To have the destination of the league title decided by a last minute goal was pretty exciting (for all non-United fans). It was always going to be difficult act to follow; a problem that didn’t deter the broadcasters from milking that cow for far too long. “Aguerrrroooooooooo!” clips have been running pretty much non-stop since pre-season build up began in July. But, what will they have to bombard us with this summer: Fergie retiring, QPR going down with a gazillion pound wage bill, or Mancini being sacked? – KEEP WATCHING  THE PREMIER LEAGUE!

City’s title defence was awful, but perhaps this was appropriate in Ferguson’s final year, because it underlined one his greatest qualities: resilience. Ferguson’s United have always come back for more. No other manager has been able to live with him, or his team, for a prolonged period. It’s as if he and he alone had the magic formula to sustain success, while others were always been corrupted by it. 

But, wait, even if there wasn’t a title race this year, there’s always: The Race for Fourth. Thank god for UEFA – they get a lot of shit, but if it wasn’t for the bloated Champions League, there would literally be nothing to play for on the last day of the season. Nothing, except pride. Now, I don’t know about you, but I’ve never found pride to be a currency of much worth in football. It’s not very tangible, you see. And, this is coming from a fan whose team have never won a major trophy, so I know what I’m talking about. When people ask me, what have Watford won, I don’t reply ‘pride’, and with good reason, because I’d sound like a fucking knob. Pride is shit. The race for fourth is shit.

Even worse, this year there’s not even an interesting relegation battle going the distance. QPR and Reading were so abysmal they were as good as relegated months ago. Pretty much every non-Arsenal fan was rooting for Wigan on Tuesday, but they fell, and that was that. So, despite being truly awful for huge chunks of the season, the likes of Sunderland, Newcastle, Norwich, Aston Villa, and Stoke are all safe with a game to spare. How can that be?

The thing is, despite its zillion faults, the Premier League still has the potential to entertain, and by god it ought to given the grotesque pay cheque coming its way next year. It might sound unfair on the old man, but Alex Ferguson’s retirement from the game could be the best thing to happen to the Premier League for a while.

It’s not year zero next season, but it kind of feels like it. Everything Ferguson achieved is history. Until now, that history has intimidated United’s opposition, but will it continue to do so, or will it create a crushing pressure on Fergie’s successor, David Moyes? I like Moyes, I think he’s got the right stuff, and he’s tough enough for the job. But, if Mourinho is coming back, he is facing a fierce fight to retain United’s title next season.

Good. United need a proper rival to slug it out with for a while. It’s easy to look back with hindsight, but the rivalry between United and Arsenal from around 97 to 2004 really was fantastic. There was a genuine ebb and flow to it, with supremacy swinging back and forth, and both teams featuring ridiculously talented players. I know the title wasn’t always decided at the end of the season, and United still had the upper hand for long periods, but it felt like Arsenal were always pushing them and coming back for more.

So, despite this being the dullest season I can remember, there is reason to hope that next year will be enthralling. The top three clubs are all going to be under new management. That really does throw it open. And, it’ll also put the ‘stick with your manager’ theory firmly to the test, with Arsene Wenger now by far the longest serving in the top flight. Who knows what’ll happen, but it might actually be interesting. So, we should all thank Fergie, I guess.

Thanks Fergs.

6. Mark Hughes, QPR, November 2012.

One of the few surviving images of Mark Hughes’ reign as QPR manager (Tony Fernandes had the others incinerated) taken during one of his last games in charge, at home to Reading – another team that QPR were unable to beat. Everyone has their own interpretation of what Hughes is thinking here, but I like this photo because it perfectly encapsulates QPR under Hughes in one singe expression. 

5) Lads, Bayern Munich, October 2012

As you’d expect this year, there’s been some strong entries from Germany, and true to form this Bavarian masterpiece features the all conquering Bayern Munich. It’s called ‘The Outsider’. Our four non-waistcoated footballers (Holger Badstuber, Xherdan Shaqiri, David Alaba and Jérôme Boateng) look ready for a fun afternoon at Munich’s Oktoberfest celebrations. Javi Martinez stands awkwardly to the left, confused. “The fuck am I wearing this waistcoat”, he wonders. Even worse, in some versions of this photo I found he’d been cropped out of it entirely. It’s tough being new, yeah?

