After a lively smiley-faced, if somewhat disjointed opening ceremony, the tournament’s first boring trivial facts began to squirm their way out of the lushly-laid turf. Turf which, incidentally, is supplied by the Sports Turf Research Institute in Bingley, who are also responsible for England’s training pitches- but not the unforgivably poor surface at Wembley, oddly enough. Anyway, the two key factoids prior to this game were; a host nation had never before lost the opening game of a World Cup and Mexico had never won their first game at all previous World Cups. Could history be made, so early into the tournament? Well, no actually. A draw meant it was ‘as you were’. There’s some good eye-catching kits knocking about at this World Cup; very tasteful, very smart and designed with one eye on the simplicity of kits of a certain vintage. A big pat on the back to the FIFA official who decided that referees could wear any colour, paving the way for stylish all-black kits like Mexico’s change strip.
A knife in the back would be more apt treatment for the genius who thought those bleedin’ vuvuzelas would be a good idea. I was irritated by their infernal honking even before kick-off. The sound these stupid plaggy trumpets make is like a biblically-proportioned swarm of wasps hovering above a gridlocked Texan traffic jam, just as the clocking-off hooter sounds at the Klaxon factory and the world’s biggest horn section tunes up for two hours solid.
Also, whenever I hear reference to vuvuzelas, I either think of Uwe Seeler, the dumpy German slap-head (pictured) whose goal helped dump England out of Mexico ’70 or ‘Zazu’ by Rosie Vela (no relation to young Carlos of Arsenal and Mexico), the sole album by the American model who had a 1986 hit with this cracking Steely Dan-produced synth-pop gem… but then that’s just how my mind processes things. Those vuvuzelas are incredibly irritating on the ears, especially for dogs. Don’t annoy them on purpose or they’ll get their own back on you:
The World Cup’s opening game is usually a cagey ol’ stinker but this one had its moments. Some early endeavour from the Mexicans, and more accurate heading of the ball when left unmarked in the box, should’ve seen them go in at half-time a couple of goals up, despite a late fillip for Bafana Bafana just before the break. What about that goal though, eh? Fabulous measured build-up, a skilfully weighted through-ball and an incredible top-corner finish that, with how sweetly it was struck, served as a good advert for these apparently wayward flyaway adidas balls. Take a bow, Siphiwe Tshabalala. In fact, take two… one for your fantastic goal and one for your even more fantastic name. Until I saw it spelt out, ‘Shabba-lalla’ sounded like the kind of nonsense name a casual racist might lazily come up with in reference to a generic dodgy foreigner. It had me thinking of ‘caca lala’, a term meaning ‘shit or ‘baba’ that we used to use as infants or the sophisto-faux Leeds suburb of Chapel Allerton or its Noo Yawk-inspired nickname, Chapel Apple. Y’know…Tshabalala… Shabba-lalla… Shabble Allerton… Chapel Apple. Anyway, his cracking opening goal was later cancelled out by Rafael Marquez’s mis-hit but inevitable equaliser, the naïve South African defence having left him and 2 of his fellow gringos completely unmarked. The Mexican skipper had earlier taken a wayward pop at goal from a free-kick. A centre-half on free kick duty? Is that a Captain’s privilege or is it assumed that, because he plays for Barcelona, he must have magic in his boots? A big shame the hosts couldn’t hold on but it was a fair result, Mexico having the better and more frequent chances. One final point: the Mexicans may have been in all-black but, it’s interesting to note the South African team is now all-black, no white representation, as with the cricket and rugby union sides. Do wealthier white kids in South Africa get discouraged from playing football now? It’s nice to assume so and pretend football is still the all-embracing sport even the most underprivileged street urchin can take up and engage in. Ugh! I’m coming over all Sepp Blatter now. The France Uruguay game promised much but delivered on precisely zero counts. It was nice to see another nod to the ’82 World Cup in Spain, with France’s away kit sporting pinstripes, like their classic kit from that era did. Other than that, there was nothing else easy on the eye in this aimless thrill-bereft yawnfest. It was nice to hear the phrase ‘Japanese referee’, however. Two words you rarely see together, round our way anyway. The spectacle was made worse by us having to watch Gabby Logan’s half-time England camp report twice, due to some old skool technical difficulties. Watching this game, and how shoddily France huffed and puffed, reminded me how a team of wonderfully talented players can easily be rendered woefully ineffective by a well-orgainised spoilsport defence and how this is the kind of performance we should realistically expect from England against the States. Shocking stuff from the French but a decent result for the South Americans. Especially with 10 men and from a country with just over 3 million inhabitants compared to the 62 million humourless shoulder-shrugging grumps currently residing in France. Anyway, here’s Rosie Vela to take us up to the news…
Old and new, past & present, Leeds United players have often been cited along with the all-time greats. It would appear, however, that the wider talents of many of United’s old guard have been cruelly undermined. For the players in this rock ‘n’ roll dream team, football was just a CV-filler, a stopgap career change along the road to pop stardom. Revealed properly for the first time, their glamorous pop past…
David Stewart. After being understudy to the dextrous, ape-like David Harvey during the ‘70s and only playing for Scotland once, despite saving a penalty on his one & only appearance, our Dave grew disillusioned with life as a bit-part player and formed The Tourists with Annie Lennox. Consequently, as the moody musical brains of The Eurythmics, he amazed millions with the trimness of his beard and the unfeasible length of his glittery showbiz overcoats.
