So Much for Harry Redknapp

About a half second after being considered a candidate to replace He Who Shall Not Be Named, Portsmouth boss Harry Redknapp was arrested on suspicion of conspiracy to defraud and false accounting following Lord Stevens’ football bung investigation.

Psst, Americans! Bungs are bribes – secret and unauthorised payments that agents make to club officials to help secure transfer deals. The club pays the agent a fee for arranging the transfer of a player, but the agent then illegally returns a cut of this sum to the club official personally as a "payment" for allowing the deal to go ahead in the first place.

In the biggest crackdown on football corruption ever mounted on a single day, the police also raided the homes of and arrested: former Portsmouth owner and current Leicester chair Milan Mandaric, Pompey chief executive Peter Storrie, Charlton player Amdy Faye (on loan at Rangers) and agent Willie McKay. This follows Tottenham defender Pascal Chimbonda’s arrest for similar issues in September. McKay, who once named a racehorse ‘Harry Redknapp’, was involved in Chimbonda’s £4.5m move from Wigan to Spuds last August. 

Well there goes the only legitimate English candidate for the England job and frankly, that’s just fine with me. In an ideal world, we’d have an English boss but none of the available options have the desired talent or experience. So thanks but no thanks. All Redknapp did here, aside from become the first name to drop in what will likely be a rather eye-opening investigation, is save the FA from dealing with the thousands of jingoistic whingers that would prefer to sacrifice highest quality for preferred nationality.

Now, it’ll be months or years before we learn if Harry Redknapp had any real involvement in this but one thing he is presently guilty of is being a freaking dumb ass. After being fingerprinted, DNA swabbed and kept at the Chichester Police Station all day before being released on bail, the Pompey boss had this to say:

"We all helped the police with their inquiries, but it doesn’t directly concern me, it’s other people involved. I’ve been answering questions to help the police. I am not directly concerned with their inquiries… "They have to arrest you to talk to you, for you to be in the police station. I think that’s the end of it, it didn’t directly concern me." 

They have to arrest you to talk to you. What in the hell kind of nonsense is that? The police just don’t go around arresting witnesses all willy nilly. What they do is contact you and say, "Hey ‘Arry, we’ve got an investigation going on. You mind coming in and telling us what you can? Yah? Brilliant." They don’t fingerprint you, swab your DNA, raid your home, take your computers, detain you or release you on bail like a criminal unless, oop!, they suspect that you ARE a criminal! Dumb bastard.  

An additional thumbs down to Harry’s son Mark, former model and failed football agent, who believes the arrest is a big conspiracy to scupper his dad’s chances of becoming England boss:

"Why is this happening now when the England job is vacant? There was no need for them to come around like this."

Smart chaps, those Redknapps. Someone in the English justice system has manipulated a multi-million pound investigation just to make sure Harry isn’t as attractive an option to the FA as, say, Fabio Capello, Jose Mourinho or Juergen Klinsmann. That makes complete sense. About as much sense as the police arresting people in order to talk to them.

My Herd of Modern Day Promethei

So I live with three boys. I love them dearly but like most men, when they put their heads together, they turn into prehistoric idiots. Normally, this doesn’t faze me but last night, I was left nothing short of lost.

For at least two weeks they’ve been talking about building a bonfire – not for a party or anything, which is completely legit, but because "that’d be cool." But with an inch of snow on the ground, what’s the point, right? No. I got home to find a heap of wood in my backyard and the lads going to town on it with axes. They were wearing work gloves and hats and the whole deal. It was a ridiculous sight that I, sadly, let pass without comment. But when I happened upon 2 economy cans of Dinty Moore beef stew simmering on the stove, I poked my head back out to ask where they parked Babe the Blue Ox. They were not amused.

Eventually they called me back outside to join them in the supposed magic. Now, I was told a bonfire was in the making, which, to me, meant I’d see a free-wheeling beast made of anything and everything that would inspire drunkards and potheads to magically appear, hold hands and dance around in one of those scenes reminiscent of a Grateful Dead concert.