4) Diego Milito, Inter, February 2013

This is probably the most haunting image of all the finalists. Stare into Diego’s dead eyes for too long and you may never recover. And, as if that wasn’t enough, you also have to process the most unconvincing thumbs up ever. He’s trying to be brave, but it’s just so utterly hopeless. Here lies the body of El Principe – once a deadly marksmen, now marooned on an island of soft furnishings. It’s about our mortality, yeah?

3. Torres and Benitez, Chelsea, January 2013

Now Magazine would love this: ‘Shock Torres and Benitez breakup! Fernando tells friends “It’s over!”’ I love the scowl on Torres’ face, and the concerned look on Benitez. I imagine Torres has just said, “Sure, I’ll sit on the bench. By the way, have you spoken to Roman recently? I’m seeing him later, I’ll be sure to mention you.” And Benitez has just realised that Torres might not have meant this in a good way.

2. Runner up: Pards, Newcastle, August 2012

Plenty of good entries on the short list, but some images stand head and shoulders above the competition. No need to add much to this one other than to say well done to everyone involved at Newcastle, and the linesman, whose name I couldn’t be bothered to look up. Let’s hope you can go one better next year and win the thing, eh?

1. The Winner: Patrice Evra, Manchester United, April 2013

Ok, not strictly a photograph, but my competition, my rules.

I don’t look forward to telling my son/daughted about the events that resulted in Luis Suarez becoming a prominent figure in Patrice Evra’s career. But, I DO look forward to showing them this picture, and having a good laugh at Suarez’s expense. Well done Manchester United. A worthy winner, unless you’re one of those Liverpool fans that tried to turn the focus against Evra by suggesting he was mocking victims of terrorism. Oh dear, football. See you this time next season.

It is a farcical existence, because you can’t really tell how good your team is until mid-March when there’s only six weeks to go. And, if after all that slog, all that up and down, you find yourself in a win or bust decider – well, that’s what makes it all worthwhile, right? People will forever talk about Sergio Aguero’s goal against QPR as the most dramatic finish to a season ever, but I think Brentford v Doncaster Rovers last Saturday beat it. Victory for Brentford would see them promoted to the Championship at Doncaster’s expense; if Doncaster avoided defeat, they would go up, while victory would land them the League One title, too.

After ninety four goalless minutes, Brentford were awarded a penalty and the opportunity to claim promotion with one well placed strike of the ball. The penalty was at the home end, with Brentford supporters packed onto their terrace, ready to unleash ecstasy. It was all set up to be one of those moments that immediately pass into legend; cementing the bond between club and fan for generations, and reaffirming to those present why they chose to support Brentford and not Chelsea or QPR. They would be able to say, ‘it doesn’t matter if we’re shit for another ten years, because I’ll always have this day, and it was ace. Chelsea can win the Champions League, but they won’t ever know what it felt like to be at Griffin Park when the Bees went up with the last kick of the season.’

As everyone has since seen, what followed will indeed go down in Brentford’s history, but not as the euphoric moment Bees fans craved. Instead, they were subjected to a twist so cruel it’d turn the stomach of the most brutal medieval dungeon master. Not only did Marcello Trotta’s penalty smack off the crossbar, but Brentford fans had to watch in stunned horror as Doncaster raced away to tap in the winner. The Doncaster goal didn’t really matter to Brentford in the sense that a draw would have taken Rovers up anyway. It was simply the final insult. After all that slog, Brentford must have felt like a salmon that made it a thousand miles up-stream only to get plucked out of the water and devoured by a grizzly bear when the end was in sight.

In this zero sum game Brentford’s misery was Doncaster’s joy. They had the reverse roller coaster having been seconds away from promotion, desperate for the game to end, and then seeing the referee point to the spot, followed by a sickening roar of excited anticipation from the Brentford fans. Seconds later, the Doncaster fans were leaping on top of each other and mobbing the scorer of the winning goal.

A few days later, I sent a message to a friend who supports Brentford to check he hadn’t lost it completely. He replied, “I’d still be struggling to comprehend it if it weren’t for the fact it so perfectly encapsulated the experience of being a Brentford fan.” I’m sure there are fans of other less celebrated clubs that would empathise with that sentiment. The problem for clubs that don’t compete for titles very often is that you never know when you’re going to get a shot at glory like that again. And, that’s the tragic thing for Brentford. They might yet go up through the playoffs, but what a moment they would have had, in front of their fans, with the last kick of the season. Trotta would have been held aloft in the inevitable pitch invasion, instead of trudging off in shame. Fans of smaller clubs generally adopt a more stoic approach to such setbacks, but everyone needs a break occasionally. Griffin Park only has a few years left on this Earth. As one of the more enjoyable London grounds to visit, I hope it yet has something to celebrate before the gates are locked for good.