Richard Jobson. Jobson came straight outta Dunfermline and ‘into the valley’ as frontman with punk also-rans The Skids. Using, to his advantage, the prestige gained from being part of Oldham Athletic’s greatest-ever side, Jobbo then juggled ‘defending’ (of a sort) with a slot on late night VH-1; eulogising, in an irritatingly mock-passionate manner, over the relative merits of Echo & the Bunnymen, Crowded House and other bands who really meant it, man!
Chris Whyte. As a member of The Zombies, Whyte enjoyed huge chart success when the classic ‘She’s Not There’ hit number 12 in 1964. Later, his partnership with Chris Fairclough at the heart of Leeds’ defence helped clinch the 1992 League Championship. The highlight of an unremarkable footballing career, this prompted him to re-record his group’s biggest hit; re-titling it ‘It’s Not There’ in reference to hair on parts of his head and the championship trophy in Man Utd’s cabinet.
Carl(ton) Palmer. After thumping the tubs with the ridiculously-named Atomic Rooster, Palmer joined up with Emerson & Lake and set about creating many a prog-rock odyssey. Sadly, the advent of punk left him over-qualified as a drummer and, reverting to his full name of Carlton, joined West Brom, Sheff Wed and later Sgt. Wilko’s revolution at Leeds where he kicked people, gave the ball away and ran around like a headless (atomic) rooster. A real tryer, though.
Andy Williams. As Uber-crooner and easy listening paradigm, Williams delighted millions worldwide with hits like ‘Music To Watch Girls By’, ‘I Can’t Take My Eyes Off Of You’ and ‘Can’t Get Used to Losing You’. Vocal chords wavering, Howard Wilkinson gave him another shot at the big time and signed him from Rotherham United in 1988. Ironically, though, after seeing him play, the Elland Road faithful found it all too easy to take their eyes off of him and very quickly got used to losing him to Leicester City 4 years later.
Billy Bremner. Leeds’ greatest ever skipper, the flame-haired Glaswegian found he could no longer ‘break himself in two’ for the sake of Leeds United and teamed up with Nick Lowe, Dave Edmunds and Terry Williams to form pub-rock supergroup, Rockpile. Remembered solely yet fondly as the man who played the guitar lick on the Pretenders’ ‘Back On The Chain Gang’, he later became manager when Elland Road had become a mid-80s talent-vortex.
Bobby ‘Rob’ Collins. Bremner-prototype and former Celtic legend Collins helped add steel and leadership to Don Revie’s then-inexperienced bunch of superstars-in-waiting in the mid-60s. He later retired from the game to concentrate on a career more befitting his mature years…. as keyboardist with floppy-fringed shuffle-rockers, The Charlatans. Also started wearing Berghaus fleeces, necking E’s, getting jailed for armed robbery and insisting people now called him Rob.
Mickey Thomas. This mullet-haired Welsh midfield midget had played with more clubs than Tiger Woods by the time Howard Wilkinson signed him in 1989. Thomas had earlier been a member of 80’s US cringe-merchants, Starship, who recorded ‘We Built This City (On Rock ‘n’ Roll)’ about Leeds. ‘Nothing’s Gonna Stop Us Now!’ thought the police when they later came to arrest lil’ Mickey for passing on forged tenners to apprentice players at Wrexham.
