Confessions of a Correspondent

Where the legends will be on show this summer

2011-05-20T11:02:00Z

What links Premier League legends Alan Shearer, Andrew Cole, Gianfranco Zola, Gus Poyet, Steve McManaman, Ray Parlour, Paul Merson, Rob Lee and Roberto Di Matteo? Why, of course, it's that they're all going to Barbados to compete in the inaugural British Airways Football Legends Invitational Tournament.

The six-a-side tournament will be held at the Kensington Oval on 10-11 June, with teams representing England’s top clubs battling for honours to raise money for local charities involved in the development of football in the Caribbean.

“The emphasis will be on exhibition as well as competition and whilst you can never take away that competitive edge from a footballer, the respect and friendship among the lads will no doubt produce some great entertainment,” said Alan Shearer.

Cole, who only trails Shearer as the Premier League’s all-time top scorer, added: “My family is originally from the Caribbean so I’m pleased that we’re helping put money into grass roots football there. My dad is cricket mad and still doesn’t get football. I’ve enjoyed telling him that I’m going to play football on the famous Kensington Oval...”

Barbados Tourism Authority has developed the tournament in conjunction with the Professional Footballers Association, whose commercial director Christian Smith said: “The popularity of veterans’ football has dipped in recent years as many players retiring prefer to take up careers in the media or coaching. Our aim is to establish an annual series of events featuring some of the great players of the last decade.”

If they're played in beautiful locations such as Barbados, there’ll be no shortage of eager former pros.

Could a twisting of words force Pep into a British media blackout?

2011-03-14T18:00:00Z

Barca, Arsenal, Manchester United and Liverpool. I’ve found myself in Groundhog Day territory watching the same teams in the last week.

I’ll spare Arsenal fans from going over Saturday’s FA Cup match. Five thousand of them travelled to Barcelona, 9,000 to Old Trafford to see two defeats and two cup exits in five days. I sat close to them at Old Trafford and they supported their team to the bitter end. However, Arsene had best put the Pomagne on ice.

And I’ll save myself going over the old ground of Liverpool’s win against United last week. Enough people reminded me of that at Anfield yesterday before, during and after an epic FA Youth Cup tie.

From the perspective of a journalist, Liverpool are a very friendly club to deal with. I had 1,600 words to write by the final whistle – a tall order, especially when the game completely turns on its head. Liverpool surged into a 2-0 lead before United stormed back to win 3-2.

Watch out for United’s Ravel Morrison who scored two (and Liverpool’s Raheem Sterling). Manchester lad Morrison has led a troubled life off the field, but he appears to have put his head down and to be concentrating on his football.

Could Morrison be the next big thing at Old Trafford?

Anfield’s press box is small and right next to the directors’ box, so Sir Alex Ferguson, Sir Bobby Charlton and David Gill were sitting about three metres away. The senior people at Old Trafford have always taken the Youth Cup seriously. I didn’t spot Malcolm Glazer, though – maybe he was one of the visiting fans ejected for setting off a flare. In direct sunlight. At a youth game.

Four players were sent off too – a pair from either side. One of Liverpool dismissed players left the field, showered and came to sit in the press box. Next to me. He was fuming. He also wore a giant watch the size of Cilla Black’s teeth. I had nothing to say to him, 1,600 words and all that.

Last week was busy, as it always is when an English team comes to Barcelona. I seem to get loads of messages like: “You don’t know me, but a mate of a mate once saw you (standing on platform 9 at Crewe noting train numbers?). He said that you’d be able to recommend a cheap hotel in Barcelona, some great bars and restaurants, plus get us 16 match tickets for face value and fix us up with Carles Puyol’s model girlfriend.”

I’m a helpful sort, but there’s only 24 hours in the day and Puyol’s lady is the faithful sort.

The Telegraph’s Jim White has written for United We Stand for years and came over for the game to write a colour piece for all those retired generals in the Cotswolds. We arranged to meet for some food. “Do you mind if Henry Winter joins us?” Jim asked. I didn’t.

I first met Winter in 1996 while watching two Newcastle fans in wheelchairs try to fight each other on the Quayside, the fall out after Eric Cantona’s goal severely dented the Geordies title hopes. Winter has always been very pleasant, friendly and keen to talk football, though not everyone sees him this way.

“Every morning, I get a tweet saying ‘You’re a c*nt’!” he explained. Some people, eh?

The British hack pack were also in attendance when Barca coach Pep Guardiola spoke the day before the game. Guardiola is bright and very respectful when it comes to the giants of English football. He answered questions in four different languages and was very complimentary when talking about Jack Wilshere.

"Make sure you get my good side..."

I’ve looked again at my notes from the press conference. “He’s a young player and looks like he could be a great player,” said Guardiola. “He passes well and is aggressive. He combines well with his team mates.”

He also stated that he had many similar players in Barça’s B team who are riding high in Spain’s second division and beating the first teams of sides like Celta Vigo and Betis. Guardiola wasn’t demeaning Wilshere at all.

The following day, several British papers reported Guardiola had stirred up trouble and been disrespectful towards Wilshere and Arsenal. Apparently he’d “launched an astonishing attack” on Wilshere. He was also accused of taking “a side swipe” and of trying “to vex” Arsenal and “second rate” Wilshere. He didn’t.

Guardiola’s English is good, but it’s not perfect. He’s not au fait with the nuances of the Queen’s, nor the dangers of tabloid-speak – and for that he was punished. He’s engaging, honest and articulate, but it would be understandable if he said nothing next time Barca draw an English team – when the British journalists would be the first to complain.

Marseille trip far more eventful off the pitch than on it for United fans

2011-03-01T11:51:00Z

The first Manchester United fan I saw after walking out of Marseille St-Charles train station last Wednesday had a warning.

“Don’t bother with the Old Port,” he said. “We’ve just left. It’s getting a bit lairy down there. Too many pissed up idiots and a few snide locals eyeing them up. I wouldn’t be surprise if it kicked off.”

I heard similar several times before the match. It didn’t surprise. Marseille can be a rough and unforgiving port city. England fans were involved in prolonged disorder with local youths of North African descent around the bars of the Old Port during the 1998 World Cup, while there were incidents when United last played in France’s second city in 1999.

And while most United fans know how to behave and how to enjoy themselves on their travels, some do not. There’s a trend that continues at almost every Manchester United game in Europe. People drink heavily and turn up at the stadium late. Chaos and confusion ensues and the local authorities struggle to cope.

Some people have a vested interest in benefiting from the confusion – they have forged tickets or didn't have tickets in the first place. Innocent fans invariably become victims of a nervy, baton wielding local police force whose perception of English football fans is still stuck in the 1980s.

Last week, I started getting texts and emails before kick-off from United fans outraged by the over zealous and aggressive local police force. Fans had arrived half an hour before kick-off but missed the first 30 minutes of the game because they were kept in a warehouse which served as a holding pen.

They then queued to be searched and because the authorities couldn’t cope with the numbers of fans they had sold tickets to, crushes developed. Fans paid £60 for a match ticket which was not checked once – they could have been waving a metro ticket for all anyone cared. Communication from the police, most of whom were clad in a Robo Cop-style ensemble, was minimal and laced with aggression. One elderly fan was hit over the head with a police baton.

Despite being open on three sides, the Velodrome is a wonderful, atmospheric arena. The United fans played their part. They may have been caged by high fences into a section holding 2,500, but they were loud and their flags and flares added to the occasion.

There was a price to pay: seven fans were arrested, most for brandishing flares. Their punishment was tough: a five year ban from watching Manchester United games, a €1300 fine, one month suspended sentence and a year ban from France.

Ironic though, isn’t it, that television companies and magazines use images of fans with flares to illustrate the red hot atmosphere in a stadium? Ironic that at some Continental grounds they are tolerated, while at others you may as well be carrying a dead body.

And I doubt very much that the Marseille fans who shone lasers into the eyes of United fans were ever caught, let alone punished.

Some fans were right to complain, others clearly think they can get away with anything once they leave England. I saw the Twitter feed of one. During the afternoon of the game he was boasting about how drunk he was in Marseille. Later he was bemoaning the actions of the French police. You sense that there are two conflicting sides to that story.

Manchester United tend to be proactive and liaise with the FA and UEFA, but they have little control over the actions of foreign police forces.

I directed fans towards the Football Supporters Federation, who do an excellent job in representing fans abroad, but it’s not as simple as blaming a foreign police force for the ills of every travelling English fan – some really need to grow up because their behaviour makes life more difficult for the innocent majority.

Fergie the latest to speak out over UEFA's Champions League profiteering

2011-02-21T11:25:00Z

Sir Alex Ferguson is the latest person to speak out against the prices for this year’s Champions League final at Wembley.

We’ll ignore the fact he’s never spoken out about the ticket prices at Old Trafford when so many Manchester United fans see them as a cause for concern, but Ferguson was right when he criticised UEFA. The cheapest final seats for neutrals will be a prohibitive £176 plus a ridiculous administration fee which will push the total over the £200 mark.

“It’s unbelievable,” he said. “It’s a killer. It’s disappointing. Managers and players can’t do anything about it. I don’t know what you can do. You have a booking fee of £26 or whatever it is…dearie me.”

Well, he did something about it by speaking out. More action from others like him would be welcome, but don’t hold your breath.

Some of the 25,000 tickets - just over a quarter of the Wembley capacity - allocated to each of the competing clubs will be cheaper at £80, but UEFA won’t say how many. They could sell a just two tickets for £80 and claim they'd fulfilled their promise.

Despite being a period of low inflation across Europe and a time of economic crisis in most countries, these prices have risen 40% in two years.

Wembley has always been expensive, be it for a hot dog or match brief, but this takes the proverbial. At least Queens Park Rangers had the honesty to print that some of their tickets had a ‘diabolical view’ on them in the 1990s. UEFA should print “blatant profiteering” on Champions League final tickets.

Instead, they have tried to justify the mark up, saying: “We have to benchmark this event against other comparable events - for example the final of the Euros and the World Cup.”

Michael Platini’s actions are disappointing. A great, great player, I was optimistic about his future as an official in football when I interviewed him in Rio in 2000. We were there to watch Manchester United and a mate cheekily asked if he was up for an interview with a Manchester United fanzine. To his credit, Platini said yes and we met him the following day, where he talked about Eric Cantona, Juventus and the 1984 French team.

As he was promoted through FIFA and then UEFA, I liked his idea about making the Champions League more inclusive and his thoughts about financial fair play, but what about UEFA playing fair financially with fans?

When Platini oversaw moving the Champions League Final to a Saturday, he claimed that he did so more families could see the game. But there seem to be ulterior motives. The corporate dollar was never keen on midweek finals. Too much time off work, too much of an inconvenience.

When Juventus met Milan in the 2003 final at Old Trafford, the touts couldn’t give match tickets away outside the ground. Manchester Airport may have recorded the busiest day in its history and plane spotters flocked to see Italian planes that had not been airborne since WWII, but many friends got into the European Cup final for a fiver.

However, London is not Manchester and Saturday is not Wednesday. One of the “strengths” of England’s failed 2018 World Cup bid was London’s sophistication in the corporate events market. That is a large market stocked with the well-heeled who would not flinch at £200 or even £2000 for a ticket to see a “flagship event.”

But are they the people who deserve to be at the final? Surely loyal supporters of the competing clubs should be the absolute priority, be they from Barca or Chelsea, Madrid or Manchester.

I’m going to Marseille this week to see Manchester United. There will be a couple of thousand travelling from England. Should United reach the final then virtually all of them will be guaranteed a ticket because of the club’s loyalty system. If they don’t like the price, tough. And UEFA know that.

Yet there will be supporters who have seen every Manchester United home game this season who would miss out on a ticket for the final should United reach it…though they have the option of paying sky high prices through third parties and the type of corporate shebangs which UEFA encourage.

As for families, what type of working class family, the very folk who have long provided the bedrock of match going football support, could afford those prices? Or do UEFA mean upper middle class families who only discovered football after it became trendy post Italia ’90, the start of the Premier League or even Euro ’96?

Ronaldo's 'drama', Ferguson's silence & United's dressing room villains

2011-02-11T15:00:00Z

An email arrives from Sao Paulo....

“Ronaldo (Nazário) is in a very bad moment here - Corinthians was eliminated in a pre-Libertadores tournament by a Colombian club called Tolima. The Corinthianos became very angry and there were many demonstrations in the Corinthians training centre last week. Ronaldo was the main target of the demonstrators, and even his car was a target. This is, probably, his swan corner (song?), with even graffiti in Corinthians walls against him. A big drama. Please investigate and write about this.”

I’d love to, but it’s derby week in Manchester, when the wind comes sweeping down the (Cheshire) plains. Or, as one Manchester United first teamer told a colleague last week: “I love United but I’m sick of Manchester.”

Like Gabriel Heinze before him, he fancies Real Madrid. Heinze must be the most disappointing player I’ve ever interviewed.

Fortunately, I’ve never had an absolute horror, unlike a fellow journalist who went to interview the cult hero that is Duncan Ferguson in the mid 90s. The Scot was in no mood for talking. So why sign a boot deal when one of the clauses is that you must do a set number of interviews per year?

The situation quickly descended into farce, with Ferguson reluctantly agreeing to speak – but only about his boots. Players talking about football boots is not interesting and the interview went nowhere. The magazine reprinted the interview in all its horror and Ferguson lost his boot deal soon after.

No, Heinze was disappointing because he couldn’t be arsed. He arrived at Old Trafford in 2004 and had a magnificent first season. Fans loved his tackles, where he seemed to hang in the air like a drunken hawk and then lash out to win the ball with a kung-fu kick.

The Stretford End even sang “Ar-gen-tina!” – to outrage and befuddlement at away grounds full of Little Englanders from Portsmouth to Blackburn. And to pleasant surprise in the pampas, where they thought the English hated them after the Falklands’ conflict.

We fixed an interview with Heinze. And he was a knob. He said we had five minutes, when 30 was the norm. I spoke in Spanish and told him we’d rather have none. He said we had ten. He probably thought we meant $10 million net per annum for him, with a further 10% for his agent. So he talked a little, but he didn’t want to be there when he could have been at home counting cash or engineering another move and signing on fee.

Heinze in full knobbish flow at the World Cup...

He was injured later that year and would eventually lose out to Patrice Evra as United’s left back. He wasn’t missed.

People ask all the time about the players I’ve interviewed. “What’s X really like?” they’ll say. How can I answer accurately when most put their best side on when interviewed?

You only get to know what someone is really like when you’ve spent a lot of time with them, so you look for clues. Most are pleasant, including some of the biggest names. Xavi Hernandez is an absolute buzz, Roy Keane fascinating and Ruud van Nistelrooy as frank as any Dutchman.

I once interviewed a player at Carrington who refused to do the interview in front of “him.” He pointed down towards the gym as he said “him.” And there was Mark Bosnich working out.

It’s fair to say that the Australian divided opinions among his team mates. Another goalkeeper fared even worse - Fabian Barthez was simply not popular. He may have bought his then missus, the super model Linda Evangelista, to live in Manchester, but despite living round the corner, you never saw her in the bars of Deansgate Locks drinking shots and coming on to men in garish shirts from Leigh.

But back to Heinze, as I think Barthez was just a bit different. I asked around about the Argentinian and received far from glowing references from team mates at Old Trafford. And from journalists in Madrid, where he was equally unpopular with players. By that time he’d become a liability on the pitch too, so he went to Marseille (another signing on fee).

United will play the French champions in two weeks. I was going to do this blog on the Manchester derby, but I’ve worked myself up so much about Heinze that I’m off to buy some eggs, with the intention of launching them at his curtain draped head whenever he touches the ball in the Velodrome.

Ironman Enrique following in former team-mate Guardiola's footsteps

2011-02-04T10:32:00Z

The Barca ultras behind the goal sing their anti-Madrid songs. Hurling insults, they also wave a Stone Island flag, as if brandishing the logo of an Italian designer brand confirms their hooligan authenticity.

Barca legend Luis Enrique paces up and down the touchline, as lean as the man he succeeded, his former team mate Pep Guardiola. Enrique does iron man competitions in his spare time and can often be seen running along the beach at Gava Mar, the wealthy suburb to the south of the airport which is home of many of Barça’s biggest stars.

The lights of the Camp Nou can be seen a few hundred metres away. The team of the moment will play Racing Santander in two hours, a game which will be watched by over 70,000, but for now 6,000 people have chosen to watch Barca B in their 16,000 capacity home take on a resurgent Rayo Vallecano.

Pep Guardiola led Barça’s stiffs to promotion from Spain’s regional fourth level in his first season in management, 2007/08. Enrique, the lungs of the Barca side at the turn of the century, was his replacement.

Enrique had taken a couple of years off to learn English, surf in Australia and watch some of the globe’s biggest derby matches. It’s also a little known fact that he used to room with Kevin Moran when the gnarled Irish defender was closing his career at Enrique’s hometown club, Sporting Gijon.

The dog walker vs the Ironman contestant - who will win...?

Enrique led Barca B to promotion to Spain’s second division in his second season in charge where, this term, they joined Villarreal B as the only other reserve side in the second division. Home gates have jumped from 1,000 to 3,500, with ticket prices often reduced to €5. Games are timed a few hours before the first team matches so fans can watch both.

In their lofty position where they last played throughout much of the 90s with Carles Puyol captain, Barca B have been meeting – and beating – established sides like Celta Vigo and Real Betis, a great experience for future stars who could be asked to step up to the first team at any point. Several have done so far this season like Thiago, Nolito and a couple whose names don’t end in ‘O’ like Fontas and Muniesa.

Barca B have been in a play-off spot for much of this term, though Spanish Football Federation rules would prevent any promotion to the top flight. The first and second teams of one club can’t play in the same division. And, should Barça’s first team be relegated, the B team would have to drop down a division too.

Rayo Vallecano were the visitors at the weekend, the third biggest team in Madrid with a group of fans as passionate as any. Three hundred of them travelled 600 kilometres to the Mini Estadi on Saturday and their reward was a wonderful winning goal as they triumphed 2-1.

Among those to make the journey was David Bergin, a Manchester United fan who stopped watching United after the Glazer takeover in 2005. Like a couple of thousand others, he started following FC United. Unlike the others, he also went regularly to Rayo Vallecano games.

Bergin’s love for Rayo started when he saw them play while in Madrid following a Champions League game between Valencia and United in Spain in 2001. He was attracted to the working class ideology of the club and their fans.

Along with his ‘Manchester Rayistas’ flag, he’s now seen Rayo play 50 times, many of them at away games in provincial Spanish towns. Bergin dreams of one day owning a bar close to their ground three-sided Teresa Rivero stadium in the tough southern Madrid barrio of Vallecas.

Eleven points clear of the chasing pack, Rayo are fighting for one of the two automatic promotion places with Betis and Celta. The team with the distinctive diagonal red stripe on their white shirts were relegated from the top flight in 2003, two years after they reached the quarter finals of the UEFA Cup.

Fancy visiting Barcelona yourself? Then why not check out our shiny new travel section and plan a trip of a lifetime

Steven Pienaar, crushed motorbikes & Phil Brown's shortbread

2011-01-26T18:35:00Z

Joe Jordan was waiting by the information desk at Liverpool Street station after work last Friday. The former Morton, Leeds United, Manchester United AC Milan, Verona and Bristol City striker had spent the day preparing Tottenham’s tactics against Manchester United. He didn’t let any slip when I interviewed him for my next book.

I’d arranged to interview Jordan in London a day after meeting his former teammate Lou Macari in Manchester. I planned to watch the Tottenham v United game too, my fifth match in a week in England, but the date was changed after I’d booked all my travel plans and I was committed to covering the Barca v Malaga game on Sunday night.

That left Saturday free in London and I accepted an invite to see Millwall v Ipswich with the former Ipswich player James Scowcroft. He was covering the game for BBC Radio Suffolk and while he talked tactics and about the club post-Roy Keane, I giggled as an announcement over the public address system told a man to report to reception as his “motorbike has been crushed against a wall.”

Millwall came from behind to win a poor game. Ipswich appeared shattered from their midweek endeavours beating Arsenal and the Lions, to use a footballing parlance, “got about them.”

Watching Barca a day later was like viewing a different sport to anything I’d seen in England. The Catalans were again sublime as they went a club record 28 games unbeaten.

That victory ended a week which started at the opposite end of the football spectrum watching Trafford against Chester in the Northern Premier League. The crowd of 726 was the second highest in Trafford’s history thanks to 550 travelling Chester fans. They’re going well after a turbulent recent history and their supporters are enjoying visiting new grounds around the north of England.

It was heartening to see groups of young lads going to the match together. Some Cestrians dressed like the cast from Away Days and spent more time comparing trainers than watching the match, but you don’t see enough young lads attending in groups with their mates in the Premier League.

Next up was United v Liverpool in the Football Association Challenge Cup, before Stockport v Rotherham on Tuesday. County are struggling and have won just once at home all season, but they put up a spirited display and led the high-flying Millers 3-1 before conceding two late goals in a cracking match.

Although much better supported, Stockport have much in common with Chester and words like ‘administration’ have entered their fan vernacular. Edgeley Park is less than 10 miles from Old Trafford and The City of Manchester Stadium, but it’s another world.

An agreeable, homespun world, I should add, because the fans enjoy a real sense of community and destiny. They buzz off away days at Hereford or Accrington and travel in great numbers as a percentage of their 4,000 average home crowd. Almost 1,700 went to Macclesfield to see one of County’s four away wins so far this season, while 1,141 ventured to high-flying Bury.

Percentage wise, that would be like United taking 40,000 to City or 15,000 to Liverpool. Which would actually happen if the allocation wasn’t limited to 3,000.

The next match was Man Utd Reserves v Bolton’s stiffs at Altrincham. I hope to see the debut of United’s new Danish goalkeeper Anders Lindegaard, but he missed the match with a touch of the Owen Hargreaves.

It was weird seeing players like Wes Brown and John O’Shea playing in front of less than 400, but I watched them closely and their played with the intensity of a Premier League tie.

Several championship managers and scouts were watching. Phil Brown tried to snaffle a shortbread I had my eyes on at half-time, but a compromise was reached where he received two six minute tokens for Go Bronze Sunbeds instead.

Denis Irwin’s lad Liam was a Bolton substitute. He’s slight and looks younger than a teenage Solskjaer, but he showed good technique in midfield.

Another, more established midfielder with excellent technique is Steven Pienaar, who moved from Everton to Tottenham last week. I went to Amsterdam in 2006 to interview the former United and Ipswich player Arnold Muhren and arrived a day early to see Ajax play.

Pienaar was at Ajax at the time and a mutual mate suggested that the South African took me to the game as he was injured. I sat in the stands with Steven, a quiet lad who was on his way to Borussia Dortmund. That move didn’t work out for him.

He asked about playing in England and soon found out for himself, though Everton were reluctant to take him on loan at first because they considered him too small. He excelled at Goodison and was their player of the year last season.

David Moyes had wanted to keep him, but Steven wanted to play in the Champions League and now he’s at Tottenham working with Joe Jordan. I wonder if they’ll meet by the information desk at Liverpool Street each morning…

Manchester: a football city on many different levels

2011-01-19T16:45:00Z

I’m spending the week on the road interviewing footballers for my next book on Manchester United in the 70s. They’re all being offered the same fee and every player asked for an in-depth interview so far has said yes, so I’m working through 11 interviews for the 11 chapters.

I stayed with Gordon Hill last summer to do his interview and I’ve met up with Jimmy Nicholl, Gerry Daly, Jimmy Greenhoff, Lou Macari and former captain Martin Buchan this week. Next up is Joe Jordan in that London. Tommy Docherty and Sammy McIlroy have also agreed to be a part of the book and I’ve yet to contact two other players that I have in mind.

They’re all completely different personalities and their lives have taken very different paths, but without exception, they have all been utterly fascinating. Part of the attraction is that I get about three hours with each, time for a proper conversation about their lives. That and they love talking about some of the happiest times in those lives.

Some are close friends, others haven’t spoken for decades, but they all have their stories to tell about the roller coaster that is life. I’ve gone through a range of emotions, from laughing out loud at stories of ridiculous pranks to holding back the tears hearing how some former players lost their kids.

None of them were born in Manchester, yet many settled in the city. Some couldn’t return home because of the political climate of the time, others had settled here with the kids in school when their careers finished.

Manchester is a football city on many levels. Not only do players live and stay in the city, but many ancillary services are based there: agents, footballer friendly restaurants and car dealers. A significant number of tourists who come to the city do so for football.

Glasgow can be similar – a taxi driver from Ibrox a few months ago was explaining how vital football tourists from across the water were to his livelihood. Someone involved in boxing was saying that one reason Manchester gets so many bouts is because they know they can sell high end tickets to wealthy young footballers.

And it’s not just United and City players who live in Manchester, but players from Bolton, Blackburn, Wigan, Burnley, Liverpool and Everton. They buy big houses or fancy apartments, put their kids in the top schools and use the local services…though I’ve yet to see Wayne Rooney on a bus.

An agent mate visited for the first time this week from Spain and commented that you can talk about football with every cabbie. He was bringing the former Anderlecht midfielder Mark De Mann on trial to a Championship club close to Manchester.

I met Mark for a brew and he was asking about living in the north west, when perhaps he should have been more concerned about potential confusion at set pieces if players shout his full name. He was a good lad, a former Belgian international, who speaks decent English and was keen to highlight the tourist attractions of his country when all I wanted to speak about was the second battle of Ypres and the Battle of the Bulge.

At least I could talk to him in Manchester. If I ever get round to doing a United in the 2010’s book, I doubt that most of the players will still be living in the city, boxing bouts and car dealerships or not.

Blackpool continue ascent against all odds

2011-01-07T16:38:00Z

The Premier League table doesn’t look quite as promising for Blackpool as it did a week ago, but I bet there’s not a single Tangerines fan who would not have settled for 11th position at the half way point in the league. They have a few games in hand too.

Despite excelling, Blackpool are still only five points clear of the relegation zone - and I really hope they don’t go down. I’m not a fan, I just can’t believe they made it to the Premier League in the first place and I’ve been absolutely amazed by what’s happened since.

I’ve been to Blackpool twice for FourFourTwo. The first time was a decade ago when Bloomfield Road was falling apart. A decade after the Taylor report, it was the last ground in the country to have money spent on it and was still essentially the same as it had been for decades.

Actually, it was worse. The roof on the Kop had been dismantled and half of it was condemned, the advertising hoardings were faded and the floodlights were reduced in height to weird looking stumps because they were a bit rusty at the top. And to think that it once held 38,000.

Bloomfield Road was a mess, while over at the training ground, players changed in portable buildings and manager Steve McMahon fined anyone if they were caught using their mobile phone.

Seven years later in 2007, I went back to Blackpool to do a feature on the West Lancashire derby with Preston North End. I met some great people, from club legend Jimmy Armfield to the retired club secretary and some of the more boisterous element of their support.

I spent a few nights in the resort at the faded Norbreck Castle, where the Manchester United players stayed in the 1960s. It was full of coach parties of pensioners from the old Lancashire mill towns, all enjoying the view of the Irish Sea’s heavy brown December swell. Nearby, you could get a B&B for £9. Long-time locals bemoaned that the accommodation was filled with a benefit and drug dependent population of outsiders who gave the town a bad name.

I had to be objective, but Preston’s fortunes appeared the better of the two, whichever way you looked at them. Preston had acquired city status and its city centre was booming thanks to a university, Blackpool’s was much maligned.

Preston were far better supported and Deepdale was almost redeveloped into a smart 23,000 seater stadium modelled on the magnificent Luigi Ferraris in Genoa, while Bloomfield Road had just two permanent stands. Arguments raged locally about whether they would ever build a third, but the feeling was that Blackpool’s stay in the Championship wouldn’t be a permanent one and a 9,200 capacity would be enough.

I was stunned that Blackpool stayed up in the Championship and put it down to their talented young manager Simon Grayson.

When Grayson left for Leeds and was replaced by a caretaker manager, I feared that Blackpool would slip back into the third tier, but they managed to stay up. They also were favourites to go down last season under new boss Ian Holloway and on average gates of 7,000 (10,000 less than the league average), you could understand why. Instead, Holloway led them to the Premier League via the play-offs.

Reading between the lines, Blackpool were disorganised over the summer and unprepared for life in the top league. A journalist friend from the Daily Telegraph intended to go and write a piece on them, yet found communication impossible and they said that there would be no press on the day he’d planned to travel up.

Then, a press conference was hastily arranged. My friend got a call ten minutes before it started. Not everybody lives within 10 minutes of Bloomfield Road…

I talked to a couple of players, one who claimed that there were a couple of better paid non-league players than Blackpool first teamers.

I was certain that they’d go down and be well adrift of the rest, yet a new stand went up over the summer and Blackpool started the season with a bang – a 4-0 win at Wigan. That set the template for what would follow, the most magical story in English football for years.

I also spoke to someone who worked on the playing side at Bloomfield Road. “It’s all about the manager,” he opined. “Those players would run through brick walls for Ian Holloway.”

Preston? They’re four points adrift at the bottom in the Championship with average attendances 4,000 behind Blackpool. Greavsie was right. It’s a funny old game.

Tackling the unspoken issue of depression in football

2010-12-16T16:31:00Z

I last saw my mate Ronnie, a German writer who mainly covers football for respected newspapers and magazines in his own country, at the Barcelona v Real Madrid game in December 2009.

He wrote a great book about Barnsley’s German goalkeeper Lars Leese, who came to Oakwell as a reserve in 1998 having played for Bayer Leverkusen’s third team. Within months he was keeping a clean sheet at Anfield as Barnsley won 1-0.

Ronnie has lived in Barcelona for a decade and became good friends with Barça’s German goalkeeper Robert Enke when he played at Camp Nou. Ronnie was a goalkeeper himself so it was clear why he and Enke got on well, even though Enke’s time in Catalonia was a deeply unhappy episode in his life.

He later described being a goalkeeper at Barca as “the most difficult goalkeeping position in Europe.”

He left for a loan spell in Turkey which was even more difficult and his depression began to worsen.

Ronnie told me for years that I should interview Enke and I always said, “When I’m next in Germany.” When Manchester United drew Wolfsburg last season, Ronnie fixed it for me to go and see Enke in Hanover. The interview would be for FourFourTwo and all the travel and hotels were booked and paid for.

A few weeks before the interview, Ronnie called Enke at lunch to confirm everything was fixed with “the English journalist”. It was. Three hours later Enke took his own life after jumping in front of an express train. He’d had a history of depression, which had been re-triggered with the death of his two-year-old daughter in 2006 from a heart defect. Soon after, he successfully adopted another little girl who gave him and his wife great joy.

Ronnie speaks at the launch of his book

I didn’t know Enke, who was 32 when he died, but paid my respects at his club, spoke to some of his teammates and offered condolences to Ronnie, who’d lost a good friend. There was an outpouring of grief in Germany. He was the Germany national team ’keeper and had got his career together again.

Soon after the funeral and the subsequent memorial which was attended by 40,000 people in Hanover and televised live on one of Germany’s main channels, Enke’s widow and friends asked Ronnie to write a book about her husband’s life and the wider issue of depression in professional sportsmen.

Ronnie set to work…and I didn’t see him for a year. None of the journalists did. He travelled Europe speaking to former team mates of Enke. He spent six days with one, a former Bundesliga star who wanted to escape the pressure and play where nobody knew him. So he ended up in Italy’s third division, where people soon found out who he was.

And there was me thinking a four hour interview – the type I do for my Manchester United decade books - was about as in-depth as you could get.

Ronnie spoke to some big names. A request to interview Enke’s former team mate Victor Valdes at Barca was initially turned down, not by the player it must be stated. It was then pointed out that Valdes would be the only person not to agree to an interview as part of the book. Word soon came back that Valdes would see Ronnie.

They spoke for three hours, far, far longer than either expected. The last hour consisted of Valdes asking Ronnie about Enke’s depression.

The book was published last month and became an instant best-seller in Germany, with over 150,000 copies being sold in the first month. No British sports book has come close to that figure this year.

Most of the monies will go to the Enke family and there are plans for it to be translated into English. Hopefully soon, and it is sure to make an important contribution to publicizing this still little understood issue.

Barca's El Clasico masterclass not a patch on Dion Dublin

2010-12-06T09:30:00Z

I was fortunate to witness probably the most complete football performance I’ve ever seen last Monday night as Barca beat Real Madrid 5-0 at Camp Nou.

I can’t recall a side so flawless and so dominant against such quality opposition. Every Barca player was exceptional and worthy of the superlatives lavished on them. Lionel Messi, David Villa, Xavi and Andres Iniesta won most of the plaudits, but their defence was peerless, while Sergio Busquets had his best game in a Barca shirt. I used to consider Busquets a bit of a tool, then I interviewed him and changed my opinion.

I watched El Clasico from the press box, where I was covering the game for various publications. The man from The Telegraph was on my left, a man who probably wasn’t a journalist on my right. He smoked roll-ups throughout and celebrated each Barca goal. He was absolutely buzzing and I was pleased for him, if not by his smoke.

It also made me realise the difference between being a fan and a journalist. I could appreciate that Barca were brilliant, but I felt nothing like the Barca fan when they scored. I love the football Barca play and was happy for their players and my Barca supporting friends, but they’re not my team. They could have won 50-0 and I wouldn’t have felt like I did in 1992 seeing Dion Dublin score a last minute winner from the old caged away end at Southampton’s Dell in the rain.

I’m extremely fortunate to be paid to attend games like El Clasico. Mates came over from Manchester with €300 to buy tickets on the black market and struggled to get in, but watching another team simply doesn’t compare with the team you support. I saw FC United’s magnificent victory at Rochdale in the FA Cup last month. I was standing in the away end surrounded by friends who have worked hard to make FC a success. The atmosphere was brilliant and they were naturally delighted. I applauded when FC scored and smiled at the barmy antics around me, yet felt the same indifference as watching Barca.

It’s not like that with Manchester United. I was distraught when United lost the league in ’92 and Barca beat United 4-0 in ’94 (below). I was elated when United came from 2-0 down to beat Juventus 3-2 in 1999 and enjoyed that more than the famous final itself. You can’t help the way you feel.

I buzzed off the 2008 Champions League final, but was down following defeat in Rome a year later.

Why? What was I supporting? I loathe the Glazers owning Manchester United. Most of the players don’t really care too much about the fans either, so what is it that you support? The history and tradition of the club? The future aspirations? The football? The community and fellow fans?

The only other time I get so involved is if I watch one of my brothers play, my flesh and blood. Because I know the sacrifices they and the family have made, the training and the work. I once went to see my brother play at Barrow away on a Tuesday night. We drove up together, following his team coach and uncertain whether the game would go ahead because of the rain. My brother’s team mates took the piss out of the groundsman who’d worked his backside off to get the pitch sorted and considered the 25 other travelling fans as odd balls. Which, if I’m honest, most were.

I stood alone surrounded by Barrow fans under a big covered terrace. They were not happy, more so when my brother scored an equaliser for a 1-1 draw. I ran down to the front of the terrace like a loon and he came over and celebrated and fans behind me told me to “f*** off”. It was a life affirming moment. Better than Barca 5 Madrid 0? Yes, it was.

Andy Cole - 'Technical Gadget Man' and The French John Barnes

2010-11-26T15:47:00Z

Technology has made the job of a football journalist much easier, but things haven‘t always been so straightforward.

David Meek, the Manchester United reporter for the Manchester Evening News between 1958-1995 once told me how he covered one European Cup game in Malta. When he arrived at the stadium, the phone line his paper had ordered was non-existent. With a deadline pressing and a desk waiting for him to deliver copy as the game went on, Meek found a solution by paying the owner of a flat which overlooked the pitch for use of his balcony. And his phone. Thus the people of Manchester got to read Meek’s match report.

In the 70s and 80s, journalists used to ring their words through to a copy taker. And I can remember doing the same in the early 90s, with news on Preston North End for the Manchester Evening News’ Saturday Pink. You’d have to repeat some words to avoid confusion, though the odd howler did make it through - as one did to the pages of The Times during the 1998 World Cup when the French ‘Gendarmes’ were referred to as ‘John Barnes’ in one match report.

By that time, journalists were starting to email articles – though only after booking a phone connection. Wi-fi has only become the norm in press boxes in recent seasons and, like many journalists, I’ve come to rely on it.

The number of wi-fi spots means that I can work pretty much anywhere while on the road. My office is my computer and I even sent one article from an Argentinian naval base in Antarctica last year.

On Wednesday, I flew from Barcelona to Glasgow via Heathrow for the Rangers v Manchester United match. I intended to send one article from London, but terminal 5 didn’t have wi-fi. Can you believe that? I paid a tenner for access, but the system was down. It was infuriating. So I had to file copy over the phone to Abu Dhabi. It would get much worse.

Ibrox is a beautiful, modern, stadium. But it wasn’t designed for wi-fi reception. You’ll have little sympathy for the working practices of privileged football journalists, but nobody could get online. I was supposed to be doing a live report for FFT’s website. Not a chance.

The Japanese journalist next to me was supposed to be doing something similar. A wasted journey for him, even with his dongle, which didn’t work either. The guy from The Times two seats across explained how it was always like that at Ibrox. He’d complained to the club and got a reply back about the problems they were having. Problems Rangers clearly hadn’t solved.

My deadline for a 600 word Manchester Evening News piece was the final whistle. An hour into the game I had to call the desk and say that I’d have to file by phone. That took an extra 20 minutes (and I repeated the word ‘Crerand’ three times) when I should have been in the mixed zone speaking to players. My mate waited outside for me in the freezing cold, near the United team coach. He’s good mates with John O’Shea and he texted O’Shea something along the lines of: “I hope you are warmer on the coach than I am standing outside it.”

O’Shea replied: “Where are you? I’ll wave.”

Nice one, John. A wave to warm the common man freezing on Edminston Drive.

I told Paddy Crerand about the wi-fi problems. I may as well have spoken in Basque to him. He got his first mobile phone last month and only turns it on to make a call.

“You’ve got problems with your hi-fi?” he asked. “What are you telling me that for?”

“Good to be back in your spiritual home, Paddy?” I continued, changing tack as he started to growl.

My luck had to turn. After five hours sleep, I caught an early cab to Glasgow airport, where I intended to call Andrew Cole for a column we do every Thursday. I texted to see if he was free, but he’s so reliable that he’d already texted me.

“Can we do it on Skype?” he asked. “Still in Brazil.” I paid to go in a lounge where I knew there would be wi-fi access. Within minutes I was connected and I messaged Cole in the Copacabana: “Online. Result. Will call in five.”

I briefly saw the mountain of emails from the day before – typical one - “Hi Andy, you don’t know me but I once saw you at Leicester away in 2001. Sorry to bother you, but is there any chance you can get Andy Cole to present the prizes at our works Christmas do. We’d really appreciate it.” There’s seldom any mention of a fee, because people assume that people like Cole work for free.

I tried to call Cole on Skype - to do the column rather than mither him. The internet was down again. Aaaaggghhh! I had 30 minutes before I boarded the flight. I needed to transcribe the column on the flight to meet the deadline. The lady in the lounge apologised and admitted that they had been experiencing wi-fi problems.

Cole suggested by text that I downloaded Skype to my mobile. Get him, Mr Technical Gadget Man. I didn’t have time, so he saved the day by ringing from his mobile. The call probably cost more than Ireland’s national debt, but like with Meek forty years ago, the readers got their Cole-umn.

Stowaways, Viz and 100 signed Andy Cole posters

2010-11-17T13:02:00Z

FC United of Manchester did well to reach the FA Cup first round by knocking out a Barrow side two divisions above them.

Financially and geographically, the draw was kind: Rochdale away. FC quickly sold out their 3,200 £12 tickets for Spotland and the ESPN television money of £67,500 came at the right time for a club planning to move to their own ground in Newton Heath.

I expected FC to enjoy the occasion, but get battered by Rochdale’s best side for years.

Among United fans, I’ve got friends who loathe FC and friends who go to every FC game. Plenty are somewhere in between. Some argue about FC day after day and have done for five years. It’s all wrapped up in the bigger argument about the Glazers’ ownership of United. They’ll probably never stop, the same arguments involving the same people going round in circles: passionate, angry and entrenched views.

Nobody can deny how well FC have done in this season’s FA Cup. Spotland was bouncing, FC’s last minute 3-2 victory the shock of the first round. The away end smelt of beer, cannabis and the sulphur from flares.