P.S. If any Brentford fans are reading this, read this about the play-offs – hopefully it’ll cheer you up.

And read this, written by said mate, for further insight into the mindset of a Bees supporter.

It felt like Germany had these two for an eternity. I’m guessing it’s quite rare for one of the top international teams to field the same two strikers as their first choice in consecutive world cups. If you think about all that can happen in four years with loss of form, injuries, or the emergence of new players, it’s a sign of the enduring greatness of these two that Germany relied on the same pair in 1994 that took them all the way in 1990. And, they didn’t let them down, contributing six goals (three goals each) at the 1990 World Cup, and seven (five for Klinsmann, two for Rudi) at the 1994 tournament.

I want what he’s having

According to Völler, he and his strike partner were totally different, “on the pitch, and privately” but their careers include plenty of similarities. For example, they both scored 47 international goals (Völler achieved his haul with 90 caps compared to Klinsmann’s 108). To put their records in perspective, Gary Lineker scored 48 goals for England, and he seemed to be scoring international goals forever. Germany had two players in the same team scoring as many goals as Lineker did.  Both players were part of the German exodus to Italy in the late 80’s – Klinsmann to Inter and Völler to Roma – where each won the Coppa Italia (Klinsmann also picked up a UEFA Cup).  In 1992, both players swapped Italy for France, with Klinsmann going to Monaco and Völler heading to Marseille. Both players stayed for two seasons before moving on. And, even in retirement, they kept copying each other, taking it in turns to manage the German national team. Yeah, totally different, Rudi.

Blonde on Blonde

Appearance wise, there were some rather more obvious differences. If Klinsmann was playing now I doubt he’d have a beard or sleeve tattoos, he was far too clean cut. He always looked a bit like the kid who never got in trouble – or, at least, never got caught. Not that he was a coward – as he proved by taking a full blooded kneed to the face courtesy of Mark Bosnich.

It’s fair to say Völler’s image was a lot more iconic – a curly blonde mullet and moustache combo. Personally, I find it hard to separate the image of vintage Völler with the Austrian band Opus performing their terrible pan-Euro hit, Life is Life (I’m not going to link to it – you can look it up yourselves). It’s a vision that should have been filed in the overflowing folder titled ‘look at the 80’s – weren’t they funny’, but Völler kept it going well into the 90’s. I can remember the first time I saw a civilian rocking ‘the Völler’ in real life – a truck driver at a motorway service station in Luxembourg, or Belgium – definitely one of the Benelux nations. I stared in awe. This was in about 2002, some time after Völler’s heyday. And, even now, you only have to look at the state of some German fans in Bundesliga stadiums to realise it’s still a passable look in Central Europe. Is Völler responsible for this dreadful behaviour? Yes.

Anyway, they looked different, but what about their skills? Klinsmann was the more athletic of the two, and his legs were fitted with hydraulic springs to provide some serious air time.  And, not only could he fly, but his headers were lethal. Völler was a bit more skilful, and more likely to dribble, or look to play a one-two behind the defence. In short: Völler would try to pick the lock, Klinsmann would smash the door down.

Klinsmann became a lot more familiar to English fans after signing for Spurs, and has generally maintained a higher media profile, obviously helped by his current status as head coach of the US national team. But, from what I’ve read – and I’ve only read one book on German football (the same one as everyone else) – Völler was a more universally popular character in Germany during his playing career. Apparently, he’s a relatively modest character, and definitely not a fragile ego like some of his contemporaries (*ahem* Matthäus *ahem*).

This makes his involvement in those infamous scenes during Germany’s 1990 World Cup game with Holland seem all the more incongruous. He was sent off for an inexplicable red card (no one other than the ref knows what he was sent off for – it appears to be for some backchat) and Frank Rijkaard spat in his hair. Rijkaard has since apologised for being such a total douche, and the two of them were brought together to publicly reconcile their differences while promoting a brand of butter. Lovely.

Bagsy managing Germany next

As well as being a couple of goal scoring legends, it’s also worth reflecting on both players’ spells as manager of the Germany team. Völler took charge in 2000 after we’d all watched the worst Germany team ever to appear at a major tournament final. Not long after he was watching his side get routed by England in Munich. And yet, while Sven’s England made their obligatory quarter final exit at the 2002 World Cup, and some of the tournament favourites failed to perform, Völler’s Germany went all the way to the final.