Allan Clarke. Scrawny, whippet-like goal-getter, Clarke was an instant hit following his record-breaking transfer from Leicester City in 1969. This United legend had previously been vocalist with The Hollies, whose ‘He Ain’t Heavy, He’s My Brother’ was written for and about his similarly lazy-eyed, wiry footballing siblings Frank and Wayne. Later, as manager of Leeds, his nickname of ‘Sniffer’ took on a new meaning when empty tins of Evo-Stick were found in his desk drawer soon after he’d signed Peter Barnes for almost £1 million.
Mick Jones. As Leeds’ first £100,000 player, this bulky, Worksop-born workhorse formed a fruitful partnership with ‘Sniffer’ Clarke until injury cut short his career in 1974. Undaunted, he turned to punk-rock and formed The Clash with his mate, Joe ‘Sniffer’ Strummer; enjoying huge global success. Created an unlikely alliance between no-nonsense ‘70s football and Albert Einstien when his later band, Big Audio Dynamite troubled the charts with ‘E=MC 2’. Jacob Burns. Leeds’ midfield starlet, Burns surprised many when, upon being thrust into the footballing cauldron that is the Champion’s League, he displayed an assurance and maturity far beyond his tender years. However, as frontman with Stiff Little Fingers, ‘Jake’ (as he likes to be known), had actually always relished the big stage, albeit ‘At The Edge’ of first team selection. Wanted an ‘Alternative Ulster’ so much that he shed 20 years & became Australian.
On the bench… Peter Lorimer. Famed record-producer and prolific ‘90-miles-an-hour’ hotshot jock. Did a wicked remix of The Happy Mondays’ ‘Wrote For Luck’ & later played for York City & Vancouver Whitecaps.
Eddie Gray. As a footballer, he was better than George Best. As a member of Tommy James & the Shondells, he was better than, erm… someone out of Emile Ford & the Checkmates (probably).
Andy Couzens. Now-forgotten, early Pete Best-like member of The Stone Roses before being chucked out. Wasn’t much cop at footy either, as Carlisle and Blackpool fans will also tell you.
Marc Ford. Clueless Wilko-era thug; soon ushered off to ply his trade for Burnley reserves. Should’ve stuck to being The Black Crowes’ guitarist.
Rush (Ian). Dextrous, Canadian prog-metal show-offs. Nothing at all to do with moustachioed Welsh centre forwards with humungous hooters.
Words cannot express what this means to me. Well… apart from the 2,600 here:
You may be dimly aware that Leeds United just beat their bitterest rivals in a classic FA Cup 3rd round tie. Meh, so what, no biggie… We have enjoyed sticking one up these bastards a few times in the recent past (in ‘94, ‘95, ’97 and 2002) but they were all days in the sun spent at Elland Road. This result was achieved at Old Trafford, the aptly-named (for Leeds fans anyway) ‘Theatre Of Dreams’ and it’s been 29 years since this last happened.
For someone whose first game watching Leeds United was 27 years ago, this is undoubtedly something to savour; even for an old weather-worn fossil like me. I’m not one of the people lucky enough to be able to say ‘I was there’ the last time we humbled the scum in their own back yard and have no recollection of that dim-distant game so this 21st century tonking was ultra-extra special for innumerable reasons.
Putting those respective results in perspective marks it out as an even more impressive feat. Back in 1981, Leeds were, along with that red lot, a fair-to-middling top flight side quite capable of matching anybody on their day, except perhaps that mighty Liverpool side of the time. In other words, we weren’t a 3rd division club like we are now and, suffice to say, Scum were by no means a fearsome side in those days; a million miles from being good enough to be the recently-crowned Champions of Europe and ‘3-in-row’ English Champions they are today.
Back when lil’ Brian Flynn bagged the winner, it had been 14 long years since scum last won the title and it would be another 12 before it happened again but that never stopped them believing their own media-generated hype, convinced they were the biggest and best club in the world, despite coming up short, honours-wise, season after season. Nothing will ever be able to quell that tsunami-like shitstorm of self-satisfied arrogance. Which is one of reasons they’re so hated.