FC's fans enjoy their big night in Rochdale

Under Spotland’s bright lights, it was perfect for a big cup match. FC’s victory was a reward for a lot of people who’ve put time and energy into the club, but their biggest challenge remains raising funds for their new home. They’ve drawn Brighton away in the next round, a tough prospect given the Seagulls current sit top of League One.

A more sterile atmosphere was to be found for Wolves at Old Trafford the following day. We had the 200th issue of United We Stand on sale, 21 years after we started. Manchester even stayed dry and sunny, which always helps when you’re selling.

Inclement weather affected plans the next day. I intended to climb some Lakeland fells, but snow and gales kept us below 1,500 feet and drove us into Ambleside and Stuart Clarke’s magnificent Homes of Football exhibition. Stuart’s a fine photographer – as is shown in the latest FourFourTwo.

Wednesday saw a much-hyped Manchester derby. I sat in the City end to write a newspaper piece about being a Red surrounded by Blues. The fans around me were good humoured but tense. They feared – and I hoped – for another injury time United winner. I’m not sure I could manage to be so genial if I had to watch the turgid negativity they are regularly served up at home.

Thursday brought an interview with midfielder Tom Cleverley in Altrincham. He’d played well for Wigan against Liverpool the night before and Alex Ferguson has said that he’ll bring him back from his loan spell in January. I saw his United debut goal in South Africa in 2008 before he was sent on loan to Leicester and Watford, where he was player of the season last year.

Cleverley shone against Liverpool last week

An England Under-21 regular, he’s a down-to-earth lad from a good family. He’s versatile, but prefers to play as an attacking midfielder. His nickname is ‘Chunks.’ That’s nothing to do with him being chunky, but because he when he was a young player at United he could not say ‘Tr’ properly. So swimming trunks became ‘chunks’ and so did Cleverley.

From there, it was time to do a book signing for the Rough Guide to Cult Football with Andrew Cole at the Trafford Centre. Sky Sports came along to film, together with all kinds of readers. Like the bloke who turns up with a hundred posters whenever I do a signing with a player. Cole was polite but firm.

“I’m signing three and that’s your lot,” he said. The man begged for more. Cole rightly glared at him and repeated “No.” Why does someone need 100 posters, unless they plan to sell them?

I went for dinner with Andrew after and talked about his future. He’d been a guest on MotD and has received some decent offers, for work with his boots on and off. I’m not surprised - he’s made the right impression with those he’s worked with since retiring from playing two years ago.

The week ended with a trip to Carrington to interview Michael Carrick for UWS. As a journalist, you spend a lot of time waiting around for footballers, so it was a surprise to get at call at two minutes to twelve from United. I was due to meet him at 12.

“Michael’s waiting, where are you?” asked the official.

"Hey, wait a second - this isn't Viz..."

Carrick was sitting in his club tracksuit ahead of a bus trip to Birmingham. He was pleasant and spoke for longer than we agreed. His favourite cartoon character is Viz’s Sid The Sexist.

I went down to Villa Park myself the following day on what’s affectionately known as ‘the monkey bus’, possibly because of the calibre of passengers it attracts.

A disparate group were on board. One was reading The Economist while another tried to climb fully into the overhead locker for a laugh. Like you do. He’d squeezed into the ten inch gap before, but couldn’t get his legs in this time, despite people pushing him (see below). He cursed his misfortune, much like my brother did later in the afternoon.

"Well he fitted in there before the six pints and two pies..."

He’s 34 in a few weeks and carrying several injuries. Assistant manager at Irlam, a team based to the west of Manchester between the M62 and the Ship Canal, he came on as an 81st minute sub with his team 3-1 down in an FA Vase second round game against the gloriously named Norton & Stockton Ancients from near Middlesbrough.

As well as getting involved with a scuffle with their centre half which saw the player dismissed and my brother’s face badly bruised, he scored twice in four minutes to make it 3-3. As they pushed for the winner, the home team counter-attacked and scored to make it 4-3.

The poor lad was floored, his dreams of reaching Wembley as a player over forever. FC’s, meanwhile, remain very much alive.

Weary eyes, Green Crocodiles and the Turkish Strictly Come Dancing

2010-11-08T13:10:00Z

Who says that the Champions League is predictable? Manchester United’s trip to Bursa last week was anything but.

A flight to and a night in Istanbul were followed by an early morning ferry across the Sea of Mamara to Turkey’s fourth-biggest city of 1.8 million. The hospitality was superb, the atmosphere in the ground too – as it always is in Turkey.

The former editor of the Turkish FourFourTwo took me out in Istanbul with her friend. Both are TV presenters on one of the main sports channels. And, as I realised when I walked into a restaurant, both are famous. One had just come from rehearsals from the Turkish equivalent of Strictly Come Dancing.

They were great company and fixed me up to meet some Bursaspor fans the next day. They also explained why United fans got into so much trouble when we played Galatasaray in 1993: the tour organisers had booked us into one of the roughest parts of Istanbul.

Come match day, there were some weary eyes on the early-morning ferry to Bursa, most of them from the 60 United fans on board who probably hadn’t had their right hours.

A Bursa fan was waiting for me at the ferry port with a sign saying ‘Andy Journalist.’ I’ve never had anyone meet me before with a sign, though a mate once came through arrivals at Vienna airport and went to hug a complete stranger for a dare.

“Great to see you again,” he said, hugging the confused middle-aged Austrian tightly. “Thanks for picking me up.” The befuddled Austrian finally pushed him away gasping, “but I don’t even know you.”

The Bursa fan took me to meet his mates, all proper die-hard Bursaspor fans who had been to their away games in Glasgow and Manchester. They were in the process of sorting their Valencia trip. As Turkey is not in the European Union, they have to pay for all their travel and then apply for a visa. If they get knocked back – tough.

They’re happy to be in the Champions League, to be enjoying trips to Ibrox, Old Trafford and the Mestalla. They’re leading the Turkish league and hope that they’ll be back next year when they plan to do a bit better. Bursaspor could start by scoring a goal and getting a point.

They took me to Bursaspor’s modern training ground, to their team bus, president’s helicopter, museum and to meet a director who had dreamed up their ‘Green Crocodile’ moniker. They were proud of their city and their team and couldn’t do enough to help.

They explained how they take 2,000 to most away games in Istanbul, but took 30,000 to a key game last year when they were on their way to becoming the first Turkish side outside Istanbul to win the league since 1984.

They told me how Preston’s Gordon Milne was their manager for a time and how their team was built on emerging Turkish talents. With a new stadium, they hope to match the Big Three of Galatasaray, Fenerbahce and Besiktas.

And they told me that the journalist I’d been with in Istanbul was very well respected. “I was with another girl,” I added, explaining who the other journalist was.

“You had dinner with Burcu?” they asked, aghast. “That is the dream of every Turkish man.”

The atmosphere in the ground was loud and proud. You could hear the calls to prayer from the nearby mosques and smell the meats and fish being grilled in the streets. Little wonder that the 600 travelling Reds enjoyed the trip.

Then I returned to Barcelona, where a friend told me an amusing story. He used to be a footballer himself and played for his country Belgium at Under-16 and Under-18 level. He was a professional at Anderlecht, though he never played in the first team and slipped down into the Belgian second and third divisions. At the age of 23, he decided to start afresh in Barcelona, initially working in a call centre.

It was at that point that he sent his football CV to me, hoping to play for a team I was running. He’s been that league’s player of the year several times since and his professional life has taken an upturn too.

Once it was clear that he knew football, had great social skills and could speak five different languages, he was snapped up by a company which looks after several top footballers. And several lesser names. He spends much of his time knocking on coaches’ doors in Brussels or Birmingham, Bari or Bochum. He’s a good egg in an industry not adverse to attracting crooks and consumed by greed.

Last week, he took one player contracted to a Premier League club to Atletico Madrid for a trial. He then watched and waited as the player was put through his paces. On an adjacent pitch, Diego Forlan and Simao were practising. They wouldn't have thought that my friend was an agent, because most agents aren't lads in their twenties in good condition.

Forlan was pinging the balls with both feet and unnerving accuracy. He’s done this since he’s been a child and recommends any budding footballer to follow. Simao was equally impressive, until one ball flew in the direction of my mate – who trapped it mid-air, flicked it up and volleyed it back.

Forlan and Simao both applauded then suggested that he should sign for Atleti...

Greed, Twitter and scrapped previews

2010-10-26T10:19:00Z

One word can explain the madness of my job last week. Rooney. Although maybe ‘greed’ would be more appropriate.

When there’s a big United story, my phone doesn’t stop, especially if I’m in Manchester. I was fed some decent, accurate, information about the Rooney story. And some that was slightly misleading – which happens when two parties are briefing against each other. One of the most revealing was perhaps the most innocent – it came from someone who had bumped into Sir Alex Ferguson on Thursday afternoon at Old Trafford. He was whistling and singing away, seemingly without a care in the world. What was he so happy about?

Being in Barcelona meant I missed out on a morning spot on BBC Breakfast, hosted by the lovely Susanna Reid. And Channel 4 news, with the intensely brilliant Jon Snow. I once saw him getting ready to mount his bicycle in Soho, when he was approached by an even more intense fan/stalker/fundamentalist. Snow was polite, but quickly realised that he was talking to a fruit cake and peddled off.

The Rooney story brought fresh demands for work. I spent close on 12 hours on one 1,500 word piece looking at the future of Man Utd without Rooney and was about to press ‘send’…when it was announced that he was staying.

And a column I did for the Manchester Evening News was spiked in favour of two new ones on Rooney. That was a shame, because I enjoyed writing about Barrow and their 42-year-old player manager Darren Sheridan. In fact, I’ll put the piece at the end of this blog so it actually gets seen.

Stretford and Rooney discuss money, probably...

But the column I do with Andrew Cole for The National in Abu Dhabi each week was perfectly suited to the story. Paul Stretford used to be Cole’s agent. Most of the British papers picked up on the story and I got an email from the sports editor two days later saying that it had more hits on the paper’s website than any story in the history of the paper.

Cole was on holiday in Jamaica and said his phone hadn’t stopped either. He was also very, very happy because his son Devante had been called up to England’s U16s. Cole described him a week earlier as “a racehorse without a saddle, a wild stallion. When he puts it together everyone says ‘Wow!’, when he doesn’t it’s clear that he’s still growing.”

Sadly, a podcast with the on-form journalist Paddy Barclay recorded on Thursday afternoon was dated by Friday morning, which is when I got a call from Old Trafford. It was about my Twitter account.

“My what?”

The caller went onto explain that I was on Twitter with 500 followers. Call me a technophobe, but I’d never been on Twitter and didn’t have an account. A few friends and fellow journalists have been telling me to get on it, but I couldn’t see the point.

I contacted Twitter – who told me that I had to prove who I was. By fax. Who uses faxes now apart from football clubs? But I had to fax them my passport and they investigated, before banning the perpetrator. In the meantime I have joined and my address as @AndyMitten

And here’s the piece which was spiked because of Rooney…

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Did you hear the one about the football team who train in Salford three times a week and attract crowds of 1,500?

Salford City can only dream of such crowds, but an isolated location means Blue Square Premier Side Barrow train in Greater Manchester.

The Cumbrians have just one Barrow-born player, the rest comprised of an unholy alliance of Mancunians and Scousers, with a smattering of Cumbrians.

Barrow, currently 22nd in non-league’s top division, will play FC United from two divisions below on Sunday at Gigg Lane in an FA Cup Fourth Qualifying Round.

A first ever appearance in the FA Cup First round proper is the prize for FC, but they have to overcome a Barrow side who’s joint player manager is 42-year-old Stretford lad Darren Sheridan.

Sheridan’s career path was unorthodox, but the fact that he’s still playing makes up for a late start. His release aged only 18 after an apprenticeship at Leeds United - where older brother John was a star player – was hard to take.

“My world ended,” he says from his home in Urmston. “I gave up on football because I didn’t think I was good enough.”

Professional football’s loss was local football’s gain. Sheridan played for Flixton and Maine Road, Stretford’s Kendal Club and the Gorse Hill pub while finding work in warehouses or tarmacing.

Then Mike McKenzie, manager of legendary Moss Side Sunday team Astro, took him to high-flying Winsford United.

“Mike sorted me out, got my head together and got the best out of me at Winsford,” recalls Sheridan. “Then John Benson, the former City manager, spotted me. He was scouting for Barnsley and I had a successful trial there. I finally turned professional at 26.”

Sheridan in his Barnsley heyday

A six-year spell at Oakwell coincided with Barnsley’s implausible rise to the Premiership in 1997, where he featured in the shock FA Cup win over Manchester United and a league victory at Anfield.

“I’m a United fan who used to sneak into the Stretford End as a kid by waiting until the game started and the stewards went away,” explains Sheridan. “Then a mate would lift a bolt open and we’d squeeze in. So to walk out at Old Trafford as a player in a Premiership match was a dream. We lost 7-0, but got revenge in the FA Cup and we also beat Liverpool away.”

After Barnsley, stints at the Athletics of Wigan and Oldham followed. “Playing with my brother John at Oldham was another career highlight – he was a great player, our kid. I watched him everywhere when I wasn’t playing including the 1994 World Cup for Ireland.”

Then Sheridan played for Clyde and St. Johnstone in Scotland, before joining Barrow in January 2007. He was appointed joint-manager with Dave Bayliss later that year and the pair led the Cumbrian side to promotion in 2008, to two FA Cup 3rd round ties against Sunderland and Middlesbrough and to an unexpected FA Trophy victory at Wembley in May.

And as the years ticked by Sheridan continued to play.

“I’m 43 in December but I feel fine,” he says. “It’s knowing when to run at my age. I keep fit by doing most of the training with the lads and running after my four daughters. Then I run after the lads chasing them.”

Sheridan spends most Saturdays on the road. A home game necessitates a 200 mile round trip, while away games can take him as far afield as Eastbourne, Gateshead and Crawley.

“I was glad when we drew FC United in the FA Cup because it’s round the corner,” adds Sheridan. “I might go on my scooter.”

“We know it will be tough against a side like FC with their support, but we’ll bring five or six hundred fans ourselves. We’ve been underdogs in other games so we know they’ll be thinking.

“I know their manager Karl (Marginson) and he’ll be hoping to get one over us, but we’ll be ready. We’ve had a lot of fun in the FA Cup and we want some more.”

Postscript: FC United won and will play Rochdale away in the first round, a superb achievement. The game will be played on Friday 5th November and will be screen live by ESPN.

Rooney, 3D and a four-year-old

2010-10-19T11:17:00Z

Saturday was a troubling day. I watched United throw away a two-goal lead to West Brom. I don’t like watching football in a pub at the best of times, but I was in Barcelona and Old Trafford isn’t.

The last I saw a game in a pub was on 3D in September. I was pleasantly surprised. The pub had six screens, one of which boasted 3D. A dozen people sat in front wearing plastic glasses that were handed out at the bar.

Two fans joined just before kick-off. They weren’t wearing glasses. They complained that the picture wasn’t clear and didn’t appear to notice that they were the only people not wearing glasses, nor that the screen had ‘3D’ on it. It was painful watching them squint, so I said "Excuse me – it’s in 3D mate. You get the glasses behind the bar."

The lad’s brain took a bit of time to process the information, but after two or three minutes he went to the bar and came back. He put the glasses on and squealed like a man who’d just been offered a night with Adriana Lima. His mate was having none of it. He had his own pair of normal glasses and didn’t see why he needed fancy 3D ones. So he watched the whole game squinting – when there was a perfectly normal screen behind him.

Adrian Lima (r): You'd clear your diary

I received a phone call after United’s draw with West Brom. "Ferguson wants Rooney out," said the caller, an A1 contact. A similar contact had told me in March of Rooney’s indiscretions. We printed a veiled version of it in United We Stand, as we didn’t have the resources to prove it. But we knew all wasn’t well. I walked to Camp Nou ahead of Barca’s match with Valencia with the Rooney news buzzing around my head.

Saturday was the first day in my life that I could ring my three brothers and ask them how their games had gone. The 33-year-old is coming to the end of his career, but still playing semi-pro.

The 16-year-old was promoted to Stockport County’s youth team a year ahead of schedule, but it was the four-year-old – our dad’s not dissimilar to Michael Douglas and Rod Stewart – to whom I was most looking forward to speaking. Turning four last week meant that he could join an under-fives team.

I called. Dad told me that the young 'un was playing with a tractor and that he’d try and get his attention. In the meantime, he told me how it had gone.

Upon being introduced to his young charge, the coach offered his hand. The four-year-old had never been offered a hand to shake before. So he did what any aspiring young footballer would do when his new boss offers his hand. He smelt it. Then he tried to touch his cap.

When the game started, he had no concept of the pitch markings and was also far more interested in his own shadow than the ball. "There wasn’t one kid there who'll make it," fumed my dad.

"But dad, he only turned four last week. It was only two weeks ago that he was taught to stop using his hands to stop the ball."

He was having none of it. The breathless four-year-old came on the phone and proudly stated that he’d played "like Rooney," so that tallied with my dad’s version. I didn’t press him further and let him return to his tractor.

But he’d put Rooney back in my mind, until a brilliant game between Barca and Valencia in front of 96,000 submerged it in my thoughts. Despite losing their best players, Valencia have been superb this season – mainly because of their manic coach who parades around his box, smudging the white lines like a madman. No wonder Unai Emery’s family call him "Anxious *rse".

He stated that his team were coming to the Camp Nou to win and they took the lead, before Barca narrowly triumphed 2-1. It was a fascinating encounter, top, top level and great to watch as a neutral. There were a few Scottish journalists over to watch Valencia ahead of the Rangers game, plus others with links to Manchester United. The conversation switched back to Rooney... unfortunately for my peace of mind.

Flares, flights and fans who 'get it'

2010-10-15T10:55:00Z

I’ve finally finished the big Barca piece for next month’s FourFourTwo and the Barca players have asked for copies. Most of them want to learn English so they can start with FourFourTwo. Don’t laugh – that’s how Claudio Ranieri learned English. So maybe next time I see Xavi he’ll be asking about Fleetwood’s new main stand or a book review he disagrees with.

And I’ve just booked flights to Istanbul for United’s game in Bursa at the start of November. Turkey’s fourth biggest city of 1.5 million is the home of Bursaspor – the first Turkish team outside Istanbul’s big three to win the league since 1984.

You can’t do the trip in less than three days if you arrange your own travel. Bursa is a three hour ferry and bus ride south of Istanbul, but promises to be a lively trip, especially inside the ground.

Turkish stadiums always are, and a Manchester United game at Galatasaray in 1994 remains the best atmosphere I’ve experienced. Better than an Old Firm game, El Clasico or the Rome derby – despite there only being 24,000 people in the Ali Sami Yen. Most of them mad heads who had been in the ground four or five hours before the game and players like Tugay only whipped them up even more.

It was even louder when United played there a year earlier. I tried to get to the ground for that one, but 164 of us were rounded up in our hotel, held in prison cells for 24 hours and then deported. We were innocent. I’ve never been involved in trouble in my life, but being English was enough for us to be classed as hooligans in the eyes of the Turkish authorities. The British government realised our innocence and issued us with new passports as our old ones were branded with ‘DEPORTED’. Which aids international travel like an Israeli stamp in a Saudi embassy.

Mates I travelled with in ’93 vowed never to go back to Turkey, and Paul Parker still maintains that stance after the way the players were treated that night. Like Eric Cantona, he was attacked by a Turkish police officer. I’ve been back several times since and have enjoyed it – usually because of the atmosphere in the stadiums there.

Standing with Fenerbahce’s ultras for a meaningless league game last year was superb, with the ground rocking despite it only being half full. Flares, drums and flags prevalent, fruitcakes on loudspeakers too.

I interviewed David May for United We Stand’s podcast earlier and, as usual, he didn’t hold back. Aside from bravely speaking out against the Glazers and suggesting that Roy Keane would easily win a fight with David Batty, he recalled playing in United’s 4-0 European Cup quarter-final victory over Porto in 1997.

His most vivid memory was of celebrating a goal, seeing a flare and then the resulting smoke on the pitch. He loved it and said the other players did. May reckons that standing areas should be introduced into English grounds where all the demented vocal fans can stand together, sing and let flares off. A bit like Turkey then.

We try and interview an away fan in United We Stand each month, someone who ‘gets it.’ Maybe a writer or musician who understands fan culture because they’ve been a proper fan themselves. Not someone who claims to support a team but has only been to see them play twice. On free tickets. In an executive box.

But a fan who understands the nuances of what being a fan means, of away games, queuing for tickets, arsey coppers, overpriced tickets and crap views. Someone who cringes when they hear ‘Who Are Ya?’ chants and can live without watching a televised tool in a bad suit waiting outside football grounds to ask a bored 20-year-old if he’s going to sign a new contract as he drives off in an £80,000 car.

One who doesn’t get it is a journalist who suggested to me recently that United fans should protest against the Glazers by buying the latest home shirts and cutting out the name of the sponsor AON to reveal a giant hole. Apart from knowing very few people who buy football shirts, I’m sure the Glazers would be trembling at the prospect of people handing money over to them before defacing what they had just bought.

I search hard to find the right person to interview each month – a fan of a team United are about to play. But I knew I had the right one when I met West Brom fan Mark Bolton recently. He presents Revista de La Liga and was in Barcelona with journalist colleagues Graham Hunter and Guillem Balague for a match.

Mark spoke about the Baggies with astonishing detail, about the geography of the West Midlands and Albion’s rivalry with Villa, Wolves and Blues. The kind of conversation to get any sane eavesdroppers worried. But he knew his stuff and he knew his team.

So I’ll reassess my opinion of TV presenters and their fan credentials. Maybe Susanna Reid used to get chants rocking at Crystal Palace, or Andrew Marr was responsible for the stands bouncing at Old Firm matches. Not that it would be anything like as good as in Turkey, mind.

Dating managers, sunburn & Facebook fraud

2010-10-06T14:12:00Z

I write from a tram on the way from Barça’s training ground back to the city centre. I’ve just interviewed Sergio Busquets for a forthcoming issue of FourFourTwo, having spent much of the past few months organising and writing up the feature and interviews with players like David Villa, Andres Iniesta, Pedro and Sergio Busquets. Ibrahimovic spoke candidly too…then moved to Milan.

You need a network of reliable contacts to find out what is happening inside any club. They take years to build up. People you meet for a beer or coffee and help you piece together the jigsaw.

Sources who will tell you invaluable information off the record so you understand context, issues and dynamics at a club like Barca, which has ever-shifting plates of power.

I was given a direct route into the mechanics of Levante last week, when I was in town for the Valencia/United game.

An English lady I met five years ago doing a piece on the Levante v Valencia derby has been a great help when writing about that city. She helpfully fixed an interview with a main man, took me to the stadium, turning heads wherever she went before she dropped me at the Mestalla afterwards. She explained that even though she supported Levante, she’d be going to the game later.

“Have you been to the Mestalla before?” I asked.

“Oh yes,” she replied. “I used to go often. I was with the manager there for four years.”

Well there’s one reason for being so well connected, then. She also moved to Lisbon when her then boyfriend managed Benfica. He’s now at Atletico Madrid. Good on her for looking after her compatriots.

One of the first people I saw at the Mestalla was former Manchester United midfielder Paddy Crerand. He’d forgotten to put sun cream on again and was beaming red. The red-eyed Red with a red face.

“I know,” he said, like a little boy who should know better. And I was introduced to David Pleat, who told me that he used to play with my uncle John at Exeter City.

It made my night, Pleat explaining what type of player he was and describing the time they played Manchester United in an FA Cup tie in 1969. They’d formulated a plan to stop George Best. It didn’t work.

“He didn’t have the pace of his dad (former United winger Charlie),” said Pleat about my uncle. “But he was a great sportsman.”

John also played first class cricket for Leicestershire. I’m starting to feel like a failure for never receiving money to play football, or indeed any other sport, unlike the rest of the family.

That could continue with my brother Sam, a forward who turned 16 last week and is at Stockport County. I watched him against Burnley and he did well.

He spent six weeks at Manchester United last year and scored the winner at Aston Villa away, but Stockport wanted £70,000 for him and United baulked.

He needs to keep his head down, work hard and get lucky, but he got some good advice from Arnau Riera last week.

Arnau was down in Manchester for the weekend after being given two days off from full time training with Sunderland, where Niall Quinn has been first class, inviting a bit part former player back to complete his rehabilitation from a cruciate injury.

Quinn makes a fuss of Arnau and introduced him to Steve Bruce, another former Manchester United man, last week. Bolo Zenden has been supportive too, plus Julio Arca, who is putting him up in the North East.

Arnau told me how he’d requested to be a Facebook friend with his housemate Arca. The Argentinian didn’t respond, so the Spaniard asked him why.

“I don’t have a Facebook account,” said Arca.

“You do, you have 600 friends.”

“What?!”

It was news to him. The Facebook frauds strike again.

Spilt tea and cheap hotels

2010-09-30T11:20:00Z

The Newport County player overhit the ball, which spun over the pitchside hoarding and landed squarely on a plastic table by the refreshment bar. It hit a cup of tea, splattering the contents over its owner, a wheelchair-bound Hayes & Yeading Utd fan.

“You f**kin’ w***er,” he shouted in the direction of the players. “Come ‘ere and I’ll smack you one.”

The Newport players laughed – and they were smiling later as they came from behind to beat the Blue Square Premier’s worst supported team 2-1 in way out West London.

I’ve been on an oddball odyssey of fixtures in the last couple of weeks, catching games such as Cheltenham Town v Stevenage, Chester v Chorley – as well as Manchester United’s.

I find them a refreshing antidote to watching the glamour of Manchester United and Barcelona, and I’m fortunate to have a job which justifies going to obscure grounds full of the weird and wonderful.

From men with strings around their waist where most people have belts to the glamour of the assistant manager’s beautiful wife, who sat in front of me at Cheltenham with her children.

She told me about the various towns she’d lived in following her husband’s football career, cast a curious eye over the nearby WAGs and went mad when The Robins scored.

I love watching out for emerging talents, hoping that I can say I saw him when he started out. The singer Paul Heaton is similarly afflicted. He is proud to have spotted the sublime Juan Carlos Valeron as a 16-year-old in the Canary Islands.

At Hayes, I found myself stationed behind a gaggle of non-league managers and scouts who were looking out for gems and knew something about every player on the field.

Some had upcoming ties against either team, they all knew each other and the camaraderie was rich. They talked of “northern birds” and “trips up north” and all knew the landlord of a pub who, reluctant to pay Sky’s fees to televise sport, had Tippexed a white pint pot sign on the TV screen in his pub so it looked like he had paid.

Hayes have a hardcore of 300 fans and play in a league where Luton Town attract gates 20 times as large. Using the same scale in the Premiership, Blackpool’s 15,000 would mean that Manchester United would average 300,000.

Try as the club might with half price admission for Premier League season ticket holders, football in Hayes is poorly supported. This is despite Chelsea previously training in adjacent Harlington and the area having produced many a good footballer.

It’s not the most salubrious area of London either. My hotel room, in a former school building opposite the ground where George Orwell once taught, cost just £35.

Chester was very different, a beautiful “northern” city and the scene of the remarkable turnaround of Chester FC. Chester City went bust earlier this year.

Fans blamed an owner who you perhaps wouldn’t want to bump into down a dark alley, but those fans did something about it when the grim reaper called. Inspired by other fan owned clubs, they formed a new club, negotiated with the council to play at the Deva Stadium and started life four leagues below the Football League.

“It’s been a stressful 12 months, very challenging, but very rewarding,” says Chester’s press officer Jeff Banks. “When we knew that the previous club Chester City were not going to last the season, we had to be ready. That’s when Chester FC – the previous name for the club - was born.”

“We have good examples to follow like FC United, AFC Telford and AFC Wimbledon. People had given up on Chester City and it was our job to get those people interested again. We told people to trust us – they knew us, knew that we went to matches and were longstanding supporters. Our group ‘City Fans United’ grew quickly and now has around 2,500 members. The council and local businesses chipped in too. We had the support of the city and knew what we wanted. People feel like they belong to the club again. Supporters help sweep up after the match because they want to help their club. Everyone wants a piece of it.

“Mark Lawrenson once said that Chester didn’t deserve a football club. We’ve proved him wrong.”

Last Saturday a huge crowd of over 3,000, including loads of young lads going to the match with their mates, saw them lose to Chorley side managed by Gary Flitcroft and featuring Matt Jansen as sub in a top of the table clash.

My journey from Manchester was on a train full of travelling Chorley, working class lads who had met in their local pub at 9am before their journey south, armed with bags of lager cans.

I spoke to several who turned out to be disenfranchised Manchester United fans, bored with Premier League football and the costs involved. So now they watch non-league. With oddballs like me.

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Forlan, Mr Mystery and caravans

2010-09-13T14:00:00Z

International week meant a chance to get away before winter. That’s how my wife saw it.

"Cornwall," she suggested, after reading a book about the county that is all the rage in her native Brazil.

I immediately thought of the opportunity to visit new football grounds en route from Manchester as I close in on achieving entry to the 92 club.

Places like Plainmoor, St. James’s Park and Home Park could sound appealing when, like my missus, you have no idea that they are football grounds.

All were mentioned before we set off in a motor home down the M6 as I figured that she could have no complaints when we pulled up outside the venerable homes of Exeter City, Plymouth Argyle and Torquay United if she saw pretty fishing villages full of shops selling cheap souvenirs to hordes of pensioners from the Midlands.

I also gently manipulated the dates so that I could watch a game on our first day away and another on the final day before getting back for Everton v United.

Everything was booked, then the game at Goodison was brought forward a day. It got worse. Plymouth’s home match was postponed for international duty.

The player called up for international duty was Rory Patterson, now a Northern Ireland striker, but five years ago my brother’s strike partner for FC United of Manchester.

Patterson’s promise had been recognised by Rochdale, but he soon found himself in the non-league ranks. His questionable attitude appeared to be a big part of the problem, for he had the demeanour of someone who got on with few and was happy being unhappy.

Rory Patterson, holiday ruiner...

When he made his FC debut in a friendly, his shirt didn’t have a number on it, nor was his name listed in the programme. Fans sang about 'Mr Mystery' and 'The man with no name.

His performances soon made sure people knew exactly who he was, as he acquired cult status and managed to find the net from the halfway line in one game. Brother didn’t hold him in the highest regard as a person, but says he was the best player at the club – by a distance.

His talent to go past players readily was spotted by relative big spenders Bradford Park Avenue and then Coleraine in the Northern Ireland’s top flight, where he scored 41 goals in 40 games last season and was named Ulster Footballer of the Year.

Yet while he never stopped scoring, he did stop falling out with people and rubbing them up the wrong way. Despite the goals, however, even Coleraine fans are divided about him, partly because he signed a pre-contract arrangement with Glentoran while also having a trial with Plymouth Argyle, where he’s started this season. And because of his move to the West Country I’ve still not seen a game at Home Park.

Exeter was our first stop, their opponents Charlton Athletic having slipped so far that international breaks no longer trouble them.

Had I followed the crowds, we would have ended up watching Exeter Pirates’ debut against Gloucester in rugby union’s top flight.

Instead, St. James Park was located, huddled in between a railway line and neat housing. Most of the 5,700 crowd were standing on the Big Bank terrace.

I also took in Truro City’s home, the semi-professional side having risen sufficiently up the non-league pyramid to be Cornwall’s top side.

And I’m writing this on a trailer park just off the M5 in Tiverton, having just interviewed Diego Forlan, him in a hotel in Bilbao ahead of Atletico Madrid’s game at Athletic, me surrounded by semi-permanent static caravans and the hum of the nearby motorway.

"Where are you?" the Uruguayan asked. How could I possibly begin to explain?

"England," I replied. Some things are best kept simple to avoid confusion.

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My Perfect 10: Eric Cantona

2010-08-31T16:32:00Z

The new issue of FourFourTwo is a 'Playmakers Special' - so it's Playmakers Week here on FFT.com. Andy Mitten sings the praises of one of Manchester United's ultimate cult heroes...

“My best moment? I have a lot of good moments but the one I prefer is when I kicked the hooligan.”

Eric Daniel Pierre Cantona gives his verdict thus on his time at Manchester United. Curiously, in one sense, many of those United fans who were besotted by Cantona during his five tumultuous years at the club might agree with him.

His leap into the crowd and into the chest of a spectator berating him at Selhurst Park in 1995 was the defining event for United’s supporters in the 90s. It polarised football not just in England but around the world. You were either against Cantona or with him. And for some the adoration which they had felt the minute he first strutted onto the Old Trafford turf, collar turned up, chest puffed out, holding himself ramrod straight, ratcheted up several notches to the point of blasphemy.

Cantona was now United’s ultimate Red Devil, rebel supreme, the new Demon King of Old Trafford, or simply ‘Dieu’. When he returned from his ban, fans paid for a billboard on the forecourt at Old Trafford saying: ‘We’ll never forget that night at Selhurst… when you buried that 30 yard screamer against Palace.’

“I remember it,” Eric says. “And I remember the goal. It was against Wimbledon. They played at Selhurst Park too. I liked the words on the poster. And I liked it when I was in court and the fans supported me. They travelled from Manchester in the middle of the week to Croydon. I could feel that support and it helped me a lot. The club also supported me. So I stayed.”

The FA imposed ban was harsh, with Sir Alex Ferguson’s saying: “I don't think any player in the history of football will get the sentence he got - unless they had killed Bert Millichip’s dog.” (Millichip was then FA chairman).

Eric on the rampage (Millichip's dog not pictured...)

Cantona was speaking in Marseille on Bastille Day while thousands fill the streets in celebration, the air a pungent mix of the sulphur from spent fireworks and the salty spray from the sea. I’d driven to see my favourite ever playmaker mid-summer, when Marseille’s brilliant white urban sprawl was in vivid contrast to the azure sky.

Cantona is taller, wider and more imposing than you’d might imagine. Formidable bushy eyebrows frame his dark, impenetrable eyes. His gaze is direct, but also guarded and wary as he weighs up the strangers around him.

In current football parlance, everyone is a legend and the words ‘charisma’ and ‘aura’ have been debased by too frequent and unwarranted use. But not in this case. Cantona is a magnetic, commanding personality to the point of being, frankly, a little frightening.

What has become forever known as the ‘Kung Fu Kick’ is almost a Kennedy assassination moment for United fans. I can recall exactly what I was doing at the time; I was in the crowd, midway up the Arthur Wait Stand which was full of Reds. As the game went on, I couldn’t take my eyes off him. He seemed to be seething inside, full of resentment.

When he was sent off, Andrew Cole rushed up to the referee and told him exactly what he thought. Eric walked off, turning down the collar of the black United away strip. The next minute it was bedlam, and most of us didn’t know why. When the story of what had happened next filtered around the ground there was palpable disbelief among United fans.

Cantona was, and remains, unrepentant. “I did not punch him strong enough,” he says, with regret. “I should have punched him harder. I didn’t watch it after on television. Because I knew. All I had was journalists around my house. That’s all I could see. My house was small. They blocked the light.”

Alex Ferguson summed up the Frenchman’s appeal. “If ever there was one player, anywhere in the world, that was made for Manchester United, it was Cantona. I think because he had travelled to so many different countries. There’s a bit of a gypsy in some people. He’d been searching all his life for somewhere he could look at and feel: this is my home, And when he came here he knew: this is my place. You could just tell.”

Cantona: more popular with some fans than others...

Eric’s arrival caused a stir in the dressing room that never really settled. David May remembers it vividly. He had not been at Old Trafford long and was just getting to know his new team mates before his first away game.

“I was in awe of Eric and so were all my family,” explains May. “I wasn’t rooming with anybody. Pally and Brucey were together, Denis and Keaney, Incey and Giggsy. So I was on my own.”

Still considering himself an outsider, May went to his room and lay on one of the two double beds. Then he heard a click and saw the door open. “Eric walked in,” recalls May. “I was thinking: ‘Oh my God, I don’t need this. I’m rooming with Eric.’”

May was polite and tried not to appear star-struck. “I later went for dinner, but didn’t know what time to return to my room. It was all about what I thought Eric would want. Should I go back early or late? Be loud or quiet? So I went back early and sat on my bed watching TV.”

Cantona lay on the bed across from May. Aged 28, he had become used to the anodyne features of four star hotel rooms. He was already at his eighth club and knew the life of a professional footballer well, the hours in soulless hotels, the pranks, the expensive phone calls to family.

The conversation in the May – Cantona bedroom was hardly flowing, so May duly called home.

“I rang to say hello and ask my family how many tickets they wanted for the game,” he recalls. “Our Pete answered. He was excited about me playing for Manchester United and asked who I was rooming with.”

“‘I’m with Eric,’ I said quietly, trying to sound like it was the most normal thing in the word. ‘Dad!’ Pete screamed. ‘Dad! He’s with Eric! He’s with the King!’

“Eric was lying on his bed and heard everything,” adds May. “He just smiled and carried on watching television. I looked across and just shrugged my shoulders.”

If the players were in awe, what chance did us fans have?

When the Frenchman arrived, United had not won the championship in 26 years. When he left, retiring at his peak, before any hint of physical deterioration could diminish the legend, the Old Trafford trophy room had needed major extension work to accommodate the trophies he had inspired the team to win.

Along with all the others who worshipped him to the point of idolatry, I will always consider Cantona the most inspiring, infuriating and inventive playmaker I have ever seen in United’s colours.

Listen to the first United We Stand podcast for free here

More Confessions of a Correspondent

My Perfect 10: Paul Simpson on Vladimir Petrovic
My Perfect 10: Riccardo Rossi on Roberto Baggio
My Perfect 10: Steve Morgan on Robert Prosinecki
My Perfect 10: Michael Cox on Rui Costa
My Perfect 10: Hugh Sleight on Zico
My Perfect 10: James Horncastle on Francesco Totti
My Perfect 10: David Hall on Zinedine Zidane
My Perfect 10: Sefa Atay on Gheorghe Hagi
My Perfect 10: Jamie Bowman on Michael Laudrup
My Perfect 10: Joel Richards on Juan Roman Riquelme

Videos: Football's finest playmakers in full flow

The 'Playmakers Special' issue of FourFourTwo is in stories throughout September 2010.

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Remembering football's good guys

2010-08-26T14:20:00Z

You never know what this job is going to throw up.

I have regular columns, magazines and books to write, but the news can change in a minute and a previously well planned day can be thrown in chaos.

I’ve never been busier than when David Beckham moved from Manchester United to Spain in 2003. I’m from Manchester and support United, but I also write about Spanish football. He was linked with Barcelona – where I spend most of my time – and then Madrid.

I later found out that Beckham had not even bothered to return the call to Barca. Unsure of how to get to him, the then presidential hopeful Joan Laporta even asked Jordi Cruyff to call his former team mate.

Laporta stood down this summer and history will remember him as Barça’s most successful ever president, while Beckham was stood down from England duty recently by Fabio Capello. The BBC called. Was I available for hire to their local stations for 16 x eight minutes interviews that afternoon? Why not?

So I sat in a studio in Barcelona as BBC stations from Humberside to Jersey called in. They had eight minutes each to ask me whatever they liked, well, about Beckham, as opposed to nuclear power plants in Iran. After a dozen interviews of similar questions, my throat began to go. You try talking continuously for two hours. And my mind also began to go. I’m sure the farmers listening in Suffolk heard a completely different opinion to those in Birmingham. One presenter introduced me as ‘Andy Hill’. Getting my name wrong was one thing, calling me a former City player another.

In Jersey, I followed ‘news’ of a traffic light playing up on the Esplanade. In Hull, I followed a Van Halen song. Don’t you love local radio?

The studio was in district 22 – a gentrified area of Barcelona which the city council promote as a media zone. I was back three days later to do interviews for FourFourTwo with Andres Iniesta and Zlatan Ibrahimovic.

Iniesta is polite and straight down the middle, Ibrahimovic is outspoken, opinionated, self-assured and fantastic. He does not want to leave Barcelona – though he may not have a choice.

Iniesta used to study with my friend, Arnau Riera. Iniesta was a first teamer at Barca and he went to college three afternoons a week, Arnau the captain of the B team.

Football can be a snide industry populated by frauds, phonies and thickos, so I like it when I hear stories which go against the grain. Arnau moved to Sunderland in 2006 and then Falkirk a year later. When Barca drew Celtic, Iniesta called Arnau and asked him if he wanted to come and meet him at Celtic Park. A little touch, but one which shows he does not forget.

