Ranting, whining, complaining... Call it what you will

The football gods who dictate Premier League were kind to me for a change, ensuring that there were no matches for the weekend I was out of town. But that in no way meant Liverpool were out of range of discussion, as the witnesses to my delightful drunkenness will inform you. Endless toasts of the endless drinks to my club were watched with amusement and perhaps a bit of head-shaking despair (I’m assuming this, as I was too far gone for the memory to be of any use). But the best part by far was the desperate attempts by my buddies to make me drink water so the alcoholic content of my body would be balanced out. “Drink this water for Liverpool!” they kept saying, and I dutifully put the glass to my lips, saying ‘For Liverpoooooool!’ all the while. Madness, I tell you. But also a deep-rooted football love. The next day I was told how the discussion soon changed from one of starry-eyed football insanity to a serious discussion of club profits, investments and stocks in football clubs, where I spoke earnestly, eloquently and passionately about how it all works. Since I can’t claim to have much knowledge of these kind of things in my current sober state, it only follows that my intelligence shoots up when I drink.

Anyway, it’s clear Dirk Kuyt doesn’t have even a quarter of my smarts. The idiot is ruled out of action for four weeks – including the small matter of Manchester United next Sunday – because of an idiotic scissor-kick stunt in training. Not that he would’ve got himself a bunch of goals, but, just like when you go to a multi-cuisine restaurant and don’t intend to eat everything on the menu, the fact that you have options are nice and necessary.
The final part of this rant is a reference to ‘The Reds’ I saw on a football website. With keen interest I clicked on the link, only to see it was an article about THAT club from Manchester. I will sue. This is blasphemy. This is libel. This is the lowest incorrect references can sink to. This is wrong. Grrrrrrrr.

I'm amazed almost as much as I'm amused. Oh, and YNWA

It could be just Bob Marley singing in my ear about Weed or Red Red Wine or Smokin Pot, but each bit of seemingly depressing Liverpool news this morning has made me giggle like a baby on crack. There’s a dude, no doubt a beefy red-faced English bloke who typed out those words while sitting at his keyboard with his third beer of the morning, who has put money on Liverpool being relegated, as I just read on a football website. He cited the example of Leeds, and I can just imagine him grinning a disgustingly evil grin and rubbing his hands in glee while contemplated the prospect. Well, it won’t happen. I won’t allow it.
Then, there are many who want Roy sacked already and sadly enough, they’re all Liverpool ‘fans’. I don’t get this outpouring of invective against poor old Uncle Woy. Two games into the season and you want him gone? He came into a debt-laden club with no signs of new ownership, a bunch of unhappy players who couldn’t tell their right foot from the left or Merseyside from Milan, and a seventh-place finish from last season to build from, not to mention a total absence from the Champions League. And of course, there are those annoying niggles of Thursday night football (which just sounds wrong, like a Monday morning date) to far-off countries imagined not even by Hans Christian Andersen. Of course, every defeat affects me as deeply as a flesh wound cutting deep into my soul, but really, even one such as me liable to extreme ways of thinking about Liverpool isn’t asking for the manager’s head. Get a grip, all of you.
I can’t believe nobody wants to buy the club, though. If I had the money I would do it in a heartbeat. And call it my imagination, but doesn’t it seem like there’s a far too frequent Chelsea presence around us lately? First, there’s our chairman – who’s a season ticket holder down at Stamford Bridge. Then, the guy who was co-ordinating the Chinese takeout, I mean takeover, Peter Kenyon – the former Chelsea man. Of course, no negotiations were seen through to a successful end. Was it really that surprising? Why don’t the men in charge notice these things? Put me in control there and all will be right in a month, two months tops.
The second bit of laughable news comes from an article I read about Jose Mourinho. The man with the smartest overcoat in the world had this to say about us when asked if he would consider managing affairs this side of the Mersey: “Liverpool is not the club for me. I know why, but I cannot tell you,” he said coyly as he adjusted his fake eyebrows and checked his hand-held mirror for any stray eye make-up. Ok, I made up that last bit, but really, who talks like that?
Up next: A Liverpool fan’s guide to survival this season, not from relegation (we’re safe), but from the other annoyances that walk the earth, Manchester United fans in particular.