Make no bones about it, this was a monumental day for Leeds United fans. It has been an eventful and largely horrible last 10 years in the club’s history. At the turn of the new millennium, Leeds were sitting pretty at the top of the Premiership and in consecutive seasons, appeared in UEFA Cup and Champions’ League semi-finals. What happened next is well-documented; the unthinkable became something we had to think about a lot.
Spiralling down the football pyramid with double relegations, shameful financial mismanagement of the club, exploitative disregard for the fans who keep the club alive, sundry fines and excessive points deductions, everybody else in the country discovering what schadenfreude is and, like that wasn’t hard enough to take, suffering 3 demoralising play-off heartbreaks in four years just exacerbated the misery, like discovering the light you can see at the end of a dank, dingy tunnel is the light of an oncoming train.
This game, and the prospect of what else every Leeds fan hopes (but daren’t yet blithely assume) is going to happen in 2010, has made up for all that bullshit.
We may be in the 3rd tier of English football but we have a decent side again that’s properly managed by people who give a fuck. The points tally, the record-breaking home record, the number of goals scored and conceded, the skilful players showing the promise of improving along with the club’s general wellbeing are all there for everyone to see and admire but this result, against the country’s (some- scum fans mainly- say the world’s) best team has shown any doubters who scoff at our lowly current status that we actually do have a proper decent side; eager to succeed, capable of greatness and willing to work like mules in a Qatari quarry.
This was not an under-strength, deliberately weakened Man Utd side either. Their defence was the best back 4 they had at their disposal. They may currently have injuries in that department but with a squad as rich as the club itself, that cannot be used as an excuse. There was a distinct lack of experience in their midfield but then ours had even less experience of bumper big-time bonanzas such as this game and the fact that Rooney, Berbatov, Owen, Valencia and Giggs were all on the pitch at the end, desperately trying to wear down our rearguard and being about as effective as chucking snowballs to overcome a fire-breathing dragon would, speaks not just volumes but entire libraries.
Undoubtedly the tie of the round, the lack of any giant-killing shocks in Saturday’s batch of 3rd round match-ups threatened to devalue FA Cup even further and have the Champions League-obsessed greedmongers further discredit the supposed magic of the world’s oldest knockout competition. But Leeds pulled it out of the bag and rekindled cosy old memories of FA Cup shocks past. It was an old-skool cup game, the result of which the entire football world took a keen interest in.
For a club as universally disliked as Leeds, it was a rare and rather pleasant scenario to find ourselves in. We’ve very rarely been the underdogs in our history and have only enjoyed that pressure-free privilege in a cup game during our ‘87 semi-final run and that season’s 5th round match against QPR (probably my most fondly-remembered Leeds match) was the last and damn-near only time we beat a team from the top flight when we ourselves weren’t part of it.
Here’s some grainy videotape footage of the highlights of that game:
Also, neutral viewers were willing us to win for a change and we helped make people feel good again about what the FA Cup is capable of doing. The lesser of two evils we may have been for some people, but it was still nice to be up against somebody more hated than Leeds.
Which brings us to the hatred and rivalry each club has for the other, which helped make this such a feisty, fiercely-anticipated affair. For a casual observer, this may seem like a contrived and not exactly proper rivalry. It’s not very local for a start, with about 50 miles separating the 2 clubs. The red filth will obviously tell you they have bigger fish to fry these days, what with Man City, Liverpool and the recently-developed bitterness that now comes with games against Arsenal and Chelsea while Leeds have always struggled to muster up sufficient bile or play against each other often enough to develop any level of dislike for their truly local rivals: Bradford, Huddersfield, Halifax, York, Hull, Doncaster, Barnsley, Rotherham and even either Sheffield side… they just don’t elicit the same seething revulsion. In the same way that derby games against the satellite towns around Manchester are seen as nothing much more than ‘easy to get to’ for Man U fans.
It’s a rivalry borne from a period of mutual success started in the mid-‘60s, it received a welcome reigniting when those old hostilities became white-hot during Leeds’ ‘92 title-winning season, helping to throw some extra hot chillis into the curry of contempt shared by both clubs over the years. Put plainly, Leeds are the best side ever to come out of Yorkshire and that lot are the best team from Lancashire.