Arnau did his cruciate last season. He has to start again and it has been a lonely road to recovery at home in Mallorca. There were times when we spoke about anything but football – his job which has given him so many highs and lows. Sometimes he just didn’t want to go there. His parents were worried and I know he considered knocking football on the head – four years after being Leo Messi’s captain for Barca B.

He had his operation, it went well and he’s knuckled down, going to the gym as often as doctors allow and for long runs on Mallorcan beaches. Granted, there are worse places to train.

He’s in the final stage of recovery but needs match practice and would like to play again in Britain. There are so many forgotten men in football, so fair play to three people for keeping in touch. Niall Quinn at Sunderland has invited Arnau back to train with the reserves to finalise his recuperation. He didn’t need to do that. Quinn signed him during his brief spell as manager in 2006. And Julio Arca, then at Sunderland and now with Middlesbrough, has invited Arnau to stay at his place.

Both Spanish speakers, they were close mates in the north east. I once went out with the pair and was staggered by how popular Arca was in Sunderland – despite moving to Middlesbrough. And to his agent Craig, who rather than forget about someone no longer making him money as some agents would do, encouraged him time and time again. Despite all the dirt which justifiably sticks to football, it is full of good people.

Green & Gold protest to rumble on

2010-08-16T14:30:00Z

Sir Alex Ferguson opined in his programme notes for the Newcastle game that the “one situation which clouds the new season is the continued opposition to the Glazer family.”

The United manager added that he had “no problem with the green and gold campaign” and that “fans are entitled to protest as they see fit – but not to the detriment of the team.”

The objections about United’s ownership aren’t going away and not even a man of Ferguson’s power and influence can change that. They exist because United fans have genuine and legitimate concerns abut the future of the club. They exist because fans resent the fact that the most financially successful club in world football was effectively bought on tick and plunged into a massive debt.

Many decided to ‘wait and see’ after the takeover in 2005. They saw their season tickets rise at rates higher than any other club in the Premier League to the point that the waiting list diminished and they were put on open sale this summer.

United could strike commercial deals with snake oil companies or war criminals for all fans care, but hammer them with price rises and there’ll be uproar, just as there was when United revealed their inner financial workings in January as they sort to finance a £500 million bond. That appalled not just the political fringe, but the usually tolerant supporting majority.

The green and gold campaign was spawned and it was hugely visible and effective. It won approval from most in an increasingly divided red fan base. Those divisions and intolerance of the opinions of others have been one the saddest aspects of the Glazer takeover.

The protests also made people at the club realise the extent of the opposition to the Glazer ownership, a constant and embarrassing reminder that had to be explained to visiting directors. This wasn’t a noisy minority as some in senior positions Old Trafford had claimed, but included most match going fans.

Well, seeing as you asked so nicley...

Granted, some of them didn’t know what they were protesting about. I stood outside Old Trafford Metrolink station before the Liverpool game in March with the lads selling G&G scarves. They couldn’t keep up with the demand, yet it was apparent that many buyers had little clue why they were handing over a fiver - other than because everyone else was.

It was easy to cynical about tourists wearing green and gold while clutching bags of official merchandise – but it was a simple and striking way for many to demonstrate that they wanted the Glazer family out. And it worked, to a small degree. Do you think season ticket prices would have been held if it wasn’t for the green and gold?

Still, it wasn’t high profile enough for some. Asked for his opinions about the green and gold campaign, one former United legend who still lives in Manchester replied: “The what? Never heard of it.”

The actions of some fans also baffled. One, who had made several anti-Glazer flags, found himself sharing a lift with Joel Glazer in America pre-season. What did he do? Smiled and requested a photo with him.

And Ferguson’s fear of protests having a negative effect on the team are unfounded because the campaign galvanised the all too frequently mournful Old Trafford atmosphere. Would Burnley and Hull at home in January been half as lively if the fans were stood up in full voice protesting? The players have never been targeted, nor the manager.

Many fans won’t be around to protest as they didn’t renew their season tickets, yet Old Trafford will be full more often than not - though thousands of former match going fans will now watch games in pubs or FC United at Gigg Lane. And the Glazers only have themselves to blame.

The manager has made his position clear and he clearly thinks the Glazers are terrific owners. Compared to some of the autocrats he’s worked for in the past, they probably are. The Glazers let him get with doing his job – which he continues to do exceptionally well - because they know he’s United’s greatest asset.

Ferguson is more powerful than those who employ him, but that power does not extend to stopping the fans protesting.

Will history prove them right? For that we’ll have to wait and see.

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From fanzines to satellite TV

2010-08-10T10:39:00Z

United were playing in Dublin last week and as United We Stand sells well in Ireland, I was lucky to receive offers of hospitality.

I didn’t go. I’d just spent a couple of weeks in America and have a wife and a life other than watching United, plus I had a lot of work to do ahead of the new season in Spain.

Mates who’d travelled from Manchester called from Dublin to ask if I was there. They sounded leathered. Most were on a mini-bus of gnarled old Mancunian grafters who looked after me when I was a kid on the mean streets around Old Trafford, a 15-year-old selling a little fanzine.

I used to sell at Chelsea away every year and the same Chelsea lads would pass the Britannia Gate on the Fulham Road and wind me up. It was what footballers routinely describe as ‘banter’. They’d tell me that I would never have gotten away with selling Man Utd fanzines at the Bridge in the 70s.

One year, one of them pulled me and said: “You’re not a kid any more. Best stand closer to the turnstiles and away from the gate...” I listened. There were other grounds we simply could not sell at: Leeds, City and Liverpool.

Other times, the older United lads would just stand behind me so that I didn’t get bothered. Some of them were so bright in a streetwise way that they could see things happening well before they did. They could get the measure of someone in seconds. If they’d been born on the other side of the tracks they’d probably be in government.

Most are in their late 40s now, but still follow United. They were happily drunk in Dublin and sang down the phone.

Now, I feel I should keep an eye out for the young lads who sell the fanzine. Two of them were in the Irish capital, all excited and flushed with youthful enthusiasm. And alcohol. They got in the press box and collared Paddy Crerand, who was commentating for MUTV.

“If they're mithering you, give them a clip around the ear,” I told Paddy. “They’re bigger than me,” he protested.

That was the first time I’ve heard Crerand step back from any type of confrontation. Paddy asked where I was and if I was watching the game. He seemed confused by my answer and I nearly spat my jamon out with what happened next.

Midway through the second half, Crerand piped up on live TV. “I just spoke to Andy Mitten at half time. You’ll never guess where he’s watching the game from. Barcelona. Can you believe that? How does that happen?”

The commentator’s reply was beautifully succinct: “It’s called satellite television, Paddy.”

Paddy went quiet, then said: “Well there’s worse places to watch the game from.”

And on he continued, in his little world – which that night consisted of scores of Irish Reds clambering into the press box to tell him that he was a legend... while he was supposed to be co-commentating live. He didn’t think there was a problem having a chat and probably claimed that he was related to them all. He’ll talk to anyone, to the point that he gets in trouble.

He born in Scotland to an Irish family from Donegal and frequently returned to Donegal for holidays with his family in the early 1970s. It was a particularly difficult era for the Troubles and tension was high.

Cars were routinely stopped and searched as they crossed the border, and on one trip they were ushered to the roadside checkpoint by two British soldiers. One of the soldiers recognised Crerand and started talking in a friendly manner about United. He was about 18 and a United fan from Wythenshawe.

Paddy chatted along, but his uncle, who was driving the car, was raging with anger. He called him over and asked what he was doing talking to a British soldier. Paddy told him that it was just a kid from Manchester.

"I’m not bothered about the kid from Manchester," his uncle replied. "I’m bothered about the snipers in the hills over there who are after the soldiers. I’m bothered that they might miss him and get you." Paddy got in the car sharpish.

He tried to send me a telegram in June – seven years after BT stopped providing a telegram service. I never got it. He swears he sent one.

He once had a mobile phone but it drove him mad so he threw it in the River Mersey near his house. He has no idea what the internet is and thinks that a podcast is a type of pea – but not that Little Pea, over whom Paddy is getting as excited and red-eyed as ever.

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Are the CIA in cahoots with Man City?

2010-08-03T16:18:00Z

I’ve just got back from Manchester United’s pre-season tour of the United States, jetlagged and knackered after driving from Pennsylvania to Texas.

I travelled alone and did over 1,800 miles in six days, spending one day driving from Kansas City to Dallas – that’s the equivalent of Truro to Edinburgh.

If you think that’s bad, my motor was a turquoise fibreglass three-wheeled Invacar. That turned heads in OOOOk-lahoma, where the wind comes sweepin’ down the plain. (Ok, I drive a normal hire car, for which Hertz kindly added extra charges in true RyanAir style…)

Every radio station I tuned to seemed to be a sermon about how I should be living my life. Every petrol station I stopped at featured characters out of the bar in The Simpsons who couldn’t understand my English and complicated phrases like “Can I pay please?”

And there was always mild disapproval that I didn’t super size order a 44 ounce bucket of cola for a bargain 89 cents, down it in one and say ‘God Bless America’ before burping and hitting the road. Jack.

One man told me that he had a relative in Switzerland so I told him that I knew someone who lived in Belize.

“He lives in a what?”
“Belize. Central America.”
“Ah, but that’s not in the USA.”
“And Switzerland isn’t in Great Britain.”

I sat next to a very sweet 21-year-old from Florida on the plane over. She briefly stopped talking for take-off. She also told me that she’d decided against travelling to England as she’d heard that the streets were full of rubbish.

I nodded in agreement, adding that I’d never travel to Florida again for fear of being snaffled by a crocodile. Or are they alligators in the pan handle?

As ever in the United States, I met the brightest and dumbest people – often at the same time. It’s a superb country to travel around and the can-do enthusiasm of the people makes a change from the corrosive cynicism which can be prevalent in Britain, but it’s slightly worrying that some people don’t know that London is the capital of England.

But then you get others who designed the electrics for new stealth bombers in their spare time while listening to Slipknot and munching on a third-pounder.

United fans - they get about a bit

I was slightly startled to be asked ‘What’s happenin’?” by a shop assistant in Footlocker. I looked around to check he was speaking to me before asking: “In relation to what?”

The United players loved being in the States. They’re normally ensconced and bored in a five star hotel on pre-season tours, unable to leave their rooms for fan hysteria. In America, they were often seen out and about walking through city centres. Some, like Darren Fletcher, are big fans of American sport and culture.

Sir Alex Ferguson went for a morning walk around Kansas, where he enjoyed the anonymity. Until some travelling United fans spotted him and insisted that he continued to listen to his wife and never retired. He explained that he had no choice. He’ll be United’s greatest asset this season.

United played games in Philadelphia, Kansas and that pedestrian friendly city of Houston, where highways are nearly as wide as the mighty Mississippi. Kind people put me up along the way and told me about their lives.

The grand New York Times ignored the whole tour and the Houston Chronicle quoted a question I’d asked the MLS commissioner Don Garber about the Glazer family before I’d even had chance to transcribe his answer.

And TWO people, when I told them I was from Manchester (England as opposed to New Hampshire), asked if I supported City. One was running the reception at the Pittsburgh Pirates baseball stadium, another a parking lot near the Grassy Knoll in Dallas.

Internet heads love a good conspiracy theory – so how about the owners of Man City are in cahoots with the CIA, who in turn are getting normal Americans to spread the word of the laser Blues…

The former United and England winger Gordon Hill was waiting in Dallas and was good enough to invite me to stay. Imre Varadi was his last guest.

Hill’s lived in Texas for six years – though he played for several North American teams in the 1980s. His office is adorned with pictures of him in his prime – with Franz Beckenbauer and the likes.

He coaches kids and runs a team called United FC. He has ambitious plans to build a football centre which will continue to help the spread of the game in Texas.

Manchester United (and Millwall) fans labelled Hill ‘Merlin’ after the Magician and serenaded him as the ‘King of all Cockneys.’ Doc’s Red Army also sang a song to the tune of Save Your Kisses For Me. He recited the words in his back garden as he proudly showed me the lavender he’d grown.

“Bye bye Derby, bye bye…because we beat you 2-0, with two goals from Gordon Hillllllll,” he sang as he recalled his greatest moment, scoring both goals in the 1976 FA Cup semi-final which took United to Wembley.

What a trip. I was working and had good access to the United players around the games. You forget how big some of them are. Apart from new signing Chicarito – the Little Pea from Mexico. He was grinning his way about and loving life when I shouted “Well done, gambita,” to him as he walked past smiling. That means Little Prawn. He looked confused. When in Rome and all that.

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Philly, Rocky and a painful tattoo

2010-07-23T14:42:00Z

I’m on an eight-hour journey on the Pennsylvanian train between Philadelphia and Pittsburgh. Manchester United played against the Philadelphia Union MLS team in America’s fifth biggest city last night, a single Gabriel Obertan goal the decider.

The crowd of 44,000 was 6,000 down on when United met Celtic at the same Lincoln Field Stadium in 2004, 24,000 down on when United beat Barca in Philadelphia in 2003. High ticket costs (between £30 and £150 for a friendly game) and the absence of some of United’s biggest stars may have hit sales, with United making virtually all their players available for interview to US media in a last-minute sales drive.

Or, with a more positive spin, just two weeks after the World Cup, United can still attract 44,000 paying top dollar for a friendly against a team who didn’t exist two years ago.

Union boast a new purpose-built 18,500 capacity home, which they fill each week and have a 2,000-seat section for their ‘Sons of Ben’ vocal and hardcore fans – named after Benjamin Franklin, one of the founding fathers of the United States and iconic figure locally. Named for the union of America’s 13 original colonies and wearing navy-and-gold kits in the Unionist colours of the American Civil War, they put up a good fight, giving United a good game.

The Reds were front-page news in the Philadelphia Inquirer under the headline ‘Man U brings big brand to town.’ Inside, the paper gushed about United’s global popularity under a headline claiming ‘World’s biggest team is here’.

There is justification for the hype. Forbes business magazine recently listed United as the most valuable sports franchise in the world, worth $1.87 billion and ahead of Dallas Cowboys, Washington Redskins and New York Yankees. Such talk of figures and franchises would be met with cynicism on the streets of Stretford, but the numbers impress mightily in America.

While the United players ventured out of the Four Seasons hotel and onto the steps of the Philadelphia Art Museum made famous in the film Rocky, the few fans who had crossed the Atlantic acquainted themselves with Philadephia’s pubs, including one called Fergie’s.

You see the same fans wherever United play in the world: Phil Holt, Nige, Barmy Kev and Webby. John Taylor, Ravi, JP, Zyg, Dutch Erik, Mick Groom and Jim from Sheffield. There are others who keep themselves to themselves. Most wear no colours, though Mike Groom is famous for having ‘MUFC’ tattooed on his penis.

Occupations vary and some have been very successful. Phil Holt received a call from American Express a few years ago asking him when he was going to use up his staggering number of Air Miles. Only Noel Gallagher, they told him, had amassed more. And that wasn’t watching City.

The travelling die-hards get where water wouldn’t, like a friendly in Saudi Arabia in 2008. “How on earth did you get visas?” asked one baffled club official. “I think you’ll find that we’re engineers on an invited visit, not football fans,” came the reply.

They encounter people who proclaim loudly that they are the biggest United fans in the world and don’t even let on why they have travelled across the Atlantic. They take their holidays to watch United and create some administrative nightmares because of their devotion. Nobody at Old Trafford thought any fans would travel to see a friendly game in Mexico, where United play Chivas of Guadalajara in Mexico’s second city next week, so no tickets were requested.

It’s part of the deal which saw ‘the little pea’ (aka Javier Hernandez) join United. But fans are going. Chivas are repaying their efforts with the magnanimous gesture of charging £91 for a ticket, again for a meaningless match – meaningless, of course, unless you are one of the faithful for whom ‘Guadalajara away’ is compulsory.

The players have other duties. They were up for talking in the mixed zone where the press await hoping to bag an exclusive after the game. One American journalist in front of me managed to speak to an earnest Edwin van der Sar for four or five minutes.

“Who was that?” asked her colleague.

“I’ve no idea,” she replied.

I’m making a couple of seven minute video diaries from each of the cities where United play. Here’s the second one from Philadelphia. The password is ‘UWS.’ To see more you need to sign up for the uwsonline.com website.

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Spain win highlights Catalan divide

2010-07-13T09:02:00Z

Over a million people took to the streets of Barcelona at the weekend. A million. Television estimated the figure even higher at 1.4 million as it beamed globally images of the main streets of the Catalan capital, full of people waving their red and yellow flags, singing songs and smiling for the cameras.

The recently departed Barcelona president Joan Laporta was even among the crowds, yet had you worn a Spain shirt to join the mass, your life would have been made very uncomfortable.

Catalans were not on the street to celebrate Spain winning the World Cup for the first time, but to protest against restrictions put on Catalonia’s new autonomy charter by Madrid. Some Catalans want full independence from Spain, others more autonomy. There are many shades of grey in between.

The protest took place the night before the World Cup final. Spain’s victory also brought people onto the streets to celebrate, but nowhere near as many as a day earlier. It also depended on which Barcelona neighbourhood you were in. It’s not divided on religious lines like Belfast, Beirut or Baghdad, but some areas are almost 100% “Spanish” and others almost 100% “Catalan.”

Many people are happy to be both, but areas with a high Spanish population saw parties every bit as passionate as in Madrid, Valencia or Seville. And remember that outside of the Spanish capital, Real Madrid’s second strongest paid up supporter base lies in Barcelona’s suburbs.

Spanish celebrations... in Madrid

There is a strong economic argument for the Catalans, with wealthy Catalonia subsidising poorer areas in southern Spain – much like wealthier European countries supported Spain as it boomed for two decades until 2008.

So what has this got to with football?

The two are intrinsically mixed, though to what degree depends on whom you ask. After finishing his second term in office, Laporta now has political ambitions. A staunch Catalanista, he said last year that he saw the Spanish national side no differently from the English or French national side, that he felt no emotion if they won or lost. Extremists go further and actively celebrate Spain losing, but they are in the minority.

Barça are often seen as the standard bearer for Catalonia, yet if Catalonia gained full independence or a relationship with Spain similar to Scotland and England, international laws mean that Barca would have to play in a Catalan league. Catalans point to AS Monaco playing in France’s Ligue 1, but authorities have made clear that this is the exception.

That would mean saying goodbye to El Clasico and the Primera Liga losing its status as the first or second best domestic league in the world. Catalans had better not look at the example of Yugoslavia, which once had a league containing half a dozen giants, but where Red Star Belgrade now play against village sides as the different Balkan countries have their own leagues.

In Catalonia, the league would be made up of Barca, average crowd 79,000; Espanyol 31,000; Gimnastic Tarragona 6,000; Girona 4,000; Lleida 3,000; Barca B 1,500 and many lesser teams from Palamos to Terrassa - you get the picture.

Ultra nationalists feel that Catalonia takes in Valencia, parts of southern France and the Balearic islands. The feeling is seldom reciprocated.

Catalonia wants to be recognised as a nation, in the same way as Scotland or Wales. Such is the wealth of football talent, their national side would still be one of the best in the world.

From a population of seven million (of whom around two million are not from Catalonia or are second or third generation Spaniards working in Catalonia - part of Franco’s push to dilute Catalanism by shifting population), Catalonia could field stars of magnitude from Valdes, Puyol and Pique at the back, through Xavi, Busquets and Fabregas in midfield, to Bojan up front.

There’s plenty of back-up from emerging Barça stars and established Primera Liga regulars like Espanyol’s Joan Verdu and Moises Hurtado. Their current coach is Johan Cruyff, the Dutchman who inspired Barca’s current style of football, which in turn inspired Spain to become world champions by beating Netherlands.

Catalonia would have a great side, but the domestic league would be weaker than Holland’s.

Another player who once would have made the team was Dani Jarque – the one Andres Iniesta referred to with a message “Dani Jarque always with us” when he scored in Soweto.

A message to Dani

Jarque was Espanyol’s captain until he died in horrific circumstances nearly a year ago. Espanyol were on a pre-season tour of Italy and Jarque was on the phone to his girlfriend, who was seven months pregnant, from a hotel room near Florence. Jarque then suffered a heart attack and died. His desperate girlfriend raised the alarm, but club doctors and Italian paramedics were unable to revive him.

Iniesta – not himself Catalan, coming from Albacete, between Madrid and Valencia but further south – played in the same Spain Under 19 team as Jarque and they won the European championships together. They were close friends and while Barça marked his death fittingly, wearing armbands as a mark of respect in one game and sending their top brass to Espanyol’s stadium, it was Iniesta who was closest to Jarque.

Jarque was a Catalan from Sant Boi on the outskirts of Barcelona, whose population grew from 10,000 in 1940 to its current 80,000 because of immigration from other parts of Spain. There were huge celebrations there last night, with fans singing Viva España.

Confused? You wouldn’t be the first.

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World Cup 0, pre-season 1

2010-07-07T15:49:00Z

“So you are telling me that you’d prefer to watch Manchester United’s meaningless pre-season tour rather than the World Cup finals?”

The question was a legitimate one and I answered honestly, in the affirmative. It was from a sports editor offering work in South Africa, but I preferred to go to the States and perhaps I’ve enjoyed the World Cup more because I’ve not been there.

Mates and colleagues in South Africa are having a good time – though the distances between venues have caused significant headaches.

There hasn’t been the crime wave which some tabloids predicted, the hosts have been superb, the stadiums too. I preferred to remember my times visiting the stadiums a year ago and sensing the anticipation and excitement of the South Africans - including the lady in the information office at the Durban stadium who was so proud she almost cried. Pleased also because the stadium was taking the name of Moses Mabhida, a former ANC activist.

And I laughed as Jonathan Pearce described Port Elizabeth so favourably, because when I visited in 2008 for the Orlando Pirates v Kaiser Chiefs game, I was advised against walking the streets alone.

The area around the new stadium was dangerous, not that a commentator being shuttled from hotel to venue and reading tourist bumph would know. I can smile at the memory of the two policemen who pulled me over near East London.

“It’s just a random check,” one said before checking my papers, “Relax.” They were bored and, upon realising I was English, wanted to talk football.

“Your newspapers have been writing that we’re all savages,” one said. “Let me tell you, we are the friendliest people around.”

They thought England would do well in South Africa. So did most of the players I interviewed for FourFourTwo in February – major, respected stars who believed that England would reach the semi-finals.

England were third favourites to win the World Cup with British bookmakers. How was a situation of such ridiculous over expectation allowed to develop?

But then who could have predicted this World Cup?

Had you told me that New Zealand would remain unbeaten, Japan would progress from the group stage while France and Italy wouldn’t, I would have questioned your sanity.

And that Lionel Messi and Wayne Rooney wouldn’t score a goal between them, and that Cristiano Ronaldo would be such a disappointment.

If Netherlands lose the final on Sunday it would make New Zealand the only unbeaten team in the World Cup finals. They have two players who are not even professionals.

I’ve watched it all from afar because I needed a rest and to recharge after a season travelling to over 70 live games. South Africa is not an easy country to move around either. It’s vast and beautiful, but you can’t just jump on a train and be in a neighbouring city in an hour, unless you are travelling in the Soweto, Johannesburg, Pretoria corridor.

I didn’t like the greed evident before the finals either. Even in these times of a weak sterling, South Africa is great value for tourists. Yet flights from Europe doubled and trebled in cost and hotels got greedy.

Prices were sufficiently high to affect ticket sales in Europe and they were dropped as hotel rooms remained unsold. I hope Brazil learns from these mistakes in 2014 and looks at the longer term rather than just going for a quick buck.

Instead of the World Cup, I’m going to drive across America in a few weeks following Manchester United, writing as I go along and making three short films about the trip.

I’ll start in Philadelphia, where United play on 21st July, then travel west through Pittsburgh, Dayton, Manchester (Ohio) and St Louis for the second game in Kansas City.

Then I’ll turn south and head into Texas for the third game in Houston against an MLS All Stars team, but not before staying with the 70s England international Gordon Hill who now lives in Dallas.

In the club versus country argument, there’s only ever been one winner for me.

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Driving Mr Mokoena

2010-06-16T12:34:00Z

Aaron Mokoena will again be a proud man when he leads South Africa out against Uruguay in Pretoria today.

The South African lived in Manchester while he was at Blackburn Rovers until last summer, when he left Ewood Park for Portsmouth.

He had a choice of Wolves or Portsmouth, but said he chose the latter because it was near the sea and he wanted a little boat.

I met Aaron in January 2005 when he moved from Belgium to Blackburn after a successful trial. His manager asked me to point him in the right direction. There are a lot of sharks in Manchester’s goldfish bowl if you’re a Premiership footballer and not every player has Sir Alex Ferguson looking out for them at every corner.

Mokoena was a young lad in an alien city, but he loved life in England. At first he lived in the centre of town before buying a house near the airport, which he now rents to Dimitar Berbatov.

Socially, Mokoena’s partner in crime was Benni McCarthy and the pair would often go out in Manchester. I took them to a nice bar one night soon after Mokoena signed. Hairdressers from Walkden and smartie heads from Prestwich marched in with a nod and a wink, but the doormen wouldn’t let us in.

“Sorry lads, not tonight.”

Benni was the second highest scorer in the Premiership at the time, Mokoena the captain of South Africa. Thankfully, neither were tempted to give it the ‘Do you know who I am?

In different circumstances and at a later date, the bar’s owner made a fuss of them and invited them to the VIP section. He’d no idea that they’d been refused entry. The pair remembered and never went. Holden Caulfield was right. Life is full of phonies.

A driving ban – Mokoena’s grasp of the term ‘car insurance’ was somewhat sketchy – meant my brother Joz drove Mokoena to training each morning.

Both daft footballers, they became good mates. Aaron would have what Joz called “crap South African Umba Bumba music” blaring; my brother would introduce him to the finer aspects of Manchester music and teach him some Manc slang – a melding of cultures brought together through football.

Joz – who Aaron called ‘Big Man’ - was a plumber who played semi-pro at the likes of Ashton and Altrincham, Mokoena an £18,000 a week Premiership footballer who plied his trade at Old Trafford and Anfield.

Because he played for Blackburn and not United or City, he went about his business in Manchester virtually unrecognised.

One day, he took Joz to have a haircut in Moss Side. Joz was the only white man in there and couldn’t understand the patois. He asked for a grade three, which Aaron changed to ‘grade one all over.’

Joz walked out with blood on his head and fifteen Afro-Caribbean men laughing at him.

Mokoena would go to watch Joz play. He saw Flixton at Salford City in front of 187 fans. The friendly Salford officials had no idea who he was as he paid his £5 to enter Moor Lane, but one suggested he move his expensive car inside the ground for safety.

Mokoena bought a programme, a ticket for the draw and went in the clubhouse after the game. We introduced him to pie, peas and gravy and he enjoyed it so much that he ordered the same again.

When Mokoena was playing United’s key opponents, we’d tell him the importance of raising his game. Perhaps he took it too literally in one tackle on Chelsea’s Arjen Robben, but while television highlighted the horror of Robben’s face as his foot was broken, Mokoena was contrite.

“It was an accident,” he said in the car after. “I feel really sad.”

Mokoena’s upbringing had made him tough. Known as ‘The Axe’, he had a wicked boyhood scar on his right cheek and was used to break up play by a rough Blackburn team.

At times he seemed too coarse for the Premier League, as if he’d done a term at the Paul Scholes’ school of tackling.

He grew up in the township of Boipatong, scene of a massacre in June 1992 when 42 died. His memories of that disaster were vivid and scary. His mum had even dressed him as a girl because she heard ‘they’ coming to kill young boys.

He probably looked better than in the garish white suit he wore on one return to South Africa.

“My mother raised my four brothers, two sisters and me single-handed during difficult times,” he once said. “Papa died when I was very young. But my mum is a tough woman.

“That’s probably where I get it from. She was a nanny for a white family. It was hard for her but she did all she could for us. She was always trying, trying, trying. If she had only a bit of money then she would buy me football boots. She believed in me. She taught me to be responsible.”

Mokoena had bought his mum a house when he joined Ajax and told her that she could stop working for the white family, even though they treated her like a friend. She was having none of it.

Maria Mokoena would come to Manchester and my brother would pick her up at the airport. The culture was alien to her and trips to Selfridges of Harvey Nichols didn’t impress her. She couldn’t wait to get back to South Africa.

Mokoena moved last summer. I was driving back from Hull away when he called to invite us out for a final drink. He invited us down to Portsmouth – he never did buy the dinghy to sail in the Solent - and invited my brother to the FA Cup final recently.

And he texted yesterday. “Unbelievable,” was all he wrote. He’s having the time of his life.

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Barca presidential race overshadowing Spain's World Cup preparations

2010-06-02T09:49:00Z

The arrival of David Villa, the Primera Liga title and the World Cup finals are receiving less coverage than FC Barcelona’s upcoming presidential elections in the Catalan media at the moment.

Barca’s 162,979 members will get their chance to vote for their new president on June 13th and the six main candidates are working hard electioneering.

It’s difficult to walk through the streets of the Ciudad Condal without a young campaign member in a brightly coloured t-shirt thrusting a manifesto into your hand.

Glossy photographs of the contenders sit atop lists of their intentions and promises. Some have a Barca legend supporting their campaign, others deep pockets to fund tour buses and an expensive campaign headquarters on one of Barcelona’s grandest streets.

I saw a candidate last week sat alone in his campaign bus, which had plotted up for a day outside a church in the middle of Barcelona. I felt sorry for him, more so when I read that he is attracting just 1.6% of the votes in polls at the moment.

At Barca’s final home game of the season against Valladolid, fans were swamped by workers representing all candidates – some of whom had gone to great lengths to capture the public’s attention, be it by using the prettiest girls or musical bands.

The prize on offer is a chance to take over from Joan Laporta, who went from being an outsider to winning the club elections in 2003. A former fan activist and lawyer, his trump card was a deal with Manchester United to sign David Beckham.

Beckham didn’t even return the phone call as he was set on joining the Catalans’ arch-rivals Real Madrid, but the publicity catapulted the youthful Laporta into power. He won the next election and has become Barca’s most successful ever president with two European Cups and four league titles under his tutelage.

Democracy rocks!

As the presidency is limited to two terms, Laporta has to stand down. He is likely to pursue a career in politics, but he’s not going quietly.

Villa was purchased before the elections because the outgoing president wanted the striker who is likely to illuminate future Barca successes to be known as a Laporta signing

The same ego-driven principle would apply to Cesc Fabregas, though Barca are unlikely to offer Arsenal a similar transfer fee to the one they paid for Villa, as they are not convinced Fabregas will get into their side, let alone improve it.

Laporta would rather fans remember Villa, Daniel Alves, Ronaldinho or the emergence of Lionel Messi rather than Zlatan Ibrahimovic or the €25 million flop Dmytro Chygrynsky.

Laporta’s former sidekick Sandro Rosell, 46, is the favourite to win. The pair fell out in 2005 – two years after Rosell fixed the transfer of Ronaldinho to Barcelona. A fierce critic of Laporta, the incumbent doesn’t want him to succeed and has his own candidates in place, but the momentum is with Rosell, who cuts an impressive figure.

All the six candidates want to keep Pep Guardiola in charge. That continuity has meant that the election hasn’t disturbed the team as a candidate proposing a new coach might have done. Guardiola has been diplomatic and distanced himself from all prospective replacements, saying that he’s prepared to work with whoever is elected in the best interests of the club.

Barca have the foundations to win every competition they enter next season and continue their hegemony, but with Jose Mourinho’s appointment as Real Madrid coach imminent, the Catalans and their new president will need to be at the top of their game.

Guardiola v Mourinho is set to be the most exciting managerial duel of them all. Madrid president Florentino Perez has been accused of meddling and destabilising the team. Whoever is elected at Camp Nou must refrain from doing the same.

Manchester United fans facing administration blow

2010-05-27T15:25:00Z

The managing director of the company which distributes Manchester United fanzine United We Stand to newsagents across Britain and Ireland is normally chirpy on the phone. This time his tone was different.

“It’s not great news I’m afraid,” he said, before explaining that his firm that we have used for 13 years were likely to head into administration. The upshot was that we won’t be paid for any of the last two issues we have produced. We still have to pay all our costs though – the bills for print, design and editorial. And we don’t get a penny from any of the copies currently on sale. So who does?

It’s hard enough running a small magazine without being hit like this. I feel like I’ve been whacked around the head with a cricket bat and there’s absolutely nothing I can do.

Family want to go to their offices, ransack them and find out who is responsible, but I like and trust the company. It’s just a sad fact of life that companies go into administration leaving a string of unpaid creditors and many small publishers go under when distributors fold as they hold the money for all the copies sold in the shops.

We’ll take the hit – it’s that or fold after 21 years - and have found a new distributor. We needed to as we had already started working on a summer issue, but it has been an unpleasant – and thankfully very rare - experience.

Sir Alex Ferguson will be furious if he can't buy UWS outside Old Trafford...

The last time something similar happened to us was in 2005 when Sportspages bookshop went under owing us £4000. They had branches in Manchester and London and United We Stand was one of their best sellers. I used to deliver it myself, chat with the staff and buy loads of books from them.

The staff were great and we firmly believed in the ethos of their shop – even if half their customers seemed to go in, read fanzines and buy nothing. Then Sportspages came under questionable new ownership and the problems started.

Bills started to be paid later and then not at all. We stopped supplying them and we never got paid. Nor did any of the other fanzines – as if fanzines can carry such losses.

Nor did several book publishers I’ve done books with. They learned some lessons and when rumours began that Borders were going under before Christmas, publishers stopped supplying them. When Borders did go under, it rocked the whole market and contributed to one of the poorest Christmas trading periods.

The call from the distributors came as I prepared to watch my 70th live and final game of the 2009-10 season, the Copa Del Rey final between Sevilla and Atletico Madrid at Camp Nou, of course the scene of one of Manchester United's most famous victories of all time back in 1999.

Just over 90,000 (not a capacity 98,000 as reported in the Spanish press who don’t pay any attention to accurate attendance figures) made a brilliant din in the stadium.

Sixty thousand of them were Atletico fans and it dawned on me just how big that club is. They hadn’t won a trophy since 1996 and were still celebrating beating Fulham in Hamburg when they arrived in Barcelona. Atleti have consistently averaged more than 50,000 for home games, even when they were relegated to the second division and their club seemed to combust every six months because of loony presidents, coaches or players.

Atletico fans were brought back to earth by defeat to Sevilla

Despite losing the cup final, their fans never stopped singing. Even when Seville were presented with the trophy, all you could hear was Atletico fans who stayed long after the final whistle before making the six hour journey back to Madrid.

A couple of other points….congratulations to Manchester La Fianna who won the Barcelona International Football League for the first time, four years after I started the team in 2006. I stepped down from being player/manager last year and my absence helped the team improve enough to win the title.

And to the Timperley Veterans – a team from Manchester who came over to Barcelona last week. The biggest challenge to their players was staying off their beer from their morning flight until the 10pm kick-off, though their fans made up for it, with some sleeping contentedly throughout the game.

Comprised of players from areas of South Manchester like Wythenshawe and Sale, they had a lot of players with decent semi-pro experience and they absolutely caned the veterans team I played in. It was horrible and I told the other players that I daren’t show my face in Manchester again.

They want to come again next year, when they would be better matched playing championship winning Manchester La Fianna. While I’ll stick to making sure that our new distributors pay the bills…

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Messi and Villa already on good terms - unlike Levante and Valencia

2010-05-19T11:20:00Z

The offer to be an embedded journalist with adidas for the day at the launch of their new F50 boot sounded interesting.

I’d be shadowing two footballers - Lionel Messi and David Villa - around the Formula One track near Barcelona. They wouldn’t be racing, but two F1 cars decked out in adidas colours would deliver the new boots that both will wear in South Africa – the theme being ‘fast’ because they’re so light.

I’d have to speak to pit girls and take pictures of the day’s events. They didn’t have to twist my arm. For once, I was going to do what cockneys term ‘large it’.

Two days after the Spanish grand prix had witnessed a crowd of 100,000, I was on the train to the near empty circuit with a €3.20 return ticket. The world’s media were invited, but I was on the other side of the fence.

A lost looking Chinese journalist from Beijing was waiting at the station near the track. He was going to the launch too.

“Where are you from?” he asked.
“Manchester.”
“Ah, industrial,” he said.
“Not at all mate. Manchester’s got the best beaches in Western Europe after Stoke.”

How the other half live indeed...

We shared a taxi to the circuit two miles away. I was allowed in, he wasn’t. How the other half live, eh? I stuck by comrade journalist and got him in. The National Union of Journalists would have been proud, not that they have such unions in China.

“You’ve done well,” said Graham Hunter, who was there for Sky, dryly. Other journalists asked me if I could get them more time with Villa and Messi. I explained that I was supposed to be a fly on the wall and that stuff was nothing to do with me.

As the hack pack waited by the finish line on the racetrack, I was ushered into the garages by the pit lane to meet Messi and Villa. I tried to look as if I wasn’t enjoying it.

“Ah, FourFourTwo,” said one of Messi’s agents.
“Not today,” I replied.
“What about tomorrow?” he asked.
“Actually, I’m not really a journalist,” I lied, “I’m just doing this to raise money. I’ve been offered a trial for a team in Argentina called Newell’s Old Boys. They want an ageing Englishman with a big nose to inject a bit of fight into their club. So I’ll use the money to buy a flight.”

“Seriously?” said Messi, suddenly interested. I had his attention and he was on good form answering questions.

Villa was next. The two get on, which is good news as they’ve since been confirmed as teammates for next season, although at the time any questions from journalists about his future were deadpanned out of respect to his contract with Valencia.

He had a copy of FourFourTwo and was trying to name all the players on the cover. He got them all. I had a list of questions for him, but changed one word in one question to confuse him.

“Why is Cantabria renown as being the best region in the world?” I asked. Villa is proud to be from Asturias. Neighbouring Cantabria is definitely not Asturias in the same way that Manchester isn’t Liverpool.

He looked at my like I was mad before realising. If you’re a defender working out how to mark him and put him off his game, now you know a way into his mind.

I ask the pair to pose for a photo together. Pleasant, normal lads who just happen to be very, very good at association football. Then I told them what I’d do with it.

“I’m going to sell that picture to the Manchester newspaper with the headline, ‘United’s New Signings Spurn The Chance To Be City Mercenaries.”

“I dare you,” laughed one.

David and Lionel are already BFFs

Villa can’t speak English – and nor can Messi for that matter – but he had an English girl, Natalie, on hand, if he wanted to be converse in The Queen’s.

I’d not seen Natalie for five years. She used to work at Levante in Valencia and fixed me an interview with Levante legend Antonio Calpe when FourFourTwo did the More Than A Game derby feature on Valencia v Levante.

Calpe remains one of the best people I’ve ever interviewed. He was a big star at Levante in the 60s and played at Real Madrid for six years. He remained popular in Levante circles – probably their best ever player - but had never been interviewed by a foreign journalist when I asked him.

So he put a suit on and his wife baked some cakes to give to me. He was lovely man. I could have listened to him all day, though I’m sure Natalie had better things to do. His love of Levante was brilliant, and the way he slated Valencia, hilarious.

“Listen, Englishman,” he said with a cheeky smirk. “Valencia are thieves. They should not exist. You shouldn’t even be speaking to people from there for your article. You don’t know what you’ll catch. Levante is the team of Valencia, the pride of the city. Forza Levante!”

Villa might have similar thoughts about Cantabria, but it’ll be another 25 years before he can tell me, and not on adidas’s time.

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Peter Andre, Andy Cole and the case of the missing fanzines

2010-05-10T13:49:00Z

The domestic league season finished on Sunday and we were scheduled to have our final edition of United We Stand on sale outside Old Trafford before the Stoke game.

The mags are printed in South Wales and usually arrive in Manchester at 9am on a Saturday morning.

By midday, they’d still not arrived. By 4pm we were panicking as they’d been despatched by a courier on Friday at 3pm. It doesn’t take 24 hours for a van to get from South Wales to Manchester – even with Icelandic Volcanic ash still lingering in the air...

The printers drew a blank, the couriers were shut and not due to open until Monday morning.

The printers warned us to expect the worse and I explained that not only would we be out of pocket, but I was reluctant to pay for something we didn’t receive on time. As it was the final day of the season, the mags would have been of no value if they were delivered after the game.

