The Guatemalan Linesman - a World Cup story

Oscar Perdomo was on his way back from the sugarcane fields when he got the news. Luis Reyes, the local postman called after him “Hey, Oscar. There’s a letter for you here from the GFF. Maybe they want to sack you after that decision you made last week! That was never offside!” Luis laughed, and handed the envelope, marked with the official stamp of the Guatemalan Football Federation, to Oscar. “Thanks” said Oscar, taking the envelope “More likely they want to tell me off for not giving you a red card”. As well as being a foreman at the sugarcane fields, Oscar was also a referee. Not just any referee, but the most respected referee in Guatemala. Normally he refereed in the big games at Guatemala City, but the previous week he’d been refereeing a local game in his home town of Quetzaltenango. Luis the postman had been playing for one of the teams, and was a renowned dirty left back.

Not all of Oscar’s refereeing was on such a low scale, though, only last year he had refereed a world cup qualifying game between Columbia and Paraguay - the first Mestizo Indian to referee a world cup game of any kind - and most prestigious of all, had run the line in Rio as Brazil lost to Argentina. Now what could the GFF be writing to him about now?

Oscar tore open the envelope as he walked into his house. “What is it?” asked his wife, Alicia. “My God” said Oscar “They want me to go to the World Cup - to South Korea. The actual World Cup.”. “Oh yes?” said Alicia ”And what will they pay you? You see children? They want your father to travel half way around the world to be a referee, but what will they pay him while he doesn’t work at the sugarcane fields? How are we supposed to live while he travels the world. And how long will you be gone while you are playing at your football refereeing? Maybe they won’t give you your job back when you come back, eh? And who will pay for the flight? And where will you stay?”. “No no, Alicia, listen. It says here I will be there for only a month, they will pay all my expenses, and I will be paid $1,000!”. “Ah! And you will no doubt spend it all on those Korean whores!” Alicia flounced out of the room. But it was good news. $1,000 was a lot of money, as much as Oscar would normally earn in three months, and he would no doubt be given leave of absence from the sugarcane fields.

And he was given leave of absence. In fact his boss slapped him on the back and poured him a drink. “We must celebrate!” he said “You bring great honour to Guatemala. Surely the President himself will be proud of you! Just bring me back a souvenir. And don’t spend all your money on those Korean whores!”.




It was nearly the end of May when Oscar arrived at the airport in Seoul. In his left hand he held his suitcase, newly bought for the occasion, in his right hand his passport. In his inside jacket pocket was a letter from President wishing him luck and congratulating him on the honour he was bringing to Guatemala. “Senor Perdomo! Senor Perdomo!” He heard someone calling his name, and saw a man in official-looking uniform holding
a sign with his name on. He headed in the man’s direction, but as he did so another man approached him, and handed him an envelope, saying “Take this. You’ll find it interesting” . The man was gone before Oscar could even see what he looked like. He clutched the envelope in the same hand as his passport and approached the man with the sign. “I’m Oscar Perdomo” he said. “Ah welcome Senor Perdomo, your car is waiting, follow me”. The man took Oscar to a car, and off they drove.

The whole thing was overwhelming. The modern city of Seoul shone in comparison even with Guatemala City, the car Oscar was driven in was the most luxurious he had ever sat in, and the hotel room he was now sitting in was fantastic. It had its own bathroom, a fridge full of different types of drinks, a telephone, a television, a radio and a bunch of flowers and a welcome bottle of champagne on the large bed. Oscar was not used to such luxury. He sat on the bed and turned on the TV. Incomprehensible language poured from the speaker. Korean. Oscar picked up the remote control and started pressing buttons. No channels in Spanish that he could find, but he found an English news channel which he could just about understand, talking about the start of the World Cup. Oscar took out the three envelopes he now had in his inside pocket: the letter from the President, the envelope the strange man at the airport had given him, and a third envelope that had been handed to him at the hotel reception, emblazoned with the logos of FIFA and of the World Cup. He opened this envelope first. Inside was a detailed schedule. First there was a briefing session to take place on the following day, and a reception in the evening. At the briefing session Oscar would learn which games in the first stage he would be required to take part in.

Oscar opened the second envelope. Inside he found a note. And some cash. He counted the cash. $1,000. Oscar was puzzled. they were paying him already? In cash? Or was this just some spending money? Oscar unfolded the note. He read it. It said: “On Sunday June 9th, in Daejon, you will be the assistant referee in the first round match between Italy and the United States. If you rule out an Italian goal for offside you will receive a further payment of $10,000”. Oscar was amazed. $10,000! It was a huge amount. More than he would normally earn in two years! But he was a professional. He was honest. he had made his reputation as an honest man. he was representing his country. The honour of his country. But.. He stopped. How could they know the schedule? It had not yet been announced? What if this was a test?

All sorts of thoughts ran through Oscar’s mind, and by the time of the briefing session the following day he had hardly had a minute of sleep, despite feeling totally exhausted after all the hours of travel and all the excitement. At the briefing session all the referees and linesmen were advised on FIFA’s priorities. Advised to watch for shirt pulling, for diving and for players who would try and cheat and intimidate them. The schedules were announced. On Sunday June 9th, in Daejon, Oscar was to be the assistant referee in the first round match between Italy and the United States. Oscar was shaken, but said nothing, nodding his ascent and shaking hands as he was introduced to the Belgian who would referee, the Dane who was running the other line and the Argentinean fourth official.