But this was no bonfire. Christ, it wasn’t even a campfire. This looked more like the Dinty Moore flame from the kitchen. If I got a toothpick, I might have been able to roast a mini-marshmallow. So you know me – I couldn’t help but point these things out and, yet again, they got indignant. To make amends, I offered to get some lighter fluid…

"Ugh! We don’t need lighter fluid, Flash!" "Yeah! We can build a fire without all that, THANKS!" I don’t know who they thought they were. This isn’t Man vs. Wild, ya know? I didn’t see flint and a bunch of rocks just laying around.

In any case, they stacked, steepled, prodded, poked, rearranged and stacked some more. After another 10 minutes of poking, a real fire began to sustain itself. It reached one foot in height and then two. And that’s when they went crazy. Hooting, hollering, patting each other on the back. It was like watching the monkeys at the zoo. Somehow in this process, 5 more males arrived with a dog in tow, as if they sensed fire creation and were drawn to our house by primal instinct. Not surprisingly, the emoting continued and soon they were all heaping on more logs. After the fire reached 6 or so feet, the herd sat around it and watched in amazement.

"That’s an incredible fire," commented one. "Yeah, that’s reeeeeeally, really nice." Heads nodded in agreement. "We should throw on more logs and see how big it’ll get." "No. Let it chill. Goood stuff." My mouth fell open. This shit was not that deep. But after four or five minutes passed without another word, I went in the house. Fucking weirdos.

Now, fires are a breathtaking and quite fun to look at – I get that. But what’s the deal with the self-congratulatory bonding over building one? And why be so enamored with the quality of blaze? It took 3 hours to make it and in a quarter the time, a separate fire could have spontaneously erupted on its own and burned down half the block. To make matters worse, these goons were outside for God knows how long, doing little more, than staring at it, nodding to each other and randomly poking it with sticks. When I woke up this morning, it was gone. I’m not sure how they put it out but if they all peed on it, I wouldn’t be remotely surprised.

About an hour ago one of them called me, "Hey, did you see the fire last night." "Uh, I was out there with you." "Yeah, well… it was a gooood fire."

??????????????????? 

The Raiders Are Kings of the World!

I kid, of course. But allow me to congratulate Coach Lane Kiffin and the Oakland Raiders on ending the 17-game losing streak of pure AFC West shame and, barring a freakish miracle, nailing the 3rd and final win of the 2008 NFL season. That’s a 50% improvement on Art Shell’s gross incompetence, so huzzah to the boys.

I’ll be honest, I actually thought we’d pull down 4 wins this season. Crazy but true. After a summer listening to Kiffin’s stuttered song and dance about innovative methods and youthful vision, I had about a half inch of hope going into the season. That grew to a whole inch after a near miss in Denver and two straight wins going into week 5. At that point, I couldn’t help but sit back and think, "Dare I believe?" … Well, I didn’t and we dropped 6 games in typical Raider fashion.

As such, I didn’t have much hope for Sunday with the Chiefs. I figured we’d make a battle of it before pissing the game away with a minute to spare.

But while thinking about everything that could go wrong for the Silver and Black, I failed to consider the one thing that could work to our advantage at the end of the 4th quarter: Herman Edwards.

The 2004 New York Jets aside, no Herm-led team has had a winning record after 6 games. Add that to the fact that Edwards is not only one of the worst clock managers of all time but also one of the worst in-game field generals since Gen. Ambrose Burnside, and I should have known that the odds were just too high in our favor for things to go wrong. 

Go Raiders and thanks Herm!

Fanball Drops More Useless Information

Because I’m a neurotic fantasy everything player, I get baseball and football fantasy updates from every free service on the internets. Around midnight, I got this little nugget from Fanball: 

Oh, really, Fanball? Back stiffness? Are you sure?

