Gareth Ainsworth As Warrior King

Time for another article for League bloggers Two Unfortunates, who smash together lunk-headed footballers and erudite writing! Here's my latest one, on why Gareth Ainsworth, Wycombe's increasingly estimable manager, is a Legend and a HERO (for God's sake, LOOK at him! he's like a character from Game of Thrones!)

Gareth Ainsworth As Warrior King article

Movember is the Coolest Month

So, it's come to the end of the month when all the best men show their true colours. They are, of course, divided into those who have done Movember, and those who haven't. It's been a pretty quiet month for it; quite how ALL players aren't doing this to raise the profile of such a worthy cause, I dinnae, but here are the key players this mo'season:

Gareth Ainsworth is now digging his spurs into the sweaty flanks of Wycombe's lumbering collective carthorse, having been made permanent manager; we had some dismal results to kick off, but at least have won the last two in a row, making a dramatic harrumphing leap from relegation zone to 19th. Here's Gareth looking like the heroic, wild-eyed desperado he is and proving that Movember is not all about a few high-profile Prem players.

Peter Crouch wears the month's moustache with a confident mid-century air. Honestly, this man could saunter happily through the '40s, '50s, '60s and '70s and feel completely at home. He looks like someone you can trust, whether that is to poach a goal, sort out the sale of your car, or possibly run some sort of sepia-tinged covert spy operation.

                                       

Michael Owen, still surely a clean-cut little puppyfaced poppet in most people's eyes, especially as he's had such a blighted career since, looking weirdly adult and sporting what I can confidently testify as a 'Motorhead' (having done extensive online research on the matter). God love him for this outlandish and totally unbashful effort! And apologies for this slightly terrifying, apparently bed-cam update (NB: the rumours that I took this photo personally are completely without foundation).

Special notice goes to Aaron Ramsey and Theo Walcott for their youthful, but totally hopeless, attempts, which remind me of those boys at secondary school who were growing moustaches aged 15. As demonstrated above, you have to be a real man, with at least a hint of face-crag, and look like you've been around the block a few times, to pull this off properly. Theo looks like he's going for an interview at a mobile phone retailer in Carshalton, though Aaron does better with the vibe of a gay Belgian clubber. Good attempt, chaps!

                                         

GARETH AND CLARE IN BID TO SAVE FOOTBALL SHOCKER

The new season. I'd sooner be referring to a dream reunion of the cast of The Wire than talking about the new, or now not-so-new, 2012/13 campaigns, so flimsy has my enthusiasm been so far. It's all the O-/Paralympics' fault: so unexpectedly joyous, so sporting and so surprisingly addictive. Little did I know I'd be hiding behind my fingers at the men's 5000m wheelchair final, sobbing at the long jump, falling in love with Oscar Pistorius, dry-throated at the swimming, and agog at the men's diving finals (hhm, actually, I could've predicted that one...). Not forgetting, of course, the Team GB's ladies football team, all brilliant and honed and beating Brazil, and making me weep at the thought of them being proper role models for girls.

The resplendence of London's summer sports fantasia shone a light on the top flight's flagrantly-moneyed swagger, and made it look as ugly as hell. Granted, my first attempt to re-engage was with another England international display that was more bland than a milk pie with extra bread sauce, but that massive commitment, energy and loveliness shown by the summer's athletes is just not reflected in the country's big game. It's certainly not down at Adams Park, where now ex-manager Gary Waddock blamed the players for Wycombe's lack of success. On the bright side though, everyone's favourite Blues' hero/gravelly pubrock singer is now in charge!

But at the moment, the only thing really keeping me going is more Fantasy Football - I'm quite determined to beat all the boys in both my leagues with my tactical nous.