The days went by, and Oscar watched some of the opening games, attended especially organised events, before he travelled up to Daejon on June 8th. He told no one about the note. $10,000! It was such a lot of money! What should he do? By staying silent was he not already complicit?

The day of the match came, and Oscar arose with new resolve. He would not cheat. He would not wave his flag unnecessarily. he would call it as he saw it. He was an honest man. He could not be bought.

The match kicked off. Italy were attacking at his end, his half of the pitch. He pointed his flag the right way at throw-ins, he pointed at the corner when it was a corner, at the six yard are when a goal kick. An Italian dived - he waved his flag. An American fouled an Italian - he waved his flag. An Italian was offside - he waved his flag. Everything he had hoped for came through. There was no goal to rule offside, no opportunity for him to make a controversial decision. At half time the game was 0-0. The second half kicked off. Little happened at his end. Again he waved his flag when an Italian fouled, when an American fouled, for corners, for throw-ins. Nothing difficult, nothing controversial. At the other end, in the Dane’s half, also little was happening. Nearly 90 minutes gone and it was still 0-0, and then - a goal! But no! The Dane had his flag up! Offside! The Italians complained. The Italian coach remonstrated - but the goal was disallowed. The game finished 0-0. Oscar thought- no, surely not. But surely - what would be the point in bribing only one linesman?

Oscar left the field as quickly as possible. He avoided his Danish colleague and left the stadium as quickly as possible after showering and changing. But back at the hotel there was another envelope waiting. He sat on the bed and opened it. Inside: $10,000. And another note. “In the second round you will be assistant referee for the match in Seoul between South Korea and Sweden. You will disallow Swedish goals for offside, and you will receive a further payment, this time of $20,000”. $20,000! In round two? But how could they know? All the first round games had not been completed - neither Sweden nor South Korea had yet qualified. Oscar was astonished. Clearly the whole thing was fixed. Clearly bribery must be rampant. $20,000 - add that to the $10,000 - no the $11,000 they had already paid him that would be $31,000. Over 200,000 Quetzales. Ten years’ wages. Oscar thought, and thought some more. If the whole tournament was corrupt why should he care? With luck he would have to do nothing, as he had done in the previous game and he would be rich. Alicia and the children could have things they could not afford before - a new car, a computer, new furniture, and he would have to do nothing. He would retain his honour, the honour of Guatemala, and they would still pay him. So he resolved.

As predicted (or fixed, as Oscar now believed) a few days later Oscar was running the line in the second round game between South Korea and Sweden. In the first half South Korea scored at Oscar’s end, whilst Sweden equalised with a penalty at the other end, where a Tunisian watched the line. The second half came, and Oscar knew that this was when his resolve would be tested. at first Swede Korean. At the other end, the Koreans attacked, hit the post, the Swedish goalkeeper saved. Corner after corner as the South Koreans tried desperately to wrap up the game, while the Swedes resolutely defended. But, inevitably, the moment came. The Swedes broke a quick attack, the ball breaking forward quickly. A Swedish forward ran forward, heading for the Korean penalty area. Another Swede ran forward. “Don’t pass, don’t pass” Oscar found himself praying. The Swede shot. The Korean goalkeeper saved. Oscar stopped sweating. The game continued in the same pattern, with the Koreans attacking, the Swedes defending, unable to hold on to the ball. With only a minute to play, of course it happened again. The Swedes broke into attack. Again a Swede ran forward, with another player sprinting forward into space. “Don’t pass, don’t pass” Oscar prayed again. The Swede passed, Oscar hesitated, the other Swede scored. Oscar was frozen. He kept his flag down. The Argentinean referee looked at Oscar quizzically. Oscar remained stony-faced, frozen with nerves, as angry Korean players shouted at him. The goal was given, and in what seemed like only a few seconds time the final whistle blew. Oscar left the field. He was both proud and nervous. He had allowed the goal, he had remained honest. But the people who had promised the money? What of them? Oscar felt nervous.

Back at the hotel Oscar was approached by a FIFA Official. The Official handed him an envelope. Oscar looked at it nervously. “It’s your pay” said the man from FIFA. “We do not need you for any more matches, you may return home”.

Still nervous, Oscar arose the next morning. He switched on the English language TV channel. The programme was looking at the previous day’s game. Over and over again the Swedish goal was shown. from every angle, at normal speed, in slow motion. There was no question, no matter which ever way you looked at it, the goal was offside. It should never have been allowed.

Weeks later, back in Oscar heard a car hooting outside his house. “Come outside” he heard Alicia call “Look at the new car I have bought with the money you brought back from Korea!”. Oscar wondered outside and looked at the shiny new car. “For Christ’s sake Alicia” he said. “Did you have to buy a Volvo?”



© David Abse 2006

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Cardiff or Montpellier? Supporting is not a crime.

You don't have to spend a fortune to be successful football team. The combination of greed and incompetence that City have suffered under successive (no surprise) greedy and incompetent ego-maniacs like Hammam and Ridsdale has seriously damaged the club. The amount of money both have taken OUT of the club is a disgrace (forget what the players are earning), and the stupidity of those running the stadium project (Ridsadale, Borley) and getting the club further into debt when it couldn't afford it is beyond any level of acceptability in a normal company (banks excepted). Ridsdale pays himself a million a year, Hammam took out millions in fees and god knows what else. The stadiujm project was under-budgetted for by AT LEAT £7 million and relied on unrealistic projected retail investments. (Monorail, monorail, monorail).