In the 21 years of United We Stand, we’ve never had this. We were desperate and considering breaking into warehouses where we suspected the mags to be, before the lads who sell the mag were stood down.

Readers were going to go mad and I’d still have editorial bills to pay. Hundreds of hours go into every issue, with around 40 contributors from writers to designers and printers.

We were goosed.

An update arrived at 8pm on Saturday night.

Nobody was able to locate the missing pallets. So the printers called in staff to reprint the entire run overnight.

A director at the printers would go in at 6am on Sunday morning to oversee the final stitching (stapling to you and me) and a van would be waiting to leave at 7.30am to make the four hour journey to Manchester. Given that it wasn’t the printers’ fault, we couldn’t ask for more.

The mags were on sale before the Stoke game, with readers none the wiser at what had gone on. And if you see thousands of copies of UWS lying about, do us a favour and post them all to Liverpool Football Club where I’m sure they’ll be appreciated.

Eyes will now start to look towards the World Cup, though there are still issues to sort out in club football and I’ll interview Diego Forlan on Monday.

He is, of course, preparing for the Europa League final, and interest in Atletico’s opponents, Fulham, is also high.

Andrew Cole and Paul Parker, two former United players who played for Fulham, have been much in demand in the last week to talk about them.

Paul is living in New Zealand coaching at the moment, but will move to Singapore to work for ESPN (or ‘SPN’ in Facejacker talk) there.

Cole, meanwhile, is getting used to being accosted by my dad at Old Trafford.

"Christ, your old man is a bit angry," he said last week, probably following a rant which went as something along the lines of...

"What the f*ck is Ferguson doing? He needs to go and United need to get rid of Van der Sar, Vidic, Ferdinand, Evra, Scholes, Carrick, Neville, Giggs, Park, Nani, Fletcher and Rooney."

Yes, he rates Berbatov.

I told Cole to expect more of the same. Dad once rang me to get a phone number for Mikael Silvestre (I didn’t have one) because he wanted to meet him one-on-one and chin him for his poor performances in Red.

He’s currently teaching his three-year-old (knocked out at the ripe age of 58) to say: "I don’t like Carrick" and "I don’t like City."

I suggested that he takes him for a day out in Liverpool and he told me that he’d never been to that city unless it was, under protest, to play against 'Scouse b*st*rds'.

He does, however, respect Scousers as players "because they always give you a game and they’re always up for it." Perhaps that’s why Rooney generally escapes his unending fury.

He once admitted that the only person he respected in the world was Bill Clinton, on account of him being 'a good leader and top mingebag.'

I’m spending Tuesday with Lionel Messi in Barcelona at some event he’s doing. If I told my dad, he’d doubtless tell me to abuse him over the Falklands conflict, which came and went five years before Messi was even born.

And so to the World Cup and the annoying fan mania, marked by plastic George Crosses, set to sweep England.

I’ve got no problem with patriotism and it certainly beats cynicism, but it’s that time when the tool in the office who hitherto had no interest in football starts talking about 'Fabio and the boys.'

By the time the News of the World have given away their exclusive England car kit – "two England flags, a giant magnet and a fuzzy dice to pimp your ride" – it’ll have all become a bit cringeworthy.

More so when you see who that publication got to promote said kit.

Yes, that well known football figure, the man who has often queued overnight for tickets to see his team and knows The Shed from his shed, Peter Andre.

I was about to launch into 300 words hammering the smartie-headed-man-freak behind such forgettable noises as ‘Funky Junky’, ‘Flava’ and ‘Insania’, but made the mistake of telling my mother first.

"You can’t do that," she said. "He’s had a rough deal with her." Her will be Katie Price (aka Lebanon, or something).

"He’s doing a good job bringing those kids up," mum added, "don’t be nasty with him."

I sighed deeply, shook my head, wondered what the world is coming to and agreed to save my ire for whoever snaffled those copies of United We Stand in transit.

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Texts from Forlan, golden geese and Georgie Thompson

2010-05-05T11:38:00Z

Inter Milan were not the only visitors in Barcelona last week. FourFourTwo chief Hugh Sleight came along with Terry Venables, Marcel Desailly and Georgie Thompson from Sky Sports. (Yeah, you would).

They were speaking at some posh do in the Arts hotel, where Manchester United held their post match party in 1999, and where Roy Keane takes his family and lets his 64 kids run wild and enjoy the sea view.

I’ve heard good things about Desailly for a while. A journalist mate who went to Ghana to cover the African Nations met him and was invited to his family home for dinner.

Hugh introduced me to Georgie and Terry, who started telling me about my uncle Charlie. After he finished playing, he became an agent and took Chelsea on a pre-season tour to Sweden when Venables was a player.

Charlie was known as the penalty king when he played for Manchester United and held the club record until Eric Cantona took the crown.

"Charlie was in his 50s, but he was still showing us how to take penalties," recalled Venables. Then the former Barca and England manager paused, looked behind me and said, "Now there’s a pair of strikers." Samuel Eto’o and Diego Milito were not walking past, but a buxom blonde.

I spoke to Gerrard Pique after the Inter game. He was pragmatic, professional and congratulated Inter.

Coach Pep Guardiola and outgoing club president Joan Laporta continued on that theme – which partially made up for Sergio Busquets’ cheating and the small mindedness of Barca officials who switched on the pitch sprinklers to stop the Inter players celebrating.

Most of them were right to ignore this (or dance in the water) as they celebrated in front of the 5,400 travelling fans.

Jose Mourinho was pure theatre after the game. The man has charisma, presence and a self assured arrogance to match Eric Cantona. He’s a genuine genius – though I doubt history will remember Inter’s defensive football as well as his contribution.

The Inter fans were still singing his name on the streets around Camp Nou three hours after the match. He’s their new hero over any player.

Diego Forlan texted after his first goal against Liverpool. He was assured that his name was still sung loud and proud by United fans.

A match going Liverpool fan I like and trust also emailed. ìDon’t believe the hype about Liverpool fans yesterday wanting us to get beaten (against Chelsea). Most I know wanted us to beat the tw*ts.î

Had you watched the Liverpool fans – none of them with Scouse accents - interviewed on Sky Sports, you would have thought that the opposite was true. But then if you judged Manchester United fans on the type of jester-hatted clowns they speak to outside Old Trafford, you’d be under the impression that no United fans come from Manchester...

How the media works, part 2983

You get an idea for an article about different club ownership models. You are particularly interested in the German model and travel to Germany.

Through a series of phone calls and a process of elimination, you develop the right contacts and speak to the best people. It takes nine days in total.

You write the piece. Another journalist reads it and gets in touch for some of the German contacts. You want to help him out. He repeats the gist of your article and speaks to the same people. Hey presto, he’s writes virtually the same article without ever leaving the office...

Glazer and the golden goose

Interesting times at Manchester United. The renewal rate for season tickets so far has been very low and there are plenty of concerned people at the club.

Many United fans have simply had enough of the Glazers and the fact that 70 pence in the pound goes to pay off the club’s debts.

The January bond prospectus made hideous reading for fans, with statements like: "We have been able to consistently increase matchday ticket prices for both general admission and seasonal hospitality seats at levels above the rate of inflation.

"Between the 2006/07 season and the 2008/09 season, weighted average general admission ticket prices for Premier League games increased 8.5 per cent on a compound annual growth rate basis. Furthermore, while other Premier League clubs have experienced a flattening or reduction in ticket prices in response to the economic downturn, we were able to increase aggregate ticket prices for the 2009/10 season by 2.5 per cent."

Ticket prices have risen by an average of 48% since they took over five years ago this month and United have been the only Premiership club to increase ticket prices in each of the last five years – though they have been held for next season.

Such has been the drop in demand the club would have been committing commercial suicide if they had tried to increase prices again. With demand lower and empty seats inside Old Trafford for league games for the first time since 1992 this season, fans no longer need a season ticket to see matches and tickets are regularly sold for less than face value at Old Trafford. The greed of the Glazers is killing the golden goose.

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Where everybody despises Barcelona

2010-04-27T10:30:00Z

I write from the press box at Camp Nou as Spain’s top vs bottom clash between Barça and Xerez kicks off. A memorial service has just been held in memory of Juan Antonio Samaranch, the corrupt Catalan and former Franco ally who headed the IOC for 21 years between 1980 - 2001.

His venality is overlooked by many in these parts who remember him for his role in bringing the Olympics to Barcelona in 1992, a sporting event which transformed the fortunes of the city.

The crowd is again above 80,000, the Camp Nou’s huge capacity allowing Barça to nudge past Borussia Dortmund and Manchester United as the best supported team in world football this season. Barça are averaging 81,000, Dortmund 76,000, United 74,000, Madrid and Bayern Munich 69,000.

Wednesday night will see another full house against Internazionale. Tickets are changing hands for €300 – although the face value on most is around €100. Barça have become well versed in taking advantage of the tourist dollar and the average ticket price for the Arsenal game was €82, whereas those who pay up at the start of the season benefit from prices well below the Premiership average.

A man has just walked past in a full Real Madrid kit with ‘Sergio Ramos’ on the back - and a blond wig. It’s popular to dress a stag as a Madrid player. Last week, I saw a poor soul wandering around Espanyol’s new stadium dressed as Guti Hernandez. He was carrying a blow-up doll decked out as Lionel Messi.

Guti is cast as a failure here, a joke of a person beyond parody. He must be devastated at how his life as turned out: international-class footballer with 14 seasons as a first-team player for his hometown club, Real Madrid. Some failure, that. Doubtless he looks at his three Champions League medals and five Spanish league title medals and wonders where it all went wrong.

Still, the Catalans obsess about him. I saw hundreds of Barça fans on Rome’s Spanish Steps before the European Cup final last season, not enjoying the moment and celebrating their brilliant side, but singing endlessly about Guti being a homosexual.

Last weekend before the Catalan derby, Barça were on the receiving end of the bile which is part of football culture.

The few tourists who worked around Europe’s no-fly zone and made it to the first-ever derby at Espanyol’s new Cornella home seemed stunned by the hatred. Most were Barça-supporting glory-hunters who had bought overpriced tickets from dubious agencies to see the planet’s team of the moment in their home city. They didn’t appear to have registered that the game wasn’t at the Camp Nou, but 10 kilometres south. There, a new stadium has been squeezed between a motorway and the edge of an uninviting working-class neighbourhood far from Barcelona’s well-worn tourist trail.

Also not understood were the nuances of the cross-city rivalry. The police had told some of the tourists to cover their Barça shirts up, but if they didn’t heed the warnings, hardened Espanyol fans slung so many invectives that they quickly got the message. Barça are loathed there and not welcome.

It didn't matter that Barca coach Pep Guardiola paid a visit to Espanyol’s sparking new 40,000-capacity home the day before the game. He came in peace, brandishing a Barça shirt to swap with his opposite number Mauricio Pochettino. There is a respect between the coaches, but nothing Guardiola does can alter how Espanyol feel about their neighbours.

Espanyol can’t compete with Barça on the pitch. Despite being the seventh-best supported team in Spain this season with average crowds of over 26,000, they haven't finished above their neighbours since 1942. The last three times the Blue and Whites have finished third in the Primera Liga, Barça have occupied second spot.

Off the pitch, it’s different. Espanyol’s fans created a din fit to startle visitors to the frequently sedate Camp Nou. Twenty one minutes into a febrile encounter which finished 0-0, all but the 600 travelling fans in the stadium rose for one minute to applaud the memory of Daniel Jarque, the Espanyol captain who wore number 21 until he died with a heart defect on a pre-season training camp last August.

It was a stirring, emotional sight, but only a brief respite from the anti-Barça abuse which created the most hostile environment Guardiola’s side have encountered all season. Only Madrid come close to equalling it.

The home fans unfurled a giant flag which read "You are not our rivals. You are our enemy." The Barça players had gathered as much when their arrival on the pitch attracted deafening jeers and whistles. Lionel Messi may be lauded around the world, but he’s loathed on the other side of the tracks of the city he calls home. Every time he went to take a corner, a welter of abuse flew his way. There were no pig’s heads, but it was still ferocious.

With just 26 goals all season, Espanyol are the league’s lowest scorers - Messi alone has scored more league goals than the entire Espanyol squad. They were worth their point for the commitment shown and felt they had riled Barça enough for Daniel Alves to be dismissed for a rash tackle. That created another huge din, one which perhaps masked the fact that Espanyol have had a poor opening season at Cornella. They will avoid relegation and few teams take points off Barça, but a club with their infrastructure should be pushing for European places.

Espanyol hate the media’s obsession with Barça. This is frequently justified, but their own fixation with their bigger, better neighbours is just as intense. If only their team could raise their game more frequently and not just save it for when they play Barça. The match certainly gave the football tourists a memorable experience – if not quite the Barça love-in they were expecting.

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Why Dagnall and Grady are Rochdale's Ronaldo and Higuain

2010-04-21T13:56:00Z

Congratulations to Rochdale, who were promoted at the weekend.

I went to watch them play Bournemouth a couple of weeks ago. The 15 minute walk from Rochdale’s train station to the town centre is as bleak as the moors which edge the once prosperous mill town famed for being the birthplace of the co-operative movement.

Eventually though, the tacky shops, bars, garish signs and boarded up pubs gave way to a view of the splendid Victorian Gothic town hall.

Rochdale is much maligned, but after decades of despair, Rochdale AFC have come good and provided serious cheer for the town of 95,000 situated 10 miles north east of Manchester.

Their promotion is from League 2 - the old fourth division – a league they haven’t left since 1974.

Their promotion to the third level in 1969 remains the only one in their 103 year history. Don’t talk to older fans about the relegation season of 1973-74, when they won just twice in 46 matches.

Bigger names have slipped out of the league, but while Rochdale have finished 92nd out of 92 six times, they’ve managed to avoid such ignominy since relegation to non-league was introduced in 1987.

Since then, Rochdale have bobbed along prudently, usually avoiding the headlines and even earning a sort of status for spending more time in the league’s bottom division than any other club.

With average gates increasing to 3,000 this season, Spotland seldom sees queues before the turnstiles open, but the last three home games have attracted crowds of over 5,000.

The management pair, who arrived in 2006, are largely responsible. Manager Keith Hill dresses like the landlord of a Cotswold pub and he’s ably assisted by fellow Boltonian David Flitcroft.

The pair played for Rochdale in their younger years and have fashioned an entertaining side who play patient, attacking football and boast an unrivalled team spirit. They led the team to the League Two play-offs in each of the last two seasons and went several better this season. They also manage at a club with the best pre-match and half time play list in football.

It costs £19 for an adult ticket in the main stand and £14 to stand on the Sandy Lane terrace behind the goal at fully redeveloped 10,200 capacity Spotland. It’s a pleasing and functional ground, fit to host the likes of Southampton, Charlton Athletic or Leeds United next season.

The admission price is around the same as it costs to see AC Milan, but then the Milanese don’t get to see the two Chrises - Dale’s principal strikers Dagnall and O’Grady.

Speedy Liverpudlian Dagnall, 23, and the more powerful Nottingham born Grady, 24, are Dale’s own Cristiano Ronaldo and Gonzalo Higuain, with over 20 goals each so far this season.

They are backed up by an experienced midfield including club stalwart and captain Gary Jones, who is closing in on 500 career games, While locally born defender Craig Dawson, 19, has been attracting the attention of bigger clubs since signing from Radcliffe Borough.

Dawson was absent in the game I saw against a well organised Bournemouth side who also look a very good side, and included the former Manchester City striker Lee Bradbury…playing at right back.

Now 34, the former £3 million record City signing once mocked as ‘Lee Badbuy’ is winding down his professional career at his 11th club.

A club who won’t be going up or down but also deserve credit are Altrincham from the Blue Square Premier. I saw them play Kidderminster last week in another entertaining game.

Debt-free Alty punch well above their weight in football’s fifth tier. They are currently 14th, a fine achievement given they are one of just four part-time teams in a league which includes two previous League Cup winners, Oxford United and Luton Town, plus 70s European regulars Wrexham. Not to mention York City, who knocked Manchester United out of the 1995 League Cup.

Such rivals enjoy crowds up to six times the Robins’ average gate of 1,152 and pay players up to £1,000 a week, while Alty’s mixture of taxi drivers, teachers and accountants take home £100-500. Those players recently travelled over 1,000 miles in one week for games against Ebbsfleet and AFC Wimbledon while keeping up the day jobs.

I should declare an interest. My grandfather Sam played for Altrincham after the war alongside former United players like George Vose, who returned from combat too old to feature in Sir Matt Busby’s plans.

Sam reckons games against rivals Northwich Victoria were more tense than Normandy battles, while Grandma was a 1940s non-league wag who enjoyed a once-a-season jolly to the spa town of Buxton on the club.

Long after life at United, the Bogota Bandit, Uncle Charlie, was Alty manager in the 1960s, while uncle Alan wore the red and white stripes in the 70s and uncle David was kit man for nine years until he took up the same role at Wigan Athletic last summer.

My brother Joz also enjoyed an mixed five months at Moss Lane in 2005 which started with a ban for “smacking a Scouse” opponent and finished with him scoring the penalty away at Nuneaton Borough which helped propel Altrincham back into non league’s highest division.

Manager Graham Heathcote is the central character at Altrincham. He joined the Robins as a player at 16 and earned £5.25 a week working at the Port of Manchester when one Altrincham director offered every player £1,000 if they could beat Everton in a 1975 FA Cup tie.

With a history of hard-working and wealthy directors like a pre-Manchester City Peter Swales and Noel White (later chairman at Liverpool), Alty were known as the Manchester United of non league football.

They forced a draw at Goodison and 35,530 showed for the reply at Old Trafford.

“Driving up the Chester Road to Old Trafford was like Wembley Way for us,” recalls Heathcote. “Thousands of United and City fans cheered us on. City played the next night and had a smaller crowd.”

Everton won the replay, but Heathcote later scored a penalty in front of the Kop in another cup tie against Liverpool, despite Alan Kennedy saying, ‘Bet you a fiver you don’t score.’

“He paid up in the players’ lounge,” smiles Altrincham’s manager. “And he sent me a card years later asking for his fiver back!”

The glory days were over when Heathcote took charge in 2002, with Altrincham fourth from bottom in the Unibond Premier. Gates of 450 and debts of £700,000 pushed the club to the brink of going under. Their most recent turnover was £625,000 and they were strong enough to withstand Setanta’s withdrawal last year.

“We’ve don’t owe a bean now,” Heathcote says proudly in his tiny office adjacent to the home dressing room.

“We live within our means, we’ve worked hard and are stable in this division. We’re a hard to beat team who haven’t spent a penny on transfer or signing on fees, but we’ve thrown ourselves into the local community. We pay for football coaching in 14 local schools and I take kids on ground tours. We now see Alty shirts around the town and we have a lot of kids at games.”

Staging United’s reserve games helps, as do the large away followings from former Football League clubs, while chairman Geoff Goodwin is integral to the success and another vital revenue stream.

His coach company have long provided travel to any visiting Australian cricket teams, the likes of Ricky Ponting and Glenn McGrath have become friends, happy to help out at fundraising dinners.

Bar Heathcote and one employee, everyone at the club is a volunteer, from the board to the people running Alty’s excellent website.

Still, there’s no pleasing some.

“A fan came up to me during a recent game and said: ‘Heathcote, you’re useless, clueless. You don’t know what you are doing and never have,” he explained. Never one to shirk a confrontation, Heathcote told him that he couldn’t have been more wrong.

Giggs-loving drunks, jobsworths and texts from Zlatan

2010-04-12T11:54:00Z

I left you with an amiable old drunk on a train between Crosby and Liverpool Central last week. The drunk who wanted my undivided attention but didn’t get it.

The three-toothed hero clutching a rucksack who said that there were “hundreds of better players than Rooney in Croxteth” who kept saying: “he’s the best one for you lot. Him. That one. Been there a long time. Him. Not Rooney.”

“Who?” I finally relented.
“Him. You know. That one.”
“Scholes?” I asked. “No.”
“Giggs?”
“That’s the best one! Giggs. The best thing about him. You know what the best thing about him is?”
“Go on.”
“He’s not a sh*t bag.”

The mother with kids opposite winced when she heard that, but there you go, Ryan - a drunken Scouser reckons you are the best player in Britain on account of you not being a “sh*t bag.”

Giggsy - not a sh*tbag

I was distracted, and not just because of I was thinking about Sir Matt’s Busby old house in Crosby, to which Peter Hooton had taken me.

Few know where it is, so fair play to a Liverpool fan for showing me. And he only knew because he’d studied an old Liverpool contract where Busby’s address was listed on Rosebery Avenue around the corner from Marine’s ground.

The house was a pleasant 1930s three bed semi, the type top footballers lived in until the 1960s.

No, I was distracted because the train passed The Strand shopping centre in Bootle. A place intrinsically linked with the death of James Bulger. A place I’d heard and seen through media a thousand times.

Despite the over-saturation from an all enveloping media, something still hits you when you see a place with your own eyes.

I had another flashback recently when I was asked to interview a World Cup footballer who was born in the former Bosnian enclave of Bihac.

I didn’t mention it to him because it wasn’t relevant, but in the summer of 1995 I went travelling and ended up on United’s pre-season tour of Malaysia.

Not for the first time, United went in with some dodgy promoters and the tour was in doubt and rescheduled at the last moment – no use to me as I was already there.

This was before the internet and mobile phones working abroad so I listened to the BBC World Service every day for news. And the news was full of the war around the Bosnian enclave.

I was in a £4 a day beach hut with a mate. It was paradise, but every time I put the radio on there was news was of death, shelling and fighting in a far off land.

My mate, understandably, threatened to throw my beloved radio away if he heard any more.

I was reminded again of this on Tuesday when I went for a brew with Andy Kilner, the former footballer and Stockport Country manager. He was great company and full of daft tales.

Kilner - another mate of Mitten

Like when he went into Stockport and saw that a penny pinching employee had used the clubs franking machine to stamp all his Christmas cards. One was addressed to a former famous footballer who had recently fallen on hard times.

Kilner opened the envelope and put a fiver in, and scribbled the message: ‘I hope this helps you out.’ When the footballer received a Christmas card with a fiver from someone who is notoriously tight, he called him at 8am to offer his gratitude, getting him out of bed. The card sender didn’t have a clue what he was on about.

While at Stockport, Kilner gave a break to Shefki Kuqi, a Kosovar Albanian whose parents had fled to Finland before the war.

Some of the stories of what he had suffered at the hands of the Serbs were horrific.

Maybe I should write a piece about footballers displaced by the Balkan Wars.

The Bayern Munich game at Old Trafford was one of the most frustrating games I’ve ever seen. I had a bad feeling before it - and not just because of what happened before the game.

As I walked to the ground, a police officer called me over. He was friendly, a United fan and wanted to talk about my last book. Fine. Twenty minutes later, when I started selling UWS, another police officer came over who was anything but friendly.

“Where’s your pass?” he said.
“We don’t need a pass. We’re registered at the post office as a newspaper. We are entitled to sell here, just as we have done for 21 years. Speak to your match day commander to confirm that.”
“What name is it?” he continued.
“What’s my name?”
“No, what name is it?”
“United We Stand.”

He then walked off and radioed – where what I told him was confirmed. He didn’t come back to confirm that I was right. That would have been too much, as it would have been to be polite.

Most of the police are fine with us and always have been. On one level, they accept the role of fanzines and know that commissions from selling UWS also help young lads watch Manchester United. On another, they know that we’re legitimate and a tax paying concern and not the street rats this copper took us for.

Tax which is used to pay for, well, things like the police force. This jobsworth was doing his best to destroy any trust. pr*ck.

I feared for United against Bayern and texted a mate to tell him so. But with United 3-0 up, that began to subside. When Bayern scored though (through a Croat, Ivica Olic), I knew the inevitable would happen. And it did.

"Keep it down, I'm trying to concentrate..."

The night before, I’d watched Messi destroy Arsenal in a Manchester pub with a Dutch football writer. It was the first Barca Champions League home game I’d missed all season and I’ll be back for the Internazionale semi final, now that United no longer have any interest in the competition.

The Dutch journalist is friends with most of their leading players, highlighting the different types of relationships the media have with players on the continent. He gets invited to weddings and spent the game swapping texts with Zlatan Ibrahimovic (Bosnian and Croat parents) – who opined that Messi was “good.”

That’s as much as an understatement as the Scouse drunk’s assessment that there are hundreds of players better than Rooney in Croxteth is an over statement.

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Football marathons, bargain buckets and dogs in scarves

2010-04-06T11:00:00Z

At the time of writing I’ve just got back from Old Trafford after the Chelsea defeat, so I’ve been in a better mood.

United were beaten by the better side on the day and we’ll leave it at that without getting all 606 and moaning about incompetent referees.

I’m supposed to write these blogs about my life as a football writer, so I’ll wind back to happier times. Like a week ago. For the first time in my life, I attended three football matches in one day.

There are plenty of people who complain when football gets switched from the traditional time of 3pm on a Saturday afternoon.

Marine host FC United in a game that actually kicked off at 3pm

For personal reasons, I’ve seldom had a problem with games being moved because it allowed me to attend other matches, including watching various family members at non-league grounds.

A Sunday game meant I could watch my brother on a Saturday, or agree to be sent somewhere for work as it wouldn’t clash with a United game.

I’d like to use either of those excuses for what I did last week, but I have to admit that I’m just a sad anorak. That’s why I was at Leeds/Bradford airport at 10:30am on Saturday morning, sitting in a mate’s car waiting to pick up a Dutch groundspotter who had flown over to see the same three games.

Erik is from Rotterdam. He’s been to all 92 League and hundreds of other British grounds, but before you imagine an oddball with string for a belt and bits of Edam hanging from a scruffy moustache, Erik has an otherwise successful life and a gorgeous missus. He just likes watching football and football grounds and I’m right there with him.

So we went to Guiseley, a commuter suburb of Leeds famous for having the first ever Harry Ramsden’s. It was closed when we arrived.

"What we're missing is a midfield terrier..."

The local team are doing well in the Unibond Northern Premier League and a crowd of nearly 900 watched them beat FC United of Manchester to go top of the league.

FC’s results have not been good this season and the football frequently poor. They recently lost to Durham City, giving them their first points of the league campaign, but FC’s fans have been cheered by the news that they have found a site to build their own 5,000 capacity ground.

It will be in Newton Heath, where Manchester United started out, and close to Manchester’s City’s Eastlands.

Manchester City Council have assisted the club currently playing out on a limb at Bury, but fans need to double the £250,000 they’ve raised so far before work starts. The rest will be funded by grants and a community shares issue to raise money towards the expected £3.5 million total.

Getting their own place is the absolute priority for FC, who are currently paying Bury around £5,000 a game to stage matches, thus limiting their weekly players’ wage bill to £1800, the fifth lowest in the league.

In 2006, FC announced the bold aspiration of reaching average attendances of 5,000 in 2009. That didn’t happen, but a hardcore of 2,000 still gives them higher average crowds than several Football League clubs.

Back at Guiseley, there was a large police presence for a non-league game after some Leeds hooligans turned up at the equivalent fixture last season. There were no such problems this time, not that we hung around.

A trip over the Pennines via Burnley saw us arrive at Ramsbottom United’s picturesque home on the banks of the River Irwell.

Daffodils were in bloom behind the goal, while old trains ran along the valley towards Bury on the restored East Lancashire railway.

St David's Day was big in Ramsbottom

A crowd of 180 – not bad for a level nine game – saw league leaders Newcastle Town race into a 4-0 lead by half time as they collected their 100th point of the season.

The Ramsbottom officials were friendly, the football of decent quality in the weak Lancashire sun and pie and peas cost £1.10.

The Newcastle goalkeeper even struck up a conversation in which he explained – in his thick Stoke accent – that the key to his side’s success was nothing more than team spirit.

True, but I spotted at least two players who could play three levels higher.

We missed the end of that match as we had to make Bolton against United. A drive on the West Lancashire moors past Gary Neville’s hamlet (he wants planning permission to build an eco-friendly underground lair which the local press have dubbed ‘The Teletubbies house’) towards the Reebok.

The 4-0 score line was not reflective of a game in which Bolton played very well in the first half. However, United’s class and sublime skill from Nani and Berbatov made it four.

It was good to see that Bolton have made sensible adjustments to their pricing - my £27 ticket was less than the same seat five years earlier.

I did my first job for UEFA a few days later, interviewing former Manchester United players. One didn’t turn up because he’d been on the beer and missed his flight. I won’t name and shame him. But Andrew Cole, Alex Stepney and David Sadler did. All were excellent.

Meeting Thomas Helmer two weeks ago came in handy as United drew his former club Bayern Munich. He was happy to do an interview and predicted that Bayern could beat United. He was right.

And then it was Easter, with a request from a paper to go and write a ‘colour’ piece about Rochdale v Bournemouth. But first, naturally, I took the train to Liverpool, where Crosby-based Marine were hosting FC United.

My better half did the tourist thing around Liverpool and loved it. My Scouse-averse father refuses to undertake such trips and has never been to Liverpool, except to play football.

Hooton (right) and his mates arrive to meet Mitten

Peter Hooton, the former frontman from The Farm, met me at the station and showed me around the posher part of Liverpool where Marine play at their three-sided ground.

I’ve got a lot of time for Peter and unlike many musicians who profess to support a club and never actually go to matches, Peter has watched Liverpool home and away all his life.

He also ran the seminal The End fanzine and he’s talking about republishing some back issues.

Then I had a beer with Simon Carden, FC’s injured midfielder with the nickname ‘Benson’ because of his inclination for a particular brand of cigarettes.

Simon’s pre-match meal is a KFC bargain bucket. Maybe he gets his fast food inspiration from Paul Scholes, who goes to McDonald’s most days – though not before matches.

In a game sponsored by the local Labour party, Marine got a last minute equaliser in front of over 1,000, including 450 from Manchester.

Come on you Reds...

I’d just settled down on the train back to Liverpool, when an elderly drunk with three teeth from Bootle sat down, swore frequently, shook my hand and unburdened himself of such pearls of wisdom as:

A) If you don’t tell the truth, you might as well tell a lie.
B) There is more sand than Ants in Africa.
C) ‘You didn’t pay for anything if you worked in the Docks.” He later explained that he’d been sacked from the Docks “because of the bevvies.”

And that’s the thing about travelling to watch football; there are always other stories. It really is more than just a game.

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Hleb, Helmer, Cole, Scholes & Nathan Barley

2010-03-26T10:51:00Z

It’s been another week of interviewing footballers – and more besides...

– Watched Lionel Messi FC destroy Stuttgart. After the game, another British journalist and I waited with the understandably downbeat German media for an hour in their mixed zone. There are now two mixed zones at Barça, one for each team.

Virtually every media-savvy Stuttgart player stopped to talk, but we wanted to speak to Jens Lehmann and Alexsandr Hleb. We later discovered that Lehmann, 40, had been the first on the team bus and we’d missed him. Hleb was the last player to come out. His English is OK and he was friendly enough, though still seething that his side had given Messi too much space.

– Had a few beers with Thomas Helmer, the former Bayern Munich captain and 68 times German international. He works as a sports journalist for TV and is very down to earth.

He played 191 games for Bayern Munich and was on the bench in the 1999 Champions League final. I got him to talk me through Sheringham and Solskjaer’s goals, bit by bit. He shook his head as he spoke. There’s still pain there. He was much happier reminiscing about winning Euro 96 at Wembley.

He had a great career, which included an unhappy spell at Sunderland. As Bayern club captain, he was often the peacemaker between the warring factions of Lothar Matthaeus and Jurgen Klinsmann. Franz Beckenbauer would summon Thomas and his actress wife to his house in Austria for summit meetings to discuss the egos in the Bayern dressing room.

– Flew to Manchester the next day. United had a game against Liverpool - a team who used to win the league in the '70s and '80s. Before that, I was invited to be a guest on the BBC World Service on Saturday afternoon to discuss the protests at Manchester United. The BBC really did their homework and had some top quality opinions from around the globe, including one NFL franchise owner who stuck up for the Glazers.

Most United fans don’t feel the same. I stood with a couple of the grafters before the game and watched them sell out of green and gold scarves. The protest has been the biggest shot in the arm for the Manchester swag industry – and it’s helped that the club can hardly sell official green and gold scarves.

– Met Andrew Cole in Manchester for a three-hour discussion. He’s up for doing an autobiography, but it has to be warts and all. His chapter in my last book really surprised people and he gets better with every conversation. Some of his stories are absolutely scandalous. Andrew is also extremely reliable. We do a column once a week and he’s on the phone if I’m late calling him. I like that.

He’d been at Cheltenham the day before for the races; drunks still come up to him, point at his head and sing the "he gets the ball and scores a goal" song. I think they want him to join in and bounce around with them.

– Went to City vs Everton. Put a cap and scarf on (not a green and gold one) and went with two City mates. I’ll be writing a lot about both teams and wanted to get up to date on the Baines and Bellamys. You see far more at the game – on and off the field - in comparison with television.

My ticket was in the Everton end so I couldn’t really speak, what with my Man-ches-tor accent. I sat there as everyone around me sang "Manchester is full of sh*t." “It’s not!” I didn’t stand up and shout. “You should give it a chance and stop being so uncharitable.”

Everton were very impressive, especially in their gameplan: they smothered City in the middle and didn’t let them play. They can also call upon excellent flair players like Arteta, Saha and Pienaar.

– Went to that London because that’s where all the cockney media live and meetings take place. First stop was the lively Exmouth Market, which was full of Nathan Barley types who have never been north of Buckinghamshire.

One who's definitely not like that is Mark Ellingham, the founder of the Rough Guides, who is a United fan. We’ve done several books together and talked about future ideas.

– Went to meet Luke Bainbridge in a nearby café. Luke was editor of City Life magazine in Manchester and until recently on the now-defunct Observer Music Magazine. It’s a shame that closed, but then the Guardian Media Group give everything away for free online these days and – perish the thought – you had to pay for The Observer to get its music magazine.

I waited for Luke by a lady in a wheelchair, who was very chirpy. She was a Scouser from Anfield and, despite not liking football, gave me loads of abuse for being a United fan!

– Met James Scowcroft, who's still playing at Leyton Orient. Great lad. He’s been buying UWS for years and is really into fan culture. It’s heartwarming when a footballer is so interested in the fans and he had endless questions about ticket allocations and atmospheres. He’s read loads of books on football and is full of stories about playing against all the big names.

Top-of-the-table Norwich City are coming to Leyton Orient soon and he’s expecting loads of abuse because he played in the best Ipswich team since the '70s. “I’ll have 3,000 people slaughtering me,” he said. “So I’ll just look right into the eyes of one of them and watch them freak out. Then I’ll be focused.”

– Finally, interviewed a lad called Paul Scholes for United We Stand. He hates interviews and was better off the record than on it. We invited readers to send questions in and got this belter: “Why didn’t your only son, Jesus Christ, inherit your ginger hair?”

He laughed at that one and shook his head.

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A presidential meeting in Dani Alves' office

2010-03-17T12:54:00Z

I’m going flat out. It’s always like this before the World Cup finals, with magazines and papers wanting player interviews and features.

Daniel Alves was one such player and I visited him in his office – yes, he has an office with all his medals and shirts which he has swapped stacked neatly in cabinets – with Sid Lowe from the Guardian.

Sid travelled from Madrid on the super fast AVE train and wore his best clothes in a bid to impress Dani, who he rates as better than Pele and Cruyff put together. I sat between the two to prevent any kind of advance from Sid.

Alves was superb and will be in the next FourFourTwo. One hour 20 minutes of opinion (about 5,000 words to transcribe) and absolute determination.

Sid and Dani - it must be love...

You can see clearly why he has reached the top. He is focussed, confident and surprisingly bright. He knew what he wanted when he was 15 year old schoolboy in Brazil and went for it with single-minded concentration until he reached that level.

He’s taking two English classes a week and so when the interview was over, I gave him a little quiz in English. One question was, ‘Which is your favourite English football team?"

“Manchester,” he replied. Even that answer could not dampen Sid’s admiration.

A day later, I had a beer with Ian Hawkey, to celebrate his book on African football winning the football book of the year award in London a day earlier.

Actually, it was joint first with Philippe Auclair’s biography of Eric Cantona – who was back in Barcelona for filming last week. He lived in the city for three years after leaving Old Trafford, when he didn’t see it snow as it did a week last Sunday.

Barcelona was covered in white for the first time in 25 years – an opportunity the Madrid press would have made more of had they not been busy jerking each others’ knees and demanding that Madrid start sacking their coach once a month because eight times in six years isn’t enough.

"Step into my office..."

On Saturday I watched the mighty Manchester La Fianna beat West Ham of Barcelona 2-0.

The team I started in 2006, and played with until the start of this season, are top of the Barcelona International Football League and are chasing a first ever title after three top four finishes.

A Scot, Steve Love, is doing a fine job managing the team. His commitment is incredible - he has tactical meetings and makes notes throughout training and matches. That’s on top of two training sessions a week and a match.

The three top scorers make an interesting comparison. One is a male model, another an agent who looks after several Premier League players and the other – now also an agent - played for Belgium up to U18 level and spent six years with Anderlecht.

The fourth top scorer is a Frenchman from the Alps who was banned from skiing for a year after causing an avalanche! We’ve got a Chilean who works in nightclubs until 9am and then plays, plus four Mancunians – one of whom gets man of the match week after week.

They are a great set of lads from all around the world and they asked me to be club president in September.

How could I refuse? The role involves them asking me to buy them new kit and them shouting ‘Presidente! Presidente!’ when I appear at games.

King Eric catches up with Andy and Philippe in Barcelona

Given my work and travel, that’s around once a month. Those shouts cause onlookers to look over expecting to see Chavez or Castro and then wondering who the hell I am.

After that, I watched Chelsea beat West Ham with six lifelong Chelsea fans who have lived in Barcelona for years. They still get to matches, but were home and away in the 80s and reminisce about trips watching Chelsea in the second division. They watch games in a Barca fans’ bar in a working class barrio - it’s mad how the world is changing.

The relationship between United and Chelsea fans (proper fans rather than the millions of glory hunting clowns who have latched onto both clubs) is interesting. There were no problems between the fans in Moscow two years ago, more a respect that we’d both reached the final of the European Cup and were determined to enjoy it.

After watching United v Fulham on Sunday, I went to Camp Nou to see Barca beat Valencia 3-0. Or rather, Messi beat Valencia 3-0. He was incredible again and if he keeps working hard, people will be talking about him in the same breath as Wayne Rooney.

Then, after covering Barca v Stuttgart, I’ll fly back to Manchester to watch the White Pele against Liverpool on Sunday.

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Security guards, Garrincha & Dani Alves' feet

2010-03-08T15:30:00Z

Following the interview with Socrates, I spent a week in Brazil writing up the thoughts of the great man. I also took in Palmeiras v Sao Paulo, one of the big Paulista derby games.

The home win for Palmeiras, who lost to Manchester United in the 1999 World Club trophy final in Tokyo, was overshadowed by the death of a fan, killed in clashes between rival sets of supporters.

Twelve others were also injured and there was much debate in the Brazilian media about how to tackle the hooligan problem.

Copying the ‘English example’ was often highlighted as a solution.

Brazil will stage the 2014 World Cup finals. The country is booming as Rio also won the right to stage the 2016 Olympics, but the bureaucracy can be trying.

I was happy to pay a tenner and stand behind the goal, but a journalist encouraged me to apply for a press ticket to test the system. He was right to be suspect.

The English example: one the copy, apparently...

A simple press application for the game took far longer than needed, but it had its comic moments. After a 20-minute wait at the gate, a man whom I took to be Palmeiras’s press officer approached.

"England?” he said.
"Yes, I’m from England. You have my application and here is my press card."
"Portsmouth. Sheffield United. Newcastle United and Sunderland," he replied. "I support all those teams."

His enthusiasm for English football was obvious and he was friendly, but I also needed to get in the ground and do my job.

The whole system seemed to be based on who knew who, every decision taken on a wink or a nod. And waiting politely did nothing, until, with five minutes to kick off, I was reduced to raising my voice and saying.: “I’ve been waiting for one hour now. I’ve travelled a long way to see this game. I am happy to listen to your stories about England, but I’d also like to see the game.”

“Ah,” he replied helpfully, “then you need to speak to the press officer. He’s over there.”