So, football needs a facelift (and in John Terry's case, perhaps a whole heart/head-lift). Solutions are obvious:
1) Women's football EVERYWHERE
2) Top-flight players to become ambassadors for charities - ALL players!
3) Cap salaries, natch
4) A footballer's choir! YES. Gareth Malone, this is your next series!!
5) There's only one clear solution to rescue the increasingly doldrum-tastic MOTD, now that Lee Dixon has SHOCKINGLY decamped to the cheap-suited salesman vibes of ITV. Here she is:

Just imagine that it's the Emirates behind her. I've got tingles!

What (And Who) Next For Wycombe?

So it's about turn again for Wycombe, after the sacking of Gary 'the Wadfather' Waddock... I've done an reaction piece for eminent League bloggers The Two Unfortunates here!

Article For Two Unfortunates

I've written another article for esteemed Football League bloggers The Two Unfortunates in the run-up to this season. Here's my run-down of Wycombe's managers in the recent past!

And if you haven't read my other guest articles, here they are too!

• Unexpected Rivalries 1: Wycombe v Colchester
• Great Football League Teams 22: Wycombe Wanderers 2000/1
• They're All Over The Pitch - article on football chants (p. 30)
• Wycombe preview 2011/2 (p. 61)

EUROTASTICS! Round-up

So, with England out, the only thing to do was watch the other matches in a relaxed fashion, so neutral that I cheered on both teams each time, and dish out some awards, that mostly have very little to do with the football (other people do THAT stuff):

TATTOOS OF EURO 2012: Hhm, not much of credit here. Some quite terrible artistic decisions made, to haunt their skin for eternity. Meireles of Portugal has plenty: his arms look like they're rotting. In fact (I know this is an old photo), here he is in full-on zombie mode, trying to munch on that yummy human Ronaldo's head.

HAIR OF EURO 2012: While the old fogeys on the Beeb might scoff at boys who care about their appearance whilst being on a world stage, I am full of nothing but admiration for Wayne for using making some product before he got onto the pitch. But Hair of Euro 2012 must go to Ronaldo, who reportedly had his hair retouched up by a stylist in half-time of the quarter-finals. And why not? How else can you maintain that excellent take on the 1920s matinee idol look? Both with his impeccable coiffure and his passionate, singular leadership, he's like a glistening, heroic Rudolph Valentino-type; I can imagine him giving Oscar speeches in a thick Mediterranean accent for roles in soft-focus silent action movies about swarthy horsemen. Here is a picture of him looking mean (but with an immaculate side parting):

MOST HELPFUL NAME:  Petr Cech. For obvious reasons.

ARTY TV ATTEMPTS: ITV's ill-judged montage sequences DURING the matches. It's not an episode of Dawson's Creek, you imbeciles! Better was a BBC shot of a tear trickling impossibly slowly down the cheek of a sad German lady after SuperMario's second goal in the semis.

TUNE: Dur, dur dur DUR dur dur durrr durrrr. If you can't work out what that was, you haven't watched enough of the Euros. Jack White's riff in Seven Nation Army kept appearing, in the crowd and over the tannoy - not even the proper version! Repeatedly. The vuvuzela of Euro 2012.

ADORABLES: Xabi Alonso of Spain and Miguel Veloso of Portugal. Men with short hair and beards = GOOD. And speaking of beards, well done to totally beardtastic team, Greece, for Services To Hirsutism in Football.

TRENDS: Beards, obviously. Muscle tape. Speeches about being nice to each other at the beginnings of matches, hurrah! Useless 5th officials. Spain being well good.

SERVICES TO POETRY:

• 'Posing. Preening. Prolific. Ronaldo' Jonathan Pearce, with awe
• 'He's a big, long, stringy thing' Jonathan Pearce on Cech, insultingly
• 'Usually playing Spain is death by a thousand cuts. Slice. Slice. Slice. Slice.' Guy Mowbray, darkly
• 'Portugal are out of their feet' Martin Keown, confusingly

SHIRTWATCH AWARD: Gianluca Vialli, showing the Northern Europeans how it's done in a no-nonsense mid-blue suit for the semis, sharp as a suck on a lemon. And he has a BEARD.