Our crowds of 19,000 every game SHOULD be generating a profit - and would be if it were not for the debts that need servicing. IF we make it to summer without going into administration, our best players will go, and PMG (who own most of the club and have borrowed on the back of some players' transfer values) will get some of their money back. Our team will be severely weakened and we will be lucky to be challenging for anything other than relegation. 


To see how it should be done read http://www.wsc.co.uk/content/view/4764/38/. Thank god I now live nearer to Montpellier than Cardiff so can get to watch some decent football while those buggers in Cardiff break my heart.


To add to the WSC story Costa is a SERIOUSLY good player with an alarmingly hard shot, the ability to skip past players like they aren't there. Spahic is the sort of sweeper you rarely get to see - one who can read the game so well it doesn't matter that he is slow. Jeunechamp is a terrific left-back, wearing number 27 (of course) so you can fantasize that he's a City fan, whilst Pitau is a ringer for Craig Middleton.

Meanwhile Montpellier's young players are well represented by Ait Fana, representing the young local community's multi-cultural nature, French mixed with north African. Just like the crowd (incidentally a few less than who go to cardiff's home games - 17,000 odd): the Ultras who sing behind the goal all match long, letting off flares behind a banner that says "supporter n'est pas un crime" - "Supporting is not a crime".


Viva la Paillade, but viva les Oiseaux Bleues.

Bloody Blogger

What's wrong with FTP? Why can't I host my own site? Tossers.

Do it do it do it do it do it the bristol stomp

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Gary Socrates Lives

But does the Ponderer? An interesting thought. No more Thin Blue Line (ever? who knows?) which mean the motivation to write the Ponderer column 5 times a season is gone, and thus less stuff on this blog about football. Meanwhile I am continuing with Socrates' Story (Follow the story at http://twitter.com/Socrates_Story). Writing a novel on Twitter? Am I mad? Quite possibly. It is an interesting challenge. Trying to make each bit fit into 140 characters. I have cheated several times by not using full stops, by finishing on character 138 or whatever. I think that's ok. I like the idea of having my own rules, and not sticking by somebody else's randomly made up rules. (See this: http://www.twitip.com/how-to-start-a-twitter-novel/). I read this and decided no: why have a plan? That's for those who have an idea what they imagine the finished product to look like. I prefer letting the plot develop slowly and naturally. There are two problems with this method though: You get some days where very little happens. I don't want to do too many tweets every day, so some days very little happens. Ah well, tough. The other, bigger, problem is remembering what went before -- I don't have a plan, or a document to refer to, so therefore it is hard to remember things. For example, I have had three characters so far: Two of them have told the story in first person. Have I given their names? I can't remember! Somehow I will have to check on this. The only name I have for sure is Larsson. And he's gone. Oh well, if I can't remember, no one else will...

So what else... I will carry on with this blog, with things as and when I want to. There are various things I want to get down in writing - some connected to cardiff City, more not.

For example - advertising. I have become interested recently in advertising, mainly because I started to notice how it has changed during the recession. So many more adverts are for money services - insurance, loans, trade in your gold (Have you got any spare gold lying about your house? Didn't think so...) and so many of these adverts are SO bad. there are so many assumpions made about people it makes me squirm. Price comparison websites advertise every couple of minutes it seems (somebody needs to set up a price comparison website comparison website - there's a fortune to be made there... hmmm, Dragon's Den here I come) whilst other insurance companies boast how they are NOT on price comparison website "Thanks but no thanks". So go to "Go compare the meerkat supermarket dot com" (Seemples? No Stupeeds). It doesn't matter which one you do, but bloody hell it's boring. So which one do you go to? the one with an annoying singing moustachiod Italian? The one with the bloke from Dragon's Den? The one with the meerkat? The one with people who step in and out of a computer? the one with the morons - sorry, 'ordinary people' - advertising how easy it is to use, or do you ignore all that and take Paul Merton and Stephen Fry's advice? (Bloody hell they really have devalued themselves by being in that ad haven't they? BIG mistake). Or do you take the advice of Stephen Merchant (tosser - I used to like him) and shoot arrows at some porcelain dogs (What is that ad for?). Horrible isn't it? Even worse, you could be a lonely sod with no life who has to dial 118 118 to have someone to go out with tonight (that is what they are advertising isn't it? Or have I missed something?). What really really pisses me off about all this advertising is the low level it is pitched at. People can't be that stupid can they?

Alright, alright I know they can, but please get this drivel off my TV. Try and pretend people have brains, or make people aspirational for brains at least. And as for Fry and Merton, I think you've blown it.

The story begins here... (Start at the bottom, twitterers)...

Follow the story at http://twitter.com/Socrates_Story

But he looked worried. He looked down. Even I could see that through the semi-drunken haze I was in, through the haze of the poorly lit bar.


So this man was right. But in contrast to me, he was clean, clean shaven, short haircut, wearing a nice suit and tie, CLEAN CUT. Sharp. Neat

But close. I looked like someone with no job, a drunk, no money no prospects, nothing to lose. Well I suppose I looked like I was. Not good

I should explain that. I looked a wreck. Tired, I guess. Dirty? Maybe. Unshaven. Shitty clothes. Needing a hair cut. Down and out? Not quite


But he sat down at the table and started talking quietly to me. "Do you want a job? You look like you might need a job. Some work for money"


I thought maybe he might want a game of pool, or that maybe he was drunk and wanted to pick a fight, or -who knows? - wanted to buy me drink


When the man came up to me in the bar I hadn't any idea what he was going to say to me and where it would all lead. But I guess you never do
But he looked worried. He looked down. Even I could see that through the semi-drunken haze I was in, through the haze of the poorly lit bar.


