Revelling in the Premier League pantomime
Unfortunately, the chap who’s usually here was taken ill at around 8.45pm on Tuesday on foot of events at Dean Court, as the place is known to old-timers like you and me. Although he’d rallied by 9.35 and was subsequently deemed by doctors to have Turned A Corner (just like Arsenal – yet again), the damage had been done.
So here I am but here’s the problem. Not knowing the above would transpire and his services would be called on, your correspondent was more than happy over the past fortnight to regress to childhood and, give or take events at Leopardstown and Kempton Park, spend time with other TV channels.
Listening to mad scientists babble about flux capacitors. Stuck at the doors of Moria with the Fellowship. Reflecting that the dazzling opening sequence of Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom – the one set in the Shanghai nightclub – would be more acclaimed had it not been preceded by the even more dazzling opening sequence in Raiders of the Lost Ark. That kind of thing.
No apologies either. Look: in the words of Wolverhampton Wanderers’ second-most famous celebrity supporter, “It’s Chrisssssstmasssss!!!!!!!” No darts, then. The Premier League instead.
Four days of it last week, starting on Sunday. More drama than etc. It is the soap opera that doesn’t stop giving. To paraphrase Pliny the Elder, a noted AS Roma ultra in his day: out of the Premier League, always something new.
Pep Guardiola so taciturn that immediate relocation to a Trappist monastery, never mind allegedly instant retirement, looked a distinct possibility.
Jurgen Klopp blithely declaiming that the Christmas programme was the same for everyone before a second fixture in less than 48 hours taught him otherwise.
Danny Rose caught necking a pint at the darts hours after Spurs beat Watford and, shockingly, only 72 hours before they faced Chelsea. How unsporting of Mauricio Pochettino to ignore the tabloid outrage and refuse to discipline him.
Olivier Giroud releasing his inner Nureyev after equalising against Bournemouth. A scorpion arabesque for the scorpion king, but there was a ball to be picked out of the net and there was another four minutes in which to try and win the game. Which was more over the top, the celebration – against Bournemouth, for heaven’s sake – or the inevitable backlash?
Still on Arsenal, Granit Xhaka’s daft push to concede the penalty for the second Bournemouth goal. If Granit – the younger brother – was the son the parents Xhaka chose to entrust with the keys of the house you’d hate to see his older brother, Taulant. (Clearly not the real Taulant in the family.) (Sorry. But it’s okay, Larry Ryan will be back next week.)
Hull City’s press release about Mike Phelan’s dismissal bearing the date 3/12/17. Sherlock Holmes was right about the little things being the ones that matter. Call it a symptom of a dysfunctional club.
Tony Pulis. Of all the statistics generated over the past week here’s by far the most arresting. West Brom have scored three or more goals in five of their last 15 matches. Rinus Michels couldn’t have organised it.
Oh, and Big Sam is back, his Lady Jane Grey tenure as England manager not having knocked his sense of self one whit. Well, maybe half a whit.
“Perhaps I picked the wrong side,” he graciously conceded after Tuesday’s defeat by Swansea City.
In the next mouthful: “Yet when you’ve only been here for a few days it’s difficult to do that.”
On mature reflection: “I will take a little bit of responsibility meself.”
After which: “When you’ve only been here a short time it’s difficult to know what the players are and aren’t capable of.”
Never change, Sam.
The same morning I’d backed Middlesboro at 5/1 to be relegated. Although they’re awful to watch they currently lie in 16th place and have conceded fewer goals than anyone outside the top six. But that’s their unique and sole selling point, one that may not be enough if the teams below them get their act together. And they should.
Paul Clement ought to be able to stop Swansea City haemorrhaging goals. Big Sam, provided he survives the other night’s bout of introspection, will surely achieve a similar outcome at Crystal Palace; his sense of self will countenance nothing less. Sunderland have Jermain Defoe – a much better penalty taker than he was a decade ago – banging them in. I’m reasonably optimistic about my 5/1.
“Long may it continue to entertain, exasperate and invigorate,” Breandán Ó hEithir wrote in 1984. He was talking about the GAA. He could as easily have been foreshadowing the Premier League.
Racing certainties on the Christmas list
What do you give for Christmas to the columnist who has everything? That’s right, a five-DVD boxset called Ultimate Racing that cost a fiver.
My friend Ger received two of them. He knew where to find a good home for the spare copy. Many diamonds were to be found inside.
A history of flat racing from the beginning of the 20th century that included footage of various Derbies of the era: the Suffragette Derby, Steve Donoghue’s triumphs and so on. Features on Arkle, Sir Ivor and Nijinsky. Best of all, 12 great Grand Nationals. Lots of old friends therein, among them Red Rum, L’Escargot, The Dickler, Aldaniti, Corbiere and Greasepaint.
Given the death of John Buckingham, Foinavon’s partner, in Christmas week, the 1967 Grand National took on a new dimension. Not for the first time, one was left to marvel at Micheál O’Hehir’s powers of instant identification (“There’s a right pileup!), and from the moment Foinavon clambers over the 23rd fence and plods away from the mayhem it appears like there can only be one winner.
But next time you’re on YouTube, have a look at the Movietone version of the race. It provides a different and intriguing view of the closing stages. The camera is fixed not side-on to the winning post but facing back down the straight and it shows Foinavon crabbing his way towards the finish while an absolute cavalry charge of remounted runners come thundering along behind. Another 200 yards, if even that, and the 100/1 shot would have been swallowed up by the pack.
Running on strongly to finish third, incidentally, was Red Alligator. On that basis, he could be in with a shout for the 1968 Grand National. You read it here first.
Heroes & Villains
The only man to aim his darts more accurately over the Christmas period was WP Mullins.
Sponsoring the Walsh and O’Byrne Cups. Smart way of letting the nation know you still exist.
Australian Open junior champion charged with match-fixing. Allegedly threw a set in which he was broken at 4-4 following two double-faults.
Subject of a tug of love between the WRU, who are based in Wales, and Toulon, who are based in the south of France. Beside the Mediterranean. Where it’s sunny. Tough call.
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