It was a false dawn, because Germany were still terrible, as they showed at Euro 2004. But, as we now know, this didn’t matter because the Germans were growing a new team in their secret laboratory. The gamble had paid off – esteemed strikers where the way to inject a bit of life back into the national team.

And so, when Rudi moved aside in 2004, he passed the baton to his old strike partner. If Völler had been a surprise appointment, Klinsmann was an even bigger punt. The guy had been chilling in California since retiring. We’re all supposed to think that the Germans are all focused on pragmatism, but no way on earth was Klinsmann a sensible appointment. The German FA got lucky again, though. Klinsmann’s team played with the handbrake off and everyone loved it.  Germany were fun!

Obviously the rebirth of German football was the result of much more than these two pitching up for a few years and picking the team. But, it’s also true the status of German football was transformed between 2000 when Völler to charge and 2006 when Klinsmann departed. Looking back at their contributions to German football over the length of their careers, it’s hard to think of two strikers who’ve contributed more to their native land.

You can read the posts in this series here. And, now for the videos.

Rudi:

Jurgen:

If you’re fortunate enough to make it to the final, you get to watch your team in a vast stadium, with all the ceremonial fanfare you might expect from the Champions League. The teams are led out by their managers, accompanied by deafening music, and there are fireworks and streamers and everything else. To top it off, the winners get to lift a trophy at the end. Winning the playoffs is better then finishing second, no doubt about it. Second place is first loser in comparison to this hyped up monster.

Sadly, this has resulted in the Championship playoff final being dubbed ‘the most lucrative game in the world’, which suggests the only motivation for success is Premier League TV money. While this may be true for the owners, it’s a very cold assessment. It means more than that for the fans. Unless you support one of Europe’s elite clubs, you will probably spend most of your football supporting life enduring prolonged periods of interminable dullness. Seasons pass and nothing ever happens. Maybe you’ll finish in the top half, maybe in the bottom, but in the end, nobody cares. That’s why the playoffs matter.

People say they’re unfair on the team that finishes third, but if you can’t finish in the top two of the Championship then you’re on weak ground trying to stake a claim for Premier League football. The beautiful thing about the playoffs is that in any one season around half the teams in the Championship have usually got a chance of getting promoted. How else could Nottingham Forest – on their third manager this season – retain a realistic hope going up? And, where the hell did Bolton come from? Barely mentioned all season, they are the form team in the top six, which makes them a huge threat in the playoffs, regardless of their early season struggles. At the other end of the form table, Watford (18^th) and Crystal Palace (20^th) are losing momentum at the worst possible time, although not quite as badly as Leicester (23^rd) who have dropped out of the playoffs altogether.

It’s clichéd to say it, but form is everything now as the finish line looms ahead. Looking at the squads of the sides in and around the top six, it is impossible to say that one has a clear advantage over the others. The importance of form means it’s possible to get promoted almost by mistake. My first experience of the playoffs was in 1999, when Watford finished the season with some inexplicably good form, and surged from mid-table into the top six during the last eight games. In the semi-finals they edged past Birmingham on penalties (one of the longest penalty shootouts I’ve ever seen, I nearly threw up on several occasions).

In the final, they defeated Bolton Wanderers at the old Wembley Stadium. It was just brilliant. Without warning, a team that was in the third tier the previous season, and with pretty much the same side, had won promotion to the Premier League. The following year I saw them get ripped to pieces by the European Champions at Old Trafford. Promoted by mistake? Yes, almost certainly, and by the end we were almost happy to be going back down. But, clubs like Watford will always struggle to get a foothold in the Premier League, and that day at Wembley stands alone as one of my favourite memories from football. I’m sure it always will.

It’s fair to say that expectations are generally low for the team promoted via the playoffs. They’re expected to get taken apart, but they might also be disadvantaged by the late finish to their season. The regular season ends on 4 May. At this point, the teams in first and second can begin summer recruitment secure in the knowledge that premier league TV money is coming their way. The eventual winners of the playoffs won’t have that confirmed until almost a month later. I’m not sure if this hinders their efforts in the transfer market, but it can’t help.

Even so, in recent seasons, Swansea have shown that the playoffs needn’t be a curse; West Ham have looked comfortable this season; Bolton lasted for a decade; and, even Hull managed to survive the first season, if not the second. Granted, pretty much everyone else was brutally gunned down on sight, but at least they have the moment that got them there to remember. For many clubs this is as good as it’s going to get.