Vinny Testaverde has gotten to the point where I’m surprised his old balls aren’t being referenced as being "in the war." If it wasn’t his back, it’d be his knee or his wrist or his prostate or the finger he uses to slide open bags of Werther’s Originals. By simple virtue of having old, saggy balls, Vinny Testaverde should be questionable EVERY WEEK. He’s not Julio Franco. These days, he’d get a hernia watching porn.

So come on, Fanball. Stop sending alerts about Testaverde’s status, as if it’s some type of fantasy-impacting revelation. Anyone that actually needs that tip doesn’t have a team that’s worth a damn anyway. And as a side note, there is nothing Steve Smith owners want to hear other than: "Steve Smith traded to team with viable quarterback." Get serious and give me some information I can use.

Your Move, Barwick

In about an hour, Brian Barwick and the rest of those daft muppets at the FA will conduct an emergency meeting on the status of Steve McClaren’s employment. It’s possible that they’ll keep McClaren on but surely, even they aren’t that stupid. After Israel threw England a courageous lifeline on Saturday, the Three Lions opted for suicide, displaying a horrifying combination of prehistoric tactical maneuvers and shoddy, school boy football that should mark the end of the McClown Error in England.

As the FA embarks on this next coaching search, no cock ups can occur or the whole of the British Isles will burn. Oh, you think I’m being melodramatic? I assure you, chaos and disorder will reign from coast to coast. With no country in our clinically depressed archipelago being represented at Euros next summer, it’s not as if there will be much else to do but loot, riot and burn Soho Square to the ground.

For anyone that dares think Steve McClown is getting an unfair shake, lets recap the highlights in his disastrous, 12-game reign of disgusting mediocrity:

England 0 – 0 Macedonia

Whether managing a squad of amazing talents or overrated punks, a manager can lead a group to relative success if he can motivate, instill discipline and put his players in a position to win. McClown could offer none of the above.

As much as this result needed to happen to get McClaren shuttled off to the hills, the match was still excruciatingly painful to watch. Shame and horror do not even begin to describe how it felt to see our boys proved inferior in every level of the game. We’re only lucky that the result wasn’t worse.

But what pisses me off more than the way we lost is that McClaren begged to be judged on the whole of his campaign and then stubbornly refused to resign once it was all said and done. It’s honestly too bad that there must be an emergency board meeting this morning. McClown should have been sacked AT Wembley – right on that jacked up pitch. And I don’t mean fired. I’m talking literally sacked – black bagged Peter Creedy style and carried away into the rainy night.

So long, Stevie Ginger, you no-skilled git. Good luck with your prehistoric tactics in Iraq or Kansas City or whatever sorry squad settles on you as their shaman of mediocrity.

Thanks for Nothing, Israel

England is officially boned. I’m not talking about prospects for Euro 2008 qualification – our chances to blow that remain as high as ever. I’m referring to our hope for future development under a manager instead of a wooden-toothed, ginger haired poseur. With the way things sorted out on Saturday, the State of the Three Lions would have better odds on a happy ending in a choose your own adventure book.

The England job is one of the most prestigious in international football; whoever serves as manager should be able to man almost any position in the world. But, amazingly, we are lead by a man that would struggle to be named manager at a mid-table Premiership team.

Suggesting McClown as a solution for managerial vacancies at clubs like Real Madrid, Barca, ManUre, Bayern Munich, AC Milan or Arsenal would elicit nothing but laughter. And when put in that perspective, his current job status is truly bizarre. I can’t fathom – considering those things – how McClaren’s current employment came to be. I mean, I know the facts but I’m still struggling to come to terms with how people that care about English football actually allowed it to occur.

I can think of no top flight manager in the world that would be a worse option for England. No manager worth his salt that the FA could say, "Meh… how bout McClaren?" Has he proven himself to be a good coach for high caliber managers? Yes. But is he a high caliber manager? Not even close! Steve McClaren is the personification of the Peter Principle, only he’s been promoted to a position that outstrips his ability.

