The Moll

A few months ago a friend of mine asked via a comment on this blog, 'Why The Moll?' Well out of sheer egotism, I'm going to tell. It was none other than my old sparring partner Bradfields who posed the question. Any other Tom Dick or Harry would have been ignored but my relationship with Bradfields has always been intense and complex. I never realised how much until recently when he informed me of his long running resentment, justified i might add, about the way we parted company over our last period of working together. Let me just take a moment to explain that Bradfields and i met in the pressure cooker atmosphere of the catering trade where i was his boss. Our period of incarceration at the hands of this unforgiving but rewarding trade was drug and alcohol fuelled, The Bradfields was at University, just learning the facts of life. I was settling down after a hardcore drink and drug problem. We met somewhere in the middle. Unlike the lazy and slack Bish who i will mention another day Bradfields was a fucking hard worker, prepared to stay up all night partying and still turn up on time and knock out a 9 hour shift. The thing that set him apart was he actually took pride in what he did and the busier we were the happier he was. This may seem at odds with the Stoner image he cultivates now but i have a sneaking suspicion that the passion lies dormant until a day it's once again ignited. I've had some particularly good arguments with Bradfields, some of them almost resulting in fisticuffs but we've somehow thankfully managed to remain friends. There is a considerable age gap between us and i can never tell if he's very mature or I'm chasing my youth. Still much respect to the man, someone once told me that it wasn't easy being my friend so the few I've had from over the years deserve a shout and most of the ones i can talk about will get a mention. Don't worry those in prison or still 'at it' will be spared.

If it's hard work being my friend imagine being my wife. Well my co-pilot on this bizarre journey is The Moll. Now we've been together 15 years now, through some experiences that even i wouldn't care to recall in these pages, but together we are. A Moll is obsolete British slang for a criminals girlfriend, now I'm in no way inferring that I'm a gangster or criminal but the blind devotion shown by the likes of Bonnie, of Bonnie and Clyde fame appealed to me. The Molls unwavering devotion in times of trouble has been flattering and she's also rode shotgun on some occasions that have been hair raising to say the least. She's broken the law on more than one occasion for The Trainer and put herself on the frontline too many times too recall. She's seen The Trainer up, down, sideways, flying, crashing and burning. Yet she wakes up every morning with a smile for me and tells me she loves me at least twice a day everyday. Lets make one thing clear though, although The Moll and i have been stealing horses together for a long time and she is a devoted wife and mother, she is nobodies fool. She is her own woman, strong, independent and sexy. She is one of the few people i will always listen to. Right or wrong she usually has a point. We decided a long time ago, well before we married, that if our relationship was to work it would be on totally equal terms. Everything would be done with full respect and regard for the others feelings. We would allow each other to pursue individual lives, at the same time staying true to the old fashioned values of marriage and the vows we made. It's not always been easy, but the best things in life take a little work and although it's a well worn saying you do get out of marriage what you put into it. The Moll doesn't fit into any stereotype. She's funny loving, witty and humorous at the same time she's serious and profound, although she isn't what we would class as academically clever, she has an amazing intuition that sees her through and isn't often wrong. If she has one failing it's that she hides her talents. There are many occasions that she lets me bask in peoples flattery while she stands in the wings. At the risk of sounding overly sentimental I'm grateful for every day i get with this marvelous woman, just thinking about her makes me smile. Thanks

Lets do this one for the fans.