I just made kick off.

After Sao Paulo, we headed south to Florianopolis, an island which has two professional sides, first division Avai and second division Figueirense, who were in the top flight until 2008.

After being promoted for the first time in 29 years, Avai finished sixth in the national championship last year – a fine achievement for such a small club - ahead of grander names like Corinthians, Gremio, Fluminense and Santos.

Nearby, an old man sat on a bench looking out to the Atlantic. He said that he used to be a photographer for Veja, a respected Brazilian news magazine.

Asked what he thought of Socrates, he replied: “Elegant,” before adding, “he was a great player, but the best Brazilian player ever was Garrincha.”

He would have been impressed by Neymar too, the 60 kilo 18-year-old Brazilian who plays for Santos alongside Robinho. Santos beat the Corinthians of Ronaldo et al for their ninth straight win as leaders of the Paulista state championship.

A day later, I heard two Argentinian tourists arguing in the street about Boca and River.

"Manchester United!” I shouted.
"Estudiantes?" one growled
"No, Manchester United.”
"Ah, United! Anderson. Tevez. Woo-ney.”

That man Tevez again. While away, I half cheered a Manchester City goal for the first time in my life, Tevez’s against Chelsea, though a draw would have been just as satisfying for most United fans.

"Oi, Mitten - did you cheer that one?"

In comparison with the overwhelming dominance of the big two in Spain, which sees third place Valencia 16 points behind Real Madrid and Barcelona, the Premier League is far more exiting this season.

You don’t always see it that way when you are a fan of one of the clubs, but United have lost six games and are still in with a good chance of the title.

Only Blackburn Rovers have managed to win the Premier League by losing more than six games, but football didn’t start until 1992 as some rolling news channels suggest.

Derby County lost 10 when they won the league in 1975 in a season where Liverpool, Ipswich, Everton, Stoke City, City, Sheffield United and Middlesbrough contested the title and the lead changed hands 22 times.

Sir Alex Ferguson was right to predict a tight Premier League.

Before I returned to Europe, I received a message from Doctor Sid Lowe, who writes very well about Spanish football for The Guardian. He’d fixed us both up a Daniel Alves interview and we’ll go together to see him in Barcelona on Thursday.

Alves is the best right-back in the world, but my admiration for him is nothing compared to Sid’s.

I think it’s love and I’m worried that I’m going to be party to some kind of homage, where the doctor unfurls a Brazilian flag, places it neatly on the floor before gently kneeling and kissing the defender’s precious feet.

Watching Socrates chat up my fiancée

2010-02-24T14:49:00Z

Manchester United’s victory may have brightened the outlook of the travelling fans in Milan last week, but the weather was atrocious in Milan. To avoid another soaking, I headed to the airport early hoping to get some work done and speak to Andrew Cole for his weekly column.

With a connection in Rome ahead of a flight to Sao Paulo to meet Socrates, everything was going to plan. Until I looked at the flight information and saw no flight. After checking my ticket, I was enveloped by a sinking felling. Milan has three airports and I’d gone to the wrong one.

Taxis in Milan are notoriously expensive. It’s £80 from Malpensa (the main airport) to the city centre, so I asked with some trepidation how much a taxi to the third airport in Bergamo would be.

“€150,” came the unanimous answer from a line of Mercedes taxi drivers who charge enough to wear Armani. Without enough time for a bus and an appointment with the bearded Brazilian the next day, I had no choice. Not that I deserved one for my schoolboy error.

Malpensa (Mitten not pictured, despite police dogs)

Cole travels more than anyone I know at the moment. He hasn’t stopped since retiring in November 2008 and he was on the way to Nigeria when we spoke – four days after coming back from Miami.

Vietnam, South Africa, Nigeria (again) and Malaysia have all been visited by the former striker in recent months. Whether it’s playing in vets teams or going as an ambassador, he’s loving life.

We did the column with me in the back of the taxi typing furiously as I got him to repeat lines about United smashing Milan all over the San Siro for the benefit of the Milan-supporting taxi driver.

I reached Sao Paulo 24 hours after setting off and tried to contact Socrates. He is a law until himself and we waited for almost a day before meeting the great man at a restaurant in the middle of the 15-million population megalopolis.

His explanation was simple: “It’s party time in Brazil and I was out with my old friend Zico at carnival until 9am.”

The Housemartins' Build was playing on the radio in the cab on the way there so I told the song's co-writer Paul Heaton. A Blade and proper football fanatic who hand-draws his own football books and collect shirts from around the world, Heaton requested Socrates’ autograph.

Sing When You're Winning: Paul Heaton interviewed

The interview was for GQ magazine and for the foreword on the imminently-published Rough Guide to Cult Football. Socrates may be brighter than the old Sheffield United away kit, but he only speaks Portuguese so my fiancée translated and omitted to tell him that she used to fancy his brother Rai – another former Brazil captain who is even better known in Brazil than Socrates.

"Ah, Mr Mitten. I've been expecting you"

Within minutes, Socrates was talking about Che, Fidel and John Lennon. Within hours, after procuring his opinions on democracy (he was a leader against Brazil’s military government), the two-step penalty, Brazil 82, his brother Rai and cult footballers, the father of six turned to the translator.

“You are a woman," he said. "I love the woman. I write poetry for the woman. Can I read you my poetry?” He then unfurled some handwritten notes, put his glasses on and recited seductive poetry. I would have considered lamping him, but he’s 6'3" (albeit with relatively little size eight feet). And it was his 56th birthday.

Socrates was born a star. The interview took five months to plan and arrange and he only agreed to do it if it was face to face. Yet it was worth it to see and hear the doctor who enriched so many lives, just as he enhances so many other in his practice in Sao Paulo state.

Mitten in Milan: outcasts, communists & best-sellers

2010-02-17T11:30:00Z

Greetings from the murk of Milan, where I’ve finally seen United get a win in the San Siro.

I’m meeting a Milan season ticket holder shortly who gave us a fascinating interview for the current United We Stand.

SERIE AAAAARGH: Milan's old legs and young Mister taught lesson by United's young legs and old master

Asked to name his best ever Milan team from players he’d seen, he came up with: Sebastiano Rossi, Mauro Tassotti, Paolo Maldini, Andrea Pirlo, Alessandro Nesta, Franco Baresi (captain), Roberto Donadoni, Frankie Rijkaard, Marco van Basten, Kakà, Andriy Shevchenko.

Not a bad side, eh?

Later, I’ll fly to Sao Paulo ahead of an interview with Socrates and the Sao Paulo derby on Sunday.

I went flat out to get things done before the Milan trip.

Finally did the interview with Gerard Pique and received a lovely email from the footballer James Scowcroft. He told me that he’s a United fan and subscribes to UWS.

“I used to play for Ipswich in the 90s,” he wrote modestly. “We once met in Leicester.”

He was at Crystal Palace last season and now plays at Leyton Orient.

Scowcroft is a United fan (his dad is from Gorton, where Nicky Butt grew up) and will write a piece about being a United fan and professional footballer.

“There’s a few of us,” he continued. “Including Nicky Summerbee, but he can’t go to games.”

If Summerbee feels that he’ll get abuse for his City connections, I’ll take him in K Stand myself and make sure the lads look after him.

Imagine being a fan of a club and not being able to go to matches.

Summerbee and his bedroom wallpaper

Summerbee’s dad Mike is great friends with Paddy Crerand, who I met last night in Milan.

When he wasn’t arguing with hacks about communism, he asked me what the badge was on my coat.

“It’s a Glasgow Rangers supporters’ club I’m setting up,” I lied, as his brain clicked into ‘kill’ mode.

“A what?!” he fumed.

The publishers of Glory Glory called on Friday.

It’s done alright and has already made a profit, but the bookshop Borders going bust and problems with Waterstone’s computer system hampered book sales across the board during the key Christmas market.

I guess I should have been pleased, what with the recession and all that, but I put my heart and soul into that book and so did many of the players.

Not one of them needed to tell me as much as they did. I travelled Europe, flew to Stockholm for Blomqvist and drove to Marseille for Cantona.

Then I worked my socks off promoting it. So, I probably hoped for more than the 5,000 copies sold so far in hardback, no matter how many people point out that is a success.

Oh well.

On the book-tour circuit...

Three days later, TalkSport called. “Can we set up an interview about your book? We’d like to do it in a studio and do it in-depth.”

“Fine,” I replied, “but why the interest now? The book’s been out since October.”

“Have you seen Paddy Barclay’s column in today’s Times?”

I hadn’t, but I was delighted when I did.

Emails started to come in. Someone suggested that I look on Amazon, where I found the book was doing rather well. In fact it was number 1 in the football section. Number 1!

I work alone and had nobody to tell.

My fiancée came back from the supermarket to find me singing ‘Viva Ronaldo!’ for reasons I still don’t fully understand. He’s not even in the book.

And I’m not sure what the Catalan neighbours must have thought either, hearing songs about a Real Madrid player at 11am on a Monday morning.

“Times readers buy books,” pointed out one friend.

Evidently.

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Wiki, Naka, Benni, Benzema and Beadle

2010-02-10T15:00:00Z

Never trust Wikipedia.

Any journalist who relies only on the online encyclopaedia should be accused of dereliction of duty.

Several reporters have been caught out, including one at the Daily Mirror who, when researching a line about Manchester City’s opponents Omonia Nicosia, swallowed the story that their fans are known as ‘The Zany Ones’ and “wear hats made from shoes.”

They don’t.

I used Wikipedia last week. With 17 players to interview in five days, I needed to, but thankfully I also looked up several other sources - because it could have been very embarrassing had I relied solely on it.

Take Shunsuke Nakamura. When I looked last week, it said that he played for Middlesbrough – who were interested in him – when he plays with Espanyol.

That he was a regular drinker in a pub called Bongo Club International in Middlesbrough town centre and that he was a mad baseball fan. There were other dubious ones.

I didn’t want to waste minutes with Nakamura. We were already using a translator and he's renowned for taking time to think about answers.

One journalist asked him what his favourite drink was last year. Nakamura thought hard and then gave a 70 second answer in Japanese. The translator rendered it as one word: Fanta.

I did mention baseball and he went on for a minute or so, which was translated back as: “I don’t like baseball.”

Not the best interview I’ve ever done, but nearly all the others were good.

Kaka was spot on, as was David Villa. He’s my little brother Sam’s idol so I was tempted to ask for Villa’s autograph for Sam, but no, it’s not the done thing.

(By the way, for those watching his career: young Sam has been fast-tracked into Stockport County’s youth team, two years above his age group. He played his first game for them on Saturday against Oldham Athletic, coming on for eight minutes and scoring. His name was written in a match report for the first time in his life).

A big surprise was Karim Benzema, who was enthusiastic and flicked through a full issue of FourFourTwo, even though he doesn’t speak English.

Shame his France team-mate Yoann Gourcuff wasn’t. Life must be such a chore when you're compared to Zidane, were voted the best player in France and are a good-looking lad to boot.

One of the funniest was Maynor Figueroa, the Honduran defender at Wigan. He speaks no English but likes pies.

I told him that my Uncle Dave was kit man – fair enough, given that he sees him every day.

“You know Dave? Really?” he asked, all excited. “Of course I do, he’s my dad’s brother and my godfather.” After that, he was brilliant.

“Dave won’t believe me, so write him a note and I’ll give it to him in training tomorrow,” he said. I did and he did.

Dave puts his heart and soul into that job so it’s good to see the players appreciate him.

On a totally different note, West Ham signed Benni McCarthy last week.

It nearly happened in November 2005. I know because I passed through London after watching United lose in Paris against Lille.

It was probably the worst United performance of the noughties so I was in a foul, if mischievous, mood.

A mate who advises footballers was in London meeting West Ham’s chief executive, who wanted to sign Benni.

He invited me for a drink and when I met him in the hotel I heard him on the phone to a "Scott at West Ham" who was about to arrive.

Scott Duxbury was the club secretary. He also went to my school and was a year above me, a bright and popular lad whose parents owned a discount store in Urmston.

He went into law and then to work for West Ham, first as club secretary before rising to Chief Executive, which he only left last week after the change in management at West Ham.

Anyway, I’d not seen Scott for years but when I heard my mate on the phone, I quickly sussed the situation.

I briefed my friend, disappeared to let them talk transfers and when West Ham arrived, the conversation went something like this.

Scott: “How has your day been?”

Friend: “Terrible. I’ve been in Manchester seeing lots of clubs in the North West. I caught the wrong train this morning and instead of coming to London, ended up some place called Urmst..."

An aghast Scott interrupted: “Urmston?! I’m from Manchester. From Urmston!”

Friend: “So I was stuck and walked into this shop to buy a map. But it was such a sh*t shop that it only sold discount products. Kingspot.”

Scott: “I can’t believe this, that’s my parents’ shop!”

Then their meeting began. An hour later I walked in, Beadle-style but with all my fingers intact.

Duxbury looked up, saw me and figured it all out. He was kind enough to call me a cult.

West Ham didn’t buy Benni, who went to Blackburn instead, where he scored 24 goals in his first season.

I wish him well at West Ham, and Scott well away from West Ham.

For once, players are queueing up to speak to me

2010-02-03T16:00:00Z

I’m sitting in a viewless room above some studios in Barcelona.

The room is empty, except for a chair and a desk. It has ‘FourFourTwo’ on the door.

There are two other rooms, one labelled ‘FIFA’, the other ‘UEFA’.

This is my place of work for this week as I am to interview around 20 players from 20 different countries who will competing in the World Cup finals.

Yesterday, I interviewed Lionel Messi. He’s got a great story but he’s quiet and shy – an Argentinian Paul Scholes if you like.

Then he came to life… after the tape recorder went off.

So today I’m back in my room, where a footballer in full national team kit pops by every hour or so.

When you spend so much time setting up interviews and flying to meet footballers, it’s a godsend when they are sent to you.

All I have to do is sit on my chair with a list of questions and say ‘come in’ when I hear a knock.

First up was big Nikola Zigic. He’d played for Valencia in Sevilla the night before and was tired, but friendly.

I’m surprised Valencia lost, as they’ve been on form and have the best away record in Spain after Barcelona.

"I'm looking for a Mister Mitten"

There’s been a buzz about Valencia lately, they’ve got a cracking side and they have finally seen some light with their financial problems.

Work is scheduled to restart on their new 75,000 stadium which will be one of the best in the world when finished – although I was always a fan of the towering old Mestalla.

Next up was Daniele de Rossi, the Roman who plays for Roma and won the World Cup which they celebrated in Rome.

He understands English and was sound – an on-pitch Ultra.

I didn’t realise how big he was. Not Zigic-sized, obviously, but you wouldn’t like to challenge for a 50/50 with him, especially if you were Jesper Olsen or Pat Nevin.

De Rossi was intrigued by the photos on my computer from the several games between Manchester United and AS Roma, plus the Roman derby, though he was disappointed that I only went when Lazio played at home and not Roma.

Roma have a famous fan who dresses as a Roman Centurion. De Rossi recognised him straightaway and I told him that when I spoke to the soldier he said Roma would beat United easily.

That didn’t happen, chiefly because of Cristiano Ronaldo’s brilliance.

“But we beat Manchester the year before,” he added – and he would remember, as he scored – before his voice trailed off as he started to see seven goals and Alan Smith play the game of his life.

Next up was Theofanis Gekas, the Greek who plays for struggling Hertha Berlin.

I’ve just finished Anthony Beevor’s Crete, but I decided not to start a conversation about World War II instead of the World Cup finals.

I’ll be kicking myself if I read somewhere that he’s passionate about Greek military history.

A suitable conversation peace?

Then there was a car journey across Barcelona with the Slovakian striker Stanislav Sestak, in full kit.

He plays in the Bundesliga with VfL Bochum. And he likes Wayne Rooney, as most of them do.

Next was Diego Forlan – a player I first met when he lived in Manchester. He’s always been friendly and he’s a bright lad.

His club Atletico Madrid are not having the best season and are pinning their hopes on lifting the Spanish Cup: they play Racing Santander in the semi-final first leg this week.

He’d flown to Barcelona with his Atletico team mate Simao, who I’ve always been suspicious of because of his cocky demeanour. You just take to some players and not to others.

I couldn't have been more wrong.

Simao, who was so close to signing for Liverpool a few years ago that flights had been booked, was bright, cogent, witty and understood English perfectly.

Next up are Shunsuke Nakamura, Johan Vonlanthen, Mark Gonzalez, Nelson Valdez and some kid called David Villa, whom I will gently influence to join Manchester United by lavishing him with Eccles cakes and telling him that Manchester is just like his home town of Gijon, with lots of rain, cider drinkers and a thriving Asturian community.

How I made it from paperboy to columnist

2010-01-27T09:00:00Z

Gold sells well, Iron stays firm, and Andy Mitten makes it into the local newspaper

Old Trafford was superb on Saturday. Not only because of Wayne Rooney’s goals, but the protests against the Glazer family who are suffocating Manchester United.

The game was played against a backdrop of fan discontent with United supporters wearing green and gold scarves as a symbol of their objections to the Glazers, the owners who have presided over mounting debts now standing at £712 million.

For the uninitiated, United started life as Newton Heath, who wore green and gold.

"Come on Norwich! Er..."

Before the game, fans stood behind a prominent banner stating: ‘Glazer – Forever In Your Debt’ and most of Old Trafford sang ‘We want Glazer out’ and ‘Love United, Hate Glazer’.

The owners would have been worried about the spectre of 2,200 unsold tickets: Old Trafford now has empty seats for league games for the first time since 1992.

After the match, Paul Scholes is usually the first United player to leave the stadium - so early that the lads are still selling United We Stand to the dispersing crowds.

He’s not one for talking tactics in the players’ lounge or gladhanding with sponsors. Scholes usually winds his window down for a copy and this week he had a question for our seller Chappy.

“What was all the green and gold about mate?”

“It’s a protest against Glazer. You must want them out too?”

“I’d better not answer that one,” replied Scholes, before the window went up.

The next game I attended was United vs City – Scunthorpe United vs Manchester City in the FA Cup.

I was sent to write a piece and as I’d never been to Scunthorpe before, it was a chance to tick off number 80 of the 92 grounds.

I went with three Blue lads, one of whom has seen his team home and away for 30 years.

Another is a professional footballer with Ferencvaros in Budapest (they have a link-up with Sheffield United). The other is married to my sister.

I’d rather swim the Manchester Ship Canal with bricks tied to my feet than support the Moss Side Massives, but I respect many mates who watch them for being decent football fans who have followed their team through thin and thinner.

That said, I loathed some of the songs from the City end such as ‘We’re having a party when Fergie dies’ and ‘Malcolm Glazer is a Blue, he hates Munichs.’

The Blues I travelled with hated those songs too, but what can they do?

A few United grafters were selling City swag outside the ground, just as some of the touts at Old Trafford are City fans.

They were as surprised to see me as I was them.

“Care to pose for a picture for United We Stand?” I asked one, a former hooligan who was selling the '50s-style Mancini scarves.

You can guess what his reaction was.

My ticket was in the Scunthorpe section (nice one Chris and Sean), well priced at £19. I was surrounded by sensible middle-aged fans in glasses and Berghaus jackets.

They were proud of their team and rightly so. It was a great cup tie: there was terracing behind one goal and an 80s scoreboard which kept flashing up ‘Iron!’

"Don't do that again"

A couple of things intrigued me about Scunthorpe.

There’s not much room under the stands at Glanford Park, so maybe that was the reason all of the catering staff were under four foot tall.

And a lack of extractor fans means that the whole area had that retro football smell of onions and hamburger fat.

Also, why are the helmets worn by members of the Humberside police too small for their heads?

"Get a bigger hat, lad"

Back in Manchester, there’s a big buzz about the derby.

I’ve been very busy and after thinking about it since October, I’ve started a weekly opinion column in the Manchester Evening News, a paper I used to deliver for £2.20 a week between 1986 and 1988.

It’s weird how your memory works: I could still do that paper round and get all the houses right, but I couldn’t tell you where I left my phone last night.

My brief is ‘football’ and, as well as United and City, I’ll be making occasional forays to Rochdale, Altrincham, Bury or other teams in Greater Manchester.

I’m going to see the Alty manager on Wednesday for a chat.

It’s high-profile locally and along with Newcastle, Liverpool and Glasgow, there’s probably no bigger football city than Manchester.

That means that everyone has an opinion far more relevant than your own, so I fully expect to be slaughtered for whatever I write, especially by internet oddballs – the same people who want the birch bringing back and hanging for someone found stealing a bag of sweets.

Socrates, Pique and Fergie vs Barclay

2010-01-19T09:00:00Z

I’d given up on the Socrates interview and suggested to the publishers that we find someone else to do the foreword for the Rough Guide to Cult Football.

Then a call came through last week.

“It’s the Brazilian Socrates here. I’m sorry for taking so long to get back to you, but I only saw your letter yesterday – I’m surrounded by rottweilers who keep people at bay as I get a lot of requests.

"But I’d love to do this, it would be an honour. You don’t have to come to my home town, why not come to Sao Paulo, where I do a television programme every Thursday?”

"Can't talk now, pal, got to speak to Andy Mitten"

It’s hardly like crossing the road, but flights were booked within a day.

I will change in Milan, which is handy as United are playing there.

I once swore that I’d never use Alitalia again, but I’ll make an exception as it allows a trip to the San Siro, where I’ve seen United play five times and never seen a win.

I’m not feeling too confident this time either as Ronaldinho is in superb form.

* * *

The weather has meant that my 15-year-old brother hasn’t played a competitive game for six weeks.

He’s been training at the one place benefiting from the inclement weather, the DW Soccer Dome near the Trafford Centre in Manchester.

Several professional teams have been training on the indoor five-a-side pitches including Stockport County, Accrington Stanley, Barrow, Oldham Athletic and Rochdale.

* * *

I spoke to Gerard Pique about setting up an interview for FourFourTwo magazine.

I first met him when he was a kid in Manchester. He was from Barcelona and spent 70 percent of his time in Manchester, while I was the opposite.

I always wanted Pique to make it at Old Trafford, but could understood why he moved back home. He unquestionably made the right decision.

I always knew he was a decent player, but his progress has been staggering at Camp Nou, where he’s now the best defender for the best team in the world.

"Nah, I'm alright here, thanks"

With hindsight, and the injuries to Vidic and Ferdinand, I’m sure that Sir Alex Ferguson would have kept him, but that partnership was impenetrable when Pique was at Old Trafford.

Besides, a senior football figure at the club was convinced that Pique wasn’t a top level defender. With hindsight, we’ve seen that he is.

* * *

The journalist Paddy Barclay joined us the other day for something to eat. He was in Barcelona to interview Thierry Henry for his forthcoming biography of Sir Alex Ferguson.

Ferguson, a keen biography reader, initially gave his approval before changing his mind.

He may be 62, but Paddy is indefatigable.

He was in Paris the day before to speak to Gerard Houllier for the same book and got back to Luton late at night.

He then caught a night bus across London to Victoria, which was closed.

A tramp told him that it opened at 3am. He was right and a train to Gatwick left soon after before a flight to Barcelona.

We spoke about the situation at Manchester United.

The club have gone from having a defensive strategy of near silence since the 2005 Glazer takeover to spilling its guts out in public as more money needs to be raised to pay the hideous debts.

Paddy wrote a piece in Saturday's Times which was very critical of Sir Alex Ferguson and while it might surprise you to hear this, most United fans would agree with it.

Oldham's summer tour exploits follow them home

2010-01-08T18:30:00Z

Greetings from Camp Nou. It’s raining so the ground is half-empty, even though Barca are the cup holders and their opponents are a Sevilla side with top class players like Jesus Navas, Diego Capel and ace winger Brian Perotti.

OK, Diego Perotti, but Brian to his wife, Pam.

I got back to Catalonia a week ago.

Originally, my flight was supposed to be the morning after United played Wigan, but what consideration is given to season ticket holders when switching games?

The re-arranged Wigan game wasn’t on telly, except in an overpriced tourist bar off La Rambla where a pint is €5 - which is now a fiver.

I watched as United played well and my uncle David popped up on the screen.

He’s Wigan’s kit-man and loves his new job after a nine-year stint at Altrincham, but I still can’t get used to seeing him standing loyally behind little Roberto Martinez as Wenger or Ferguson contest a decision.

"Have you met Dave? He's Andy Mitten's uncle"

Arsenal were playing Portsmouth at the same time and a handful of Gunners watched their game on a different screen.

For a time it seemed like a competition about how many goals would be scored between Arsenal and United.

The atmosphere was decent, then I heard the following:

“Who’s that dying on the runway? Who’s that dying in the snow? It’s Matt Busby and his boys making all the f***ing noise 'cos they can’t get the aeroplane to go.”

I was incredulous at first. My mate Crainey is far from wet behind the ears but he must have had cloth in them because he didn’t catch it.

I approached the singer, a Yank with ‘Eboue’ printed on the back of an Arsenal shirt and asked him if he had any idea how offensive the song was.

He apologised straight away and that was that.

(This is a top game, by the way. Sevilla have taken the lead through the superb Capel and the atmosphere is uncharacteristically rocking).

Anyway, the Americans passed us later and apologised again. They were aged about 20, from Detroit and they follow Arsenal.

Passing through Barcelona on their way home, they travel over to London once or twice a season.

They were pleasant, if intoxicated by some of the less desirable aspects of English fan culture. We’ve all been daft and young.

Two other Americans who have travelled over to watch English football this season are Sara Matthew, 23, and Amber Allen, 25 - both very attractive students from Los Angeles.

They met several Oldham Athletic players in the Cayman Islands last summer.

The Cayman Islands: Nice this time of year. Or any other

What went on on tour didn’t stay on tour.

By September, the girls had flown to England, where they filmed exploits such as catching trains from Manchester Victoria to Oldham Mumps.

They went to an away game at Millwall, where they walked the streets around the New Den unaware of Millwall’s reputation in English football.

The girls were fine, met many a bemused local on their travels and it was a decent local news story for papers like the Manchester Evening News.

The girls wouldn't have been fazed that the majority of readers comments were cynically small-minded, scornful and envious, with nonsense like: "What a waste of two flights, that money could have bought food in a hospital."

They promised to return in December.

Officials at Oldham, honest football people but perhaps more naive about the post-season peccadilloes of their players, got wind of it and made an invitation.

According to the Manchester Evening News: “After hearing about their last adventure, the club promised to roll out the red carpet and the visitors will perform the half-time draw.”

Members of the local media, more used to talking about calf strains in Huddersfield, put their best shirts on and a splash of Hai Karate to meet the girls.

When they bounded into England, with more energy than a reactor at Sellafield and looks straight out of 90210, Oldham didn’t quite know how to handle them.

Latics’ fans were hospitable, the club initially so. But all was not well.

On the day of the game at which they were supposed to make the half-time draw, the club welcoming committee went silent, mobiles went unanswered and the girls were told that they were not welcome at Boundary Park after objections within the club.

Someone had obviously spilled some kind of beans.

Boundary Park: Not quite so welcoming

(Ibrahimovic just equalised after beating the offside trap, but Negredo has put Sevilla back in front almost immediately. There are 150 Sevilla fans on the top tier and 14 on the lower. Their players have just run over to the 14 and almost climbed into the stand to celebrate with them. It’s great to watch, as is the sight of the players holding up a shirt in memory of Antonio Puerta).

Back to Oldham. There wasn’t a word in the media after about the non-appearance and the girls returned to the States feeling very miffed.

It just goes to show: not everyone leaves Oldham happy...

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Christmas in Carlisle... no, Preston... er, Southport?!

2009-12-31T12:00:00Z

The news came through on the M6 just north of Preston.

“Carlisle game off,” the text read.

You can probably think of better ways to spend Boxing Day than watching Carlisle United vs Huddersfield Town, but I want to visit all 92 English league grounds and sacrifices have to be made, travel taverns booked.

I’ve done about 80 so far, and about 500 grounds around the world in total, a mild obsession I can trace back to buying Simon Inglis’ seminal Football Grounds of Great Britain as a 10-year-old in 1984.

That and a man with a packet of sweets, a cheeky smile and a cagoule showing me photos of Hyde United’s ground while my dad played for Urmston Town.

I’ve tried to watch Carlisle at home three times, usually around Christmas time, and failed on each occasion.

I accept it may never happen.

My anorak-in-crime was my 15-year-old brother.

A centre-forward, he’s just spent six weeks with Manchester United at Carrington and scored the winner at Aston Villa away, though Stockport County hold his registration.

They wanted a fee of £70,000 in total if United took him. He’s currently injured after a sledging accident and a collision with a tree.

Carlisle being called off summed up my football-watching month.

United had been beaten at home to Villa and I stood in temperatures of -3˚C at Craven Cottage as United shipped three goals.

Still, as the game got worse, the 3,000 United fans got louder and louder, which confused nearby Fulham fans in seats which sat empty before the Premier League.

I chose that over an all-expenses trip to see Barça win their sixth trophy of the season in the sunshine of Abu Dhabi, but there were highs…

There was the Christmas do for two with Andrew Cole at a fancy Alderley Edge bar where I was the only patron who arrived using public transport.

Andrew picked me up from the station in his superb car, which was so smart that I couldn’t work out how to open the passenger door.

And there was a phone call from the Manchester United club president Martin Edwards to wish me a Happy Christmas and ask me if I had a pen handy “because I have found three small mistakes in your latest book.”

I was in a dentist’s waiting room at the time in Stretford Arndale – once described by the sadly deceased The Face as being a hotbed for teenage pram wars – where I was already treated with suspicion on account of not being on benefits.

A lad opposite was missing two teeth (“A crowbar in Cheetham Hill last night,” he kindly explained).

And on the line I had a man who sold his Manchester United shares for £85 million asking me to take dictation.

I love it when my worlds collide.

With Carlisle off, we went to a snowbound Deepdale instead, but the game there between Preston and Barnsley had also just been called off.

"No chance, pal. Try the museum"

We visited the National Football Museum, which has always been good, but doesn’t draw enough visitors and will move to Manchester soon.

That’s sad for proud Preston, but it should make sense. Manchester welcomes far more visiting football fans and I’m sure a lot of the fans of European clubs who visit Old Trafford (and maybe Eastlands in the future) will visit.

We both wanted to see a game so we looked around to find one which was on, before deciding on the Southport vs Fleetwood Town top-of-the-table clash in the Blue Square North.

Southport’s website said that the game would be on, but that they were looking for volunteers to clear snow off the pitch at their Haig Avenue home.

We set off in earnest.

General Haig view

We’d never been to the ground before, though our other brother scored a winning goal there in a league game in 2004.

I greeted news of that that by jumping up and down and shouting "Get in!" On a ferry. In Latvia. To incredulous looks from other passengers and a remark from my girlfriend that she was going to jump overboard to escape the embarrassment.

That wasn’t the worst one. A girl once came to my place in Barcelona on a second date.

Problem was, it clashed with Altrincham’s crucial Conference play-off game at Nuneaton Borough.

Brother was playing and I managed to track the game on BBC Radio Warwickshire. I had it on in the background.

When he came on as sub, the commentator said: “Looks a handful, this big lad Mitten.”

I felt a surge of pride and was shouting at the computer for him to “f****** get into the Nuneaton ****s.”

When he scored a penalty in a successful shoot-out which helped propel Altrincham towards the Conference, a neighbour switched a light on to check the commotion.

Anyway, a friend offered to leave some tickets on the door at Southport’s Haig Avenue. I politely declined.

“What, you’re going to pay?” he asked.

“Yes, I’d rather pay,” I answered, without going into one about how clubs don’t make money at non-league level and need all the support they can get.

“Weirdo.”

Fleetwood are a club on the up. They have rebuilt their Highbury home and average crowds over 1,000.

Four hundred visiting fans swelled the gate to over 1,800 – and they were rewarded for their attendance with a chant of "Where’s your pier gone?"

Fleetwood’s pier was destroyed by fire. Southport’s is still going strong and stretches over a kilometre into the Irish Sea.

Pier pressure: Southport 1, Fleetwood 0

The streets around the ground were covered in ice, but the pitch had been largely cleared of snow and a letter in the match programme warmed many.

The writer, whose computer appeared to be stuck on CAPS LOCK, wrote a sincere apology to the Southport manager and players for shouting "Cheat" at an away game at Stalybridge Celtic recently.

The letter writer didn’t want any Southport players to think he meant them.

That he managed to sneak in some birthday wishes in the same letter illustrated the wonderful nuances of non-league football.

The former Blackpool, Blackburn and Aston Villa full-back Alan Wright played for Fleetwood.

Now 38, the diminutive Mancunian – at 5ft 4in, the smallest man ever to play in the Premier League – showed the experience of someone who has played over 620 league games and barely put a foot wrong.

However, his influence was limited at left-back and his side were hammered 5-0 by a side who are favourites to return to the Blue Square Premier.

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A week of football in Germany

2009-12-17T14:00:00Z

Dozens of blue flashing lights dominated the airport around the plane I’d just flown on from Barcelona to Hamburg ahead of a week of football in Germany.

The huge convoy moved towards two jets with ‘Republica do Brazil’ on the side. It was the president of Brazil, Lula.

He must be feeling pretty pleased given that his booming country will host the 2014 World Cup finals and the 2016 Olympics.

But then it must be quite smart to be the president of Brazil, the country which gave the world Tom Brady’s wife, Alessandra Ambrosio, Adriana Lima and the cheeky Da Silva twins.

I saw them recently at Carrington – the twins, not the supermodels, sadly - as they walked around like two smiling chipmunks joined at the hip.

“Everything good?” I asked using two of the few words of Portuguese I know.

“Todo bien!” they replied jointly, a little surprised to hear their mother tongue.

Anyway, imagine being in a pub and meeting someone who introduced himself as ‘the president of Brazil.’

It would be smart, as it would if you were the fastest man in the world. Or even one of the Da Silvas. Imagine playing for one of the world’s biggest football teams with your kid brother?

Hamburg is a lively city, SV Hamburg an exceptionally well run club. After visiting their neighbours St. Pauli, I was taken around the terraced areas of Hamburg’s smart new stadium.

The fans pay €15 to stand, create a sizeable din and watch top-level Bundesliga action. The club are debt free and the supporters hugely influential in the running of it.

It wasn’t hard to envy the German model – one which doesn’t extend to VfL Wolfsburg, my next stop after three days in the German capital Berlin.

Paddy Crerand was in Wolfsburg, cursing The Sun newspaper (whose correspondent gave as good as he got back at Paddy) and told me the story about his trip to East Berlin in 1965.

"We were drawn against the East German army side ASK Vorwaerts,” he said.

“Matt (Busby) had been to watch them a few weeks earlier and was reasonably impressed. He stressed that we had the quality to beat them and didn’t seem all that concerned as we flew into West Berlin.

"He was a few hours late though – and all because of me.

"As we crossed through Checkpoint Charlie in communist East Berlin we were given forms to fill in. Matt got all serious and said, ‘Don’t muck about. These people have no sense of humour.’

"All the boys thought that they had made it through the checkpoint until a loudspeaker blared, in broken English, ‘Herr Crerand, report back to the office.’

"I had been unable to resist filling in my immigration card thus: Name – Bond, James, Destination – Moscow, Purpose of visit – Espionage.

“Matt was raging. The East Germans knew that I was joking, but their serious expressions did not change. Matt carried on going at me, saying that it wasn’t even a funny thing to do.”

The day after United had – rather fortuitously it must be said – beaten the Volkswagen works team, I went to Hanover, a trip originally planned to interview Robert Enke.

Some United fans had been to the stadium and left flags of tribute to Enke and a huge number one jersey bearing his name is suspended from the roof.

Hannover 96 employee Dirk Koster was hugely welcoming and, having written for Shoot! Magazine in the 70s, spoke perfect English.

He showed me around the stadium, told some very emotional stories about Enke and invited us to watch the first team train.

“Would you like to interview Mikael Forssell or Steven Cherundolo?” he asked. I’d only popped along to see the ground.

An hour later he had invited me to a function at the club that night and introduced me to Hanover’s American international Cherundolo (pronounced Chur-RUN-do-lo), who captained his country in this year’s Gold Cup.

The San Diego born defender, 30, who has played for Hannover 96 for 11 years, is likely to play against England next year.

He was bright, media savvy and, unsurprisingly, can’t wait for South Africa.

An unexpected interview – but very welcome, nonetheless.

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Xavi, Mustoe, Cole and Enke

2009-12-08T12:00:00Z

The Xavi Hernandez interview for FourFourTwo went very well.

I should have had 15 minutes but had 50, leading the Spanish paper El Pais to write about the time he had given to a British journalist.

Xavi was a star: cogent, funny and very bright. He’s also a football anorak. I seem to be meeting a few of them lately after Darren Fletcher.

But who am I to talk? At school, I flunked many an exam because I was too busy drawing diagrams of Old Trafford. Or Plainmoor.

Xavi and I didn’t quite end up drawing pictures of the new Shay or bemoaning the act of architectural vandalism which saw the old Villa Park main stand demolished, but he spoke extensively about English football.

Having first been called up into a Champions League squad against Newcastle in 1997 and making his debut at Old Trafford in 1998, Xavi is an Anglophile.

He’s also the third best player in world, according to those sages at France Football who dished out the Ballon d’Or awards last week.

As we did the photos, he gave an in-depth (and very much off the record) analysis of why Real Madrid would not beat Barça in Sunday’s el clasico.

He was right, but the game was much closer than he maybe expected.

Exclusive: Xavi shot by FourFourTwo!

After I left the interview, I went for some food with a mate. We were joined by the former Middlesbrough player Robbie Mustoe, who now works as an analyst for ESPN.

Robbie was in town for el clasico with commentator Adrian Healey, who is originally from Swindon but has lived in the States a lot longer than Robbie, who moved out there to coach in 2006.

He soon started working for ESPN and this unlikely pair, born in Oxford and nearby Swindon, are now ESPN mainstays.

They were great company and we met again later that night.

Healey knows his stuff. I once did a television interview with a sports presenter who had never heard of Pep Guardiola.

There was no danger of such huge blanks with Swindon fan Healey, who was right up to speed. He and Xavi would have got on well.

Robbie, once described by Gareth Southgate as “one of the most honest professionals in the game,” is rightly proud of an 18-year playing career which took in 91 games for Oxford and 365 games for Middlesbrough over 12 years.

He seems as passionate watching football as he was when he played it and often sees three games a day, taking something from all of them.

Healey and Mustoe behind the Camp Nou pressbox

During the conversation, my phone went. It was Andrew Cole.

He was understandably not happy that a newspaper had lifted the column we do together each week.

Cole was with Bryan Robson en route to South Africa for SoccerEx – the big football convention in Johannesburg.

Mustoe had just been telling me about Robson, whom he played under as ’Boro manager between 1994 and 2001. Small world, this football one.

Since then I've flown to Hamburg for a week in Germany to research club ownership and fan culture in Hamburg – and to stand on a huge terrace watching Hamburg vs Hoffenheim.

Then it’s on to Berlin for three days and Wolfsburg for their game against United.

The final two days were supposed to be to interview Robert Enke (see previous blog) and I’ll still go to Hannover as all the hotels and travel had been booked.

So while I’m really looking forward to catching ICE trains, football, German beer and quality cities, the whole trip will be tinged by sadness about what should have been.

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Europa gaining consensus in Catalonia

2009-11-30T16:45:00Z

At first, I thought the sign in Barcelona was a joke. “Europa Prat” it read, advertising a game of football in Spain’s fourth division.

On first sight, I thought it read “You’re a prat,” like someone’s idea of a bad joke. Not so.

Founded in 1907, CE Europa play in the neighbourhood of Gracia and in the 1920s, managed by Englishman Ralph Kirkby, they were the second strongest team in Catalonia after Barça (who therefore hired Kirkby).

In 1928 Europa were one of the 10 founder teams of the Primera Liga alongside Barça, Espanyol, Real Madrid, Racing Santander, Atletico Madrid and four teams from the Basque country: Real Union, Arenas Getxo, Real Sociedad and the mighty Athletic Bilbao.

Europa only lasted three seasons in the top flight and despite Kirby returning in 1930, they finished bottom, were relegated and merged with another club.

Europa have had their moments, notably in 1997 and 1998 when they won the Copa Catalunya, twice beating Barça in the final.

Then in the fifth tier, they beat Bobby Robson’s team containing Hristo Stoichkov in ’97 and overcame a side starring Ivan de la Pena, Michael Reiziger, Sergi and Fernando Couto to win the cup a year later.