So this man was right. But in contrast to me, he was clean, clean shaven, short haircut, wearing a nice suit and tie, CLEAN CUT. Sharp. Neat

But close. I looked like someone with no job, a drunk, no money no prospects, nothing to lose. Well I suppose I looked like I was. Not good

I should explain that. I looked a wreck. Tired, I guess. Dirty? Maybe. Unshaven. Shitty clothes. Needing a hair cut. Down and out? Not quite


But he sat down at the table and started talking quietly to me. "Do you want a job? You look like you might need a job. Some work for money"


I thought maybe he might want a game of pool, or that maybe he was drunk and wanted to pick a fight, or -who knows? - wanted to buy me drink


When the man came up to me in the bar I hadn't any idea what he was going to say to me and where it would all lead. But I guess you never do

First game of the season...

Not for Cardiff City, but for me, when I can watch the home game against Bristol City on Sky. I expect us to lose. We usually do when we're on TV. Especially when it combines so many important things: my first game of the season, on the telly, local derby. I'm afraid it means we have no chance, sorry.

Being Jewish. Race v Religion

The recent legal ruling regarding Jewish identity in the UK is really interesting (see http://www.guardian.co.uk/world/2009/jul/03/judaism-chief-rabbi-jonathan-sacks) with the Court of Appeal ruling with regard to the Jewish Free School's (JFS) refusal to allow a child into their school because they felt he was not a Jew in accordance with Jewish rules - because his mother his mother was not a Jew, despite converting to and practicing Judaism. I have particular interest in this because my position is the same to some extent - my mother was not born a Jew but converted to Judaism, to please my father's mother before their marriage. The difference for me is that I have never practiced Judaism at all, preferring to live my life as a practicing atheist. In a similar situation to this child, however, when I married my first (Jewish) wife 25 years ago, my ex-father-in-law-to-be (what a great title) checked with the then Chief Rabbi whether I was a Jew and would therefore be allowed to marry in an orthodox church. He ruled I was a Goy (not a Jew), and we married in a trendy reform synagogue in Knightsbridge. Anyway, the appeal court ruled that such a 'qualification' to be a Jew (having to have been born a Jew by a Jewish mother) is a qualification of race rather than religion, and therefore the decision JFS to refuse the boy entry into the school was therefore in breach of the UK's race laws.

The Chief Rabbi, Jonathan Saks is up in arms, hating that he (and the Jewish religion, as he puts it) can be called racist - but he shouldn't be. The fact of 'being Jewish' has long been decided by others - by anti-semites, by racists. The Nazis never cared about strict hebraic qualification rules, they defined a Jew any way they wanted. Those racists here in France attacking Sarkosy for being a Jew don't care either about Judaism's own religious/racial rules. The Jews have historically (and perhaps understandably) tried to maintain the 'tribe of israel', and have opposed marrying 'out' as they put it, and it is clear to anyone with a modicum of sense that if you define any group of people by a familial/linear method you are defining a 'race'. It is not really something you can argue about. It may be that you are doing it because of a rule defined by religious texts, but why was that rule set? Surely to maintain the Jewish purity of the tribe. No?

This has not ever been anything often challenged by anti-racists throughout the world (nor anti-semites), nor (when it comes down to daily life) by most Jews. Most Jews have a strong sense of their identity which is not defined by religion, but by history. This is a landmark ruling that I hope gets upheld at the High Court, the House of Lords and all the way to Europe - it could have a major impact upon the Jewish community in the UK and beyond.

Why is this important? OK, take myself, and take this young boy trying to get into JFS,(I am still amused by the Free in Jewish Free School) and many other people throughout the western world who might define themselves as Jewish, or even HALF Jewish, by race rather than by religion, knowing that racists define them as a Jew, and Orthodox Jews define them as non-Jews. When we live in a world where racial hate exists, we, the half-Jew/Jew/non-Jew want to know who will protect us and who will not, who is on our side, and who is not - and thus being a 'half Jew' is not a comfortable identity to hold.

It is perhaps time for the Jewish community to grow up, and open its arms. I have no problem with other people identifying me as a Jew, it is only the Chief rabbi and his ilk who seem to have that problem. I think the Court of Appeal is righjt. It is a view that IS racist.

Integration

So many things linking together via simple bits of internet software - blogger, twitter, facebook and what else can I integrate. My twitter update now on the right of this blog, and it tells you exciting stuff like I am going for a picnic right now. I'm just waiting for everyone to get ready. At the moment it's only me and the dog who are ready. Mind you, the dog's always ready.

And no Cardiff news at all at the moment. Boring stuff about the new stadium (yawn), but no new players as yet, no one sold as yet. 

As for twitter, I don't really get it. I guess if i used my mobile for updasting it it would be even more dull (and expensive). But some people I don't know are 'following' me. I feel like I am being stalked. Or is that storked? Anyway, I have the feeling that there are people who surf twitter just looking for entries that chime with them, and I said the right things. One person is a yoga freak, and I think she's following me because i mentioned Buddha. But it was only in the context of Human League and their song 'Being Boiled', which i was listening to - ironically on a very hot day.

Gary Socrates End of Season stuff - sorry it's late

Gary looks forward (when we’ll be looking back)

Normally I look sideways, but this time it’s different. Just one point in the next four games will guarantee us a play off berth (or birth, he said, pregnantly) – and we might already have secured this by the time you read this – and there is still an outside chance of (say it quietly) automatic promotion.