I was going to avoid mentioning the game between the two most hated teams in England but this morning some xenophobic fool insisted on trying to convince me that The Premiership is the greatest league in the world. Is he fucking demented. What makes The Premiership great? I'll agree like many other leagues, there are some pretty useful teams. Man U, Chelsea, Arsenal, Liverpool(?) are the best teams in England, all have represented themselves well in Europe over recent years. Having watched the game on Sunday though i think we can agree that the English Game is alive and well. Far from changing English football positively though more continental players, we have stuck to what we do best. Hence players like Schevchenko, struggle but work horses like Carvalho and Makelele shine. Can anybody honestly tell me that Ronaldo wouldn't find his style of football better suited to Spain or Italy. No I'm afraid the English league, like it's Spanish and Italian counterparts is a great league but nothing more. The German Bundesliga also has some great teams and magnificent football but gets far less coverage than any of the other three. So, all four leagues have pro's and con's, all are enjoyable but is there really a best. I personally prefer La Liga but i live in Spain and watch mostly Spanish games. As a life long Barcelona fan I'm happy to see my team win 90% of it's games and bring home lots of silverware and i honestly think we play better football week in week out than any team in England. If i have a gripe it's that, at Barcelona we have a habit that the Italians also fall foul of, we can't just score a goal, it's got to be near perfect. Build up, possession, speed, execution. We play the ball around looking for the perfect opening then as we bear down on goal we look for another pass. Arsenal are also culprits here but that's about it for English teams. Witness how many times Liverpool shoot from outside the box. Though that could be because they are a very one dimensional/player side( but that's for another day). I think you get the idea. How many times do we see 6 yard scrambles result in a goal that we don't know the scorer of until the commentator tells us. The continentals aren't famous for heading the ball but most players can swerve it with the inside or outside of the boot. In England though any body part will do. Remember I'm from Leicester and a big Leicester City fan. Gary Lineker is still a hero to me. England's second top goal scorer ever and how many goals did you see Lineker shin in. Plenty. How about that one for England off his arse. OK Maradona used his hand but Lineker used just about every other part of his anatomy. It's never been as important in England how we score as long as we score. That's not to say there aren't great goals scored week in week out in the Premiership but for me the build up is better elsewhere.
I'm sure there are people out there that can put a far better arguement for all four leagues than i ever could but the fact remains it's personal choice.Which brings us nicely to the point, what is great about English football? Quite simply it's the fans. Now we're in territory where i'm pretty sure i can't be out argued. I regularly watch all four leagues we've mentioned and visit grounds around Spain, I've watched football in Rome and Amsterdam but I've never seen or heard anything that quite rivals the average Saturday afternoon in Blighty. Just watching Match Of The Day proves the point. The songs, the chants, the jeers. OK the Italians can light a few flares and give the odd chant but they can't compare with even the lowliest of English clubs. We all marvel about the Milan Derby, Barcelona v Madrid, Ajax v Feeyenord, Boca Juniors v River Plate but the atmosphere still can't touch what you have on the other side of the channel. I have two very fond footballing memories that stand out when it comes to atmosphere. Leicester v Millwall at the New Walkers Stadium and England Spain at the old Wembley. The first one was memorable for Claridge scoring in the 20 seconds for Millwall but not celebrating in front of a crowd that adored him for more than just winning us trophies. They also had Dennis Wise playing for them after we'd sacked him and he'd threatened to sue the club that was nearly on the point of Bankruptcy. To top it all Mark Magee had pledged himself to Leicester as manager then walked out double quick time to take over at Wolves when they made the call. For the next hour and 44 minutes though there wasn't a moment of silence, the Leicester faithful sang their hearts out. Scowcroft 10, Elliott 25, Scowcroft 52, Dickov 78 were the rewards as Mickey Adams had probably his best day as Leicester Manager. I don't think the Walkers Stadium will ever sound the same again. It was a truly memorable experience. The other one is slightly better known. I was behind the goal for the penalty shootout against Spain in Euro 96. Stuart Pearce showed balls of steel to step up after missing a penalty in another major competition and slot home. When he raised that fist the crowd erupted, i can see him in my mind as clear as day, I've got goosebumps remembering. We cheered, we danced, grown men cried and we sang 'Three Lions' and 'Vindaloo' for an eternity. Hearing 'Three Lions' on the radio still makes me shudder but to hear over 50,000 people singing it together was something else. Only in England though.
Roy Keane may be Irish but he foresaw the future of English football and it was eating a prawn sandwich. I'm not going to defend football violence but it's preferable to corporate boxes and debenchers. The fans of England are the greatest in the world and those of you who read this and know me well, will appreciate i don't have many positive things to say about England. A football fan knows what i'm talking about. Shankly knew. It's not just football. it goes a lot further. Is it worth arguing over. Fucking definitely, I'm sure I'll have some major debates about this blog alone. The whole point of fandom is to be passionate, to immerse yourself in the escapism that is football. It's unique in that it unites and divides at the same time. Strangely the other day i was talking with The Moll and she pulled me up on my habit of asking males between the age of 20-50 who I've only just met what team they support. She pointed out that if they say they don't really like football, i almost ignore them for the remainder of our conversation. It sounds awful but I can honestly say I've never had a close male friend who wasn't a football fan. So look at the team you support and be honest with yourself. Who's more important? The selfish little cunt who doesn't feel valued unless somebody pays him an extra 5 grand a week or the parent who pays 5 grand a year to take his 2 kids all over the country to support the team they love?