I'm looking for that silver lining. Can you see it? Oh, there it is! Oh wait, false alarm

I hate it when my dire predictions turn right. Hate it. And the whole reason I make them -- apart from the fact that I really feel they'll come true, of course -- is for a bit of an anti-jinxing effect. But lately that plan has been backfiring. Reality bites. So anyway, a week was all I got. A week of football happiness till the road signs all began pointing downhill. No matter, I will celebrate the meagre offerings anyway.
1. First, like I rambled on about one post ago, the arrival of football. It comes with heartbreak, agony and so much ridiculousness that the joke always seems to be on you, but it's a vital presence in any case.
2. Germany's first match. The reason I felt all the more ecstatic as they ran circles around the Aussies was because I had begun fretting about them since the moment Michael Ballack was ruled out. Visions of the 2002 World Cup final, Euro 2004 and similar unhappy situations had begun flashing through my mind. So when Muller, with Ballack's No.13 on his back, and the amazing Ozil (apart from that one dive) played like those had been their regular positions in the senior team since time immemorial, pure and simple joy. Those 90 minutes put me on top of the world and they also carried me through my usual Monday blues.
3. Lionel Messi -- I'm not at all an Argentine supporter, but there's something about Messi pulling off those fantastic runs, twisting his way past six defenders and delivering one of those killer passes that just scream out to be put into goal.
4. England 1-1 USA -- Have I mentioned how much I hate the English team? Yes, it may sound strange coming from a Liverpool fan, but oh yes I do. And watching Steven Gerrard play like he had a firecracker up his ass against the Americans made me even more pissed off. So he was saving himself for the World Cup then, and screwing Liverpool over in the process? Not cool. And if he wants to leave the Reds, he can, no need for the begging and the pleading. The club will remain and that's the most important thing, like Pepe Reina said. Coming back to the match, the keeper gaffe was fun. I loved the New York Post headline: USA win 1-1. A typo? I think not.
5. The obsessive poring over of football material online -- Some websites are doing a real good job. I always enjoy The Guardian, their live blog and commentary, and www.zonalmarking.net has some good stuff too. Football365 as always comes up with some laugh-out-loud funnies. Check out their Silliest Things Said at the WC. Some people are wondering when Barcelona will play their first match at the Cup, and how on earth can Ronaldo play for Portugal when 'he already plays for Manchester United?' The mysteries of the universe.
6. Three weeks more -- It continues. There's lots more to watch, bitch about and I'm sure I'll have many more reasons to injure my hand by repeatedly hitting it on my desk and throwing my phone at the nearest wall so it stops working like I did when Lukas Podolski hit his penalty straight at the Serbian keeper. Oh, and another horrible bit of irony. Milan Jovanovic, the guy who scored the Serbs' goal, is coming to Liverpool next season. What's the connection, you ask? The most important one -- ME. I feel betrayed. Anyway.
As an aside, I haven't been able to sit still since next season's fixtures came out. I've already saved them on my computer, formatted them, trying to consign them to memory, and the next plan will be to bold out the absolutely vital ones. I kid you not, I had a vision of Arsenal being first up on my drive to work the morning they came out, a few hours before they were actually released. Sometimes I do think I'm awesome.
Well. Maybe I'll have another list of what to celebrate in times of despair in a week's time. Till then, keep the vuvuzelas sounding. I'm going to blow one loudly into the ear of the next person who tells me to stop supporting teams they like because they fear my unmistakable jinx effect.
Bring it on.

The madness gets cranked up a notch

The emptiness that had descended on me since the end of the Premier League season has finally been chased away by the sound of vuvuzelas all the way in South Africa. Oh, I know, I complained and whined and endured a lot of agony with every ridiculous Liverpool tumble week in and week out, but despite the fact that work and life has hardly given me any chance to breathe since then, something is just not right when you don't have a football team to obsess about. So anyway, good times are here again. And that is the stand I will maintain till my teams start dealing out depression in dollops.
About the vuvuzelas, it's incredible how much complaining there's been about their sound. It's been compared to bees, traffic, nails being driven down a chalkboard...but the best comment against all those who object was one I read on The Guardian website. It went like this: "People in South Africa celebrating the World Cup in a manner they've been doing for years? How dare they?" Exactly. So just watch the football and don't bother about them noises.
In my opinion, it's only fair that to balance out the pain of the club season, I get some happiness out of Germany's and Spain's performances. But as life has smugly pointed out again and again, unfairness is its forte. Oh well.
But for now, I shall celebrate. It's finally here, the time I've been waiting for for weeks on end. Yesterday, Day One, this silly smile kept creeping up on my face as I anticipated the moment of opening kick-off. Three hours to go, two, one. Of course, it's a different matter that at the actual time the referee for the Mexico-South Africa game blew his whistle I was frantically negotiating traffic to get home in time. I missed the first fifteen minutes, but that's all right. I didn't miss all that much, and for the first time in the history of my football-watching career, I guessed the final scoreline correctly. This betting syndicate I'm part of, I've made clear to the organiser that I will not be putting any money for or against any of my teams, for fear of the jinx effect. If I bet in their favour, they will surely find the most bizarre way to lose. And I obviously can't bet against them. It's a no-win situation. So I will just lie low.
I foresee that this next month of the World Cup could pose a few problems. Basically, it's hard to explain to most people that when a match is on, I want to be in front of my TV in my room at home. Alone, preferably. I will not be going out to hang, chill, or any such activity at the times the stadiums in South Africa are packed and buzzing with the sound of crazy fans. It's for their own good. Football for me is not a social activity. I won't deny that it really is wholesome entertainment to study my reactions during games, but at times it's just not pretty. The abuses pour out, the sulks get more pronounced, and the possibility of serious injury cannot be ruled out. This is just what we are like, this football-watching breed of ours that walks the earth. Don't expect us to change. Ever.