I’m sorry to say that, Liverpool… but you’ve shamefully allowed scum to catch up to your previously-unattainable trophy haul and anyway, you’re too far away from Leeds and haven’t been part of Lancashire since 1974. In fact, technically, Manchester’s not even in Lancashire anymore and Old Scaffold’s actually in a neighbouring borough to Manchester (but let’s not get into that now).
Also, because we play in Yorkshire Rose white and that lot represent the red rose of Lancashire, it makes it bigger than any inter-city rivalry, it’s the respective epicentres and major cities of two historic counties slugging it out for supremacy, just like in those 15th century monarchy wars.
The fact we hadn’t played them at all for 6 years gave this game even more edge.
This, let’s not forget, is not a one-sided rivalry. Their fans sing (in a fascinating variety of regional accents); ‘We all hate Leeds scum’ at every game to get them roused and the ‘We hate the scousers, the cockneys of course AND LEEDS!’ line in one of their oft-sung chants means we get at least 2 mentions at every game Man Utd play. Nice to know they still think so highly of us.
Before the game began, there was a close-up on TV of a red banner with the retort ‘Thanks A Million’ next to a picture of Eric Cantona and all the scum fans’ songs for the first 10 minutes of the first half were all pro-Cantona ones. Yawn! A great player that helped win us the league later did the same for you. Get over it. Yes, a million pounds was a laughably low fee but Leeds fans look to the future more than the past these days. Thanks to you red goons for selling us Johnny Giles and Gordon Strachan, two Leeds legends who were instrumental in us winning trophies. They both came for nominal fees after being cast aside at Old Trafford but we don’t feel the need to remind you. That would be desperate.
The Leeds fans were really on form and on their best behaviour too; no mention of Munich, nor Istanbul from them. I love the FA Cup rule that allows away teams 15% of the tickets so they can bring an army of fans. Fuckin’ 9,000 of us. I had to work the day of the game, but watching the playback later at home, I truly swelled with pride at hearing the Leeds fans’ efforts, which came through loud and clear, even on my crappy Phillips telly. We showed our humour en-masse when the fans behind the goal in the east stand sang ‘Lowfields, Lowfields, give us a song’ at the Leeds fans in the corner away to their left. The old Kop spirit was alive and nippier than Big Jack Frost himself.
Nineteen minutes in was a great time to score, an early lead to give you a shot of self-belief and something to protect with your life, and so you can have a good singsong for 25 minutes to gee- and no doubt warm- you up in the stands.
What a fucking goal! Jermaine Beckford’s 20th of the season (in early January!). Great battling by Naylor to wrestle the ball back, superb vision and a raking pass from Howson, right onto Beckford’s foot. I don’t know if his first touch was shit or if he meant to drag it wider but he left himself only one option, to hack back across the keeper and the fact he didn’t get a clean touch probably helped, making Brown and Kuszczak over-commit and it trickled nice and slowly into the net, giving you an extra few seconds of that ‘GOAL!!’ feeling. Perfect.
Nice dignified, non-provocative celebration too. We announce ourselves with a new-found class these days. Nothing classy about Clive Tyldsley and Ian Dowie on ITV’s commentary both saying, after 20 minutes in; ‘Well, I think we can safely say there’s going to be more goals in it.’ Fucking doylems. Oh, and while we’re at it, refer to them as MANCHESTER United please. There’s more than one ‘United’, you know… as people from Hartlepool, Dundee, Oxford, Colchester and Hereford will also tell you. Tyldsley’s a scum fan anyway so whaddayexpect?
‘1-0 in your cup final!’ was the scum fans’ response, implying; ‘big deal, this is the biggest game of your lives and we consider it in inconvenience’. Well, fuck you. If that’s true, this was the only cup final you’ll be playing in this season. We’ve still got the Johnstone’s Paint Trophy to look forward to.
An early cry of ‘You’ll never beat Kisnorbo!’ laid down an early marker for the predictably powerful performance from this World Cup-bound warrior from Australia/Mauritius/Italy/Leicester. What a buy he’s been, Paddy and Nayls are, well, ‘hard as..’ when they play together. Tough as old boots and willing to break themselves in two. Whoop whoop! That’s what you want from your centre halves. One being a Leeds-born captain and fan makes it doubly sweet. Fight on, boys!