No, I don’t really think we’ll go up (not after watching Cardiff city for 45 years) , but whatever happens next season is going to be different. Either we go up and suffer a ridiculous year of humiliation in the premiership, with just one victory over an injury-riddled Hull City to our name (after they’ve had two players sent off and it was an own goal anyway), or we’ll stay in this division, in our new Ikea stadium, with half our team gone – if the press are to be believed. Ledley will go to either Wolverhampton or Stoke or Everton or Middlesbrough or Sunderland or some other godforsaken town that has a top-tier team. Johnson will go to somewhere similar, McCormack will end up at Celtic playing with his boyhood idols (and Willo Flood) and Chopra will go somewhere with a betting shop.

Leaving us with a bunch of players who just might manage to escape from relegation to the old third division. Whatever way you look at it, I reckon THIS year, our last at Ninian Park, is going to be one of those years we look back on, and say “Those were the days.”

Flying elbows

What’s wrong with Crystal Palace? What’s wrong with Warnock? Well, Warnock is clearly a dodgy transsexual toe-rag with the morals of a scallop, and always has been, but why on earth were his team so keen to kick the hell out of us, and elbow poor old Roger Johnson into the hospital? Was it partly because their weirdo manager was saying how wonderful he thought Cardiff were before the match? Was it because Warnock is still employed by Sheffield United? Was it because (and I say this as someone who lived in North London for over 40 years) they are South Londoners? Probably that’s the answer. I always remember the Palace fans calling Cantona a “dirty northern bastard” after his famous kung fu kick at Selhurst Park. North? Marseille? Bunch of weirdos – they deserve Warnock.

Ninian Sell Off

As predicted, Mr Ridsdale hasn’t missed a trick, and all ambassadors have been offered a chance to buy a bit of plastic (known as a ‘seat’) from CCFC for £20. You also have a chance to buy a bit of the pitch for another twenty quid, if you need to re-turf your back garden (although I don’t know what you’ll do with the box and the certificate), and you can get your name in the programme for a mere tenner. Alternatively you can write a nice letter to that nice Mr Turton who edits this rag – oops, sorry, I mean esteemed journal – and you can get your name (if you can spell it) into TBL. For only a fiver (Oi, Andrew, cut me in for half of this!). Meanwhile, there’s some dodgy bloke outside Ninian Park selling things that are “Limited Addition”. I’d guess this bloke failed both his English AND his Maths GCSEs.

Old shirts

Apparently everyone is going to be wearing old City shirts for the last game at Ninian, and I shall be there wearing one of my ancient imitation shirts too. Not sure which one though, as this seems a damn fine time to sell the rest on Ebay.

Money money money

Not that I am obsessed by money or anything (but I can go on for hours about how the pound-euro exchange rate is killing me), but you have to wonder about the wealth of our fans. I know you save a few quid by standing on the Grange End, but is the only reason you do this so you can throw your spare pound coins and mobile phones at Swansea players? Or refs? The Jacks’ keeper De Vries was reported as saying he could have made a few quid from what was thrown at him: “I could have picked £250 up at the end to be honest,” he said. Instead, he was picking the ball out of the net. Mind you it would be hard to pick up all those coins with goalie gloves on. De Vries also noted that in Holland someone had thrown a banana at him. Down at the Jacks’ stadium he normally only gets thrown lucky heather… (Sorry).

Purse strings

Ha! You thought this bit was about money too, didn’t you? But you’d be wrong. Instead it’s about Darren Purse, who it looks like will be playing his last game with us shortly. Strange really, he’s clearly had a fall out with Jones, but without anyone lined up to replace him it’s strange he’s going to leave (along with Roger Johnson if we don’t go up), whilst we’re prepared to offer some sort of contract to those old crocks Kennedy and Scimeca. On the other hand maybe jones HAS got someone lined up. Whatever, cheers Darren, many thanks for what you’ve contributed, not least your song: “De-de-de-de-de-de- Darren Purse, Darren Pu-urse, Darren Darren Purse..” One more round against Ipswich?

Internationals

Amazingly this year we have had players for us from a huge variety of countries: Obviously Wales, England and Scotland, and not surprisingly both parts of Ireland, but also: Greece, Finland, Poland, Hungary, France, USA, Holland, and Norway. That’s an awful lot of countries, isn’t it? But here’s athough, whilst some of those are easy, see if you can work out who the players from each country are… (Extra points if you guess who was born in Norway without looking it up).

Awards Time

Yes it’s the end of the season, and it’s time for the awards that all city players are waiting for…. The Garys. Stuff the Player of the year nonsense, or the points things that appear elsewhere in this esteemed organ (ooh-er) THESE are what count. So here goes:

• Best American: This is a tough one, but after much consideration, the award goes to Eddie Johnson
• Most Unpronounceable Name: A lot of (stupid) names in the hat for this one, including Konstanwhatisname , Quincy Awuso-whatever and Miguel Comminges, but it has to go to Gabor Gypes. Easy to write, impossible to say. Strangely none of these guys have their own song.
• Best Goalie: After due consideration this was not awarded
• Best Norwegian: Ha! Did you think I’d give the answer away THAT easily?
• Best Irishman with an Italian name but really born in Norway: I think that might be a clue…
• Best Hair: Kevin McNaughgton. But only sometimes. Sometimes he has silly hair, sometimes he doesn’t. It’s confusing. But fun.
• Best TV Character: Quincy
• Best Sack: Erwin
• Biggest Burke: Chris
• Most Popular Name: Johnson
• Best Character From A Jane Austen novel: A close one, but this goes again this year to Darcy Blake
• And once more, that old favourite: Best Locker: Davy Jones

Ninian Park Memories

The Editor of TBL asked me to write something about my Ninian Park memories, but then decided to cut the thing to one paragraph. So here's the whole thing. What the hell.