Escape to the sand

The first thing that catches your eye, when you look out of the aeroplane window, as Dubai approaches, is the vast expanse of brown boring sand staring from below. Which makes you really glad to see all that concrete within the city; and there’s a lot of it considering the world’s tallest building – the Burj Khalifa towers over the Dubai skyline. The never-ending malls were offering you huge discounts and complimentary weight loss programs – because of the amount of walking you end up doing. But though the malls are attractive and you have to exercise an unbelievable amount of restraint to prevent that plastic card from being swiped, it gets boring after a point – even if you are a die-hard shopaholic. Which is why a desert safari is a good getaway from the busy city life into that sand again – only from up close it’s golden and slightly intimidating.


Dune rider
The innocent looking SUV which picked you up from the hotel transforms into a beast when it reaches the desert after a ’tame’ one hour, 120 km/hr, drive on the highway. A turn of the knob to activate the four wheel drive, reduce the tyre pressure, ask your passengers to fasten their seat belts – yes even those at the back — and the sand dunes are ready to be attacked. The next thirty minutes will be mostly spent in two different ways by the passengers. Either there will be hoots of approval every time the driver would do any of the following – speed to the top of a dune, get the front wheels into the air and then let the vehicle slither down the dune using its own weight or go down a sand slope sideways with the vehicle trying its best to topple. Or you end with white knuckles and a moderately terrified expression which refuses to let go of your face even after you have gotten out of the vehicle.

Sand surfer
Another interesting activity on offer is sand boarding. The equipment is simply a skateboard without wheels. You strap your legs onto it and then slide down a sand dune. Simple till you try it. Three attempts by me to go down the slope without sliding on my bottom for some part of it, proved to be highly unsuccessful.

While everyone was trying different techniques – position, alignment, slope structure, you name the excuses we had it – one little girl put us firmly in place by executing a perfect descent, without so much as a shake of the hand.

A hearty laugh later and with lots of sand in the shoes, the group then headed towards the camp area where there were different stalls set up. From camel rides to smoking the sheesha (hookah), to their local coffee (black with dates as sweeteners) to henna painting and taking your pictures clicked with falcons it was an interesting assortment of activities for those in the mood.

Dubai belly/hips don’t lie
After the sumptuous dinner was the last act for the evening - the belly dancing performance. The woman performer, apart from making her hips move astonishingly, was able to keep the show interesting by inviting the audience to dance with her. No, no slow dance! From the bald headed guy who was asked to balance a stick on his head and then shake his ample belly to the group of girls who had a blast attempting the steps, it was a fun-filled session. Not to mention the freedom to ogle the married men with their wives sitting right next to them had, without batting an eyelid needless to say, at the beautiful performer.

While we returned to our hotel, there is also the option of staying in the camp site and then watch the lazy sun rise from behind one of the sand dunes.

It’s a good getaway for an evening. From adrenaline pumping activities to a fun dance session, a desert safari offers an entertaining concise package. And for around two thousand Indian rupees, considering the activities and the hotel pick-up and drop, it’s a very profitable deal. Next time you find yourself in Dubai; don’t give the desert safari a miss.

Do it for Liverpool

The more people try to tell me I must not base every thought that occurs to me on football terms, the more convinced I become - that I should not talk to those people anymore. In fact, I should cut them out of my life just like I have managed to toss away the Manchester United acquaintances. I have begun to think that that may not be the end of my attempts at pruning my life of such phoniness, and if Liverpool don't get a move on soon enough, isolation from all shall have to be the solution. No one will be spared.