Europa have played in the regional fourth tier for most of the time since, to a hardcore of 600 fans at their Nou Sardenya home.

The ‘You’re a Prat’ poster was actually to advertise a forthcoming match.

Europa usually kick off at midday on a Sunday, which isn’t a problem for most of the elderly crowd – unlike most youngsters in Barcelona who go out very late and are usually sound asleep until Sunday afternoon.

The atmosphere was friendly in the clubhouse pre-match, as fans read the papers and caught up in the sun.

"You’re a prat," I thought one elderly man said to me as I queued for a coffee, but he actually thought that I played for Prat, the team from the neighbourhood near the airport.

Europa’s Nou Sardenya ground holds around 5,000 and includes an impressive main stand. Entrance is €10 and the club are firmly part of the community.

Two third-generation artificial surfaces mean that their facilities are in use until midnight seven days a week – mainly by hundreds of young players in the club’s associated youth teams.

Europa took to the field as their anthem played proudly in Catalan, the blue ‘v’ distinctive on their white shirts. Chants of "Europa! Europa!" were amplified by the surrounding high-rise apartments.

The club's website announces that they are proud to be Gracians, Catalans and Europeans (note, not Spanish), though their musical taste was definitely English, with Suede, Coldplay and Chumbawumba aired to the ever-increasing crowds.

Europa won 2-0 and are now fourth in the table, with gates growing weekly. Fourth would be good enough for a play-off spot to the 2B at the end of the season.

Promotion, while the aim, would mean a huge increase in travel expenses with five-hour coach journeys to Benidorm or flights to the Balearics, but Europa already have the support to play in the league above.

I’ll go again later in the season to see how they are getting on.

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Vietnam vets, scalpers, scallies & Fleet Street thieves

2009-11-25T16:00:00Z

With Internazionale and Real Madrid visiting Barcelona this week, it’s been a busy time, what with all the media whoring to promote Glory Glory! and people asking for tickets for El Clasico as if I can conjure them out of thin air for a fiver.

Andrew Cole, who has spent the last week playing for Manchester United veterans against Liverpool vets in Vietnam and Malaysia, wanted eight.

I pointed him in the direction of Charles Hamilton, an Englishman who runs a company in Barcelona called Travel Connection.

They do everything from sorting out tourists with Barça tickets to looking after the travel needs of English clubs when they play in Spain.

I met Hamilton on Monday and he explained how his business works.

He buys 700 tickets (most of them top seats) for every Barça game at the start of each season and pays the club up front – about €1 million.

He takes the rough with the smooth and obviously sells a lot more for the Real Madrid game than Almeria on a midweek winter night, but as recently as this March it was very rough indeed.

The pound crashing against the Euro affected the number of British visitors, before Barça’s treble-winning team saw an upturn in demand – showing how fickle the tourist area of the ticket market can be.

Then Barça signed Zlatan Ibrahimovic and his phone did not stop ringing with Scandinavians wanting to come and watch.

Hamilton has seen new ticket agencies pop up like mushrooms to cater for this market and he has competition at street level too.

As I walked to the Barça vs Inter game, there were people holding placards offering to pay €300 for a Barca vs Madrid ticket.

They didn’t look Catalan - because they were from Manchester.

Be it the Winter Olympics in Salt Lake City or the European Cup final, most of the ticket touts grafting will come from Manchester or Liverpool.

“You speak that Spanish,” one of them, a lad I know from supporting United, said to me. “Can you help us out?”

I know and like a lot of them. I admire them for their entrepreneurial spirit and brazen willingness to travel to Barcelona and overshadow the local touts.

But it would be hugely hypocritical for a fanzine editor to help ticket touts out, when the unwritten rule among our readers is that a ticket should never be sold above face value.

The day before I met Charles Hamilton, I was invited to be interviewed on the BBC’s World Service.

I’ve been doing a lot of interviews to promote Glory Glory!. It’s a buzz.

The BBC booked a studio in Barcelona and did a 20-minute live interview covering everything from how we started United We Stand to what the Barça players are like.

The programme has 40 million listeners around the world so I’m expecting a surge in sales in Bangladesh, where I’m sure the locals are used to shelling out £15 for a book.

The FourFourTwo editor did get one interesting letter from his Australian counterpart. A Japanese man had bought Glory Glory!

He didn’t speak or understand English, so spent five weeks transcribing the whole book, before composing an email which took him five hours to tell me that. How ace is that?

He sent the email to the editor of the Australian FourFourTwo, but I eventually got the message.

I also found out that Mad For It – the book on derbies which came out last year – has been translated into Japanese.

I found that out from a reader, as opposed to the publisher!

And, as predicted, the Darren Fletcher interview which I told you about a few weeks ago was picked up by all the papers this week.

Thankfully, most of them credited our humble little fanzine, though The Mirror passed the quotes off as their own, just as they did with quotes taken from an Andrew Cole column I had ghosted for him last week – the one with Cole talking about Fernando Torres.

As Mike Duff, Manchester’s best poet, commented: "A newspaper creditin' a magazine is like someone borrowin' yer shoes without tellin' you....an' leavin a thank you note.”

The Mirror didn’t even leave the thank you note.

I’ll get back to the madness now.

We’ve fixed up what will hopefully be an in-depth interview with Xavi for FFT so I’ll meet him at Barça’s training ground where I’ll continue to fail to convince another player that life would be better by the Irwell than the Med.

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Speaking to Robert Enke

2009-11-11T12:00:00Z

Andy Mitten on the late Germany goalkeeper Robert Enke, who was due to be interviewed for FourFourTwo after Wolfsburg vs Manchester United next month...

I’ve just arrived at Camp Nou for a game whose importance is reflected by the size of the crowd.

It’s 10pm and maybe 20,000 are inside the ground for a cup game against third-level Cultural Leonesa; Barça are already 2-0 up from the first leg.

I don’t have to file any copy tonight, so I was going to watch some of the emerging Barça stars closely.

Then I switch on my computer in the press box and read that the German goalkeeper Robert Enke has died.

I was going to interview Enke in Hanover on December 9, the morning after Wolfsburg vs Manchester United.

My mate, the German writer Ronald Reng, is a good friend of Enke and has spoken exceptionally well of him for years.

With United playing close by, Reng fixed it up for me to interview Enke for FourFourTwo. Only this morning, he emailed to say that he’d just spoken to Enke’s wife.

Reng recently emailed me the following piece to ask if I could read through it.

While his English is very good, writing in another language isn’t easy and he wanted me to give it the once-over.

This is a far better synopsis of Enke than anything I could write. I’ll leave it how it was sent.

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Interview with Germany goalkeeper Robert Enke, who had to overcome unemployment and the death of his daughter to become Germany’s No.1.
By Ronald Reng

At the end of our interview, Robert Enke offers to drive me down to the commuter train station at Neustadt.

He knows the timetable by heart, as he regularly takes the local train from the small village where he lives to Hanover, even now that he is Germany’s No.1 goalkeeper. “The connections are good and fast”, he simply states.

If anyone needed any proof that Enke – who will play for Germany in the World Cup qualifier against Azerbaijan this Wednesday – is special, it would be the image of one of the country’s brightest stars sitting between the locals on a commuter train.

But of his whole life is proof that he is in many ways a unique goalkeeper.

Having captained Benfica at 23, he turned down offers from Manchester United and Roma to join FC Barcelona.

He didn't make it there and when Barça sent him to Istanbul two years later, he refused to play for Fenerbahce.

“I just felt totally out of place in Turkey with the exaggerated passion of the fans and the club," he says. "I felt absolutely lonely and deeply sad.”

Instead, he chose to be unemployed.

After half a year out of work, he was only offered a job in Spain’s Second Division, at Tenerife.

That’s the way many prosperous talents disappear – into mediocrity. But in no man’s land, Enke’s career restarted.

From Tenerife he worked his way up again. At Hanover, forever a midtable Bundesliga club, he managed at the late age of 31 to become the No.1 of three-times World Cup winners Germany.

“I suppose it has to be my destiny that everything in my career has to be weird,” he says. “Just sometimes, I wished it would have been a tiny bit easier.”

When he says that, while driving me to the station, I instinctively look down to the car keys in the ignition. On the key-ring fob there is a picture of his daughter Lara.

She was born with a cardiac defect. She spent her first six months in intensive care.

Enke lived between the training pitch and the hospital. There are images you do not forget: “Lara, my wife and I sitting in the deserted hospital canteen on Christmas Eve, eating salmon with potatoes.”

On three occasions, Lara survived life-threatening surgery. On September 17 2006, just after her second birthday, she died after what should have been straightforward ear surgery.

He has never spoken publicly about her death, but he says he likes to talk about her with friends, with people who got to know her.

“Remember the photos of her we looked at yesterday? In every second picture, she was smiling. She was such a happy and brave girl.”

She has taught him something he will not forget: “I don’t want to minimise football; the sport is very important to me and I am very ambitious. But in the end, it's always just football.

Many fans and media in Germany say he is too polite, too softly-spoken. What they really mean is that he lacks character. They confuse a big mouth with charisma.

Germany has always regarded itself as the land of goalkeepers; since the 1970s and the great Sepp Maier, the national team has always been protected by world-class, strong-minded, not to say crazy goalkeepers.

There were the 1980s with Rambo in the cinema and Harald Schumacher in the Germany goal, who kept on chewing his chewing-gum after he kung-fu kicked France’s Battiston half to death in the World Cup semi-final 1982.

Then came the 1990s with Oliver 'Gorilla' Kahn and finally a new century with 'Mad Jens' Lehmann.

In front of this gallery of ancestral portraits now stands Robert Enke. He is as good as any German goalkeeper has ever been, with lightning reflexes and a strong control of the penalty area. He just refuses to give up his sensibility.

“I will never try to psych out or speak badly about one of my rivals for the No.1 spot. I know what respect is.”

[TEXT ENDS]

Robert Enke, rest in peace.

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Fletcher, Cole, Flintoff, X Factor & folk rock

2009-11-04T16:00:00Z

More from our roving reporter as he meets Manchester United legends past and present...

Wednesday

Interviewed Darren Fletcher at Carrington for United We Stand. He was superb – inspiring even - and spoke for well over an hour.

Some of his quotes were like listening to a mini-Ferguson and I want that boy to play in every Manchester United game until he’s 39.

We’re going to put him on the front cover, which he seemed a bit embarrassed by. But he still picked his favourite photo to be used on the cover.

It’s frustrating knowing that newspapers will take quotes and not always credit us, but what can we do?

If they didn’t it would show we weren’t getting the exclusives and inside track.

Fletch (Godber not pictured)

In playing for United, Fletcher thinks he’s fighting for a cause. He was respectful towards rival players, cogent and a very nice person.

He loves football, loves magazines and gave a five-minute critique of why FourFourTwo is better than World Soccer. (Ed: Good lad.)

Lots of people walked past as we did the interview: Giggs, McClair, Solskjaer and Welbeck... Fletcher hammered Welbeck for his celebration at Barnsley the night before.

Then the young Brazilian twins, Fabio and Rafael, walked around side by side.

As they passed I said: "Todo Bem" – "Everything OK?" in Portuguese.

They both stopped in their tracks, smiled and said: “Sim.”

Hardly in depth – but it helps to know two words of their language.

Thursday

Met Andrew Cole outside Selfridges in Manchester. He’d driven from his home in Cheshire to help me out with two book signings for Glory Glory!.

He brought his son Devante along as he was on school holidays. Devante plays up front for Manchester City U15s.

I wanted him to meet my brother Sam… who is currently playing up front for Manchester United U15s.

Sam is on a six-week trial from Stockport County and he was playing away at Aston Villa. He scored in a 2-1 win so we were all delighted for the little ferret, who could become the first non-human to be paid to play football.

When he was 10, I managed to convince him that he wasn’t born in a hospital, but was actually found in the soil on wasteland behind Altrincham’s ground.

When Roma came to Old Trafford, I almost convinced him that the wolf on Roma’s badge was because Roma often kept a real wolf on the bench in case of emergencies.

I explained that the wolf would come on in a Roma kit and had scored a few late goals, including a famous one which won the title at Sampdoria.

He thought about it for a good 10 minutes before rightly accusing me of lying.

As I walked with Cole through the Arndale Centre to the Waterstone’s branch, he admitted that he’d never been in the shopping centre before.

Other shoppers were clocking him and double-taking.

There was a queue of people waiting at the store which was a relief. The store manager told us that there were more people than Freddie Flintoff drew for his book signing. Thanks, Mr Cole.

I thanked every single person for coming while Andrew posed for pictures, signed books and got embarrassed as people told him that he was their favourite ever player.

Or third favourite. Or fifth.

Andy gets his autograph book out for Andrew

A few people tried to extract the urine by bringing piles of photos for Andrew to sign and not even buying a book.

They didn’t want the autographs making out to anyone and most probably had their eye on selling them on eBay, so rather than be diplomatic we just told them where to go.

One man didn’t give up so easily and waited for us outside the shop with more pictures.

He was ignored. The same bloke will probably be slagging Andrew off now because he didn’t sign his 60 photos. Tool.

We then went for some food in Manchester and did the One-on-One readers’ questions interview for FourFourTwo.

One asked him to describe his personality in five words, prompting Devante to say: “Stubborn, lazy…”

His dad didn’t disagree, but I would. There’s a friendly, reliable, funny, private man in there.

We then drove through the heavy traffic to do the second signing at the Trafford Centre.

WHSmith had asked us to change the time because a boy band called JLS were switching on the Christmas lights.

I argued that most of the likely readers would never have heard of them, let alone want to see them sing, and we kept the slot.

Devante had heard of them, though, and explained that they’d been on X Factor.

Another person was singing, Chipmunk or someone. Chipmunk, ferret, it was all getting confusing.

There was another decent turnout of people waiting patiently to have their books signed, though nothing like the thousands of teenage girls who’d come to see JLS.

We’d signed all the books there after an hour but started to notice a change in the type people loitering about.

Who were this edgy-looking new breed, far more numerous than had shown up for the Glory Glory! signing?

We soon found out why as we were shifted from our seats to be replaced by the Saw Doctors, the Irish folk-rock band.

It’s tough near the bottom.

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FCUM, Andy Cole, Wigan's kit-man & Blackburn's physio

2009-11-02T16:30:00Z

I’ve just got back from nine days in Manchester, where life tends to get hectic.

This was my diary last week – featuring Andy Cole, Wigan Athletic's kit-man, Blackburn Rovers' physio and Liverpool vs Manchester United (sort of)...

Saturday

Previewed Sunday’s Spanish games for The National in Abu Dhabi, then drove to see Northwich Victoria v FC United in the FA Cup Fourth Qualifying Round.

I’d not watched FC play for over a year, but the tie intrigued me.

FC took 2,000 fans to the Cheshire town and they made a brilliant cup-tie atmosphere on the covered Dane Bank terrace.

Sat in the main stand, I heard one elderly Northwich fan shout: “Typical bloody United, always hoofing it.”

There’s about five things wrong with that simple statement.

The game was poor and Northwich’s higher league experience eventually saw them overcome FC with three second-half goals.

The Vics were rewarded with a plum first round home draw against Charlton Athletic.

Having experienced financial difficulties in recent seasons and started this year on -10 points, they couldn't have asked for a much better game.

The windfall would have been equally beneficial to FC, who are raising funds to build a ground in Manchester.

But they had to be satisfied with a best-ever cup run, including a previous round victory at Stalybridge Celtic who play a league higher.

A couple of FC fans acted the goat and ran on the pitch after taking to offence to the celebrations of a Northwich player, not that Northwich’s crush barriers would stop anyone.

Here’s one I spotted at the other end of the ground.

That night, we held a party at the brilliant Funkademia night in Manchester to celebrate United We Stand’s 20th anniversary.

It was the night before Liverpool away, but that didn’t mean people took it easy.

Two lads fell asleep on buses on their way home, one ending up outside Liverpool airport at 4am, another in Hazel Grove near Stockport.

Both had to get expensive taxis home.

Sunday

Mother, I understand that your 60th birthday is a big event, but so is Liverpool vs United.

And booking a birthday meal to coincide with kick-off is downright cruel.

Despite booking flights around this fixture, mum came first and I didn’t go.

I kept my frustrated opinion to myself, but maybe she was sparing me seeing the disappointment of United’s defeat at Anfield.

Many friends went.

One, who is definitely not a hooligan, was part of a group of four United fans who walked from their coach across Stanley Park when they were jumped by a group of young Liverpool hooligans.

The lad was singled out and received a severe kicking, with heavy bruising to his face.

One of the Liverpool thugs shouted “Slash him” as he lay on the floor.

Another said “No, he’s had enough.”

The police caught several of the perpetrators. I spoke to the lad on Thursday and saw him on Saturday before the Blackburn game, where the facial bruising was still significant.

Back at my mum’s party, at least I got to see my Uncle David, who has just been appointed as Wigan Athletic’s kitman after serving a nine-year apprenticeship at Altrincham.

A key quality of being a kitman is the ability to keep your mouth shut because you see so much.

David is a good choice, takes his responsibility seriously and is really enjoying working with Roberto Martinez.

Watched Barca blitz Zaragoza on television; wrote an opinion piece for the paper.

Monday

Meetings and interviews all day to promote Glory Glory!.

Met lots of interesting people, even the presenter at Radio Manchester who opened up his interview by admitting that he knew very little about football.

The sports editor of the Manchester Evening News has got wind that I do a weekly column with Andrew Cole for The National and wanted to know more.

He actually thought that I wrote it in Arabic...

Tuesday

Paul Kelly is a physio at Blackburn Rovers.

He was on City’s books as a youngster and signed professional, but injury cut his career short so he trained as a physio and has done well.

He also looks after most of the injured non-league players in Manchester.

I was summoned to his practice last week, where he examined the inflamed ligaments in my foot, checked my gait, worked his magic and told me to buy some decent running shoes.

Then I drove across the Pennines to the League Cup match at Barnsley.

I was going to go via Doncaster and interview Quinton Fortune, who's playing for Rovers, but will now hopefully speak to him on the phone.

The traffic was heavy and it took almost as long to get out of Manchester as it did to get to South Yorkshire.

I made use of the time by interviewing Andrew Cole for his weekly column.

He was good value again and we fixed arrangements to do the book signings and an interview for FourFourTwo.

Cole wouldn't have expected the United fans to be singing his name a few hours after we spoke.

Almost 6,000 United fans made the journey and created a brilliant din in the away end.

It was a very laddish turn-out, devoid of the sponsors and tourists who curiously obtain tickets for glamorous United away games, and it felt like a real cup match.

Sadly, the actions of a few attracted negative headlines.

A kiosk was trashed at half time, while behind me in the second half someone kept throwing half filled plastic bottles towards a pitchside Barnsley steward at the front of the stand.

What did he do to warrant bottles thrown at him? Observe the away end, like any other steward.

Bottles just missed other United fans, while a photographer moved for fear of being hit.

What were these idiots getting off on?

I mentioned the incident on TalkSport on Friday and was asked why I didn’t personally do anything about it.

Self-policing among fans can be very effective, but it’s not always appropriate.

One lad witnessed a United fan trying to steal a ticket from a female fan in Rome.

He intervened – and had part of his ear bitten off for his troubles by a lad who is now being sought by Greater Manchester Police.

In part two: Interviewing Darren Fletcher and book signings with Andrew Cole.

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Crerand, Cole, Glory & robbery

2009-10-28T10:00:00Z

Writing a book is only part of writing a book.

Once your publishers have your final manuscript, the promotion work starts. Review copies are sent to editors and a publicity team fix interviews for the author.

I’ve spent much of the last two weeks promoting Glory Glory! and it has been largely enjoyable, if tiring.

Seven meetings and interviews in seven hours around Manchester yesterday would have been more manageable had I not torn a ligament in my foot last week.

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We also have three book signings. The first was last Friday with Paddy Crerand in the Trafford Centre.

“How am I going to get there?” asked Crerand the night before, still tired after returning from United’s game in Moscow.

“By car, like most people,” I replied.

“I can’t do that, you’ll have to pick me up,” he responded firmly.

Which was probably sensible given that he thought we were going to The Water Shop rather than Waterstone’s.

He put his best jumper on and we walked through the huge shopping centre, Paddy cursing that he’d been once since it opened in 1998 – and that was only because his wife, who goes all the time, forced him.

“What the ****’s that?” he then asked in astonishment.

“A food court, where people eat.”

“F**king hell!”

An Indian family recognised Paddy and swamped him for photos. He’s like a living god among Manchester United fans.

“Do you remember me?” asked one man. “I used to see you in Altrincham in the '80s.”

“Of course I do,” fibbed Paddy with a smile. “How are you doing?”

The signing went well. Sky Sports sent a camera crew down and we met some lovely people.

One attractive lady told Paddy that she’d watched him in the '60s. He proudly opened a book to show her how good he looked then.

And he told me a story about how he’d been with Rio Ferdinand, Wayne Rooney and Nobby Stiles.

Ferdinand and Rooney were totally in awe of Stiles and his stories of winning the World Cup with England.

Paddy’s wife was supposed to come and meet him after the hour session was up.

She didn’t so we carried on signing and chatting to all kinds of people, Paddy wearing his enthusiasm for life like a magic charm.

“How am I going to get hold of my wife?” asked Paddy eventually. “I don’t have a phone. Or her number.”

“You’re going to struggle then,” I replied.

Paddy got out his glasses case, where he had scrawled two phone numbers on the cloth inners – that was the sum of his phone book. Neither number had a name by it.

“Which one of those is Noreen’s?” Crerand asked.

“How am I supposed to know?" I replied. "She’s your wife.”

Neither number was correct.

10 minutes later, Noreen called me to relay a message that she was coming to rescue her stranded husband.

Noreen was a Glasgow beauty queen in 1958 and she’s great. She claimed she was first attracted to Paddy because he had eyes like the actor Paul Newman…that and he played for Celtic!

I’ve got to do two more signings with Andrew Cole this Thursday in Manchester.

In between, we’ll put the FourFourTwo readers’ questions to him for a One on One.

Cole is well organised and owns three mobiles. There could have been a complication had the signing been last week, though.

Some scrote robbed Cole’s car outside the Trafford Centre, with two of his mobile phones inside after he’d given his time to do a ‘Kick Racism out of Football’ initiative.

Given his aversion to the place, you can safely assume that the thief wasn’t Crerand.

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Macbeth suspended for Shakespearean sonnet in Spain

2009-10-21T11:00:00Z

I write from the press box at Barcelona. This time next week I’ll be at Barnsley.

The game is two minutes old and the Russian champions Rubin Kazan have just taken a shock lead against a very strong Barca side with a superb strike.

As the 600 travelling fans go delirious, Pep Guardiola’s assertion that this is Barça’s biggest game of the season so far suddenly seems justified.

The Barca coach had a midsummer night’s dream that his side will be tripped up in Europe, but this isn’t going to turn into a match report.

I’ll wind back six hours and a phone call from King Lear.

“Come for a coffee,” he said, “I’ve got someone interesting that you’d like to meet. He plays for Brrrm Brrmm…”

I didn’t catch the last bit, but the King is always good value and we met. The player with him was the brilliantly named Macbeth Sibaya.

“Who do you play for?” I asked.

“Rubin Kazan,” he replied. “We play in the city of Kazan, about an hour’s flight east of Moscow.”

With a population of 1.1 million, it’s no hamlet.

“Three years ago I picked up a three-game UEFA ban,” continued Macbeth, who thought at the time that it was much ado about nothing.

“The third game of that ban is tonight… against Barcelona in the Camp Nou. Can you believe it?”

Macbeth is also a South African international, with 53 caps to his name and fully expects to play in the World Cup.

Born in Durban, his professional career started in Hungary, before he played for two years with Jomo Cosmos in South Africa.

"What's done is done"

He signed for Rubin in 2003 after a spell with Rosenborg in Norway and has since played over 150 times for the Russian champions.

“People were surprised when we won the league last year,” he said as he sipped a vodka and orange, “but we played the best football all season. There was never any doubt that we would be champions.”

Rubin have a predominantly Russian squad, but, as well as Macbeth, boast the first Spanish player to play in Russia, three Georgians, pairs of Turks and Argentinians but no merchants from Venice nor two gentlemen from Verona.

Some earn £20,000 a week, but Macbeth is clear about who is mainly responsible for their success.

“Our manager,” he says. “He knows everything about every player. He spends his afternoons on his sofa watching videos of players around the world.”

We talked about hooliganism in Russia and domestic away games in Vladivostok.

“That’s an eight hour flight,” he explained, “almost twice what it has taken us to get to Barcelona.”

Macbeth was distraught that he wouldn’t play against Barca.

“I trained with the team last night and I was first on to the pitch,” he said. “It’s amazing. I could see that some of the other guys were very nervous.”

The insinuation was clear – he didn’t expect his team-mates to win, the shrews were not to be tamed.

Ibrahimovic has just scored a superb equaliser from a non existent angle and celebrates with the pomp of Julius Caesar, but this isn’t a match report.

Actually, it should be because Rubin have just gone 2-1 up after a counter-attack led to a supremely confident finish from the Turk, Gökdeniz Karadeniz.

The dozen Russian journalists are going mental in the press box, it’s exactly as they like it, and while Ibrahimovic has just struck the cross bar, Kazan are holding out against a clearly rattled Barca in this comedy of errors.

Toure has just hit the post, but the final whistle has gone, a tempest will ensue and the European treble winners are beaten.

It was their 13th game of the season…will all be well that ends well?

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Book bother, bucking broncos & bedding Beyonce

2009-10-15T11:00:00Z

‘Glory Glory!’, my 90s United book came out this week, a project which started last July and took me around Europe interviewing former players.

It consists of 11 candid interviews and 104,000 words with people like Andrew Cole, Nicky Butt, Eric Cantona and Martin Edwards.

It was the Edwards interview which the media seized on last week and made it headlines.

When things like that happen, you feel like you are riding a bucking bronco because you have no control, nor any idea what is coming next.

Here’s what happened.

The Manchester Evening News ran extracts from the book over two nights. I trust the journalist there and he took 1,000 words from the Andrew Cole chapter and the same from Martin Edwards.

The paper got two big extracts and the book received a lot of publicity. To pay for the equivalent in advertising would be beyond the finances of the publishers.

Despite taking just 10 percent of the chapters, both extracts were fairly balanced. They took more quotes than colour, but that’s natural for a newspaper.

The national newspapers then got hold of the Edwards’ quotes and put a different spin on them, with some making out that he’d just launched an outburst against the Glazer family.

The Sun and The Daily Mail didn’t even credit that the source of the quotes was my book, but then that wouldn’t have suited their ‘exclusive.’

I’m used to it – many tabloid ‘exclusives’ originate from the pages of United We Stand.

The other papers credited the book, but Martin Edwards didn’t launch an outburst against the Glazer family.

After I requested an interview for the book, he invited me to his home last December and gave a very balanced interview over three hours.

I let him have his say. He was not popular with many Manchester United fans, nor readers of United We Stand.

Some will question the decision to interview at all, but I used the opportunity to put a list of concerns and points to him.

He answered all of them. In some cases he held his hands up, with others he disagreed.

I requested an interview with him because he was the chairman of Manchester United for two decades, a relevant subject who hasn’t done many interviews.

He was entitled to present his side of the story in his chapter – just as the 10 players have put forward their side of the story.

I presented his interview fairly and the readers can form their opinions. He was never anything but polite and gave his fee to charity.

But he did not launch an outburst, as the chapter shows.

The Mail’s story started: “Manchester United could be thrown into financial turmoil if the Glazer family leave the club, former chairman Martin Edwards has warned.”

The words ‘could’ and ‘if’ are crucial here. You ‘could’ sleep with Beyonce tomorrow ‘if’ she fancied you and made it clear that she wanted to bed you.

Martin Edwards woke up last Thursday and immediately started receiving phone calls about his remarks.

Then he looked at The Mail and was understandably shocked.

Then he called me.

I was expecting it and I’ve kept recordings of everyone I’ve interviewed for the book, should there be any doubts.

Or, in the worse case, should evidence need to be presented in court.

I also protected several of the subjects from comments which could be damaging.

They’ve been good enough to be frank and give me their time and don’t deserve to be stitched up.

I see Dwight Yorke sitting on the News of the World sofa confessing intimately and cringe.

Dwight probably wonders what he’s got himself into, but his publishers want all the publicity possible – seemingly regardless of the cost to Dwight.

“Before we go on, have you had the book yet?” I asked Martin Edwards.

“I’ve just received it this morning, but I’ve not read it yet,” he replied.

“So please read your chapter and then get back to me. I’ve presented your interview fairly.”

He did read it and call me back to say that I had done that and that he stands by everything he said.

But to the wider world, Edwards spent the previous night berating the Glazers to any journalist who would listen.

That would have been nice, but the fact was that he didn’t.

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Ghosts, blaggers & getting collared by Keano

2009-10-10T11:00:00Z

Mixed zones are not natural. An uninterested professional footballer walks past journalists, who wait on the other side of a barrier clutching microphones.

The different sectors of the media are neatly divided into where journalists can and cannot stand.

There’s space for the Sunday papers, the dailies, the local papers. Then there’s radio, television (rights and non-rights holders). Not to mention the Japanese journalists from websites which nobody really knows anything about.

And the blaggers.

For the first five years of going to the Camp Nou, there was a man known as ‘ghost journalist’, because it was doubtful he was a journalist. I once asked the ghost who he worked for.

“Scottish agencies,” came the reply.

I wasn’t convinced, but what did it have to do with me? And if he got to watch Barca for free by turning up every week with a shorthand pad and a biro, it showed some enterprise.

With the explosion in media, clubs and confederations started comparing notes and working out who was who.

Like the Beeching Report for rural train lines, it meant the end for the likes of 'ghost journalist' and their mini signed merchandise industries in the mixed zone.

Normally, a player stops and you talk for a few minutes about the game just gone. It’s not conducive to do a decent interview, more a search for quotes.

The journalist Graham Hunter has the skill to immediately disarm and get a player talking. He once unfroze Andrew Cole in two seconds, when before that you could tell he didn’t want to be there.

You could see it in his body language as Cole uncrossed his arms and started to speak and smile.

That’s why Hunter breaks back page news most days and I write features and books. His is a talent I don’t possess.

Roy Keane once collared me in the toilets in Hong Kong and asked me why I’d asked no questions in a press conference he’d just been at.

“If I come down, then you should ask questions,” said a stern Keane.

“It’s not natural though is it?” I countered.

“Trying to catch someone out or searching for a killer line or sensationalist story. It’s a game of cat and mouse, with the journalists trying to corner the mouse.”

An unconvinced Keane grumbled, did his fly up and left.

I much prefer sitting down face to face with a player and talking like adults, ideally at length.

You often get the best material two or three hours into an interview, though I accept that current players don’t want to be spending all their time doing in-depth, soul searching.

After big games, the mixed zone can turn into a scrum. Interviews get hi-jacked, journalists ‘surf’ on the questions of others by shunting a microphone beneath the player’s mouth.

Or they shout in frustration when a player wearing headphones the size of Sudan just ignores them and stares ahead.

I went down to the mixed zone after Barcelona’s hard fought win over Almeria last Saturday with Hunter.

There were not many journalists down there in the bowels of the Camp Nou, but Hunter still saw things I didn’t.

He anticipated movements and responses; saw rivalries and scenarios, while at the same time sorting out a big story for a major British tabloid about an African player who plays in England.

“Don’t go there,” he told me at one point, “Ibrahimovic doesn’t like those two (journalists).”

Last Saturday’s mixed zone was one of the better ones and afterwards I felt like a fisherman returning to Aberdeen with full nets.

First Victor Valdes came by and stopped to chat. Then the goalscorer Pedro, with his prominent mono-tooth. Then Xavi, who was fuming at the way he’d just been marked by Almeria’s Chico.

“It was crazy, almost obsessive,” Xavi said. “He followed me everywhere even when I didn’t have the ball or went to take a corner, he was there all the time. It drives you crazy being man marked like that.”

We’ll do a proper sit down interview for FourFourTwo soon.

Then Dani Alves, who had diamond encrusted earrings with ‘DA’ in them, stopped.

Finally, Andres Iniesta came, clutching a sweaty Almeria top which he’d exchanged, wearing jeans and unpretentious Nike trainers.

I’m going to start slipping him subliminal messages from now on so that he joins Manchester United.

Tell him with a nudge and a wink that the word in football is that United will be the team of the next decade and that the side should be built around him and Rooney.

Advise him someone with skin as white as his shouldn’t be exposing it to the Spanish sun and that he doesn’t have enough hair to play for Barca anymore, whereas if he joins United he’ll look positively hirsute compared to Rooney.

It’s daft, but would he expect anything less in a mixed zone?

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Backing Manchester's Olympic bid

2009-10-02T15:30:00Z

The announcement for the 2016 Olympic city is today in Copenhagen. With London hosting the 2012 games, there are no British candidates and only one European one – Madrid.

On the streets of Barcelona you can buy T-shirts with ‘Madrid 3016’, such is the chance the Catalans think Madrid has of hosting the games.

Barcelona staged a very successful Olympics in 1992 which played a huge role in the city’s regeneration, but it wasn’t the only candidate city.

Birmingham went for those games, though it never had a chance as Juan Antonio Samaranch, the head of the International Olympic Committee, was born in Barcelona and saw delivering the games as his greatest achievement.

Birmingham City, Aston Villa and West Bromwich Albion united in their support for the Birmingham bid, all three teams posing in their kit for a giant team photo outside the NEC.

That failed to the win the IOC over and Birmingham stood aside.

Manchester was the British candidate for the 1996 and 2000 Olympics.

Bob Scott, the man behind the bid who did much to improve Manchester’s image, had decided that the city was similar to Los Angeles, which staged the successful 1984 games.

He was labelled as crazy, but at the time, I really thought Manchester had a chance.

In hindsight, and given that Manchester didn’t have a single five-star hotel at the time of the bids, the 2002 Commonwealth Games were far better suited to Manchester.

Manchester City won’t complain either, they got a stunning new council-built stadium out of the deal.

As an idealistic 19-year-old, I felt that Manchester would beat its rivals Beijing and Sydney to host the 2000 Olympics.

It mattered not that you couldn’t buy a T-shirt to support the Manchester bid in Manchester (I actually wrote to the Manchester Evening News to complain about that one.)

Manchester United, probably the city’s greatest export, were seldom seen in conjunction with the bid so I decided to take matters into my own hands before a game at Aston Villa in August 1993.

The Olympic winner was due to be announced the following month and the Premiership was taking off globally.

Viewers around the world would be watching United, recently crowned as champions for the first time in 26 years, play at Villa, who had been the main title rivals the season before.

Before we got on the coach in Manchester, a few of us turned up at the bid offices on Oxford Street and told the receptionist that we wanted to borrow the flag off the roof for a day.

She got someone down from the bid and we explained that we were on the way to Villa, where we had tickets behind the goal into which United would surely score goals. The theory being: Lend us the flag and the Manchester bid will be seen around the world.

They bought the idea, but rather than take down that flag, a minion was dispatched to give us an alternative even bigger flag.

We were on our way and the plan worked to perfection. Sort of.

Lee Sharpe scored two brilliant goals in front of the away end and each time we held up the flag. Unfortunately, with everyone going mad to celebrate, the message was somewhat distorted.

Although everyone inside Villa Park could see the message and you could clearly see the flag, on television it just looked like a giant blue flag with indecipherable white letters.

Unperturbed, we returned the flag and were given a smaller one to take to an away game against Kispest Honved in Budapest the week before the announcement.

We travelled overland and hung the flag from the ferry and the train, which went from Ostend to Budapest.

In my misguided mind, I thought there was a chance that an IOC member could see the flag en route, perhaps while munching a bratwurst at a train station in Aachen or Cologne.

Maybe he or she would see it and think, "You know what? I’m not going to vote for Sydney’s world-class bid after all. The view over the River Irwell really does beat Sydney Harbour and the Opera House."

We paraded the flag around Budapest and you can just see it attached to the post behind the much bigger flag which says 17 years.

It was hard to believe at the time, but in 1993 Manchester City hadn’t won a trophy for 17 years.

What do you mean, they still haven’t, and a similar flag has been updated every year since?

Manchester lost out to Sydney and I was gutted. My dad was fuming.

‘How can they give it to the convicts in Sydney?” he asked. “The blokes still wear white socks over there.”

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From Barnsley to Switzerland via Xavi and Hitler

2009-09-29T12:37:00Z

United have drawn Barnsley away in the League Cup. It makes a change from always being drawn at Old Trafford and it’s a decent tie close to Manchester.

Former player Mark Robins is the Barnsley boss and there’s a large away end. All good.

When Barnsley were promoted to the Premiership in 1997, they beat Liverpool at Anfield but lost 7-0 at Old Trafford.

One of the best books you can read about football is The Keeper of Dreams by the German writer Ronald Reng, with the then Barnsley keeper Lars Lees.

It concerns their season in the Premiership and was described in The Guardian as "By far the best soccer biography of the year."

When Barnsley came to Old Trafford, my dad helped us sell United We Stand on the approach where most of the away fans pass.

He’s not soft, but he was surprised to be offered out twice by burly Barnsley fans in replica shirts who cared not that police were in abundance.

There was nothing sinister or snide about their approach, they just wanted an honest fight with a 50-year-old Manchester United fan. In the street.

Barnsley knocked United out of the cup that year, chanting "We all come from Barnsley" – as if they needed to tell the United support that – and I didn’t go to Oakwell again until two years ago, when my mate Arnau went on loan to Southend.

When the Shrimpers travelled to Oakwell, he invited us. My mum and sister came along because they both like Arnau and felt sorry for a Spaniard having to play in Yorkshire on a freezing December night.

It wasn’t until we arrived that Arnau told us he wouldn’t be playing. We went to a brilliant pie shop by the ground, causing my mum to remark: “The people in this town are lovely, aren’t they?” I doubt my dad would agree.

Then we went in the away end with Arnau, who had his Southend United tracksuit on. There were 240 fans in a stand which holds 6,000.

We sat close to the pitch and away from the main bulk of fans, but were soon approached by a man holding a video camera, which was recording.

There were no introductions. He ignored us, thrust it into Arnau’s face and began asking questions in an Essex accent, which Arnau barely understood.

He was from a Southend website and his journalistic talents must have been missed by the New York Times, instead he ended up calling someone he’d never met before by their second name on a cold night in South Yorkshire.

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The Hitler-in-his-bunker skit has been hammered on You Tube, but this is the funniest one I’ve seen – although Manchester City fans may not agree.

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Some friends took a flight from Barcelona to Switzerland recently. They realised that the diminutive figure standing behind them in the queue was Xavi, with friends. He didn’t sit in business class, but row 27.

Most of the passengers asked him for autographs, with my friend saying “He was brilliant and had time for everyone. His girlfriend was friendly and was happy to take photos of fans with him.

"It was very funny when everyone started reading the free newspapers because he was on the front page. He was reading one too.”

There was turbulence and the pilot took two attempts to land the plane. Worried wife said to husband, in all seriousness: “It can’t crash, can it? Xavi’s on board.”

It didn’t crash and at immigration, Xavi refused to be fast-tracked, preferring to wait with his friends who were from South America and needed to queue to have their visas checked.

He might be an all-round good egg, but if the European Cup final happens to be between United and Barcelona this season, I’ll pay any readers £5 if they spot Xavi (or Iniesta) and somehow keep them away from the Bernabéu during the game.

Talking of blog readers, one got in touch recently, a Dubliner called Rob Smith who is a very good singer/songwriter.

I know that because I recently saw him perform a set of Stone Roses and Oasis covers.

Rob’s as nice as Xavi, except - and it’s a big except - he has the letters ‘L’, ‘F’ and ‘C’ tattooed on his chest, in that order.

I’ve got no beef with women’s football, but he might want to specify which ladies’ football club he supports.

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Tevez, Kidd, Rooney and hypocrisy

2009-09-23T13:48:00Z

When Carlos Tevez first returned to West Ham as a Manchester United player, he walked into the centre of the pitch and crossed his wrists in a salute familiar to any Hammer. Then he rigorously applauded the home fans – to an enthusiastic response.