I was going to end with a video of that ’99 final, but if anything epitomises the playoffs at their best, it is the final from the previous season, when Charlton played Sunderland in a 4-4 epic that was decided on penalties. A ridiculous game.

QPR never used to be so unpopular. Their 70’s team is talked up as one of the most stylish and entertaining sides of its era. And, while Loftus Road isn’t to everyone’s taste, I’ve always enjoyed as an away day. It’s an intimate venue with all the stands very tight to pitch. A proper old football ground. So, how did the West London club become so universally loathed?

The players

QPR have binged on players with every passing transfer window, massively inflating their wage bill in the process. And yet, they have failed to significantly enhance their team.

The fact that QPR still field players like Clint Hill and Sean Derry says much about their failed transfer policy, if indeed there ever was one, during the past two seasons. It’s not that Hill and Derry don’t deserve to play; anyone can see why they still feature when you contrast their efforts with the risible contributions of some of their more recent arrivals at Loftus Road. The problem is that after all that money spent, Hill and Derry are still required.

Jose Bosingwa’s refusal to sit on the bench for QPR earlier this season was a new low in the exploits of Premier League mercenaries. Bosingwa is an unexceptional fullback and he is paid £80,000 a week. Eighty thousand pounds. This event perfectly epitomised the problems within QPR’s squad created by the panic buying of successive managers. You can be certain Hill and Derry aren’t picking up a salary anywhere near that figure that.

You don’t need to watch QPR for long before it becomes glaringly obvious that some of their players simply don’t give a shit. And then there was that story about the drinking session in Dubai. What this means for the unity within the squad is another matter, but that’s where the manager comes in.

The managers

It’s easy to forget the ever unpopular Neil Warnock was QPR’s manager until January 2012. No one likes Warnock, but he didn’t really have time to get on everyone’s nerves before he’d been replaced by Mark Hughes, one of the most life-sapping characters in the game. Hughes’ perpetual misery was enough to leave you asking yourself some pretty fundamental questions about your choices in life. Christ, he was miserable. His sacking felt like a mercy killing. And then there was ‘Arry.

It barely needs saying that Harry Redknapp divides opinions. Regardless of his methods, the fact that he has achieved some relative success in his career should not really be up for debate. But, the hailing of Redknapp as some sort of Harry Houdini-type character, charmed with the gift of leading clubs to great escapes, has been clearly proved to be bollocks. If it were true, QPR would not be seven points adrift of safety – the gap was six points when Redknapp took over. He has been given resources but has failed to get results, and the media, in particular the BBC Match of the Day team, are now unsure where to cast the blame. I don’t think Redknapp can be judged too harshly – this is a debacle not entirely of his making – but relegation will sure end the myth of Harry the miracle worker.

Celebrating City’s win

I’ve heard a lot of Manchester United fans express their loathing of QPR supporters for celebrating City’s title win at the Ethihad last season. Their point is that it had nothing to with QPR, so why should their fans care either way if City or United win the league. Logic suggests that by expressing their joy at City’s triumph, they are also showing their joy at United’s failure. I don’t know if this is fair. After all, QPR had just had their survival confirmed at the end of a very long afternoon, so were probably feeling pretty jubilant. But, it is a bit weird to celebrate the opposition scoring. The only possible scenario where it might be acceptable is when you know a goal will deny your rivals a trophy. So, United fans, and that’s quite a lot of fans, will enthusiastically cheer QPR’s return to Championship football, should it happen.

The endless waste

QPR are not the first team to waste a lot of money and they won’t be the last. But, while it may be pointless trying to apply the current economic context to the ridiculous landscape of Premier League football, it’s impossible to ignore entirely. We are in a recession, after all, and money is more precious than ever. Now, I don’t care that QPR are bankrolled – lots of clubs are – it’s just that they’re just getting such a pitiful return on their outlay. It’s actually infuriating.

Tony Fernandes appears quite content to shovel money onto a bonfire. When asked about the potential impact of relegation, Fernandes simply stated that they’d have to come back up. At this point someone needed to throw a bucket of cold water over him, give him a slap in the face, and shout “FOR GOD’S SAKE, MAN!” But, they did not, and another shovel went on to the fire. I wonder, if the price of gas keeps rising maybe we can all just burn Fernandes’ money instead?

With clubs like West Brom and Swansea punching well above their weight without paying Christopher Samba £100k a week, will relegation prompt a change in course? The last five years in QPR’s history suggests not. Sadly, this club is a case study for how to lose money in football if you’re rich and impatient. Hopefully there will still be a football club at the end of it all.

