 |
| Play poker at 888poker! |
Seeing as everyone has given up on the game of football I thought I would write a mission statement that epitomised how the game should be managed…..
INT. MIAMI HOTEL ROOM (My Flat)– NIGHT
Jerry’s James’eyes open. Breathing strangely. Trembling, he holds onto the nightstand for grounding.
He gets up, takes a few gulps of air, walks to mini-bar. A fridge and gathers some tiny ice cubes in his hand, smears them across
his face. This feeling is new to him.
JAMES’ VOICE
(continuing)
It was the oddest, most unexpected
thing. I began writing what they
call a Mission Statement for my
company. You know — a Mission
Statement — a suggestion for the
future.
INT. MIAMI HOTEL ROOM (My Flat)– NIGHT
Jerry James types, a pot of coffee and tray of room service a ham Sandwich nearby. we watch his face, alive now.
I’m back, and I’m more disillusioned than ever. Now to start my rant I give you the number 22.
You see 22 is a bullshit number. On the show Most Evil, for example, a forensic psychiatrist scales from 1 to 22, evilness is mentally evaluated – thus making 22 the most evil. Then you have Catch-22, which doesn’t help anyone. Also it’s a shirt number no footballer ever wants to wear. In the premiership, unless you’re Jussi Jääskeläinen or Simon Mignolet, it’s a number for reserve goalkeepers such as, Ross Turnbull, Brad Guzman, and Csaba Somogyi* who spend so long on the bench that they probably forget how to play football.
In addition, if you come 22nd in any division in the world you will get relegated. In French, “22″ is used as a phrase to warn of the coming of the police. A quick scan of the news and I read 22 hour blaze extinguished, twenty-two days to a financial meltdown…Jay-z even has a song where he rhymes the words: too, to and two, 22 times in the first verse. To quote, ‘that’s 22 too’s for y’all motherfuckers out there, yaknahmean?’ You see, only motherfuckers need to be educated about 22.
“I decree today that life
Is simply taking and not giving
England is mine – it owes me a living” – The Smiths, Still Ill
In true Joey Barton fashion, I open my article with a quote. And I do this for two reasons:
- ‘I strive for recognition. A cultural capital that sets me aside from the norm who sit in their bedrooms listening to chart music on the Fearn Cotton show’
- ‘I like the Smiths, I’m listening to the song currently, and this lyric is slightly related.
So, with that In mind I might as well spoil the obvious surprise and talk about England – a nation wrapped up in irony, dread and luckily, on most evenings, liquid escapism.
Everyone kicks you when you’re down – that’s how it works, right? One minute you’re a legend; grooming the best players the Premier League has ever seen – winning two doubles on the way. The next your youthful team deserts you.
Arsene Wenger: the artist, the philosopher, the best manager the English Premier League has ever seen are complements that have become all the more distance. The sheer delight to be managed by a genius is no longer the divine priority – it’s money.
The game has changed. Players have become fickle, their feet have become more itchy and their price has become inflated. For example, It was clear that Samir Nasri wanted to move to Manchester United to play under, arguably, a manager better than Wenger – a move that I understand. But money, again, became a bargaining chip; Nasri could have waited to next year – but Arsenal knew this wasn’t a viable option because his price would devalue significantly. To add to this, hefty contract negotiations and a promise to buy the league would have drawn Nasri away from another season at Arsenal. We must also remember that this ‘saga’ started because Nasri felt he deserved a contract as large as the departed Cesc Fabregas (believed to be around £100,000 per week)
With a fee agreed between Valencia and Chelsea believed to be in the region of £24 million, Spanish international Juan Mata is expected to make a switch to the west of London. But will he make an impact similar to Arjen Robben?
Welcome to Arsenal. Ha, who would go there?
The Chelsea of old where a team that fought from the back. The philosophy – ‘Defence is the best form of attack’ – with a strength and power throughout the team complimented by creativity on either flanks…boring. Can’t be assed to finish that.
I try to write about football, I really do, but there is a pressure isn’t there, for us lowly football bloggers to write something that’s either outrageously funny and/or interesting. The rule is that we avoid reporting about Chelsea vs. West Brom – Shane Long looks arlight – who cares, BBC or Guardian sport have already covered it. You are not big, nor are you clever to repeat this again to – let’s face it – no more than 50 people (on a good day).
Suited and wearing a smile James turned up to the swanky ******** offices with a rich vein of confidence. This slowly demised however when I was asked about the legitimacy of this website.
Interview with a Douchebag
Scene one:
Int Day: ********** offices.
