez in looking to tempt Cookie into the Premiership wonderland that he hopes to infest with his ‘little Irelander’ mentality. Having committed wild figures to West Brom for the admittedly effective Koumas and perpetually disappointing Kamara, he’s clearly attempting to save a little with his bid for the left wing wizard. This shows more insight that you’d expect of Sanchez, our reputation of lying down and having our bellies tickled as potentially millions of pounds are knocked off transfer fee’s has not escaped his attention. Paladini’s potential 10 million bonanza will most likely end up as just under Two Million and a pitiful sell on clause.

The only way to squeeze the fee is to hold out until the end of August or January, football’s vultures are well aware that we can’t afford to do that.

With or without Cook, the friendlies will rumble on and we’ll be non-the wiser as to where we are come August 11. It would be interesting to know what Gregory expects of friendlies. Are they mere fitness exercises, or as he constantly moaned last year, this is his chance to mould the team into his own shape and pattern. No excuses for our denim clad maestro now, the team that steps out at Ashton Gate will be playing Gregory-ball…my mind is boggling!

Without wanting to necessarily raise the Rowlands in the middle flag again, if we assume a keeper and hopefully wide cover are coming, wouldn’t be nice to see a passer in central midfield? How much of Cook’s fee would secure Idiakez?

Roll on Wycombe…

Rogue Male

I cannot blame them. After all one doesn’t need a telescopic sight to shoot boar or bear; so when they came on to me watching the terrace at a range of one hundred and fifty yards, it was natural enough that they should jump to conclusions. And they behaved, I think, with discretion. I am not an obvious anarchist or fanatic, and I don’t look as if I took any interest in politics; I might perhaps have stood for an agricultural constituency in the south of England, bur that hardly counts as politics. I carried a British Passport, and if I’d been caught walking up to the house instead of watching it I should probably have been asked to lunch. It was a difficult problem for angry men to solve in an afternoon. They must have wondered whether I had been employed on, as it was, an official mission; but I think they turned that suspicion down. No Government- least of all ours- encourages assassination. Or was I a free-lance? That must have seemed very unlikely, any one can see that I am the type of avenging angel. Was I, then, innocent of any criminal intent, and exactly what I claimed to be- a sportsman who couldn’t resist the temptation to stalk the impossible? After two or three hours of their questions, I could see I had them shaken. They didn’t believe me, though they were beginning to understand that a bored and wealthy Englishman who had hunted all commoner game might well find a perverse pleasure in hunting the biggest game on earth. But even if my explanation were true and the hunt were purely formal, it made no difference. I couldn’t be allowed to live. ‘Rogue Male’ By Geoffrey Household (page one) I cannot blame them, one doesn’t need a sharp nib to prick the bloated ego’s that run English football; so when they found my blog secreted on QPRnet it was natural that they should jump to conclusions. They behaved, I think, with as much discretion, as a bunch of bored blokes in faceless offices could muster. I am not an obvious anarchist or fanatic and I don’t have the reputation of an ‘insider’; I may have added a barbed comment or two on the boards, but that hardly counts as informed. I may have worn a QPRnet t-shirt and had I been caught in the Bush Ranger I should probably have been asked my opinion on John Gregory. It was a difficult problem for opinionated men to solve on a football club message board. They must have wondered whether I had been employed on, as it were, an official mission; but I think they turned that suspicion down. No moderator- least of all ours- encourages character assassination. Or was I free-lance? That must have seemed very unlikely, I f you could see me you’d see I was hardly an avenging angel. Was I, then, innocent of any agenda, and exactly what I claimed to be, Rogue Male, outsider, and infiltrator, stalking whatever took his fancy? After two or three answers to the initial thread, I could see I had them shaken. Was it Varc? No, the word ‘doomed’ had yet to be mentioned, was it Simon? No, no referee had suffered. They didn’t know who it is, though hey were beginning to believe that a bored and continually skint Englishman who had kept himself to himself, might find a perverse pleasure in blogging the biggest game on earth. But even if my explanation were true and the blog was truly innocent, would it make any difference. Would I be allowed to live? ‘Rogue Male’ by ?

A bit harsh you might think…and what is it to me if he’s taken his ball and run off to Spain. But that’s where I’ve been, latterly in Barcelona (well near enough) and I was amazed by the fuss over there. All the rip off tourist shops have got their Henry 14 shirts in evidence and the papers are going mad…although they’ve gone pretty potty over Eric Abidal too…you know Eric…no! Oh well, maybe French Left backs are a Barcelona only obsession.