Sepp Blatter started work on the latest chapter of his memoirs (working title: The Great Dictator) when he pulled Qatar’s name out of the envelope and revealed it to a stunned global audience. He was delighted to be spreading the love to new frontiers, but that was December 2010. Now he’s reportedly having second thoughts. Surprise, surprise.

The concerns voiced by everyone about the feasibility of a World Cup in Qatar focused on the many obvious challenges – the lack of football infrastructure, the size of the country, human rights, and the furnace like conditions that Qatar endures each and every summer. All valid points, of course. What fan in their right mind what want to hand over thousands of pounds voluntarily to spend a couple of weeks in this hellish landscape? (answer: the England Band).

Blatter might argue that there were plenty of concerns before the World Cup in South Africa, and that tournament was ultimately a success in terms of delivery. The stadiums were completed on time, logistically it held up, and the teams had the right facilities. But, only FIFA would host a major sporting event in South Africa and implement a European-level pricing structure, making tickets prohibitively expensive for the majority of the host nation’s population.

The sight of swathes of empty seats during many fixtures of the 2010 tournament was impossible to dress up as anything other than a huge embarrassment. This is the World Cup, supposedly the biggest and best football show on the plant, so why is no one in the stadium watching it?

Don’t worry, said Sepp, we’ll sort it out. And sort it he did, by sending the tournament to a country with a population of 1.8 million –  that’s 1.4 million fewer people than the 3.3 million who attended matches in South Africa. Genius!

But, the World Cup is about more than the fans at the stadium; it is about the global audience that FIFA’s corporate sponsors want to hawk their products to. Yes, they need some people to go to the games, but the reality is that TV rights and advertising revenues have become far more lucrative than match tickets.

This is all a shame, because it was as recent as 2006 that Germany was highlighting what the tournament can offer for both parties – host and parasite (FIFA).  Fans came back from Germany singing the praises of the organisers (they certainly weren’t singing the praises of the England team). There was a sense that the host cities really wanted the fans there.

Of course, it helps when the country has a well established and thriving football culture in place.  But, you can’t engineer that. It’s like when you’re planning to meet up with friends and someone says ‘let’s have a big night’. There is nothing more certain to kill off an evening’s fun than excessive planning. You might as well cancel there and then. And with that bullet proof analogy in place, it doesn’t matter how much Qatar tries to create an authentic football vibe for fans – burgers made of strange ‘meat’, gassy beer, and over zealous policing – it will still be a rubbish World Cup.

Galatasaray’s Stadium would be an excellent World Cup venue

This might be sounding like a crusade against the unknown – it is not intended to be. It certainly shouldn’t be the case that only the larger ‘major league’ nations in Western Europe are deemed fit to host the tournament. There are still plenty of cool places to host a World Cup. I’m actually really excited about the tournament in Russia, but how good would it be to have one in Argentina again? Now that really would be a spectacle, but it’s not going to happen, not for a very, very long time. There’s no way they could afford it, and the same applies to Turkey, another nation overflowing with football culture, but lacking in resource.

If FIFA didn’t insist on sucking money out of the tournament and pumping it back to poverty stricken Zurich, it might actually be a positive thing for football mad nations with economic problems to host it. Instead, it’s becoming a prestige symbol for cash rich nations with money to spend on vanity projects. As the recent compromise on the 2020 European Championships has shown, even the previously comfortable European economies aren’t in a fit state to host major tournaments. But, why, if FIFA and UEFA are so cash rich? Why can’t the tournament be rebalanced a bit to make it more appealing for the host nation?

Four weeks of extra tourism is great, but it’s hardly going to pay for the all the investment in stadiums and infrastructure that is typically needed to host a major tournament. FIFA claims to be on a global mission for the greater good: “The world is a place rich in natural beauty and cultural diversity, but also one where many are still deprived of their basic rights. FIFA now has an even greater responsibility to reach out and touch the world, using football as a symbol of hope and integration.”

The evidence suggests otherwise. South Africa spent $4.6billion in preparation for the tournament, but the tournament only brought in $519.6 million in tourism. That’s a bit of a deficit. Over at FIFA, however, they were diving into cash filled swimming pools, having made about $3.4billion in advertising and marketing rights. No Government facing difficult economic challenges is going to touch that deal with a very long barge pole, with good reason. However you dress it up, a loss-making vanity project is pretty hard to justify in the context of rising unemployment and welfare costs. The World Cup could provide some relief, but it doesn’t.