In that vein, perhaps the bulk of the blame shouldn’t fall on his shoulders. It’s up to the players to play, afterall. And they’re spoiled, overrated punks that, on the whole, display little effort and passion, look at the opposing team as if they have no right to breathe the same air and then feign shock when things go wrong. But their failures notwithstanding, it is incumbent upon McClaren to do more than place our disparate collection of overpriced show ponies in a 4-4-1-1 and call it a day… isn’t it?

"It’s 4-5-1 today, gentlemen! Hargreaves and Barry: hunker down, guard the box and be ready for Cashley Cole to screw the lot of us when he gets smoked in no man’s land. Becks: Ping 30 yarders into the box. Some will turn into throw-ins, 5 will become corners and one just might hit Crouch in the head. Crouch: Be ready."

"Didn’t we do that when we were playing in the 4-4-2?

"Yes. Yes we did."

It’s like he’s not even trying. I know developing an actual tactical strategy and building a team of people that can work together to attack the upcoming opponent’s weaknesses and defend against its strengths is a real time drain but damn. Does McClaren really have anything else to do? He’s certainly not watching football. It’s like those people that go to work all day and do nothing but shop online and watch YouTube videos. At some point, even they get bored and do some work to spice up the day. Surely, McClaren reached that point long ago.

But thanks to Israel, it may not even matter. Israel is my secondary national team and while I really appreciate the fighting spirit on most days, was the injury time goal really necessary on Saturday? Was it? Honestly? Now we’re faced with the possibility of actually making Euros and I have to pray for Croatia to be completely inept… praying that England will be good is about as fruitful as setting a wad of $20s on fire.

Now, if we win on Wednesday, the ideal situation is that the FA gives Ginger a swift kick in the arse in favor of Martin O’Neill – or anyone really. But it’s far more likely that we’re left with the following two scenarios:

1. England falls to Croatia, making the managerial question somewhat irrelevant until the close of Euros.
2. Result 1: A wiser, more patient FA brass conducts a legitimate coaching search and gets it right.
3. Result 2: A botched search leads to the second debacle in as many years with an astonishingly terrible hire like Bruce Arena.
4. England wins and the FA does nothing but feel smug vindication against the criticizing masses. The whole of England will bitch and moan until the lads and their wags are shuffled out of the Alps in the quarterfinals. As McClown preaches about disproving naysayers and gunning for the World Cup, the Three Lions will slip further down the spiral. Mediocrity doesn’t just beget mediocrity; it also begets inferiority and if we keep this up, English football will descend into the sort of junk that Americans largely view as a complete waste of time.

I’m betting on scenario #2. Why? Because we’re English and whatever situation will create the most pain is what will end up going down. Thanks again, Israel. Jerks.

Humiliated, Shamed and Mildly Vindicated at Wal-Mart

Due to some unfortunate events at work, my Nerf basketball caught fire and melted into this gooey heap of mess. The day was all but here and gone before I remembered that I needed a replacement but at nearly 9 pm, my only options were Meijer and Wal-Mart and Meijer’s toy department is substandard.

So I headed to Wal-Mart… There are times when my desperation knows no bounds.

<information tangent>Now, if you’ve read this blog for any length of time, you’re well aware that I suffer from some serious personal problems, including but not limited to: debilitating OCD, germophobia and misanthropic malaise. And since I generally do my best to avoid human contact if I’m not a) at work, b) in a sports-related situation or c) on my 8th shot, the latter two issues, make trips to Wal-Mart, particularly troublesome.

Depending on your location, Wal-Mart is either a pretty decent store or a mecca for the unclean, uncouth and unsanitary of your town. If a sign hung outside mine that said: "Give me your barefoot, your trashy, your huddled unwashed masses yearning to breathe illness and stank, the wretched refuse of your teeming shore, send these, the homeless, tempest-tost to me, I lift my lamp of slashed prices beside the golden, sliding door!," I would not be remotely surprised.