I have a confession to make. I have no great affection for Ninian Park and I won’t miss it when it has gone. This is almost certainly mainly due to the fact that growing up in London I saw more away City games than home games, but also due to the fact that, given this distance, I have always thought it wasn’t the best of stadiums. On the other hand I have worked out that I have watched about 200 odd games at Ninian Park, and have plenty of memories, which I guess is all the Editor of TBL asked me for.

As a kid we used to come down to Cardiff regularly, to mainly visit my grandmother who lived in Cathedral Road, but also for holidays in Ogmore by sea, and (most of all) for my dad to take me on the bus from Cathedral Road to Ninian Park. For a hardened Londoner like me (I was at least five years old) this was a lesson. On the bus I remember the signs saying “NO SPITTING” – unlike anything I had ever seen in London – were people in Cardiff more likely to spit? Yes, my dad the chest doctor explained, miners and ex-miners with lung diseases. I felt small. At the ground I heard a shout and saw a waved fist “SCOULAR YOU’RE A JEW!”. As a Jewish boy growing up in North London in a community where Jews were aplenty, this was news to me: “Is Jimmy Scoular Jewish Dad?” I asked. My dad, looking forward to a City match, had to quickly explain to me the nature of casual anti-semitism. I got it, some years later.

I can’t remember who won. I can’t actually remember whether that was my first game at Ninian Park (certainly not my first City game, my less-than-perfect memory tells me that was away to Charlton, when my father told me that Barry Jones was our “Dangerman” and I pictured Patrick MacGoohan in one of my favourite TV shows. But certainly those were the days of Toshack and Clark, and Don Murray and Brian Harris – with whom my dad became friendly. And I know I sat in the grandstand with my dad – who still sits there, whilst I go around the ground to sit on the bob bank.

Other memories…. Of matches I saw, I can remember seeing Ronnie Moore score – knocking one in the Grange End whilst (for reasons I can’t remember) I sat in the Canton Stand. I remember Gil Reece scoring two goals against Oxford when he had the wind with him in the second half, I remember Pikey scoring after running the full length of the pitch, I remember (my favourite) Nathan Blake scoring a cracker from 30 yards out, and then shooting every time he got the ball – and nearly scoring every time he got the ball. Then I remember the excitement of going down to Cardiff for the FA Cup 6th round game against Luton, only to find out the bastards had sold Blakey to Sheffield. I remember everyone running onto the pitch after winning promotion against Scunthorpe, I remember that unforgettable defeat of Leeds, and I remember (well it was only last week) holding the mighty Arsenal. But mostly I remember a lot of boxing day draws: 2-2 against Torquay when they wore our revolting yellow away kit (the one that looked like it had bird shit on its shoulders) and 0-0 when I took my son to his first match, aged 6, on a freezing boxing day afternoon against Chester City. One of the worst games I have ever seen, with the only excitement when Carl Dale hit the bar. “Why’s everyone stamping their feet?” asked my son. “To keep warm” was all I could reply, “there’s nothing to get excited about on the pitch”. And despite all my subsequent attempts, I could never get my son interested in football after that terrible start. My wife, on the other hand I converted to City first time out. “Do I really have to come?” she asked, as we spent new year in Ogmore by sea, our first trip together. “Oh yes” I replied, knowing that a home match against Exeter City, would inspire true love. But even I didn’t expect the 6-1 win. And we (Andy Jordan) even scored Exeter’s one. 6-1. I haven’t seen anything like it since – and nor has she.

OK, Ninian Park’s not so bad. Even if you do have to piss against a wall, can’t get a decent cup of tea and we bloody hardly ever win. The good news is that when we move the long distance to our new ground across the street, we’ll surely still have our white flying visitors swirling overhead, and for a moment we’ll stop shouting “Bluebirds” to be the only crowd outside of Brighton to shout “Seagulls”.

The Ponderer: Latest TBL column - October/November 2008

Johnson is quick quick slow

Yes, we’re back to that old discussion about useless City strikers, and this time we kick off (which is more than he does) with Eddie Johnson. Johnson has owned up on the Echo that he’s finding things in the Championship a bit harder than he thought it would be. Says Johnson: “One of the most difficult things I have noticed is the pace at this level, the pace of the Championship is far quicker than the Premiership. The Premiership is a very technical division because it’s very quick and yet slow at the same time.” Well, that’s clear, isn’t it. The Championship is quick, but the premiership is very quick, but it’s very slow and the Championship is just quick and not slow and is quick, but not as quick as the premiership, which is slow. The Championship, he says “is boom, boom at 100 miles an hour”. Which means, I guess that the premierhip must be about, say, 150 mph. Or 30 mph. Or faster than the speed of sound. BOOOOOM! Not just “boom, boom”. See? Clear isn’t it?