‘Develop the game, touch the world, build a better future’ is a nice strap line, but in the context of the World Cup bidding process it’s just empty rhetoric.

As it’s international week, here’s a very brief international special featuring the Graham Taylor soundboard.

Following England is usually as much fun as pulling your fingernails pulled out, but with this device you can act out your managerial fantasies from the comfort of your living room.

It features all the best sound bites from England’s greatest ever manager (international and club level), with some of his most brilliant and unique tactical instructions, such as: CAN WE NOT KNOCK IT! Or, FACKIN PAUL! And of course, CARLTON!

The only reason we have these wonderful quotes is because of the access all areas documentary that Taylor participated in. If, for some inexplicable reason, you haven’t seen ‘Graham Taylor: An Impossible Job’, then it is presented below for your viewing pleasure/agony. It really is absolutely essential viewing. We will never see anything like this again.

Thank you, Graham, you wonderful man.

If only Rio had done what he was perfectly within his rights to do and turn his back on England, for good. He had no reason to feel he owed his country anything, not after the ‘footballing reasons’ snub of last summer.

I’ll concede that Ferdinand might have handled the decision regarding his latest withdrawal a little bit better. There’s not much point making a big play of wanting to be involved if you don’t think you’re training regime will allow it. And, I can understand why he pisses a lot of people off. Even so, the abuse he got from England fans during the San Marino match was a sad, sorry, and depressing indictment on a country that can’t appreciate one of the best centre-backs of his generation, and we’re talking globally here. Ferdinand would have walked into pretty much any team at his best.

It really doesn’t help when the England captain, Steven Gerrard, feels the need to condone the England fans who spent the evening calling Ferdinand a wanker. At best the England fans were showing their disdain for a perceived snub from Ferdinand, but if that’s all it was, why the need for a reprisal of Chelsea’s ‘you know what you are’ number?

This chant has racist connotations. Sorry, but it does. It was sung by a section of Chelsea fans immediately following the allegations made by Anton Ferdinand against John Terry. Remember, the same section of Chelsea fans proceeded to boo Rio Ferdinand for being the brother of someone that John Terry racially abused.

The England fans could have just left it at ‘are you watching Rio’ or even ‘Rio Ferdinand is a wanker’ I don’t really care, and I doubt Ferdinand does that much. But, bringing that chant into things drags it right back to one of the most unpleasant periods of the Premier League’s relatively short history.

I might be overreacting and making something out of nothing, but the Ferdinand/Terry incident was divisive and brought a lot of very unpleasant stuff out into the open.

You would hope and expect the England Captain to show a little bit more diplomacy, given the circumstances . But, then again, the last England captain was John Terry.

I’m told that there are lots of cool places to go out in Cologne, but I have been twice and am yet to find them. This time I was given instructions on where to go, with maps and everything, but failed to follow them, and ended up in a bar frequented by middle aged Germans who like to get drunk and dance around to cover versions of Sex Bomb. I’m pretty sure this was the least cool bar in Cologne. Thankfully, that’s not what this trip was about. This trip was about football – lots of football – taking in two games in one day. A Cologne match at 1pm, then a trip to Borussia Mönchengladbach for the 6.30pm kick off. Let me tell you about my day. Come with me now to Cologne and a journey to the Rhein Energie Stadion.

On the tram to the stadium I quickly realised my friend and I had given ourselves away as outsiders due to our lack of beer. It was only 11.30am, but we were already behind the curve. We soon caught up with the curve at the oddly named Dubai Sports Bar opposite the tram station by the stadium. Not a venue that oozes charm, but the music was loud and the locals were drunk, so it was a fine place to start. Then it was off to the stadium – and a sight that made me smile with joy:

Cologne v S.C Paderborn – do your wurst

When I made my first appearance at the Rhine Energie Stadion, Cologne were plunging towards Bundesliga 2 so effectively you’d have been forgiven for thinking their main objective for the season was to be relegated. This year it’s been a bit different. Having completed their objective, a lot of players departed and a lot joined, but most importantly, in Holger Stanislawski, Cologne have a coach who appears to have an actual plan (Stanislawski enjoyed success St Pauli, and was praised by his former player Marcel Eger when I interviewed him for my blog).

After a ropey start adjusting to life in Bundesliga 2, Cologne have been gradually improving and sit fourth in the table, one point behind Kaiserslautern. They’re too far behind the top two to make a realistic challenge for automatic promotion. However, a third place finish means a playoff against the team third from bottom in the Bundesliga – a promotion/relegation death match over two legs. So, that’s the target, and mid-table Paderborn the latest hurdle to be cleared. And clear it they did, not so much hurdling gracefully over it, more battering straight through it without breaking stride. A thumping 3-0 win. This was impressive for several reasons.