It is 9.50am and James Robert Shaw – wearing a grey, fitted suit complimented by a crisp white shirt, a navy skinny tie and a pair of dark brown loafers – is told by his interviewer to sit and wait. The interviewer; wearing a clumsy navy shirt, messy cargo trousers and trainers; offers James a drink of water, which he accepts.
Interviewer:
Hello, James, i’m douchbag I will be with you in ten minutes.
James:
Nice to meet you and of course.
Football blogging is perhaps the best job ever – the problem is that it is not a job! James Robert Shaw laments…
At the time of writing this piece I am sitting at a desk in London undertaking a rather meagre marketing internship. The time is 8.32am and on seven hours sleep I feel rather lethargic and devoid of the enthusiasm needed to get me through an arduous day of spreadsheet’s, conference calls, and low-level marketing. Blogging, for now, has taken the back seat and – as I continue to transcend into adulthood – It seems that at the next available junction it may have to get out and walk.
At once a hobby, blogging or journalism was something that I never considered as an affable or prestigious career path. My hero’s in the writing word: Louis Theroux, Charlie Brooker and Charlie Kaufman were once people I enjoyed – and I still do – but after tasting journalism, all be it a toe dip in a virtual world devoid of professionalism (all be it in a highly creative environment), has made me resent them. Now, I desperately want their job, all be it subjectively about football.
In the words of Ja Rule, ‘Pimpin aint easy…oh I mean blogging aint easy, trust me I know. By James Robert Shaw….
May 25th, 2011
Aggghhhhhh, I wake up, get breakfast, and while eating I proceed to skim read the guardian website, while trolling through various football blogs for entertainment/ ideas to steel (Honestly I stole this idea from a mixture of what Surreal Football have said and from an article written by Jamie Cutteridge – so what sue me!).
I have a shower and come to the realisation that I piss gold dust. Then In my head I think it will be a witty idea to make a cock related anecdote – maybe one that involved that ‘unnamed footballer’ – but I instantly realised that I am writing article that is almost completely a fabrication, nor is it funny.
Midday
More musing from James Shaw about the life that is being a disillusioned football blogger…
As it stands I currently have a day off and the premise is that I should use this time to write an article about football. Ipso facto, little comes to mind.
Here I diverge from the ironic urge to end the conversation – a semi-adventitious aim at being incredibly post-modern; Kazimir Malevich may have got away with a black square; but I do not have the integrity to pull off such a facetious stunt, nor I am in the position to create some kind of written suprematism movement based on the fundamental idea of, well, not having an idea – instead I will move on.
Who would want to spend their spare time writing about football? Seriously, it will seriously knock your mental health as James Shaw lives and investigates…
In England it is 12pm. I have checked my e-mails, consumed a bowl of cereal, knocked back a cup of coffee and played one game of FIFA Ultimate Team (a four-nil loss enough for me to bow out early).
So now I settle down to write. In my mind I yearn to carve out something interesting or inspirational and of course funny, that, in my mind, people will love. As a result they will link it; they will praise me on twitter… I deserve some sort of recognition and admiration right?
Before deciding on a topic I ponder writing a book about five unexplainable things in real life. One of which is Work. Did someone just say ‘okay, you work for me and I will reward you a slightly’. Why do businesses exist? How do they come about? It would make a great book right?
James Shaw may run a football blog but he knows nothing about football, according to everyone he meets…
Currently I work in a pub and on more than one occasion my knowledge about football has been questioned. I’m not sure if it is my age, appearance, or general demeanour but I am not seen or respected as a football fan.
For example, I pointed out to a regular who happened to be Scottish, that the pace of Brazil’s attack would decide the game even in a friendly. He then snapped, ‘you don’t know what you’re talking about, and then gruffed ‘you know nothing about football’. I thought I made a valid point; Charlie Adam didn’t trip Neymar because he was too slow?
Usually I would let something like this go, just to avoid an argument, but his ignorance annoyed me. ‘I know a lot about football actually’ I explained. Again he grunted, ‘no you don’t, your‘re too young’ and then looked at me offended that I had questioned his authority. He then proceeded to ask me an arbitrary question that he felt restored the hierarchy: ‘What was the first All-seater stadium in Britain?’
Football blogging is the first step into football journalism, right? Well, I sincerely hope so…
Yesterday I turned 22, which is a genuine problem for me. In fact, it’s a real dilemma. Interestingly, In French,”22″ is used as a phrase to warn of the coming of the police, which is weird because I feel like I’ve been arrested by some sort of life police, I mean fuck, I might have kids to look after in five years!
Up until now, I have had my fun, I’ve done my partying, well, I went to university and caroused a bit. I wasn’t starting seven gram rocks and finishing them or anything, instead I drank a couple of times a week, moaned and attempted to talk to girls…because that’s how I roll.
Recent Comments