The Leeds fans were in good ‘grumbling Yorkshire bastard’ mode when they alerted the linesman to the fact the ball wasn’t in the corner quadrant before a ManU corner. You should always moan and complain out loud at football; mutual disgruntlement can be just as effective as fervent encouragement as a useful tool of intimidation and motivation. Go on, Leeds!
Wes Brown had a torrid time against Beckford. I hope this self-obsessed reserve team chancer doesn’t scrounge his way into the England World Cup squad. The sly twat should’ve been sent off too. He was already booked when he intentionally hacked Johnson with his trailing leg after winning the ball. I saw ya, y’dirty scum bastard! There were rare old tackles being allowed to fly in everywhere but the referee did a good job, took into account the occasion and let it bristle away with intensity. Howson got Brown with a cracker, Brown clattered Doyle clattered Gibson. Tick followed tock followed tick followed tock. It’s like that Guinness advert… it must be the 6 cans I got through while watching it.
Taking us to the adverts, I wasn’t sure if the half time whistle was greeted with boos or 9,000 people excitedly going ‘LeedsLeedsLeedsLeeds’ really fast. It’s hard to tell between the two sometimes but either way, after hearing Steve Rider say; ‘Great cup tie, it’s 2010 but it feels like 1970’, I went for off a slash with a big grin on my face. It was a really satisfying dirty big ’70s piss.
The Leeds fans had a field day in the second half. Kuszczak of course got the ‘Wooooooaaahhh…. YOU SHIT BASTARD! Aaaaaaaaaaaaahhhhhhhhh….!!!’ treatment, which is always a ridiculously gratifying, childish pleasure.
From then on, we brought out the full songsheet: 64 mins:‘We all love Leeds’ 66 mins:‘Yorkshire’s Republican Army’ 67 mins:‘We’ll never be mastered by you scum bastards’ 72 mins:‘We’re Leeds and we’re proud of it’ 73 mins:‘We’re not famous anymore’
…all interspersed with lengthy periods of ‘Leeds are going up!’ sung to the tune of KC and the Sunshine Band’s ‘Give It Up’. Yeah Leeds, let’s go disco!
After big-ups for Bradley Johnson and a departing, surely exhausted Jonny Howson, there were the cheeky obligatory swipes of ‘Time to go!’ and ‘We can see you sneaking out!’ before ‘Marching On Together’ properly kicked in, like ‘Land Of Hope & Glory’ at the Last Night At The Proms, only eliciting a greater sense of pride.
Favourite moments in the second half were manifold: The way we dug in and worked hard but still continued to attack and play positive football. Hughes calmly heading back to Ankergren over and over again, like it was getting boring defending against these no-hopers. Crowe’s coolness to let the ball run past the post and Ankergren’s saves from Welbeck and, in particular, Rooney in the 94th minute. Aside from those rare sphincter-tightening moments, we hit the post with a free kick, caused them problems all day and Beckford really should have scored late on to cap it off perfectly. As if it could get any more perfect.
One last televisual close-up of Fergie went so near to his seething, wizened, whisky-worn face that you could see two long ginger hairs poking out of each nostril, just to make him look even more ridiculous.
Minnows indeed! Eat your words with neeps and tatties, y’grumpy injury time-grabbing Glaswegian gutbucket. Y’didnae expect that, did ye? Git tae fock, Taggart!
Of course it’s back to reality now, unfortunately. We’ve got Wycombe Wanderers next and will probably get beat in the next round at Spurs but, who cares? Not me, not this week.
As I put on my Facebook status: “Ian Brown, Gary Rhodes, James Nesbitt, Mick Hucknall, Angus Deayton, Eamonn Holmes, Gary Neville… can you hear me…??!! Yoour boouys toook a HELL of a beating!!!”
I proper love Leeds and days like this remind me why I obsess and expend so much time over them. It might not be that important in the grand scheme of things, especially if you don’t like football, but this result has had me walking on air (luckily enough, considering all the snow we’ve had) and made this the best possible start to a brand new decade.
Nice, too, that whatever God you believe in has appropriately chosen to decorate the entire country in a blanket of all-white since this result.
Now, let’s go do what we did in the last decade, only in reverse.
All salute Sgt. Grayson.
Watch it over and over again: It’ll never get boring!
Randomia Hebditica 