Eyebrows were raised in the away end, but little said; even though they won that day, West Ham were as much of a threat to United as Manchester City have been for three decades. They were as irrelevant as the ‘Back Manchester’s Host City Bid’ pitchside adverts at Old Trafford. (Public money is being wasted on those – as if an England World Cup bid wouldn’t feature Manchester.)

Tevez got a very different reaction when he applauded the Stretford End in the Manchester derby. Raised in Buenos Aires – a city with more derby games than any – he should understand derbies. He played for Boca Juniors, whose derby with River Plate is probably the planet’s most intense. He starred for Corinthians, whose match against Sao Paulo is among the most febrile in Brazil.

Tevez should know that derbies are not love-ins, nor for seeking approval by clapping rival fans. He honestly thought that he could go to Old Trafford and get a decent reaction from United fans.

From his point of view, he was a tireless performer in red for two years and felt he’d earned that respect, just as he’d done at West Ham. It’s true that he was an industrious United performer, one of the best in the 2008 European Cup Final. He was so popular that thousands of United fans sang “Fergie, sign him up” following the final game of last season, choosing the inopportune moment of Fergie’s appreciation speech.

Since he moved to Manchester City, there has been some staggering revisionism from United fans who, at the dash of a signature, decided he was worse than Ralph Milne and uglier than the Elephant man.

The Athletic Bilbao coach Joaquín Caparrós said: “In football, you can go from whore to nun in five minutes.” He’s right, and it works the other way.

Football fans operate in a self-serving pantomime of playground emotions. Arguments are selected to suit, rejection taken in its most base form - with spite. And hypocrisy thrives.

I saw United fans absolutely slaughter Alan Smith when he played for Leeds... and then welcome him when he moved to Old Trafford. Michael Owen was a dirty Scouse rat... until he signed for United. He’s now the fourth most popular name on the back of shirts in the Old Trafford Megastore.

(Not that the people who buy replica shirts should be any barometer of credibility. Wayne Rooney is way out in front; while he plies his trade on the pitch, United fans sing songs about putting Scousers on a bonfire and burning it.)

Fans slate the media, yet they are the first to take the bait when the media whips up a feud before a big game like the Manchester derby. They hammer players for not speaking their mind and talking in clichés, then slaughter them when they actually speak their mind. Damned if they do...

I’ve lost count of the number of emails in recent days from people who’ve decided that Mark Hughes – whom they idolised as a player – is a darker force than the Taliban. A few have had a real go at Brian Kidd.

Now I know Brian and I like him. He would have loved to return to Old Trafford at any time in the last 10 years, but that wouldn’t have happened with Sir Alex Ferguson in charge. So he’s spent most of the last few years commuting from his family home in Manchester and living in hotels away from his family. He was at Portsmouth last season and could have stayed, but it’s five hours from home.

He’s taken a job heading up City’s youth academy, where I’m sure he’ll excel, though I wonder whether he’ll keep his United season tickets. Some United fans are disappointed that he took the job. Did they want him to sit at home unemployed, away from the game he loves?

I spoke to Andrew Cole about this last week. “Fans don’t always appreciate players signing for rival clubs, but fans aren’t professional footballers,” he said. “They don’t have to make such choices between football clubs, but in their working lives fans have to make choices and do what is best for their career at that time.

“As long as they give 100% to the company they work for, it shouldn’t bother anyone. That’s all I ever did, work my socks off to make whoever I played for a better team.”

The problem comes because players have a different set of rules to fans, who apply morals they wouldn’t adhere to under the same circumstances. Fans hold up players like Ryan Giggs and Jamie Carragher as examples of loyal one-club men, but such players are very lucky and in a position most players would envy.

They’re at top clubs and have the choice whether to stay or go – 99% of professional footballers don’t (although it still amuses me that Gary Neville verbally abused Jordi Cruyff when he was linked with Liverpool and told him that he couldn’t move “to them”).

Tevez had a choice, though, and he chose money, although he’ll have his side of the story. Maybe other unsavoury elements made the decision for him. It’s not black and white, but fans try and make it a black and white issue, hero or zero, in the same way they describe someone they don’t actually know as a “legend” or a “w***er” simply because they did or didn’t stop to sign an autograph.

Tevez made his decision and he’s hardly the first footballer to follow the money route, but if he thinks he can come back and everything will be fine then he’s naïve. Then again, laughing as he left the field will hardly have endeared him to City fans, either...

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Chasing Socrates and meeting Messi

2009-09-18T08:00:00Z

This summer I thought about knocking playing football on the head, but was talked out of it.

I’m not much of a player and always relied on a good fitness level, but at 35 that becomes harder to maintain and you’re goosed.

I got back from training with Manchester la Fianna last Tuesday night and as my bones and muscles groaned, I switched on my computer to receive emails.

There were several positive ones.

I’ve been looking for a cult footballer to do the foreword for the Rough Guide to Cult Football. Our number one target was Socrates and so the word went out.

Three weeks ago, an email arrived from someone who was with someone in Brazil who worked with Socrates. Would he like me to have a word?

After being told about the content of the book, the great Brazilian is up for an interview… on the condition that it is done face to face.

If I lived in Belo Horizonte that would be fine, but I guess that that’s why planes were invented.

There was another email from Jorge Messi, Lionel’s father and agent.

Bless him, he replied to my request in faltering English with the news that his son would be free on Sunday after training.

Great. As a journalist you spend a lot of time planning and waiting, so it’s satisfying when plans come together.

As I set about planning on persuading Leo that his future would be far brighter at Old Trafford than the Camp Nou, I looked at that night’s results from the Unibond League.

When:‘Chorley 0 Prescot Cables 1 (Jonathan Mitten 6)’ flashed up, it was the best news of the night.

And when I received news the following day about the football career of our soon-to-be-15-year-old little brother, I was delighted.

But sometimes you're too close to a story to write about it...

Saturday night meant a trip to Espanyol for the visit of Real Madrid.

A mix up over press passes meant that along with fellow British journalists Graham Hunter and Sid Lowe, I missed the start of the match, despite arriving early.

Just as Espanyol officials soon rectified their mistake, Madrid soon overcame Espanyol’s early pressure to beat them 3-0.

After the game, the media mixed zone was a farce.

Kids with cameras had been allowed in and the only Madrid player who stopped to talk as they made their way to their plush team bus was Ruud van Nistelrooy.

Cristiano Ronaldo was apologetic – as if Madrid’s players had been told to let their football do the talking – and was playfully shadowed by his new mate Kaka.

I shared a taxi away from the ground with the sporting director of third division Terrassa, a satellite city of Barcelona and hometown of Xavi.

He (Terrassa's sporting director, not Xavi) wants his side to play Manchester La Fianna in a friendly this month and we agreed, despite fearing that we’ll get annihilated.

His best paid players are on €50,000 a year. Ours pay €10 a week to play.

We gave a good game to a Norwegian second division side in 2008 and only lost out in the final minutes… after I’d put myself on for the last eight to be immediately exposed as being way out of my depth.

With the score at 1-1, a cross-field ball was lofted over my head and the man I was supposed to be marking volleyed it straight into the top corner.

On Sunday morning, for the first time I visited Barça’s superb new training ground on the southern edge of the city near the airport.

Managed to get to quotes from the increasingly influential Yaya Toure before meeting Messi.

I’ve been fortunate to interview him several times before and the first thing he said, with a smile, was “Were you in Rome?”

I should have replied, “Were you in Rosario or Asuncion last week?”

But we can’t all be quick-thinking bright sparks like Socrates, can we?

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Marca, Messi, Alex, Abu Dhabi & punching Shilts

2009-09-08T07:00:00Z

The week that was for your roving reporter:

1. Purchased the Spanish football bible, otherwise known as Marca’s guide to the season. Sadly, there is no British equivalent [What, not even FourFourTwo's Season preview? – Ed.]. For just €6, you get 440 A4 colour pages packed with statistics about every player and team [Ah, OK – Ed.].

Want to know where that brilliant young Tenerife left-back started out and how many minutes he played last season? No? Oh well, sometimes journalists do. And that’s when they turn to Marca’s guide.

2. Sought a columnist for a newspaper in Abu Dhabi. Was asked by The National newspaper to find a new columnist; they'd suffered from a few soporific ‘to be fair to lads’-type former pros and wanted a decent read.

If you’re going to speak to someone every week for their column, it’s better to know and trust them. Just as importantly, they have to know and trust you.

"I'll do it, Mr Mitten!!!"

The ideal candidate must also want to do it. Some years ago, I ghosted a column for a former Manchester United hero. After just one chat, he said: “I trust you, write what you want.”

“But I need your insight,” I replied. “You’ve just told me that you followed Michel Platini off the field to swap shirts after chasing his shadow for 90 minutes. That’s brilliant.”

So we carried on speaking, but it was for a website which wasn’t flush and it only lasted months. In fact the player, when he received the first offer, said: “I wouldn’t take a throw in for that!”

This time round, I decided that Andrew Cole would be a good person to approach. Cole gave me a superb four-hour interview for my next book.

We’ve been sending out manuscripts for the purpose of reviews and journalists have been picking out Cole’s chapter, plus those of Martin Edwards and David May.

Cole knows football, has played at several big clubs and is cogent, frank and insightful. I called him, discussed it and he is well up for it.

We’ll start this week – the week his former partner Dwight Yorke announced his retirement. That will give us something to talk about, for a start.

3. Was asked to set up a trophy presentation. For some footballer from Rosario called Lionel.

4. Got asked on to TV by a Scottish company. They wanted me to speak about Sir Alex Ferguson on a programme about great Scots.

I would have liked to have done it – too often, Ferguson only gets to hear about the more negative bits in United We Stand and not the fact that most of our readers think he is the best manager in the world – but I’m away.

I gave them the number of another journalist who is close to Ferguson and should do it.

When I was younger, if a television company called then I’d take a mate along for no other reason that it was a buzz and we could see people off the telly in real life, like the lovely Lucy Meacock off Granada Reports.

Before Soccer AM decided that fans were all replica-shirted gimps who should play the role of performing seals, I appeared on the programme several times and Sky used to put guests up in a hotel near Heathrow.

If it coincided with a United game in London, then it seemed that half of United’s away support would crash down in the room. (Thanks, Rupert.)

That in itself caused issues, because the programme’s other guests would be in the hotel. And some would be famous footballers.

I remember one mate saying how he’d just spotted Peter Shilton in the bar and how it would be a good idea to smack him because he’d had the audacity to make saves against Manchester United.

"Want some, son?"

Another time, Sky said they wanted me in London that night. I told them that I’d only come if I was allowed to bring a mate. They agreed and we treated it like an away game.

Once at their Westminster studios, my mate sat outside waiting while I went to quite rightly hammer the Football Association about their ticket prices.

Just before I went in, Frank Warren and Darren Day arrived in the guest room. I was walking out, but witnessed Warren introduce himself to my mate, who started to get very nervous.

“Frank Warren, nice to meet you,” said the boxing promoter, offering his hand.

“And I’m Darren Day,” added the tabloid ‘love rat’.

“Dave,” replied my mate, remaining seated and leaving the unlikely duo waiting for more.

They're still waiting.

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A week in the life

2009-09-01T14:00:00Z

My week that was:

1) Watched United at Wigan. Five thousand Reds made the short journey, but I was stunned by the number of empty seats in the home end.

Just 13,000 Wigan fans for the visit of Manchester United in the first week of the season? That’s as outrageous as their crowd of 11,000 for the League Cup semi-final against Arsenal in 2006.

Met Martin Tarbuck at half time. He’s the editor of the excellent Wigan fanzine The Mudhutter. We’d done interviews on Radio 5 in the morning together and both predicted that United would enjoy a narrow win. We were both wrong.

2). Watched Barça win the Spanish Super Cup, beating an under-strength Athletic Bilbao 3-0. They were impressive, especially the peerless Xavi – peerless except for Iniesta, an eternal argument in Catalonia.

It was good to see the Catalan journalists after the summer break and they went easy on me after Barça’s victory in Rome. It still irritates me how easily Barça outclassed United - I think I need to get a life.

Sat next to Graham Hunter in the press box. With less than a week to go to the new Spanish season, he was unsure but hopeful that Sky would renew their rights to the Primera Liga.

As he’s one of the stars of the Revista de la Liga programme, it plays a big part in his life. Two days later Sky announced that they had agreed a three-year deal to broadcast Spanish football.

It was my sixth live game in eight days and was 1am by the time I’d go home. I don’t like these 10pm kick offs in Spain.

3). Bought an advertising hoarding. Paid £172 for United We Stand to have an advert at Unibond League outfit Trafford FC. We’ve done that since 1996 and they're a great little club, where everyone mucks in.

We did the same at nearby Flixton and even produced a match programme for one of their games against FC United. I gave my time for free and so did many of our writers. It was our way of helping our local football club.

By way of thanks, Flixton knocked the printers for the £800 print bill and I had to pay it out of my own pocket…

4). Got phoned by Aaron Mokoena, captain of South Africa. One of his friends was in Barcelona and wanted to see Barca play in the Super Cup final.

“But Aaron, the game’s in Monaco,” I explained.

“Ah, I didn’t realise.”

Aaron promised that he would inspire Portsmouth to their first league win of the season against Manchester City. I wished him well, but realised it was unlikely to happen.

5). Put FC’s United main man Andy Walsh up for a night. He was in Barcelona with Dave Boyle, the Supporters Direct bigwig.

They had a meeting with the Chief Executive of FC Barcelona – one of the largest fan-owned clubs in the world and, despite many imperfections, still a far better ownership model than what is becoming the norm in the Premier League.

Their meeting at Camp Nou went well. It was the first time I’d met Boyle and he’s sharp. It was also interesting to find out that his brother is the actor Liam Boyle, who was the lead in Awaydays with Nicky Bell.

I’ve interviewed Nicky for the next UWS, he's a proper Salford lad and a great actor who had his own milk round until he was jumped by five scallies one morning. He still works in a shoe shop in the Trafford Centre.

On Thursday, I left Walsh two hours before his flight, with clear instructions how to get to the airport – a journey he has made several times. Two hours later he called to say that he had missed his flight back to Manchester.

He claims that he missed the airport train and by the time the next one came, it was too late.

What I suspect really happened was that he thought he had more time than he really had and decided to get a quick protest going, as he hadn’t been on a march for almost a week.

So he got How To Start A Civil Movement (A. Walsh, Stretford Trades and Labour Press, 2005) and sought inspiration.

His book gives you tips of organised protest and within five minutes he’d made a ‘Free Tibet’ flag out of twigs and was marching up and down the Passeig de Gracia singing Manu Chao songs with newfound comrades.

By the time they’d had a chat about global warming and reminisced about the poll tax riots he’d missed his flight. So he spent nine hours in Barcelona airport, doubtless thinking that he was back at Greenham Common.

6). Watched the Champions League draw – trips to Moscow, Istanbul and Wolfsburg. Nice one UEFA for giving United two away games which are difficult to get to and require expensive four-hour-plus flights. Why not send us to Israel, too?

Northern Germany in December sounds like the one, though. I’ve looked at the fixtures and can take in a SV Hamburg home game, followed by Union Berlin in, er, Berlin, before reaching the motor town of Wolfsburg.

It’s a shame that Wolfgang Wolf no longer coaches Wolfsburg.

At least United fans now know where Moscow is. Before the 2008 European Cup final, one posted on our messageboard that he’d found a cheap flight to Russia and wondered if anyone wanted to split the petrol in a hire car to Moscow.

The flights were to Vladivostok, which is as close to Moscow as Manchester is to Sao Paulo...

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Eating cows and washing Wilko's balls

2009-08-27T14:00:00Z

Anderson’s less than spectacular form in a Manchester United shirt may have an explanation.

I was in a Brazilian restaurant in Manchester last Tuesday, taking advantage of their £12 all-you-can-eat lunchtime menu, when the portoalegrense ambled in with Nani.

My publisher had come up from That London for a meeting. How Cockney Media does that sound?

But that’s what happened, so I should report the facts, rather than pretend I was re-enacting scenes from Kes by a disused coal pit.

There was a time when my mates would dismiss anyone I introduced if they happened to work in the media and live in London.

“Cockney Media” was their dismissive put-down and they were appalled when I moved to live in London for a year in 1998.

They spread vicious rumours that I’d starting rollerblading to work (despite me working from home) and drinking coffee sat at a table IN THE STREET!

"What happens when it rains, cocker?"

My dad was just as bad. He refused to come to the capital to see me “in case I get mugged on them trains that go underground.”

I could see where he got it from – grandad hasn’t been to London since going to watch his brother in the 1948 FA Cup final.

He’s suspicious of anyone who doesn’t spend their days in a bookies in Manchester and had a serious word with me after moving to Barcelona.

“You mix with foreigners now don’t you?” he said with a conspirational tone before adding the following advice: “Never trust the Italians - they can’t fight. At least the Germans had a go.”

Grandad swept the Normandy landings in a minesweeper before D-Day and finished the war in Antwerp.

I was once sent there to write a piece and called him from the beautiful main square of Belgium’s second city.

Grandma later told me that he shed a tear as he remembered his mates on the sister ship who hit a mine just outside Antwerp and died – two days before the end of the war.

As it’s impossible to work in the media and not associate with anyone who lives in London, I’ve always tried to be more balanced - in spite of some of the Nathan Barley-type CMs I’ve come across.

You know, the ones who decide that they’re going to be a Manchester United fan and tell their mates in advertising and the city about it for 18 months until they move onto rollerblading, playing Frisbee in Regent’s Park and not eating gravy, or whatever CMs get up to these days.

I’ll never tire of arriving in London, but I’m always happy to leave and I try to arrange meetings which would normally happen in Soho in Manchester.

That’s why my (AFC Wimbledon-supporting) publisher ended up sat with his back to Nani and Anderson, eating cow.

Two years ago, Manchester didn’t have one Brazilian restaurant. Now, thanks to the influx of footballers like Robinho, Elano, Anderson and the Da Silvas, it has four.

You have a little card on your table, which is green on one side and red on the other.

Green means that you want the waiters to keep coming to your table with meat, red that you don’t.

Anderson always gave the green light. Still, it was pleasing to see them left alone to feast because they would have been mobbed in other cities.

The following night, I watched Anderson from the away end at Turf Moor. He was as insipid as most of his team-mates, probably because he still had half a beast in his system.

The Burnley fans, as you would expect, enjoyed beating Manchester United. We were surrounded by three sides of unabated happiness and despite being angered at the United performance, it was hard to begrudge them.

Burnley have an inspiring history and superb support for the size of the town – though they’ve picked up 7,000 glory-hunters for this season.

United fans mocked them by singing: “We’ve got one stand bigger than your ground.”

Not only that, the entire population of the town could fit inside Old Trafford.

"Aye, let the big-city buggers come"

Yet I can remember Burnley taking 40,000 to Wembley in 1988 and another time, driving home from an away game at Derby County.

Burnley, then in the Fourth Division, had played somewhere in the East Midlands, yet there were as many Burnley fans on the road home as United.

The night before the Burnley debacle, I travelled to Merseyside to watch my brother play.

I went with Steve Tobin, who played in the 1992 FA Youth Cup winning side for Leeds United. He also partnered Eric Cantona up front in his first game for Leeds reserves.

“Tobs” regaled me with stories of his time at Leeds.

Howard Wilkinson made him stay behind after training and pick up all the golf balls he’d hit on the training pitch behind Elland Road.

The following day, Wilkinson called to see him, where Tobs finally found him relaxing in the bath.

As a further punishment for being sent off in a youth team game, Wilkinson instructed Tobs to individually wash all the golf balls he'd collected.

Since then, Tobs has enjoyed a decent semi-pro career and he’s just followed our Joz to Prescot Cables.

Joz reckons that Tobs doesn’t bother with pre-season and only decides who he’s going to play for when the season gets underway.

He loves playing with him because he delivers the ball from midfield to his feet rather than eight foot in the air.

Joz scored 32 goals in five months in 2007 thanks to Tobs, and the wily old pair reckon that they can repeat the trick on Merseyside.

Before they know it, City could be back on Merseyside making unwanted advances and putting a £65 million bid for the pair – a million for each year of their combined age.

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Clarets, Cables & round the bend Robbie Savage

2009-08-19T11:00:00Z

I write from Oxford Road in Manchester.

A yonner (someone from one of the former mill towns close to Manchester) has put a big ‘BFC’ flag on an apartment building overlooking Oxford Road train station, whose roof resembles a very poor man’s Sydney Opera House.

More people will see the flag each day than live in Burnley, where United play on Wednesday.

I first noticed it on Saturday before taking a train north to Lancaster to see our Joz play for Prescot Cables.

The train was full of City en-route to Blackburn and there were plenty of police at Bolton station ahead of their game against Sunderland.

There are eight Premier League teams in what used to be Lancashire and if Preston finally come up, teams from within a 40 minute drive of Manchester would make up almost half of the league.

The day before, I was invited into Channel M’s studio to preview the weekend’s football.

They wanted me with my serious football journalist hat on, rather than a Manchester United fanzine editor, and I was asked to offer thoughts on City’s game at Blackburn.

I couldn’t do it.

“Are you seriously asking me to be objective about Manchester City?” I asked the presenter. We moved on to talk about Wigan.

The following morning, the drizzle started just north of Bolton, but it couldn’t curb my excitement for the new season.

I took my fiancee on the promise that Lancaster was a nice city – and it is – but I was eager to get in their Giant Axe ground while she wanted to look at shoe shops.

My brother offered us free tickets, but I’m all for supporting non league clubs, even if the money ultimately goes the same way as at every other level of football – into players’ wage packets.

Joz told me that Lancaster were paying decent money this season, which immediately made them favourites against a Prescot team who are not.

I settled into a seat in the mainstand with a view over Lancaster Castle and the busy west coast rail line.

A man sat nearby and turned to a stranger on the row behind, before saying:

“What do you reckon to Norwich then?”

In any other area of society, that would invoke wild stares, but the stranger replied: “Two games isn’t much for a manager is it?” The pair never spoke again.

The Lancaster match-day programme achieved the honour of not listing a single Prescot player correct - nor a player any of the Prescot lads had even heard of.

Lancaster’s a good club though with a picturesque ground.

It was brightened further by the pastel shades worn by 10 young men who entered the turnstiles four minutes after kick-off, walked through the rain to the back of an uncovered terrace before launching into a chant of “We hate Morecambe and we hate Morecambe.”

Prescot held out until the 45th minute, when Lancaster scored their first of five. It was not pleasant to watch my brother suffer in his rapidly assembled side.

Sunday meant selling a new edition of United We Stand outside Old Trafford. The day I stop buzzing when I receive that freshly printed copy from the printers from will be the day I call UWS a day.

It was also a chance to catch up with so many readers who’ve supported us for so long.

We’re now in our 20th season, but each year I notice the people who sit near me in K Stand change a little – part of football’s often unfortunate gentrification.

For the first time, my season ticket behind the goal will cost more than £1000 including cup matches, should United play a similar number of cup games as in recent seasons.

I listened to Radio 5’s commentary while watching the game and they had Robbie Savage as their guest.

He’s off his head. He couldn’t pronounce several Birmingham players, referred to United as ‘Man U’ and was as inarticulate as a Geordie toddler scoffing chips and cheese.

So why was it such compulsive listening?

He also told listeners that he’d seen Patrice Evra on the next sun lounger at the luxurious Sandy Lane hotel in Barbados, that he had a bigger garden than his Prestbury neighbour Alan Green and talked the commentator into comparing Cameron Jerome… with Karren Brady.

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The Che Guevara of Stretford & the non-league gypsy

2009-08-12T11:00:00Z

August is no month for holidays when you write about football for a living.

I’ve done several interviews with players for a variety of publications, finished my next book and completed the first United We Stand of the season.

With the help of others, the new UWS website is also ready to launch after the Rivals/Sky debacle.

Two people who made their name as football fan activists were separately in Barcelona last weekend.

Kev Miles, who now runs the Football Supporters Federation called, but we couldn’t meet. I did see Andy Walsh for a beer though. He’s the full time chairman at FC United of Manchester, a role which is part chairman, part community social worker because he’s a good listener.

Walsh’s job is 24/7 and he’s lucky to have a supportive family behind him.

Walsh and Miles serve the interests of football fans far better than, say, an American family who own Manchester United and now oversee a club whose season tickets are as expensive as those at Stamford Bridge.

People have mixed Walsh and I up for years. A typically angry radio phone-in fool once rang 606 and slaughtered me. Except the caller meant Walsh.

Walsh, the Che Guevara of Stretford, confirmed that people still take him to task… for articles that I’ve written.

I wonder if the golfer Colin Montgomery gets questioned about his role in Alamein or the D-Day landings?

Walsh has been working hard to make sure that FC United have their own ground within the City of Manchester, and while it’s been a hard slog, they’re getting there and hope to move in a couple of years.

FC are currently paying Bury around £80,000 a year to use Gigg Lane, and while the rebel club are not everyone’s cup of tea, they’ve proved detractors wrong who thought that they wouldn’t last and average home crowds of 2,000.

Their away following is significant and they regularly take 6-700 – about the same as Preston North End.

FC will start this season in the Unibond Premier League, the same as last year after three successive promotions before that.

I’m going to watch my first competitive game of the season in the Unibond League this Saturday – Lancaster City vs Prescot Cables.

My brother Jonathan, aka the 'non-league gypsy' after playing for just about every club in Greater Manchester, has now moved to Merseyside based Prescot Cables.

A big centre-forward and semi-pro veteran at 32, he’s started all seven pre-season games in a team of shaven headed young Scousers.

He’s enjoyed it and the fans like him. It’s been interesting watching their reaction to him because, by his own admission, his languid approach divides fans in a Dimitar Berbatov style.

But some have really taken to him and are raising money to sponsor him. He’s got himself fitter than he’s been for years and has lost a stone and half in the last month.

He called last night to say that he’s shaving his hair off. I assumed that it was to fit in with the Scouse scallies he’ll play alongside.

“Nah, it’s the start of the season. I always shave my hair.”

Still, he knows it will be a struggle. Prescot, from a town of 11,000 eight miles east of Liverpool, were relegated last season and money is tight.

Their squad has been assembled from scratch over the summer, but they appear to have a good team spirit, are getting stronger and have enjoyed some encouraging pre-season results.

On Sunday I’ll watch Manchester United vs Birmingham at Old Trafford, then the Spanish Super Cup first leg between Barca and Athletic Bilbao.

I’m the Spanish football correspondent for The National, which is based in Abu Dhabi. It’s a great paper and their appetite for football is voracious - they want four pieces a week from me this season.

After that, I’ll take another game, hopefully to see my mate Arnau Riera at his new club. A man called Sven Goran Eriksson has been trying to sign him.

On Wednesday, it’s Burnley vs United and Wigan vs United next Saturday before I fly straight back to Barcelona to make the kick-off for the second leg of the Spanish Super Cup.

With games in Spain kicking off at 10pm, at least I’ll have time to make kick-off...

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Barca & Espanyol unite to honour Jarque

2009-08-10T15:00:00Z

When I wrote the blog about Espanyol last week, I didn’t think I’d be writing my next one about the white and blues as well.

Espanyol are Barcelona’s second club, forever patronized by the media. They can’t and don’t try to compete with the world famous Barca juggernaut.

Their trophy cabinet holds just four domestic cups won in 1929, 1940, 2000 and 2006 – though they reached the 2007 UEFA Cup final and they are sixth in the respected all-time Spanish league table behind Real Madrid, Barcelona, Athletic Bilbao, Valencia and Atletico Madrid.

Espanyol are a proud club, but they’re the mouse who shares the room with the Barca elephant.

Espanyol have appeared in European finals before and seen the news relegated to the inside pages because Johan Cruyff sneezing at the Camp Nou was deemed more newsworthy.

Johan prepares to make headline news...

In 1988, Espanyol reached the UEFA Cup final, beating three former European champions en route including the Milan of Gullit and Van Basten.

In the first leg they beat Bayer Leverkusen 3-0. Sport, one of the two main Catalan sport dailies, printed a picture of Barca coach Cruyff on their front page the following day, with Espanyol’s achievements relegated inside.

When a team can’t make the front page of a sports paper in their home city after taking a 3-0 lead in a European final, you can understand any paranoia from Espanyol fans.

It will give their many fans no pleasure whatsoever that Espanyol are on the front pages today after their captain Dani Jarque died of a heart attack on Saturday night.

The first I knew was when I bumped into a lad in the street at midnight in Barcelona.

He’s an Espanyol season ticket holder and he was stunned as he said: "Jarque’s dead."

The lad is also a heavyweight boxer who hails from Belfast, a hard man who has been seduced by the little birds who wear blue and white.

Espanyol get under the skin of their followers like that.

The story is horrific. Jarque was on the phone to his girlfriend, who is seven months pregnant, from a hotel room near Florence.

Espanyol were playing a pre-season tour in Italy, with optimism at the club higher than I have ever known.

Jarque then suffered a heart attack and died. His desperate girlfriend raised the alarm, but club doctors and Italian paramedics were unable to revive him.

Jarque brought great pleasure to many, leading a brilliant life whose crowning glory came less than a week before he died.

Newly installed as Espanyol captain, he led his team-mates out in their new stadium in front of 40,000 emotional fans for a friendly against Liverpool.

They’ve waited 12 years to return to a home of their own, but the wait appeared worth it and the atmosphere was incredible.

Born and raised in the nearby barrio of Sant Boi, Jarque joined Espanyol at 12. He made his first team debut aged 19 in 2002, the same year he was a European champion with Spain’s U19 side.

He was held as an example to Espanyol’s youth players that they could reach the first team and enjoy the success of Jarque, who was part of the team which won the Copa Del Ray in 2006 and reached the UEFA Cup final.

He was made club captain only weeks ago, replacing club hero Raul Tamudo as Espanyol sought a fresh direction in their new home.

Espanyol are in shock. "The players are destroyed," said club director German de la Cruz. "One minute he was there with them, and the next he’s gone. It’s terrible."

Rivals and neighbours Barcelona have been exceptional in their conduct.

Andres Iniesta played in the same Spain team as Jarque and they are friends. Many played with him for the Catalan national side.

While Joseph Guardiola and president Joan Laporta offered heartfelt condolences and Captain Puyol rang his former Barca team-mate and current Espanyol star Ivan de la Pena to convey the sorrow from the Barca camp.

Barca also wore black armbands as a mark of tribute in their friendly game in San Francisco yesterday.

Jarque’s death comes nearly two years after Seville’s Antonio Puerta died due to heart failure three days after collapsing during a Primera Liga match against Getafe.

Barcelona all sport 'Puerta' Sevilla shirts in 2007

After the tributes, there will be more questions about why an ultra fit athlete died in his physical prime.

Cameroon midfielder Marc-Vivien Foe, Benfica striker Miklus Feher and Motherwell midfielder Phil O’Donnell also died because of heart failure and Real Madrid’s Ruben de la Red will not play this season because of a heart condition.

A shattered Espanyol will go on.

As the tributes grow by gate 21 at the new stadium (Jarque’s shirt number), there are understandable calls for their new home to take his name.

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Espanyol fans finally have home of their own

2009-08-04T11:00:00Z

Espanyol opened their new stadium on Sunday night with a friendly game against last season’s Premier League runners up.

Like many clubs, Espanyol’s support is one of contrasts.

I sat on the metro to the ground surrounded by monied fathers in Ralph Lauren shirts and loafers proudly taking their young sons to a stadium their club could finally call home.

Upon leaving the metro, few knew the right direction and I followed the crowd the wrong way until were stood outside a bar where young, drunk, Espanyol extremists spewed fascist bile.

Leggy dancers christen the Cornella

The bars in the Cornella, the working class barrio on the southern fringe of Barcelona in which the 40,000 capacity stadium has been constructed, can’t believe their luck.

I saw one flustered bar owner unload his little SEAT with fresh supplies of beer. He’ll get around 25 bites of that cherry each year.

Emotion and happiness cursed in the summer sun as bemused locals watched the stadium fill from their balconies. Espanyol reluctantly left their Sarria home in 1997 and were tenants in the unloved Olympic Stadium on the hill of Montjuic until now.

With its windswept open stands and running track, Montjuic could be a lonely place with as few as 14,000 fans rattling around the 55,000 seats.

At Cornella, fans were hugging each over and shouting, ‘we’re home, at last.’

There were numerous anti-Barca chants and the feeling’s mutual. I stood on Rome’s Spanish Steps before the European Cup fans as hardcore Barca chanted anti-Espanyol (and Guti) songs.

Once inside the fine structure, Espanyol president Daniel Sanchez Llibre was applauded by fans who appreciate his efforts moving the club to a home of their own.

Llibre is trusted by fans – a long time supporter with the best interests of the club at heart, as opposed to say, an American speculator who knows the price of everything and the value of nothing.

As the festivities continued, a section of turf from Sarria was inserted into the new pitch, another from Montjuic.

Leggy dancers were suspended from the white roof girders and the great and good of Catalonia made speeches to more applause.

The game started with a match against an English team called Liverpool Football Club, who had more players who spoke Spanish as their first language than English.

In fact just three spoke English as their mother tongue: Carragher, Gerrard and Johnson.

An impressive away following of 900 Liverpool fans made the journey in the 40,000 sell-out crowd, bringing with them flags which bore legends like ‘ We Came We Saw We Conquered’ (with five European Cups) ‘Liverpool FC The Road End’ ‘The Globe Ratpack’ and ‘Gerrard Was Nine When We Last Won the League.’

Perhaps I was imagining the last one.

...and in the red corner

The Espanyol fans applauded Liverpool fans singing ‘You’ll Never Walk Alone’ before Luis Garcia (the one who plays for Espanyol and not the one who somehow owns a European Cup winners’ medal from 2005), scored the stadium’s first goal, prompting the crowd to do Mexican waves and make a din not heard since Sarria.

Up in the press box, a phalanx of Japanese journalists wired news of Shunsuke Nakamura’s every breath back to Tokyo and made approving noises about Espanyol as they won 3-0.

Liverpool’s players trudged off to the dressing room, with Jamie Carragher the only one bothering to applaud the away following properly. Some players get it, most don’t. Carragher is one of the few who does.

And Espanyol fans most definitely get their new stadium.

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Pennant and Ibrahimovic already feeling the heat

2009-07-30T11:00:00Z

Jermaine Pennant may be taking advantage of paying far less income tax by playing in Spain, but he will be feeling the heat.

It was 43 degrees in his new home city Zaragoza at the end of last week. Barcelona was almost 38, the hottest day in the city since Mark Hughes and Gary Lineker played for Barca.

New signing Zlatan Ibrahimovic should be careful not to wilt in the Mediterranean sun like many former Barca strikers.

BLOG: How Jermaine Pennant could ruin the Premier League

"It ain't 'alf hot mum..."

I’m just glad that Barca finally signed a striker, for the speculation was becoming as tiresome as the 'Ronaldo leaving Manchester United for Madrid' stories a year ago.

The Catalan sports papers have had a summer of alternating four different potential strikers on their covers.

With the consistency of a Daily Express/Princess Diana story, Sport or Mundo Deportivo would link Barca with David Villa each Monday.

Tuesday was Diego Forlan day, Wednesday was Ibrahimovic. Thursday’s usually went to the latest stage in the Samuel Eto’o saga with Friday’s covers perhaps throwing in Fabregas.

People actually buy this nonsense, however tenuous the stories. David Villa would be spotted in a car with a ‘B’ in the number plate – proof that he was joining Barcelona.

Diego Forlan’s agent might say ‘Barca’ in conversation – proof that he was joining Barca.

Barca themselves have played it very cool in the heat. Pep Guardiola has maintained all along that he’s happy with the base of his squad and that it just needed a bit of tweaking.

Which meant replacing the fiery but brilliant Samuel Eto’o, who scored 130 goals in 199 senior matches for Barca. Had there been a consistently better centre forward in world football in the last five years?

In paying €46 million plus Eto’o for Ibrahimovic, Barca are paying a massive premium for the Swede – not that the 60,000 who turned out to welcome him at Camp Nou on Monday seemed to mind.

And Barca are being slightly hypocritical if they claim that Eto’o was always disruptive. Fans didn’t complain when he called his former club Madrid ‘b*stards.’

As a journalist, I’ll miss Eto’o’s barbs. I interviewed him one-on-one nine times and he never failed to give frank quotes, of which only Roy Keane could rival from the modern game.

In one interview at his home, he flowed with beautiful metaphors and cogent thoughts.

Then I asked him if his brother was in the same league as him – a perfectly reasonable soft question. He looked at me as if I’d just booted his cat, before saying: “Of course he is! He’s my brother.”

Another time, I bumped into him in a Barcelona shop. My brother was visiting and I introduced him, explaining that he played for FC United of Manchester.

“Yes, Manchester United, I know that team,” replied Eto’o, while shaking my brother’s hand. It wasn’t the place to explain the Glazer takeover.

While Barca tried to sell him, Eto’o recently took off to the footballers’ favourite American bolthole of South Beach, Miami.

Wes Brown once bumped into Paulo Maldini in the reception of the Delano there, but was too star struck to speak to him. Fortunately, Maldini and his beautiful wife (well, she was hardly going to be minging was she?) came over and they had a chat.

It’s the Spanish coast rather than Miami where most of Spain retreats to in the summer, while Barca and Madrid are fond of training camps in the cooler climes of Great Britain and Ireland. Barca have started their pre-season in Britain during five of the last six seasons.

I was fortunate to see the huge indie music festival at Benicassim, a seaside town where most of the Villarreal players live close to Valencia.

The organisers and around half the 50,000 crowd were British, but there were few football shirts in evidence.

I did see an Asturian man in a Sporting Gijon shirt pour me cider out of a David Villa bottle holder though.

"What'll it be stranger..."

Villa and Fernando Alonso are the most popular men in the green fields of Asturias, though Villa’s probably currently annoyed that he’s still at Valencia.

Oasis played alongside the The Killers, Franz Ferdinand, Elbow and many more. I watched as Liam and Noel left their changing rooms and a few people shouted ‘City!’

They nodded approvingly, though they looked confused when a Spanish lad shouted, ‘City’s going down like a sinking submarine…’

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Call girls, mad cows & book signing embarrassment

2009-07-23T11:00:00Z

I’m normally on a pre-season tour this time of year, but I’ve got a book to finish and have spent enough time on the road so far this year.

Instead of watching Manchester United’s pre-season tour of Malaysia, Indonesia, South Korea and China, I’ve been writing - as well as watching the outstanding Bradley Wiggins leave Lance Armstrong on the mountain to Verbier and the indefatigable Andrew Flintoff leave Lords to unanimous applause.

Seeing United in different places is a buzz and Indonesia would have been interesting, except the bombs in Jakarta saw the game cancelled.

I was in Jakarta, the world’s sixth biggest metropolis, a decade ago with a mate en route to United’s pre-season in Australia.

It was a rum place and it seemed that everyone was trying to rip us off. We succumbed to what we thought would be the tourist safety of Hard Rock café and walked in to see it full of stunning girls. Prostitutes.

We felt like American GI’s on an R&R in Bangkok as we tensely ate chicken wings while explaining that we had girlfriends.

The next day, we decided to get an overnight train to Bali and bought tickets at Jakarta’s main train station.

As we waited in the cloying heat for the train, a man approached us and started having a go in perfect English because England had brought ‘mad cows’ to the world.

The train was like that scene from Borat where he lets his chicken out on the New York subway. Everyone stared at us, wondering what two westerners were doing on a trans Javan rattler.

It was unnerving and the thought of sleeping around the curious eyes of locals and locusts did us. Already jet lagged, we got off the train, took a taxi to the airport and a night flight to Bali.

Our luggage failed to join us so we went into the Sari Club, which was bombed in 2002 with the loss of more than 202 lives.

My mate drank rice wine and spent the rest of the night having an imaginary fight with Ronan Keating. Don’t drink rice wine.

We took a bus to Lombok, saw a local in a rice field wearing a Manchester United shirt with ‘Poborsky’ on it, passed through areas of high sectarian tension in Lombok and got a little boat to the Gilli islands.

The other passengers on the boat were three girls… from Salford.

We met an Australian lad who was carrying a didgeridoo and a surfboard. He was on the first stage of a five year world tour and turned up in Manchester months later, so we took him to watch my brother play against Burton Albion in the FA Trophy.

The Australian had never seen a football game before, but he was caught up in the moment of Trafford’s surprise equaliser and stood on a crush barrier, taunting the Burton fans and singing ‘We’ll Support You Ever More.’

I don’t think he’s been to a football game since.