And as for the game against the Jacks: “the game was too fast for me”. But he doesn’t say what speed, or whether he heard a “BOOOM!” so let’s assume it was a bit faster than the 100 mph the Championship normally is – say 120 mph – still not as fast as the Premiership? Because you see the Premiership is quick and slow at the same time. Obvious really. Anyway, it will be alright in the end, when as the season draws on, as injuries kick in, the whole team slows down to walking pace – just as long as they are quick at the same time.

Bye bye Thompson, Hello Bothroyd

Well, Steve “the Thommohawk” Thompson has gone. No longer will we have a hard-working big centre forward who rund around but never scores goals, but can sing a good b-side to a cup final song. Instead we’ve got classy ex-Coventry, Arsenal, Wolves, Stoke, Charlton, Blackburn and Perugia striker, Jay Bothroyd. Blimey that’s a lot of clubs, he must be older than Methusalah. But no, Bothroyd is only 26, four years younger than Thommo. And his goal record? According to that wonderful resource soccerbase, 223 games in total, and 42 goals. Much better than Thommo at 348 games and 71 goals. Thommo’s average is only 0.204, whilst Bothroyd’s is 0.188. Wait a minute. Hang on, hang on, that means that Bothroyd’s record is WORSE than Thommo’s. Surely not? Can’t be possible, can it? To get rid of one centre forward because he doesn’t score goals to replace him with another who scores less? What sort of idiot would do something like that? It’s alright though, we’ve got Eddie Johnson, whose average so far in his 12 games in British football is…..0.00. That’s right, 12 games, no goals. Thank goodness for top scorer Ross McCormack, with 103 games and 30 goals, an average of 0.291. Which is almost respectable, but I hate to ask the question: How many of those were penalties.

Four strikers foretold

Jones promised us four strikers this year, and according to Peter Ridsdale, he’s delivered: Bothroyd, McCormack, Johnson and that other bloke. Which other bloke? You may well ask – it turns out to be Paul Parry, who has massive experience of playing as a striker (at least a dozen games last year wasn’t it?) and is another massive goalscorer with an average of 0.163 (56 goals in 344 games).

Er… this was not quite what we expected when Jones talked about us taking great strides after last year’s FA Cup final (didn’t someone have to get shot if we didn’t?), and, to be honest, I for one did not expect to be rewriting similar sort of nonsense to what I wrote a year ago about the lack of depth in our squad – already exposed just a few games into the season. On the face of it, our midfield looks our strongest area of the team, but with Injuries to Scimeca, McPhail, Ledley and Darcy Blake at various points, it all looks a bit thin. Our squad appears to be 23 deep – but this is including Aaron Morris and Erwin Sak and Jonathan Brown – three kids who Jones really doesn’t want to use yet (or perhaps ever – if you think about it the only young player who has come through and been regularly used is Ledley, everyone else has been sold off, and frankly it’s hard to see how or why City turned down £6m for Ledley, which is reputedly what Stoke offered for him). Our squad is too thin, the suspicion is that it’s worse than last year’s – we’ve lost Ramsey, Fowler, Hasselbaink and Loovens (and Gunter) and haven’t noticeably replace them with anyone better. So far Comminges looks just about ok (given he’s a right footer playing left back) and McCormack occasionally looks very good (although in the games I have seen he also has long moments of mediocrity), and I’ve already talked about Johnson and Bothroyd enough. So this leaves our other new signings: Heaton (who seems ok – not convinced either way yet), Dennehy (not played) and Gyepes – who hasn’t played and no one can pronounce. Excited? No, nor me.

I have to admit that this season I have a horrible, horrible feeling of doom. Which I think will persist until we buy in at least three more players: a goalscorer, a midfielder and a defender. But who knows, I could be wrong.

How DO you say that?

We now have two players whose name no one can pronounce: Comminges and Gyepes. I honestly do not believe that this is all part of a Jones conspiracy to take our mind off all our other players, but it is driving me kind of mad.

Now, Comminges is from Guadeloupe, which is part of France (honestly, despite being 3,000 miles away from the French mainland) and as you may have noted from the TBL editor’s jealous comments, I live in France, and have double-checked with French people on how to pronounce his name: the general consensus is that it should rhyme with “singe” (French for monkey” and therefore should sound “Commanj” (think “Banjo” then take away the “o”). Meanwhile, during the Swansea game Sky insisted on calling him ‘Commingez’ (to rhyme with ‘Domingez’), others have called him “cummings”, Jones apparently calls him Commingay whilst the Echo asked him, but found his accent impenetrable and printed his answer as “Commergschz” . I think you’ll find, however, that I’m right. Comminges is also the name of a town in the Languedoc. Guess where I live.


As for Gabor Gyepes, this is clearly a harder matter: Despite an internet messageboard suggestion that the proper pronunciatioin is “Zsa Zsa”, the general consensus is that the correct Hungarian pronunciation for Gyepes is something like “Djeppez”. But further research leads me to discover that Gyepes actually means “Grassy” however, so perhaps we could call him that. Or “Dopey”….

Finally

What's that coming over the hill? Just when you didn't expect it, the return of Michael Chopra. It's all very exciting except that I have a horrible feeling of foreboding about all this. of course that could be all about something completely different, like the bottle of wine I'm about to open.... Cheers!

Searches

One of the things I love about monitoring my websites is seeing who goes there, and seeing how they got there. I particularly like seeing what people were searching for in google or whatever to get to my sites. For this blog I notice recently there seem to be an enormous number of people wondering what the origin of the 'bluebird' symbol is - which is gratifying, because it means that article is getting a wider readership than its original TBL publication, and the other thing people have been searching for recently is "Alan Lee booze" - which is entertaining, although given City fans' experience "Alan Lee fags" would be a more appropriate search (of course he may well have cleaned his act up now he's at Palace).