The plan is to adopt a JD Salinger-like separation from the world of happy football fans, and instead obsess and wallow alone. The day the Premier League is won, I shall emerge, pheonix-like, proud and happy. That is for the long term, but what of the present crisis at Anfield?

In these times of trouble, Nick Hornby's Fever Pitch is the only thing that speaks sense to me. The last week has been spent with a pencil carefully marking out sentences I have read so many times before, but they never get old. The only problem with applying the football-as-metaphor theme to life is that when your own ain't going so great, the added football depression makes it just that much harder to bear. So in another desperate stab at taking control and winning over the football gods, I decided to first put my affairs in order, and then hope my club can do the same. They do look like they need the inspiration, even if it's from all the way over here.

After agonising over quitting a job which seems to have lost its feel for around 15 months now, I finally pulled the plug this week. The cold feet and nervousness which took over my brain and the pit of my stomach every time an opportunity for discussion arose were laid to rest by one simple self-blackmailing sentence: "Do it for Liverpool."

And I did. Insanity, I agree. But I'm afraid that's the way it has to be.

It feels like the right decision, but apart from the all-important peace of mind, I'm expecting a change in fortunes in Merseyside too. It's all connected — football, work, life and its lessons. The pattern makes it seem like it was just meant to be, I realise it now.

Nearly four years ago, at the interview for the job I just quit – my first and only so far -- I was asked to describe the last sporting moment that made me go giddy. In my mind, I still remember, the image of Robbie Fowler celebrating his return to the Reds with his first goal since transferring from Manchester City in the 5-2 win over Fulham (2006) came to mind, and I spoke about it with a silly smile on my face, the kind they say you get when you fall in love.

That one was an important result, coming as it did at a time of indifferent form, made even more special by the identity of the goalscorer, and as for new beginnings and revivals, it's that football result I associate with the celebration of getting my first job.

Back to these hard times of today, four years on, where every Liverpool match is watched with doors closed for fear of the curses being too audible.

The latest heartbreak as people continue trying to prepare me for the blow that fourth place may not be achieved after all - the 1-0 agony against Wigan. The moment the goal went in, I indulged in a bit of excessive tear-shedding, a reaction to the horrible workday and the terrible end it had come to.

The next day, I knew it was time, that sickening display of football had explained it all to me. Within 20 minutes of entering office, the resignation had been processed. It was the end of an era. I want the sad football to end too. Just contemplating another season in the Europa league brings on a panic attack.

This voice inside me says it will all change now, since I have uncharacteristically taken the first step.
I deserve it.

The newly found Order of Saint Nicklas

What stood out the most from the Arsenal versus Porto Champions League encounter?
Was it the sheepish smile of Bacary Sagna, one that only a right-back can have, after missing a rare but uncomplicated chance to get his name on the already crowded goalscorers list that Tuesday night? Or was it the Professor, in a rare display of emotion, jumping up and down like a kid who got his candy back?
Could it be the innocent bewilderment on Andrei Arshavin’s face, after he made a total mess of what could be effortlessly the easiest chance to score in the match?
How about the little trick artiste Samir Nasri weaving through three Porto defenders, maintaining his balance, firing a scorcher into the far corner of the goal and then spreading his arms to fly – smug in the knowledge that after producing that mesmerising piece of magic, he could even miraculously - fly.
But maybe what beats them all is Nicklas Bendtner managing to score his first-ever hat-trick in the senior league; considered a certain improbability in the eyes of most except his own, of course.
After a hat-trick of misses against an opponent as burnley as Burnley, it was nothing short of a miracle to see him lunge forward and actually get his feet to hit the ball into the goal in the very first serious attempt that he and Arsenal had. And horror of horrors, he manages to put it in again – the easiest of chances -- but he had got them before and the ball never seemed to obey his command. And then came the third – gift wrapped in the form of a penalty.
Anyone in the church world keeping tab? That’s three miracles in the span of a mere 90 minutes. That’s sainthood for Nicklas.
The entire Arsenal clan, from Arsene Wenger to the obsessive Nick Hornby, and from the pseudo United and Chelsea crowd to them dirty Spurs, all will vouch that these are indeed miracles that demand the immediate induction of this Arsenal striker into sainthood.
Which saint in the history of sainthood has managed to perform three miracles in the span of a football match – that too without extra time?
So that’s it then: Saint Nicklas and then lets sell him off to the highest bidder. Will get a better price that way and we can buy a better striker. But the Great Dane did the job for Arsenal when they needed him the most, and the Gunners are grateful for that.
Every Arsenal faithful lives yet another day.