Thierry is linking up with his great mate Samuel Eto’o…who he famously described (along with the rest of his new colleagues) as a woman in a very un-Henry like fit of pique after Arsenal had succumbed in the Champions League Final. The same Henry who acted like a ‘woman’ in the World cup Quarterfinal to win a free kick from his new team mate and presumably new friend Claude Puyjol, a free kick that resulted in a goal. Thierry Henry is a woman!

This was revealed to me after I’d finished reading a rather brilliant book. Given what I do and the sport I chiefly follow, I ashamed to say that despite having owned David Conn’s ‘the Beautiful Game’ for a couple of years now, I’d not got round to reading it.

For those of you unacquainted with the book it’s a trip through the murky world of the modern game, how we ended where we are and the winners and losers. David Conn is football’s foremost investigative journalist and he set himself the task of getting to grips with how a floundering game ended up being awash with millionaires, both on and off the pitch and footballing debris left behind by the success stories.

From one man and his dog at Glossop North End to one man and his yacht at Chelsea, Conn’s professional odyssey, inspired by his own distaste for his beloved Manchester City’s wheeler and dealer Peter Swales, charted the games decent into and phoenix like rise out of a self dug desperate hole.

The game likes to present the post 1990 upturn in fortunes as a series of masterstrokes by thrusting young Turks, visionary businessmen who wanted to save the game they loved. Fortunately those that run football in this country are as successful at PR as they were at preventing Erickson’s wandering hands. Not many average Joe’s on the terraces trust the Premiership, the FA or the Football League, but if you really want to know why it happened, where it happened and just how many opportunities to regain a semblance of control were squandered by the FA, read this book.

You’ll be aware of many of the central characters, David Dein’s recent travails at Arsenal should evoke no feelings of Sympathy, having read of his exploits over the last 15 years we ought to expect him to resurface, financially improved, very soon. Noel White was a key figure in ensuring Venables England reign was brief, that wasn’t his only contribution.

I very clearly remember the whole creation of the premier league, it seemed fundamentally wrong at the time, Graham Taylor was probably already a ridiculed figure by this time, but for the England manager to vociferously oppose the big clubs was remarkable…could you imagine Steve Mclaren doing the same?

At the point when the FA should’ve been at their most belligerent…they caved, Conn shows how easy it would’ve been for those who purport to be the guardians of the national game to block the clubs and prevent the premier league. Sky’s money was coming one way or another; seventy clubs might just have seen a bit more of it.

More than anything else, considering the national obsession with the game, I’m amazed that there are so few books that tackle this side of the game. There are lots of titles on the shelves that celebrate the great and the quirky, lots that cater to our natural obsessions and prejudices. But so few that investigate, inform and educate without becoming lazy or personal.

I’ve recently read a couple of books on American sports, Next Man Up by John Feinstein and MoneyBall by Michael Lewis. One is on American Football, the other on Baseball. I’ve no particular interest in either, other than the average male’s ability to watch any sport. Both are really interesting and very well written, both reveal much of what blight’s those particular sports and how individuals can divert the interest of the game for their own ends. It’s very clear in both games that their Governing bodies, however flawed they may be, have an overriding sense of their sports place in the nations conscious. They recognise the need for a moral certainty and clarity. Yes, both sports are multi-million dollar industries, both are driven to create more and more dividend, but both appear to understand that if their public perceives their Sport to be corrupt or morally bankrupt, the game will quite literally be up!

There’s nothing in Conn’s book, or my own personal experience to suggest that Football has anybody who is interested in looking after the game itself, anywhere near the seat of power.

The Beautiful Game was originally written in 2003 and updated in 2005, since then we’ve had an influx of foreign ownership, Ken bates at Leeds Utd and the Steven’s report…no sign that anything’s getting better. Prices are going through the roof and middle ranking second tier clubs can’t afford to buy a player for the equivalent of Michael Ballack’s weekly wage.

We all moan about it, we all rail against the injustices we see week in week out, but I think it’s the duty for all right minded football fans to arm yourselves with the facts and read this book.

For those of you who have sat through this thinking ‘why doesn’t he use this blog to mention QPR a bit more’, well here’s something for you all to chew on…when the then big 5 came up with the premiership, ensuring the cash boom for the elite and damning the rest to uncertainty and possible oblivion, you have to remember that not one of the other 17 clubs stood up to it, raised objections or thought for a moment about those below and the effect it would produce.

Well one of those 17 was Queens Park Rangers…currently a byword for ailing clubs.

Rogue Male.

Every so often a topic hit’s the message board will all the newsworthiness of a Varc missive on how we’re all doomed. ‘Guess who supports the R’s’, followed by a spurious report about some near-celeb sporting a hooped top. This could mean that they’re one of us or in the area, committing a few burglaries. We all get excited and then trot out a list of possible celebrity fans…then we go back to moaning about Paladini.