Monday Blues

After a fantastic weekend, Monday feels the same as always. I woke up as usual with the sun in my eyes, made the usual noises about what a beautiful day it was and how we shouldn't take it for granted. I'd spent Sunday with the family reliving the glories of the Saturday games. Watched the dreary Man U - Chelsea game and decided that i should confine my interest in the English game to my beloved Leicester City, even though we lost to the sheep on Saturday. I took a glass of wine with The Moll in the evening and met Just The Artist, whose wife had arrived from Bradford that very day with their two sons. The Haemlich joined us and we chatted shit for a while then went our separate ways. Sundays are wonderful over here, i feel a real sense of detachment from the rest of the world on a Sunday even when we have a game.
Well it's training tonight and The Haelich is suffering from the same flu that The Moll and i had last week so he'll be spending the night at home with John The Baptist, his born again flat mate. Ladies training at the moment is a bit hit and miss, as i think i said we've cut down to 2 nights a week but still find time to clash with The Drunk that trains the juveniles. Ho Hum. I'm hoping that the weekend without football will have left the girls chomping at the bit to get on the pitch and play some football. I've got to admit i'm feeling tired and lazy right at this momnet and if you offered me a night in home watching TV, i'd take it but The Trainer does not shirk from responsibility. I'll be there at 20.15 hrs waiting to see how many girls are fit enough to train. Doing a few laps of the pitch to show willing then having 1shades of shit kicked out of me by men hating soccerettes. It's amazing how even our smallest player The Pixie has no trouble barging, kicking and gouging a 95 kilo skinhead but come Saturday all the girls can be knocked down by a light breeze. If only i could take their aggression against me and turn it against others, we really be a force to be reckoned with then.

Sat pt 3

OK, this might seem a little hard going for readers but believe me it's harder going sitting here, typing right now than you can imagine.. The Mini Dragon went out for his second game of the day a little apprehensively. Not surprising i suppose since his coach, in between games, had told me in no uncertain terms that if it were his decision the Mini Dragon would most certainly not be allowed to help out a side that were to play Football '7' with only eight players. Rest and recuperation were what was needed for the boy and that wouldn't be found on a football field. I felt like a bad parent and questioned whether my son was playing to help out a fellow trainer and show his commitment and passion for the club he loves or as a father i was pushing him to live out my relentless quest for pressure cooker situations in that only the strongest can survive.

Yeah right! Do Gooder trainers, like Do Gooders in any walk of life should be avoided at all costs. There's no reasoning with them, therefore they can't be wrong, which they invariably are. A recent example of this syndrome is an Argentinian friend of mine who is a personal trainer. We agreed to start training together. Excellent i thought, not only a friend to train with who knows me and my commitment but man who will push me to the limits of breaking point but is also aware how bring the best out of me. Wrong!!! Do Gooder. The first day we had to start easy so he could ascertain my level of fitness. This is a man i had already played football with for a year, we'd drank, we'd ate, he paid frequent visits to my house. Suddenly though when it's time to go to work and I'm in his professional arena we have to play safe. I can't begin to tell you the amount of times i heard the words,enough, careful, easy and worst of all NO. How about the phrases, that's enough for now, don't over do it, we don't want an injury do we? And worst again leave it for today. I'm fully aware of my limitations and short falls, my weaknesses and eccentricities, i don't need to discuss them and i sure as hell don't need help with them. There's an advert on English TV at the present time with Ray Winston telling us 'there's a bit of a granny culture nowadays' then flogging us cereal, what the supposed grizzled Eastender should say if he were true to his roots is FUCK OFF DO GOODERS I'LL EAT WHAT I LIKE. I feel pretty much the same about my sons' coaches interference, there was nothing to be gained by excluding him from a game the Infantiles (Under14's) so desperately needed to win. At the very best concerns about his ability to play 2 hrs 40 mins of competitive football could be raised but as we were winning by 5 goals at half time yesterday morning and our keeper hadn't touched the ball ,a case could have been made for the coach making one of the 5 changes in the Dragon Boys favour but no, he left him on for the full game. Maybe I've spent too long with my conspiracy theorist colleague and partner in crime Haemlich but maybe the Dragon Boys coach could have been a little bit more sympathetic to a fellow coaches needs. It seems to me that a little co-operation between coaches at the same club wouldn't go a miss, as the gap in sport between professionals and amateurs widens further and further i think it's important that those of us at grass roots level to work together to promote the old fashion Sport For All idea rather than a win at any cost, my team, my ball mentality.

For those of you unfamiliar with the game, Football '7' is played width ways, on half a pitch, with rolling subs, 30 mins each way, each player must play at least 10 mins. The games very fast moving and you need around 11 players to compete successfully. I say again the pace of the game is FAST. So instead of listening to his coach, he played. Instead of listening to his father , The Trainer, 'get a feel for the game' and 'try not to be to adventurous to start with', he went out to dominate the game, from central midfield, against a group of boys 2 years older than him.

I won't bore you with the details, as usually happens when the Mini Dragon plays above his level he relaxed safe in the knowledge that he was only a bit part player and proceeded to be man of the match in a close fought 2-1 win. Scoring the opening goal, a low drive into the bottom corner from about 16 metres and setting up the second by sending a lovely weighted ball through to the striker who finished not only clinically but stylishly as well. Job done. We grabbed more fuel, Pizza Baguette for the boys, nothing for The Moll and Gin And Palo for The Trainer and left for The Hated Arenal.