LOOKEY LIKEY: Mr Big from Sex and The City has obviously dumped Carrie for her neuroticism and shopaholic tendencies and escaped to a new life as the German manager. LOOK!

EUROTASTICS 4! England v Italy

Lawks. My hair is standing on end, my stomach is in turmoil, my hands are raw, my head hurts, and I've made the room smell weird. It's not bird 'flu, I've just watched England get knocked out of an international tournament again!

Kicking off with a near-smasheroo from the Italians, and then a slight fumble-o-rama from Glen Johnson, the first half was pretty marvellous, especially that purple patch from 5 to 25 minutes, or should I say white patch. It was lovely to watch the boys fluttering around like wood white butterflies, with a light touch on the ball. But just like those wood whites, whose population on our soil is declining fast, England's performance faded throughout the second half, just clinging on for dear darned life by the end of extra time.

By the time there was a shot of the subs, I was GRATEFUL to see Andy Carroll on the touchline, though of course his small bag of party tricks (1: standing 2: leaning 3: heading, very well 4: flattening Italians) were only beneficial for so long. I thought we defended quite fearlessly and brilliantly - how else didn't the Italians score with all those ludicrous chances? Terry and Lescott fended off the terrifying Balotelli, who with his current haircut is basically a human circular saw, and who would bolt from his line like a glistening, hotly steaming horse, nostrils flaring alarmingly. But defending is only half the battle, and elsewhere we were giving away balls like sweets at a children's party. Hodgson looked more and more spooked by the second, and Wayne's magic was not quite there, though that overhead kick at the end of 90 minutes was heart-stopping. The brass section sounded increasingly like party blowers in the cold light of morning after the night before.

Penalties, though of course nerve-wracking, felt different this time. It had been such an Italy-heavy match that (at least as a spectator...), it REALLY didn't matter if we got knocked out. Not like 1990, or 1996, or 2006. It's weird to say it, but I felt quite RELIEVED when that last penalty went in. We clapped Italy, who obviously deserved to win by several country miles; it would have been embarrassing for England, bless their hearts, to go onto the semis to be pulverised by the Germans. Now I can just ENJOY it (and recover my health).

ENGLISH HERO: Joe Hart, just utterly unflappable, and often caught grinning at madly tense moments, like he was just enjoying himself hugely. I liked his yoga lion face in the penalties. Surely our captain for the next tournament?

IRRITANT: Mark Lawrenson, who is becoming more and more like the embittered uncle at your Christmas party, full of barbed, mildly bigoted remarks and general idiocy. 'Or you can tweet', he sneered, 'if you're sad', to some remark about how to stay in touch with the Euros, possibly insulting hundreds of thousands of viewers. Obviously he's not the sort of man to do anything as pathetic as use Twitter, do yoga (like Shay Given) or use hair product (like Wayne Rooney), as he reminds us from time to time on screen, with his mean, drooping fizzog. Promote Martin Keown, quick!

HOMOEROTICA: Balotelli, advancing, and Hart, walking backwards, eyes locked, faint smiles playing upon on their lips, as they headed for the goalmouth for the first penalty. HIGHLY SEXUALLY CHARGED! Also, Balotelli getting his magnificent thighs massaged by two supplicant physios before penalties. HEAVENS.

SHIRTWATCH: A quiet night, but Alan Shearer snuck in a curious double-layered collar.

ADVICE OF THE NIGHT no. 1: 'get one of the strikers to sit on him!' - Alan Shearer, urgently, on how to cope with Pirlo. Think you would have needed the whole team to flatten him like a pea under a mattress-pile of players, subs and coaching staff. Or just Andy Carroll, of course.

ADVICE OF THE NIGHT no. 2: 'We've GOT to get hold of that football!' - Shearer again, futilely.

TATTOO OF THE MATCH: Diamante. Like a load of 90's rave stickers have melted onto his right arm. DREADFUL.