1)     Cologne have struggled to score goals this season, and rarely seem to win by more than a one goal margin;

2)     The second half featured sustained pressure from Cologne, and you could sense the team and the fans growing in confidence as they pinned Paderborn back in their own half. The noise inside the stadium was tremendous; and

3)     Anthony Ujah, Cologne’s main striker, hadn’t scored for what seemed like months. He scored twice in the second half, and was a constant threat to Paderborn’s terrified defence. But, that still doesn’t excuse this highly risky goal celebration with Hennes, Cologne’s mascot:

The standard of football isn’t the greatest in Bundesliga 2, but this was much more fun than the match last year, and still a great spectacle, with 42,000 fans there to see it. And so, with joy in our hearts, we began to make our way to the station to begin the next leg of our journey. I know it’s wrong to flirt with your rival after seeing your team perform so well, but there was never any doubt that my head would be turned after this.

Borussia Mönchengladbach v Werder Bremen

Following a smooth transition from tram to train and a 50min journey, we reached our second destination about an hour before kick off. Borussia Mönchengladbach’s home, Borussia Park, is located in some fields near nothing. You get on a shuttle bus from the train station and it meanders through the countryside for days before suddenly arriving at this giant structure glowing an eerie green. All the facilities are inside the perimeter fence, and the whole thing had a slightly menacing feel to it. Look at this complex of terror:

It felt a bit like the set of a low budget sci-fi movie, which would have been cool, but was actually slightly menacing. Looking at the packed stadium, I started thinking ‘where the hell have all these people come from’. It was like the green light had compelled them to this location from every direction within a 30 mile radius. I imagined them walking silently across fields and gradually converging into a single mass at the stadium gates. Sinister, right? Right. No fucking way I am going to the dark side. What the hell is going on here?

As for the game, it was pretty good and featured the first and only time I’ve seen a goal given only to be chalked off when both sides were lining up to kick off. Gladbach scored after Patrick Herrmann (who is decent) nipped in to skip round the keeper and score. The keeper collapsed on the ground appearing to have been injured in his effort to claim the ball from Herrmann, but the ref had waved play on and the goal stood. Everyone celebrated. The ball was being placed in the centre circle, ready for kick off, when it was rolled back to the keeper. Suddenly the score board was re-set from 1-0 to 0-0. The boos started, quickly building to a deafening chorus of fury. Imagine Michael Ballack chasing that Norwegian ref around Stamford Bridge - it was like that, but with 50,000 people involved. Fifty thousand furious Germans. The Werder goalkeeper was quickly identified as the scapegoat, with the home fans assuming his feigning injury was the reason behind this injustice. In fact, the goal had been chalked off because the linesman had called it offside, quite correctly as it happens. I have no idea why it took a minute to communicate this to the referee, but it was great entertainment. I love a good boo. Boooo! Booooooo! What’s going on? Who cares! Boooooooo!

This is the view from my seat – I could see it all, and he was offside. I have to concede it’s a pretty sweet ground, but look – the green light is there – even in the roof!

A quick word on Bremen’s Kevin De Bruyne, who was excellent throughout and a constant threat, able to beat his marker at will. There are two things that stand out for me about this young footballer: one, he is Belgian, adding to the already impressive attacking qualities of the Belgium nation team. And two, he is owned by Chelsea. Seriously, how many of these players do Chelsea need or want. Ah, fuck it. That’s modern fitba.

We didn’t hang about at the end of this one. A night out in Gladbach didn’t appeal, so we jumped on a train back to Cologne, and to the nearest brauhaus to sample their diverse cuisine (see below menu – warning: Pork Kills). 

So, to conclude: a lot of the things I see in German football are the things I’ve been less than complimentary about in England: the vast stadiums in the middle of nowhere, the thumping ‘anthems’ booming out over the speakers before the game, the goal celebration music, and in the case of Cologne, cheerleaders. Few things look more incongruous at a football match than bloody cheerleaders, but even they don’t look quite as ridiculous in Germany as they do in England.

The Bundesliga is loud and proud. Bright lights, and big sounds. Everyone seems to get involved with that. Going to football in Germany is fun. It’s not always great football, but there’s usually something to enjoy, if you can leave your English cynicism at the turnstile.