If you've read previous blogs here you'll know I'm not overly keen on the Mallorcan town of Arenal. I'm not going to sound off too much about the place because it probably has some redeeming features, none though are visible to the eye. The architecture is vile, the streets are quite literally paved with dogshit , walk for an hour in Arenal and you'll need to consult a chiropractor as you'll have neck ache from constantly looking at the floor to dodge the turds. The bars and cafés are cheap and tacky, the staff totally humourless. The soul of the town is missing and it feels like Hell on Earth. Worst of all the Pitch is sand.

When any team used to the synthetic grass of Mallorca has to play on sand and shale, you never get a real game. The ball moves incredibly fast, it's very hard to control and it's difficult to sprint and turn on the surface. Add to that the fact that because of the surface no one wants to fall over and no keeper wants to dive and you get a very one sided game. All teams with sand pitches have a massive home advantage. Today was no different. For the first ten minutes we looked like rabbits in headlights fearful of the ball and afraid to accept the responsibility that comes with being top of the league. The home sided dominated and went 1-0 within 5 mins. The Monkey Boy pulled one back, that looked to me more like a cross than a shot but 1-1 in The Hated Arenal is no time for discussion. I think I've said it here before a draw in Arenal feels like a win, probably because we've never won in in the place. Immediately they hit back 2-1. The half time whistle went and i got involved in a heated argument with a fucking Frenchman of all people whose son was the keeper. A blatant hand ball by there player had been totally ignored by the referee and i had questioned his ability and lineage in Spanish. The frog made a comment and off we went. Oh happy days, sometimes these continental fuckers forget not all Englishmen are devoid of passion. Sensing that his father was about to get involved in another football skirmish the Mini Dragon beat a hasty retreat to the safety of the home fans crowd. The Moll as ever stood her ground beside her man, fully aware of the pressure cooker atmosphere. Even as we argued i was reflecting on my hatred of this disgusting resort. I know we've never won there but all my memories are tainted. In his first year of football here, The Mini Dragon missed a penalty and his trainer dropped him from the team, the resulting acrimony nearly split a team and one friend of mine still refuses to let his son play for that trainer and left s'Horta for good. The troubles all came to a head in Arenal. A year later an on field skirmish almost brings back the eighties to The Trainer as violence erupts in the crowd. Another year another argument as i tangle with fellow s'Horta supporter and veterans coach Miguel about my commitment. The coach resigned later that week. Fucking Arenal. The Hated Arenal.

I was also going through the normal emotions all football fans go through, from country to club to kids. When your team under performs you think 'why do i bother' 'i could be doing something better now' 'I'm getting to emotional/aggressive i need some perspective. As i delved deeper in to my psyche the teams returned to the pitch. The air of gloom seemed to be lifting as our boys walked proudly out, a little swagger and lots of banter. Was this spirit or as kids had they resigned themselves to defeat and were discussing Big Mac v Whopper. I don't know what the Jolly Boy who is our coach said but things changed. We were league leaders, we were winners. We fought for every ball, we pressured them, forced them into mistakes. They looked rankled, it was clear they weren't used to having the game taken to them at home. At just the right moment as just reward we got a lucky goal. Once a gain the surface played a crucial part. A shot took an awful bounce and there keeper missed it, 2-2. the game was well and truly on. End to end stuff. For the first time ever in Arenal i felt we could win. The feeling became stronger as The Monkey Boy drives hard and low from the left to give us the lead. In typical fashion the feeling is now dread, dread that we could come so close but i could all slip away. Fuck that shit. No time for losers. Fight you bastards. 3 mins left and after nearly a full game of The Hated Arenal Thugs pulling our shirts from our backs a blatant foul is finally seen by the ref. Step up Monkey Boy to get his hat trick but more importantly secure a win. I'm not ashamed to say i hugged the trainer. I nearly cried in fact i have tears in my eyes as i write this. It was a wonderful dipping free kick, clearing the wall and impossible to save. The Trainer and The Moll erupted in the home fans area and all they could do was scowl under their breath.

So three games three wins, one at The Hated Arenal. Now I've just got to get the ladies into winning ways. As you can imagine the rest of the night involved, beer, wine and fine food as the family celebrated a great day of football. Even though The Moll and I are still recovering from a severe bout of flu(we do everything together) we managed to paint a small portion of Santanyi Red.


The Dragon Boy Toasts himself



The Monkey sups a tall one

The Trainer would like to point out that all photos depicting minors with alcohol are fictional and no children were harmed in any way in the making of this blog.

Cheers

Saturday part 2

Saturday part one

Mini Update