Nothing wrong with anyone supporting the R’s, albeit no kind of positive indicator or mental stability, and it’s certainly no longer the natural home of the glory hunter. There’s no chance of Michael Jackson or Sly Stallone being paraded at Loftus Rd, though the latter proved a formidable stopper in Escape to Victory!

There are those who we can safely say are time served, bona-fide brethren of our club, Mick Jones is the only legendary musician I’ve witnessed going through the sale bin at the club shop, Robert Elms love him or loathe him wears his colours forcefully. While I’m sure Andrew Ridgely getting punched on our terraces was merely a cover up for a nose-job, I’ve seen that Wham video with him poncing around in an R’s kit enough to believe he’s sincere and as much as I despair every time he’s mentioned, Pete Doherty putting Kate Moss in a top on the inside sleeve of his last album just made me think…yep! Spot on.

I can’t help but wonder about how we react to the ‘news’ that another celeb has been outed as a Rangers supporter. I suppose it depends on who it is. I’ve seen no evidence to suggest that Bill Bailey is a QPR fan, yet it’s taken as gospel. Wendy James of fifteen-minute famer’s Transvision Vamp, maybe, but Vanessa Redgrave…an R, this one is too far fetched. Outspoken on everything from Vietnam to the minimum wage, yet I didn’t see her on the barricades during the Fulham and Wimbledon merger debates!

Once a person in the public eye is confirmed it changes our perception of them. Alex Tudor will always be a talented young man who never really reached his potential…but he’s one of us. Ashley Giles, the erstwhile King of Spain is mocked as the ‘wheelie bin’ in most quarters and would be treated with indifference in this household, were it not for his allegiance. Ashley has had a lot to deal with recently, I can only guess how hard it’s been for him and his family, but I share this one heartache with him and I understand his pain.

So why save my vitriol for Michael Nyman? The composer of many film scores and countless minimalist classical pieces produced a piece of work entitled ‘the final score’. Part of a larger piece; it was inspired by the QPR team of the seventies and Stan Bowles in particular. In a film inspired by the music and the publicity that followed, Nyman positively gushed at the memories leaving us in no doubt as to where he was, shoulder to shoulder with the Superhoops.

Nyman, however, seems very aware of his image, take a look at his website, fashionably donning mock-eighteenth century glasses he looks every inch the avant-garde musician. So when a broadsheet asked for a colour piece a few years ago, something about his love of football, what do you think he came up with? Gerry Francis’ goal of the season, Stan dropping his shorts, 1967, 1976 or 4-1 at Old Trafford?
No, he chose to write about how much he enjoyed watching Spurs with his sons! He was almost reduced to a puddle by the enthralling spectacle! Now I’m not a father, and I’d like to think I’d give any child of mine a choice (whilst nudging them gently, obviously) and if they chose Spurs I’d like to think I’d indulge them in their choice…but to celebrate it and the experience of watching them…not possible.

You see, we’re no longer the sexy choice of the chattering classes, for someone like Nyman to go on about Loftus Road at a Knightsbridge cocktail party would elicit blank looks…mention ‘Tottingham’ and they’re off and running, he doubtless does a very good Martin Jol impression…every other Spurs fan I’ve ever met does.

This has happened before, Phil Collins was often touted as an R, but with his hair went his soul and by the start of the eighties he was mouthing off about Gazza and Linaker like the good ol’ Lilywhite he wasn’t…good riddance!

A few weeks ago, Nyman was mentioned again as an R’s supporter, lazy journalism or has something lured him back…the poetry in (falling) motion that is Marc Nygaard, the sanguine elegance of Steve Lomas, the stout heart and sound mind of Zesh Rehman…you can see why he’d give up White Hart Lane.

Maybe he’s just been tempted by the sheer weight of celebrity rumoured to be holding Queen’s Park Rangers close to their heart. Try googling Celebrity-Fans-QPR and see what you get, Nick Cave, Robert Smith of the Cure, Leslie Thomas (I suspect this is true given the amount of mentions we get on ‘The Last Detective’), Jamie Oliver, Rat Scabies, Ade Edmondson, Graham Parker (would the punk movement have foundered completely if we’d carried off the title in 76?), Sir George Young, Ralf Little (that has to be arse!), Matthew Kelly, Henry Kelly, The Pasadenas (I’m not making this up), David Cassidy, Bruce Welch of the Shadows and Martin Clunes!

But there’s one name that came up, one name that if it were true would make everything all right. If Betty Boo is a QPR fan then I know I’m on a righteous path…Altogether now…
…And boy, I really miss you
and all I wanna do is kiss you
I’ve used up all my tissues
’cause there’s more serious of issues…
What does she mean?

Rogue Male.