Web monitoring also leads to you to be able to identify some other very strange people who read this blog for their own reasons, and in one case in particular enabled me to pass their IP numbers to the police.

But apart from Alan Lee and Bluebirds, most people come to my blog because of a google picture search for one thing or another. I got an awful lot of hits for the Tintin in Iraq picture I posted ages ago, and recently somebody or other has been fascinated by my photo of Place D'Olivet in Ganges. Unfortunately Blogger is misbehaving today, so no random picture of Tower Bridge atttached to this blog entry as planned.

Unbelievably tactless

How can this happen? There are just far too many people around with no brains in the world, iperating without any sensitivity or intelligence, in positions of responsibility.

Some of them even get elected to important posts - Mayor of London, President of the USA just to name two - which I guess tells me all I need to know about the human race.

Well, the sun is shining, and there is Wales v Liechtenstein ion the TV later, so not everything's bad in the world.

Ganges 1900 - 2008 Place Fabre Olivet

Ganges 1900 - 2008 Place Fabre Olivet, originally uploaded by Gary Socrates.

This year the 1900 festival in Ganges was spoiled by the rain. Like many others we ran for shelter as the rains came down on the fantastic horse show. Well, we had seen it last year. On the plus side i realised that wearing glasses saves getting your eye poked out by umbrellas, and it was nice seeing the Place Olivet without cars in it. It's been strange weather in france this summer - not enough consistant sun. As I write this it is cloudy, despite my computer telling me that today's forecast is 28 degrees and sun... Oh well.

Summer at the City

A new season is upon us. Only seconds ago we were at Wembley (and no I'm not over it yet, thanks for asking) and now a new season is about to kick off. But meanwhile it has hardly been quiet down at Parc Ninian this summer. Whilst building of the new stadium has continued (not sure about those blue tiles - it's starting to look like a public loo - I suppose in keeping with tradition of the bob bank's famous old urinals), Cardiff's management have been excelling themselves in various ways.

A million quid?


You wouldn't mind if it was a million quid for a new striker, but for Publicity Pete Ridsdale? You've got to be kidding. Half a mill salary (Yes, just like you I'm thinking I'm in the wrong business), topped off with a half million bonus. For bloody what? For gettting of of Sam the Sham? Wooly Booly is all I can say. But that's alright, he'e "put it back in the club". Now hang on a minute, I'm not that stupid, what you mean is that a large chunk of City shares have been handed over to Ridsdale. For no reason at all except that he can get away with it.

Old and new strikers

Fowler pissing off to Blackburn was (probably) good news. City weren't likely going to sell any more 'Fowler 8' shirts anyway, and he was unlikely to play either.

The Hasselbaink mismanagement joke is another story. Another case of Mr Ridsdale either being incompetent or a liar. Put it this way - either Ridsdale really thought Hasselbaink had agreed to forego a year's contract (and a year's pay) for no consideration at all, and without putting it in writing - which is what Ridsdale says happened,or Ridsdale is telling porkies. Either way, it's another example of Publicity Pete fucking up, whilst "at the helm" (Lord save us).

Also spectacularly well-handled have beedn the non-signings of Boyd from Rangers (never was going to come), Bent from Charlton (can you blame him?) and Cooper from Dallas (Would have gone to Rosenberg anyway if they' let him leave - and only likely to ever join us at Christmas if we're looking like proper promotion hopefuls). Incredibly badly managed public relations (whose fault? Half a million bonus anyone?).

Meanwhile, no one is getting over excited at the signings of McCormack and Bothroyd, not least because it is clear from Motherwell internet messageboards that most of them were glad to see the back of McCormack, whilst the scoring records of both strikers just about match of to Steve "Transfer-listed" (sorry that should have read "Thommohawk") Thompson. Bloody hell. Anyone want to put money on Parry ending up as top scorer again? Oh yes and we're all extremely excited by the signings of Kennedy (Too old, Palace reject), Comminges (OK, a back up left back), Dennehy (reserve Everton centre back with NO league appearances to his name), Heaton (a 12 year old reserve goalie) and "glue hands" Enckelman. That's right, I haven't got over the FA Cup Final.

Going..... up?

Despite all the club spin (top six place, promotion this year before we get in our new stadium etc.) you may have noticed various experts in the press publishing their opinion on where we'll finish. NOT ONE believes we'll finish in the top six,and all have us somewhere between 9th and 12th. Personally I reckon 13th - so even I don't think we're going down, unlike someone I know who thinks that not only are we going down, we'll also go into administration. See? I'm being positive here.We've still got a good midfield, even without Ramsay (although I am not clear why Scimeca was offered another contract), with Rae, McPhail, Whittingham and Ledley - hoping we can keep him given that there's still a couple of weeks until the transfer deadline. Our defence is OK (but really probably not as good as they are being made out to be - if they could be taught to pass it might help), and we actually now have a couple of forwards - but no one thinks they'll set the world on fire. So there it is. Mid table mediocrity is the best we can expect. But they key thing, ok course, is ending up above (and beating) the Jacks. Sorry, but it's true.

Anyway I look forward to being proved wrong in April, when Bothroyd knocks his 30th goal of our season in to guarantee City automatic promotion.Or McCormack. Or Thompson. Ha ha ha ha ha ha. Sorry, only joking - as they say football is a funny old game. But really, not THAT funny.