Seven of ten people at my local Wal-Mart are missing teeth, various items of clothing and immune systems. Their children are sticky, fat, snot-covered abominations that scream, fuss and whine. Maybe they’re hungry, maybe they’re cold, maybe they’re just tired of staring at their mother’s muffin top while she bends over to get another 24-pack of Natty Lite. It’s anyone’s guess. And if they’re school age, they rip and run through the aisles, spreading colds, flu, SARs and funk, while their parent/guardian mindlessly scopes out Dog the Bounty Hunter on dvd and I cower near the wet wipes and hold my breath.

As such, I started bringing along a latex glove for my Wal-Mart visits. Crazy? Paranoid? I don’t deny it. I pick up a lot of stuff while I’m at the store that I don’t end up buying. I’d rather be crazy than come down with the plague because some "patron" coughed and snotted all over something before I happened along. </information tangent>

Armed with my latex glove, I grabbed the Nerf stuff pretty quickly and then meandered around the store looking for stuff I didn’t need. I wound up in the empty automotive section and tested out some car freshener that I carried for 8 aisles until I saw a Jeep trademarked utility pack. It came with bits, blades and what looked like flares and only cost $30. So I switched air freshener for pack and kept going until I reached the express line. All in all, I made 10 product exchanges on my way to checkout before placing my final pickup – a 10 pack of Orbit gum – into a magazine rack.

While waiting on slow-as-molasses Glenda to check people out, a grim-looking man approached:

"Miss, please step out the line." I asked why. "We need to talk to you about your activities." I didn’t see any "we." Just some an overweight tool in a black outfit. I refused to leave the line until I received an explanation on these supposed "activities" … I should have left the line.

"Miss, we’ve been watching you in the store with one hand in your coat pocket and one hand exposed. Where is the Renuzit spray." "On a shelf." "And the tool package? "On a shelf." "Budweiser neon sign." "On a shelf… the only thing that isn’t on a shelf is that pack of gum. It’s in a rack." He stared at me with pure rent-a-cop malice until some dude came in over a radio. Apparently my "on a shelf" descriptions were too vague, prompting the wench in front of me to clutch her purse, as if there was anything in there beyond condoms and a pack of Nicorette.

Security guy began questioning me again, so I took off my coat, shook it and asked where I’d put all of these allegedly shoplifted items. "Are you saying you shoplifted?" "No, YOU are." "We haven’t said anything. We’re just trying to get to the bottom of this. Maybe you have a partner. Maybe you’re leaving stuff behind… that would explain your glove. No prints." I was dumbfounded. "Look, I don’t think you get it." "Explain it to me then."

But I couldn’t. I couldn’t out my own craziness and paranoia in front of the 30 people in the vicinity – 25 of them were the very reason why I was wearing the glove in the first place! But when he threatened to call the police, I came clean in as low a tone as possible. Like it mattered. Security guy’s voice went up 450 decibels: "SO YOU DON’T WANT TO TOUCH ANYTHING IN WAL-MART BECAUSE YOU THINK ALL OF OUR SHOPPERS HAVE DISEASES AND YOU’RE AFRAID YOU’LL GET SICK?" "Well… see…"

Security guy got on the radio. "The girl isn’t a suspect. She’s just a lady Monk." "A what?" "You know that show on channel 51 with the crazy guy." "The blonde on that show is hot." Security guy walked away.

The rest of the shoppers stared at me with scorn. At least they didn’t boo or hurl empties. About 4 seconds passed before the purse clencher – who was buying construction paper, cigarettes, balloons and Coke – called me a snobby brat and the lady behind me chimed in as well: "Hey little girl, just because I don’t have a nice coat like you doesn’t mean I’m not a good person. This is America. We’re not out to hurt anybody." While I tried to figure out how that related to germs, she started coughing. And I mean really coughing. Wet, phlegmy, had pneumonia for 18 weeks coughing. When she finally stopped, she wiped her hands on her pants and put the People magazine back in the rack.

So appropriate.