Ten of the 11 chapters of the book – around 90,000 words - are written and I’ve just got Lee Martin to finish.

The man who scored the winner in the 1990 FA Cup final is taking a day off work on Friday to go through everything.

I’ve done in-depth interviews with Jesper Blomqvist, Paul Parker, Nicky Butt, Lee Sharpe, Eric Cantona, Gary Pallister, David May, Andrew Cole, Jordi Cruyff and former chairman Martin Edwards, who doesn’t make a habit of doing interviews.

I’ll spend this week writing the introduction and then the publishers will employ a reader, let their legal people spit their coffee out when they read some of the content and start designing the book.

The publishers have been hard at work promoting within the trade and are delighted that Waterstone’s are including it on their list for Christmas promotions.

That means it will be in every Waterstone’s in the country on a table at the front. I’ve never had that with any of my previous books, so let’s see.

Then there will be some book signings. You never forget your first.

I did one to promote the Rough Guide to Man United in the Trafford Centre in 2001. We sold 40 in two hours and I reckon 30 of them were mates of my mum.

People were walking past thinking ‘who the **** is that?’ David and Victoria Beckham were floating about, so they were soon sated in their desire for celebrity.

To make things worse, the shop manager had reassured me that everything would be alright beforehand by saying, ‘you’ll be fine, we had Daniel O’Donnell here last week and they were queuing around the block.’

They weren’t even queuing around my table.

The book signing for We’re the Famous Man United’ went better. They was actually a queue of people… but then I had Frank Stapleton alongside me for an hour and we never stopped signing.

I was going to spend this blog writing about the Benicassim music festival, but we’re at 750 words now so that can wait until next time and stories of Liam Gallagher and Villarreal…

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Sky keep schtum on rapid Rivals ruin

2009-07-14T08:00:00Z

Here’s a story that you won’t have seen on Sky Sports News in the last few weeks.

The channel which claims to keep fans fully informed and employs pretty presenters to deliver cutting edge news from the condition of the lawnmower blades at Hartlepool to opinions on Ronaldo’s new car by a bloke who once used the same airport as the Portuguese winger.

Two weeks ago, without any warning whatsoever, Sky closed their Rivals.net online football community. The news didn’t flash across the bottom of the screen in lurid yellow, because it would have caused them embarrassment.

They didn’t hype it up and invent a name like ‘Web Crash Thursday’ - to be read out by a man with a deep voice between adverts for loan companies in Dewsbury. They did nothing.

"BREAKING NEWS! The autocues are broken!"

Since 2000, Rivals/Sky had hosted fan sites for all 92 clubs, including the website of our own United We Stand.

I remember the first meeting with Rivals at a hotel in Manchester, during that first flush of enthusiasm for all things online. Free drinks were offered and the editor of the Rochdale site, who was clearly coming to terms with this t’internet lark, drank so many that he fell off his chair.

Rivals was then owned by the Chrysalis media group, but when it didn’t meet their financial expectations, ownership was passed to the 365 group. They cut costs by shifting the backroom staff to Cape Town.

The servers were sometimes painfully slow, the message board design clunky and there was much room for improvement. But some sites, like UWS and Everton’s When Skies Are Grey, were extremely popular.

Over the days that the Glazer takeover was announced in May 2005, our site had 320,000 hits.

Our priority has always been the printed edition, but Rivals/Sky paid us a bit each month (well, they were supposed to but their administration was frequently less than efficient) and I used that money to pay red writers for original content.

In turn, they used that money to buy match tickets and travel to games. Not that Sky has much consideration for fans who actually go to matches.

Sky blamed Rivals' poor commercial performance for their decision. Fine, that’s business and there’s plenty of others trying to work out how not to lose money from the web.

But could they not have given even a day’s notice so that we and the 91 other publishers could inform our readers who have been with us for nine years?

Instead, visitors to any of the sites were met with the poorly phrased message ‘Rivals.net is currently unavailable’. And they had no idea why.

"Huh? Unavailable?"

My inbox was full of readers complaining that they couldn’t access the website.

We set up a new temporary message board and many of our regulars soon figured out how to find us. And about a week after they’d cut us off, Sky finally redirected our web address.

Thankfully, most of the persistent spammers offering Xboxes for a pound and the low life terminal abusers with user names likes ‘Munich58’ and ‘DuncanEdwardsisdead’ have yet to come across to our online refugee camp.

If they do, they’ll be no Red Cross waiting to greet them, but plenty of cross reds.

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Anfield man's arrival splits Old Trafford opinion

2009-07-10T07:00:00Z

In 1989, Real Sociedad had only used Basque players in the modern era. Those which hadn’t been snared by neighbour Athletic Bilbao were not deemed good enough to play for La Real.

The club had a meeting and decided to break with tradition and buy a goalscorer. Basque nationalism dictated that the outsider could not be a Spaniard, so they chose a Scouser: John Aldridge.

Aldridge didn’t want to leave a classy Liverpool side, had no idea where Sociedad were from and didn’t appreciate the significance of being Sociedad’s first non-Basque player for over three decades.

'Ald-rigger' in Sociedad attire

“I’d been told that they mistrusted outsiders and that you had to be Basque to fully be accepted but I wasn’t aware of the importance at all,” he stated.

“I could see my name in graffiti around the town, but couldn’t understand the Basque words around it. When I asked somebody what it meant they got a bit embarrassed. It said: ‘No outsiders welcome here’.”

One man stopped him in the street. “Ald-rigger,” he snarled, mispronouncing his name. The moustachioed goalscorer waited for him to complete his sentence but he simply spat on the ground.

A few weeks later, despite complaining of “the sh*ts,” Aldridge scored twice for Sociedad in the Camp Nou. The fans decided that foreigners weren’t so bad after all and he bagged 22 goals that season.

Dalian Atkinson and Kevin Richardson duly moved to the wonderful city of San Sebastian, where Sociedad play. And when Aldridge left, there were protests in the streets.

It’s one example of fans being feckless hypocrites.

Alan Smith was hated by Manchester United fans when he played for Leeds. He was considered a badge kissing, Vimto lipped Yorkshire *******.

There were stories of him flicking the vees up at United fans on the M62 - after admittedly being provoked to do so.

Then he signed for United. And worked hard on and off the field. Smith became reasonably popular.

Smudge kisses the badge on his chest etc...

Many Manchester United fans are outraged about the signing of Michael Owen. Two weeks ago he was a rat eating Scouse ****. His glossy brochure and downfall was sneered at.

Last Friday he signed for United, provoking a huge and far-from-favourable reaction.

I’ve read one disgusted fan offering his recently purchased season tickets for sale at a 20 percent discount because of Owen’s arrival.

And while message boards don’t accurately reflect reality, there are plenty of sane United match-going fans with serious reservations.

One United We Stand contributor told me that while Michael Owen might get 25 goals a season, he’ll never be a United player.

Another said: ‘Hmmm, not sure about this one.’

Owen played for Liverpool. He was a hero on the then McDonald’s sponsored Kop. He nearly decapitated Ronny Johnsen. He gambled with abandon.

At Madrid, he learnt no Spanish, while the anything-but-Oxbridge-bright Jonathan Woodgate made the successful effort to slip into local life by learning the language.

"What's he on about Woody?"

Now, Owen’s signed for the club I support. And, in football terms, I can see that it might be a Ferguson masterstroke, a small gamble for a potentially great return.

Football’s all that concerns Ferguson, who has liked Owen since he first saw him as a kid. Probably in the bookies.

I left an interview with David Gill in Tokyo four years ago convinced that United were about to sign Owen. It didn’t happen, but Ferguson’s followed his progress. Or lack of it.

Ferguson also has no time for the hostilities of fan culture. He saw the damage that sectarianism did to football in the west of Scotland and despises what he considers bigotry.

He doesn’t like United fans singing songs against Liverpool, Leeds or Manchester City.

He also doesn’t like being told who he should and should not sign. And if he did listen, where should he draw the limits?

Not sign Southerners, Yorkshiremen, former players from Liverpool, City, Leeds, Arsenal, Chelsea or Stoke?

Or should he avoid signing tools? From my 90s United book, it seems that while Peter Schmeichel was considered the best goalkeeper in the world… he was also seen as being, well, a bit different.

"Look, I don't care who he is. If he can score, he's in"

Professional footballers see things totally different from fans. They spend the Saturdays of their youth, not on coaches to away games, but on municipal playing fields and in academies.

They don’t really hate rivals – though there are a few exceptions.

If Owen scores against Liverpool and celebrates like a happy Smurf, many United fans will be all over him like a bad rash.

He’ll be briefed to say the right things. If he’s lucky he’ll get a decent song.

And if he doesn’t, then he’ll remain a rat eating Scouse **** (who’s not actually a Scouser) with a child’s voice.

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United fans won't panic despite loss of prize pair

2009-07-02T11:00:00Z

Manchester United have lost two of their best players in Cristiano Ronaldo and Carlos Tevez.

But there has been no hysterical reactions from fans. More new signings like Antonio Valencia would be welcomed, but there isn’t panic on the streets of Denton, Didsbury or Moss Side.

Sir Alex Ferguson has built up such a vast bank of credit that fans would look foolish if they started questioning the playing side of the club.

Ferguson had continually proved doubters wrong and the obdurate Glaswegian would gain great satisfaction from doing it again.

United are linked with big names every day, dull agent-led talk. Papers believe it whets fans’ appetites and expectations, but such is the unreliability it merely grates.

United fans have wasted too much time in past summers fretting about whether Alan Shearer would arrive or Ronaldo would leave.

Most have learned to know better and trust the manager. He knows best and he’ll bring in who he thinks is right for the club.

"Well if you're going..."

He’s more likely to identify young emerging talents than go for the franchise-style players Real Madrid are distorting the market for.

Ferguson’s obsession is winning football matches, not pumping up expectations, creating illusions and grand egotistical projects.

Ronaldo wanted to leave, something his team mates and manager knew well. He was an outstanding talent in his six years at Old Trafford.

But like for most players from south of Marseille, Real Madrid and Barcelona have a far bigger pull than United or Liverpool, just as the two English giants have a bigger sway in Scandinavia.

Ronaldo’s left one club which has had the same manager since 1986 for one which has worked through eight coaches in five years.

Madrid’s new coach, Manuel Pellegrini, is top level, but he won’t have the control of Ferguson and I’m sure Ronaldo will miss the stability and discipline which Ferguson offers.

Ronaldo will also be closer to home. Manchester to Madeira takes 10 hours allowing for the two necessary connections. From Madrid it’s half that.

One significant factor about the move is that it is the first time since Mark Hughes left Old Trafford for Barcelona in 1986 that United have lost a player they wanted to keep. The first time Ferguson has lost a player he wanted to stay.

Beckham and Van Nistelrooy both left for the Bernabéu when Ferguson decided they weren’t in his plans. Ronaldo was, but what was the point of keeping a player who didn’t want to be there?

Ronaldo also had a point when he said he wanted a fresh challenge. He’s won everything there is to win at Old Trafford and can see great opportunities to make his mark in Madrid.

He’s gone and Ferguson will have access to the larger part of the £80 million fee to compensate for the rejection.

"Savour the moment Ruud... it'll be your last"

History will remember Ronaldo as a great United player. His self-confidence could be misplaced for arrogance, his posturing pretention, but if you wanted a player to score a key goal in Rome or Oporto, he was the man.

United fans have idolised Bryan Robson, Roy Keane, David Beckham and Eric Cantona, but the wider footballing community always denied these United heroes the ultimate accolade.

Ronaldo achieved that when he was voted European Player of the Year for 2008. The Madeiran thus did something that no United player has managed since George Best 40 years ago.

We’d be bitter not to wish him well, but it’s in Sir Alex Ferguson, not Cristiano Ronaldo, that United fans trust.

Jordi Cruyff always said that when he played for Manchester United he felt like he was the tail of an elephant. Whereas when he played at Alaves or Celta Vigo he felt like the head.

Carlos Tevez was not satisfied with being a leg which never stopped moving and kicking, so he’ll move to be the *rse of a big white (and laser blue) elephant.

I liked Tevez. I interviewed him in Durban last summer and he was sound. He was United’s man of the match in Moscow against Chelsea, but what matters is Ferguson’s opinion.

If he doesn’t think that he’s worth the fee, he knows the market better than any supporter.

He’s made unpopular decisions before, like selling Norman Whiteside, Paul McGrath, Paul Ince, Mark Hughes, Andrei Kanchelskis and Jaap Stam. He’s usually been vindicated.

Backed by a now finely honed scouting team, Ferguson has consistently identified the right talents and rebuilt United teams without anyone having the time to pause and talk about transition.

From emerging but established players such as Patrice Evra, Anderson and Ronaldo himself, to scores of youngsters from Paul Scholes to Federico Macheda, Ferguson gets it right.

"I love it when a plan comes together"

Others will follow and there’s far more satisfaction in watching a player develop and thrive under Ferguson than seeing top name internationals like Juan Sebastian Veron or Laurent Blanc perform sporadically.

A Spanish friend spoke to Rafa Benitez several years ago. In private, Benitez had correctly identified a player who he thought would become the best centre half in Europe, but Liverpool were reluctant to sanction the funds to buy him.

He was called Nemanja Vidic.

It’s in that market, not the tabloid market, which Ferguson will be currently working hard.

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Bouncing Barca & the symptoms of success

2009-06-24T11:00:00Z

Barcelona’s a happy city.

Flags celebrating the treble hang from sunny apartment balconies and news kiosks sell special edition magazines celebrating Barca’s triumph.

A cake shop round the corner is selling treble edition cakes in Barca’s colours and a place which usually specialises in stamps is flogging little silver badges encompassing all three trophies for €25 a go.

"Wanna buy a badge?"

Barca’s five city centre merchandise stores are packed with tourists. The Catalans still look up to Manchester United as their merchandise role model, but Manchester doesn’t receive enough tourists to justify United shops in the city centre.

Real Madrid may be making the headlines with their new signings, but even if they bagged Pele, Maradona and Finch it wouldn’t wipe the smiles off Barca’s faces.

It’s their summer and they deserve it, yet given that Barca’s success came at United’s expense, I’m uneasy about it all.

It’s also unusual that it was only a year ago that most Barca fans wanted their president Joan Laporta out.

I saw two very visible demonstrations against Laporta outside the main stand last year.

As recently as October, there was huge political infighting at Barca and key resignations because of him.

And now? The former lawyer and fan activist spent yesterday high-fiving at a launch for a book about him before launching a new section in Barca’s museum dedicated to their treble.

Another person with a slender and poorly printed hagiography to his name is the brilliant Pep Guardiola.

You won’t find many people prepared to admit it now, but lots questioned the decision to install Guardiola as coach last summer. The talk before Barca’s Champions League home game against Sporting in the autumn focussed firmly on Guardiola’s precarious position.

Success has changed everything, which shows how fickle some football fans are.

Xavi spares Pep the sack in September

I’ve encountered gloating ‘Barca’ fans who wouldn’t know their way around the Camp Nou any better than a campsite at Glastonbury.

Most of my mates who support United went to Rome – ticket or not. About half of them got in to the Stadio Olimpico.

Most who support Barca didn’t travel, but they’ve got some cracking excuses why they didn’t.

I did feel for one whom I met on Sunday though. He went on a coach from Girona to Rome and took enough food for two days.

Italian police arrested him for carrying a knife used to cut Catalan sausage and he missed the match.

I can respect those Barca fans I know who actually watch their team and as a United fan I shouldn’t be surprised about the symptoms of success.

Success attracts kids (the number of Barca socios under 15 has shot up by 34 percent in the last month) and the armchair fanatic. Manchester United fans know that more than anyone.

I could always understand why United were so loathed around the country.

A Plymouth fan once told me that he’d watch Argyle home and away. He’d return to his local pub after a fruitless trip to Huddersfield or Hull, to be met by a smug tool in the latest garish replica shirt sat at the bar gloating about how “we beat Liverpool today.”

The bar-room bore had never been to Old Trafford. Wouldn’t you hate Manchester United fans if that was your only interaction with them?

When you are introduced as a United fan, conversations often follow a dreary and predictable pattern, usually starting with the fact myth that no United fans come from Manchester.

To avoid drowning in such soporific dullness, you don’t advertise which team you support when meeting people in social company.

Friends who watch United home and away wouldn’t dream of wearing the club's colours because the identity of the shirt has been stripped and because it attracts tools.

I was one of 18 United fans in Saudi Arabia last year and not one wore red.

"Sing when we're winning etc..."

And United doesn’t bring out the best in people.

I once came back from Leverkusen having seen United fail to reach the 2002 European Cup final to run into a work colleague of an ex at a party.

He was a corporate type and actually laughed at me for going “all the way to Germany to see Man U lose a football match.”

I just smiled and later saw him stood in the kitchen pouring his heart out to another dullard, wondering out loud why no girls would date him.

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Filming with The King & drinking with The Axe

2009-06-20T09:00:00Z

I flew back to Barcelona last weekend and saw lots of Tenerife fans at the airport.

They’ve had a great season in Spain’s second division and were playing their penultimate game at Catalan side Girona.

I spent time in Tenerife writing about their derby with Las Palmas two years ago so I’ve always watched out for their results.

After beating Girona to confirm promotion, those fans who didn’t make the three hour flight to Catalonia flooded onto the streets of island’s capital Santa Cruz – 200,000 of them – to celebrate.

Tenerife have a significant British ex-pat following who are delighted their team is playing Barcelona and Real Madrid next season, rather than Cordoba and Castellon.

Tenerife: Back in the big league

Tony Kempster passed away last week after a battle with cancer.

For more than a decade, Kempster ran a brilliant, predominantly non-league website, from his home in York.

If you needed to find out what the average crowds were at Old Trafford or Trafford and compare them with previous seasons, the distance between Barrow and Eastbourne or the ground grading requirements for clubs hoping to play in the Spartan South Midlands league, Kempster’s website was an anorak’s trove of results, attendances and graphs.

Kempster did the site as a labour of love in his retirement and in recent years started to receive the recognition he deserved, with the Football Supporters Federation awarding him their annual Services to Supporters award.

Rest in peace.

I’ve watched a bit of the Confederations Cup from South Africa. Standards and interest levels of the competing teams vary.

Against Egypt, Brazil’s defence look like they’d never played together before, their attack like they could damage any defence in the World Cup next season.

I was especially keen to watch South Africa for I know Aaron Mokoena, the South Africa captain, who lived in Manchester for four years until joining Portsmouth recently.

"Out of the way please David, there's a good chap"

I received a phone call from ‘The Axe’ on the day he left Blackburn recently, with an invite to go out for a beer to celebrate his transfer to the south coast.

Wolves were also interested in him. Aaron left because he wanted to play more football in what will be a very important season for him, concluding with the World Cup finals.

He’s also set up a foundation in his own name, explaining: “Ever since turning professional at the age of 17 I have dreamed that one day I will give something back to the roots that helped me develop my skills as a footballer.”

Aaron’s a good lad, and he’s confident that his country will stage a great World Cup next year.

I watched ‘Looking for Eric’ in Manchester and really enjoyed it. I’ve been a fan of Ken Loach’s work since seeing Kes.

Raining Stones is one of his best works, though the tone of the Cantona film is far lighter and it’s peppered with moments of humour.

We were asked to help find extras for the film last summer, so there’s lots of familiar faces throughout, all of whom loved the experience of filming with King Cantona.

I paid for my season ticket at Old Trafford on Sunday. I’ve held one in K Stand behind the goal since 1991, after transferring from the Stretford End.

My first one in the Stretford End cost £38 in 1987, the first adult one in K Stand £110 (£5.70 a game).

It cost £684 to renew (£36 a game) for next season.

Most cup games will be a further £36, with prices rising up to £46 a ticket should United reach the Champions League semi-final.

An equivalent season ticket at Barcelona (where I don’t pay as I work from the press box) would cost 40 percent less…

If United’s price rises continue at the same rate, I’ll be paying over £4,000 per season just to see league matches at Old Trafford in 2026.

"I wonder if the cheque has cleared yet..."

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What happened when the clock struck 'Ronaldo'

2009-06-16T07:00:00Z

It happens three or four times a year.

A major story involving Manchester United which ensures that my phone rings continuously day and night. If there’s a Spanish angle then it’s even busier.

Last Thursday was one such day.

I had a demanding but manageable two days ahead, in which I’d booked to fly to Manchester to see various people. I was happy because we’d put the final United We Stand of the season to bed and the post European Cup final furore had finally died down.

Meetings ahead included one with a publisher from Rough Guides in London as I’ll edit the next edition of The Rough Guide to Cult Football. I’m looking forward to getting stuck into that in August and intend to assemble a team of quality contributors.

Anyway, I left home at 10:00, took a metro and then the airport train at 10:30.

At that precise moment, United’s website published a story that the club had accepted an offer of £80 million from Real Madrid for Cristiano Ronaldo.

Five Live called at 10:32, always right on top of the news and straight to the point. They put me live through to Nicky Campbell in the studio, which would have been fine if the train wasn’t entering a large tunnel near Camp Nou.

The reception was lost, but they called straight back and went to air.

"Hello? Andy? Can you hear me? Sh*t"

Sky called, from the UK and Sydney. I then switched off my Spanish phone as it started to buzz continuously from Spanish radio stations. There wouldn’t be enough time for all.

At check-in, surrounded by people arguing about luggage excess, the BBC World Service called. A patronising posh lady seem surprised that I wasn’t devastated.

“But you are a Man U fan?” she queried after a while. Like many media organisations, she appeared to think that all “footie” fans wore jester hats and had nothing else in their lives.

If they wanted a clown, they would have found plenty outside Old Trafford. In the space of 15 minutes there were calls from The Times, The Independent, and The National in Abu Dhabi.

I gave priority to the latter pair as I work for both frequently. One wanted a 650-word news piece and a 400-word reaction, the Indy wanted 850 words… for Sunday. Phew.

BBC News 24 were next. Could they go on air in 15? They could, but I explained that I was at an airport and that final boarding was in 25 minutes.

After three missed calls and mates texting (sample: “A cheeky bid for Torres now?” Reply: “I doubt it.”) I went through the departure gate and waited in an air bridge as the aircraft boarded.

The pilot signalled to me to get on the plane from his cockpit. I knew one of the air stewardesses and explained the situation. She told me not to worry and said she would signal me when it was time to close the doors.

"Oi... are you getting on or what?"

As I listened to News 24’s studio through my phone, they said they’d be with me in one minute. Four minutes late they were still saying “one minute.”

“I’m getting on the plane now,” I replied, “We agreed 11:02 – it’s now 11:09. I have to go. Sorry.” I was put straight through, did the interview and boarded, where I put my laptop out and wrote until we landed in Manchester.

I emailed the pieces at the other end, then switched my phone on and saw there were 17 new messages. I turned it off and went to have a brew with my mum. Priorities and that.

I’d done enough for one day, well, except for an interview with Newstalk in Dublin later that night, delivered from a Holt’s pub in Manchester, where I’d gone with a mate who’d had a similar day.

We’d both spoken to lots of match-going Mancunian United fans throughout the day, yet we ended up sat in front of a group of tools with yonner accents and garish shirts talking about Ronaldo, while proclaiming loudly that there’s no “Man U scum fans from Manchester.”

We’d both talked enough to argue back.

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Cruyff, Van der Sar, Cantona & Scudamore

2009-06-10T09:30:00Z

I met Jordi Cruyff yesterday in Barcelona. The city is not a good place to be for a Manchester United fan and flags celebrating Barça’s treble fluttered outside the bar as we did the second part of a big interview for my next book.

Jordi has a great life story and he’s bright too, though he admits that he was frequently an “a**hole” when he warmed the bench at Manchester United.

Ryan Giggs describes Jordi as the most talented he ever saw in training, but Jordi only realised that talent after leaving United.

"Man, you're good"

Now 35, Jordi will leave for Malta on Friday, where he’s signed a contract to be player/assistant manager for Valletta.

He was telling me about his best friend Roberto Martinez, the next Wigan Athletic manager. Both are Catalan and Roberto was playing at Wigan when Jordi was at Old Trafford.

Roberto helped lift Jordi out of the fog of depression and the pair did university degrees in Manchester to kill those dull afternoons after training.

I received an email from North Carolina, from someone with a theory about Cruyff’s former Dutch team-mate Edwin van der Sar.

The person – or should that be wild conspiracy theorist? - was convinced that United’s goalkeeper had taken a bribe from the Italian mafia not to save Leo Messi’s goal in the European Cup final.

He was deadly serious and his colour-by-numbers detective work referenced the fact that Van der Sar once played for Juventus, who are from Italy - the same country as the Mafia.

He wants me to put it to Van der Sar. Not a chance.

I was incredulous, but he wasn’t alone. We had an email last month from someone who claimed to have inside information that the Premier League were shifting fixtures around to stop Manchester United from winning the title.

The man copied me in on correspondence between him and Richard Scudamore, with one email beginning ‘Dear Scudamore’.

"This correspondent is bonkers"

I’ve been writing a lot about Kaka’s move to Madrid.

Last week, the brilliant Brazilian said the following: “I’ll say it for the last time, the last time, I don’t want to leave Milan. In this period I prefer to remain silent because I don’t want to be misunderstood. To the millions of Milan supporters, I say that I have made my choice. I have said what I want to stay. Leave me in peace, please.”

This week he moved to Madrid.

We’ve also sent the final United We Stand of the season to the printers. Or we were going to, until the printers went bust. We found new printers quickly and everyone grafted to get the edition finished.

To celebrate we’re all going to see Looking For Eric when it opens this week in Manchester at the Cornerhouse, a charitable independent cinema where Cantona escaped from the media hounding him following his Selhurst Park altercation with Mathew Simmonds.

Eric would have escaped from Manchester a lot earlier if what his close mate Jordi Cruyff told me is true…

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A Big Ron, a rude Ronaldo & a gracious Stevie G

2009-06-04T11:00:00Z

From Pisa to sunny Manchester and a night in the northern metropolis, before taking a train down to London for the Football Writers’ Association annual dinner.

A once horrendous train journey has become a joy thanks to the excellent Virgin trains. Travel out of hours and you get some great deals.

I was kindly invited by my next publishers, two match-going AFC Wimbledon fans who are delighted with their progress and imminent Blue Square Premier debut.

The dinner was at the Royal Lancaster and we arranged to meet in a pub nearby.

“We’re at the bar, behind Big Ron,” texted a publisher. Ron Atkinson was there, chatting with different sports journalists, his presence formidable.

The biggest shock for me at the dinner wasn’t seeing Steven Gerrard nominated, but Steve Bates (see previous blog) sat in between Gerrard and Fabio Capello.

Capello spoke warmly in English and giggled along to a comedian he clearly didn’t fully understand. He even laughed at a story about Belgium being boring.

"Haha, good one..."

United fan Bates is now the chairman of the FWA and handled events with confidence and authority, joking that he’d tried and failed to get Gerrard to join United.

He may have kissed the badge on his chest, then put in a transfer request, but my already high opinion of Gerrard didn’t change.

Last season’s winner Cristiano Ronaldo turned up two hours late and insisted that five of his mates sat at the top table with him. None of the previous greats stretching back to 1946 had made such a request.

Gerrard came across well: grounded, bright and a decent lad who gets it. He seemed genuinely humbled by the award and, after watching a montage of his great moments, requested if it could be played again, la.

Like Sir Alex Ferguson, I’d love to see Gerrard at Old Trafford, but it’ll never happen and I’m glad it won’t.

He plays for his hometown club and loathes all their rivals – you wouldn’t have it any other way. I hated seeing him kiss that camera at Old Trafford in March, but I would have loved it had Ryan Giggs done the same at Anfield.

Gerrard came over later and shook hands, as he did with others in the room. I spent a day with him Barcelona two years ago and he remembered.

I took my 14-year-old brother Sam to his first away game recently at Hull.

He absolutely loved the singing and camaraderie and told everyone that it was the best game he’d ever been too. Oh for the enthusiasm of youth. I got him out of the ground before Phil Brown emerged from his vat of Shellac and took the mike.

"Jussssssst one cornettooooooo..."

I had to persuade Sam from running on the pitch at the end:

“What are you going to do when you get on there?”

“Dunno?”

“So why go on?

Sam will hopefully get plenty of chances to go on pitches in decent stadiums. The trials at Manchester United went very well – he scored a hat-trick in one game at Carrington and received a letter saying that they wanted to see him again.

After three games, United have informed him that they’d like him for six weeks from the start of next season.

There’s a long, long way to go, but he’s enjoying his football and getting noticed. And to think that a year ago, before Stockport County noticed him, he didn’t even have a club…

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Paddy Crerand, Prince William, the hacks & the drunks

2009-06-01T14:00:00Z

The trip to Rome was great… apart from the last 80 minutes of the match.

I bumped into Paddy Crerand the night before the game by the Olimpico pitch.

I’d sent him and Noreen a postcard from Tristan Da Cunha in February, informing them that while the island only had 280 residents, 270 of them were members of a Glasgow Rangers supporters’ club.

It wasn’t true, but he was keen to find out if it was.

I was going to explain that they’d opened an orange lodge with a 10,000-seat main hall, but Paddy was already quietly seething about a perceived injustice.

Maybe because the temperature was too high, or the final was being staged in Rome rather than his back garden or the sun was setting into his brilliant blue eyes - I can’t remember which it was.

“Anyway, tell me something I don’t know,” Crerand said. “Something I can tell the smart-arses who’ve been spending days researching.”

“Pep Guardiola had a trial with Manchester City,” I replied.

“Did he?” smiled Crerand. “Did he really?” He later said it on television.

As we talked, a UEFA official told us to move. A flash of anger, such as those which frightened many opponents on the field, enveloped Crerand’s face and he challenged the official, asking him who he was.

He even questioned if he was a former leader of Italy notable for his lack of democracy. Mr UEFA backed down.

"Try it, Bremner"

Amid the hefty hacks watching training and Mihir “My sources tell me” Bose talking surreptitiously into a mobile phone, a stunning female journalist stood out like Maldini in a midden.

The Manchester United players spotted her too and Ronaldo pinged a ball in her direction.

Despite wearing Christian Louboutins and skin-tight jeans, she picked up the ball and volleyed it straight back. For Manchester United’s players, that was the best thing that happened on Olimpico’s pitch.

"Any chance of a rub-down, love?"

Any city struggles to cope with 80,000 visitors for a European Cup final. From Barcelona in 1999 through Manchester in 2003 to Rome in 2009, each airport recorded its busiest ever day.

They struggle to cope with the influx if visitors, many of whom are unfamiliar with the city and soaked in alcohol.

Delays are inevitable, but Rome did well and the weather was glorious. However, there was chaos in the accreditation centre before the match as the system went down.

The frustration and one-hour queue aroused many hacks’ hackles, with one imperious voice announcing: “I am Hugh McIlvanney of The Sunday Times.” McIlvanney got his pass.

I was sat next to the perceptive Kevin McCarra of The Guardian, who remains a very pleasant individual, despite calling United by the loathed ‘ManU’.

Steve Bates of The People collared me. More on him in the next blog. He’s a United fan from Manchester and I interviewed him for my video diary last year.

“Let’s keep tradition,” he said, hoping for a United win. It didn’t come.

Barça were brilliant and United weren’t. I was stunned at how one-sided the game was and floored by the result.

I’ve loved watching the likes of Iniesta and Xavi for years and have been lucky enough to interview them, but it was horrible watching them dominate against the team I support.

"In your face, Mitten"

I was caught up among the happy Barça fans after the game. Given that the fans had been in the sun all day, the atmosphere was laced with as much body odour as joy.

Olimpico doesn’t have a metro stop within three miles. With no transport and roads gridlocked, I walked for an hour after the final before finding a taxi. The mood was sombre at the hotel. I emailed an article at 1.30am and slept for four hours.

As I left my room, I saw a drunk sleeping on a chair by the lift. Clearly British, he’d covered his head with curtains. 12 hours later, I discovered it was my brother.

I saw familiar faces sleeping on the floor at Termini station and woke some so that they could catch the 06:30 to Florence. The train was full of shattered United fans who slept, but I had another 450 words to write.

I managed to file them from Pisa airport, where I bumped into Patrick Harverson, the former director of communications at Old Trafford who now works with William and Harry Wales.

Imagine being named after a country: Dave Italy or Brian Burkina Faso. Or is his real name William Windsor?

I don’t actually know, but being named after a town wouldn’t be too bad. Andy Andover. Margaret Margate.

"Play Michael Owen up front!" "No."

Prince William had been in Rome at the game, a late decision by the FA who felt it was right to have such a figure there with England bidding for the 2018 World Cup.

William had texted Harverson after the final to say he had been less than impressed with events on the field. Harverson should come back to Old Trafford to improve communication between fans and the club – once good, now wretched.

Anyway, I hope Harverson replied “William, it was really nothing.”

Having left it so late to attend the game, the prince must have jibbed in the ground with some of my mates. That’d explain those royal flushed cheeks.

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The Fonz, The Flea & dating Brian Kidd's daughter

2009-05-26T09:00:00Z

Last week was more hectic than originally planned, but everything is going to plan.

There were calls from all kinds of media, the BBC’s Newsround to the BBC’s Radio Belfast, Faroe Islands Radio to half the stations in Spain and a piece for The Independent on Sunday to write.

Radio Belfast called while I was driving. It’s not the biggest radio station in the world, but the lad was friendly, insisted that there are a lot of United fans in Northern Ireland and I agreed to find a landline to do an interview.

They called… to stand me down, that is say that they didn’t need me. That happens perhaps twice a year – it’s part of live radio.

They asked politely if I could do the interview the following morning and I agreed. They called early and I was put on hold while Henry Winkler, aka The Fonz, was being interviewed, droning on and on in clichés.

I was kept on hold for 14 minutes, before a voice said: “We’re sorry, we’re going to have to stand you down because the Fonz is so good.”

Happy Days? Not for me and my double knock back by Radio Belfast. I’ll get over it.

Here’s the plan for this week.

"Did I ever tell you about the time I..."

Monday

Write a 450-word piece on any Barcelona news ahead of the final and a 600-word piece on Barça’s likely tactics.

Interview Brian Kidd in Manchester. He’s just finished the season helping keep Portsmouth up and will be travelling north to be back with his family. Brian’s a great man and his family are spot on.

When I was 21, I went out with his daughter. She came back to the house I rented with mates, where they had kindly put pictures of her dad on the walls. She thought I was a freak.

Tuesday

Get up at 5am and fly to Italy ahead of the Champions League final. My Dad will give me a lift to the airport as there are no trains so early. Fly.

Catch a four-hour train to Roma Termini and check into a hotel. Watch United train/do a press conference. Write.

Meet mates for a beer in Rome. I’m deliberately not travelling with them because I’ve got the workload of a political expenses secretary to get through, while they’re going on a session.

Wednesday

Write and make video diary for Channel M. Have a look around Rome.

Saviour the 2009 European Cup final. Get quotes off as many players as possible after the game, including Lionel Messi to add to his forthcoming interview in FourFourTwo.

“So, Lionel, how did it feel when John O’Shea skipped past you, then Xavi and Puyol before slamming the winner in from 30 yards?”

Give tape to an editor from Channel M so that it can be sent straight back to Manchester for editing and broadcast on Friday.

Hopefully celebrate. Go to bed very late, regardless of the result. It was 3.30am in Moscow last year as the game didn’t finish until 1am.

Thursday

Up at five. The Metro won’t have started, so take a taxi to Roma Termini for a train north to Florence.

Write for the full journey, while swilling quality Italian coffee to keep awake. Then take a connection to Pisa, file more copy at the airport there before a flight to Manchester. Write on the flight. This will be a busy day.

Watch United’s homecoming in Manchester. Possibly.

"He's wasted in defence, that O'Shea..."

Friday

Train from Manchester to London. My fiancée has never been on a train before. It’s not that she’s too posh for a rattler or anything, they just don’t have trains in Brazil.

She’ll meet family in London, I’ll meet my publishers and go to the Footballer of the Year award. I don’t go every year, but it’s alright once in a while.

Watch Steven Gerrard' presented with the award. I like Gerrard and he’s one player I’d love to see at Old Trafford, but he won’t come as he has an aversion to league titles.

Be tempted to sing Nemanja Vidic songs to him. Instead ask him why he wasn’t at the premiere of Awaydays on Thursday, when every lad in Liverpool seemed to be. As was Shaun Ryder.

Saturday

Watch all the happy Everton fans arriving at Euston for the FA Cup final before catching a train to Manchester.

Miss younger brother Sam’s final Manchester United trial at Carrington. He’ll play against United’s U15s. He received a letter this week from United confirming his success in the first two trials. It will be framed.

I would have watched Arnau Riera in the Scottish Cup final at Hampden Park if the loon hadn’t got himself booked for diving in the semi-final. He’s been Falkirk’s man of the match several times recently and is a real fan favourite.

He was last spotted dancing around the pitch at Inverness on Saturday as Falkirk moved off the bottom of the table stayed up… by beating Inverness and sending them down.

Arnau is out of contract this summer. Sunderland held that contract as they have loaned him to Falkirk. Hopefully his decent form will put him in good stead for getting a contract at Falkirk or elsewhere.

We’d have him at Manchester La Fiana, who just finished third in the Barcelona International Football league under the fine stewardship of Scotsman Stephen Love.

Jordi Cruyff played in the league this season, but we’ll let Arnau finish his proper career first.

Sunday

Fly from Manchester to Barcelona. Raise a massive red, white and black tricolour from the front of my apartment… in a massive Barca stronghold. Switch my brain off and sleep.

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My next seven (hectic as hell) days...

2009-05-18T13:00:00Z

It’s a busy time. Here’s what I’ve scheduled for work over the next seven days – and that’s before the inevitable calls and demands of a normal working week.

Monday

After writing a 450-word piece, drive from Almeria in southern Spain to somewhere close to Barcelona – over 600 miles.

I’ll stop at the football clubs in Almeria, Murcia and Elche before finding a hotel when I’m tired. Could be Valencia, could be Tarragona.

The good news is that my fiancée can currently travel with me – though she won’t come to Rome next week.

She is an architect, but the crash in Spain’s construction industry has left her out of work for the first time in her life. Her ex-company employed 32 a year ago. Now it employs two.

Tuesday

Watch Barcelona train in their swanky new training ground, then fly to Manchester. I’ll finish my weekly 600 word column on Spanish football for The National newspaper in Abu Dhabi on the plane.

They’ve tempted a lot of British journalists over to live, including the former editor of The Daily Telegraph. Gabrielle Marcotti, Jonathan Wilson, Simon Kuper and Ian Hawkey also contribute from afar on football.

Pick a hire car up at Manchester Airport and collect a sack full of United We Stand mail, which my younger brother Sam has been taking care of.

The lads in the Post Office are a mixture of match-going Reds and Blues. The Blues usually pretend that there’s no mail or that they’ve binned it.

Sam, 14, did very well in his trial games for Manchester United last week – scoring a hat-trick in the first match at Carrington.

“Son, he’s doing us all proud here,” said a beaming father on the phone. “He’s on fire, selfless and fast.”

A coach confirmed as much, comparing his style to Carlos Tevez. I promise not to get too excited.

Another brother Jonathan, 32, is looking to go into management. He made the short list for the Trafford job in the Unibond league last week, but lost out, probably due to inexperience.

I was gutted for him, but he did well to make the shortlist on his first managerial application.

Wednesday

Meet a couple of contacts in Manchester, then interview Nicky Bell, the Salford lad who has the lead role in Awaydays, the seminal book based in Birkenhead which has been turned into a film.

Then drop a videotape featuring a rough guide to Rome in at Channel M’s studios in Manchester. I spent Thursday filming it in the Italian capital. The editors will turn my mush into something broadcastable.

Thursday

Film a piece for the BBC about the Champions League final. Visit the Channel M studio to do voiceovers and whatever else they want me to do to make the Rome piece passable. Monkey tennis?

A Barca-United final means my phone’s busy, but when it comes to TV Channel M are my priority. They’ve been a joy to work with in recent years and are there throughout the year, not just when United or Barca reach a final.

Drive to Liverpool and check into a hotel, which has been taken care of. This Scouse hospitality is killing me.

Meet the writer (and long time Liverpool season ticket holder) Kevin Sampson in a pub for tickets to the premiere of his film. I’m pleased for Kevin, one of the sharpest writers of his generation.

He mentioned the possibility of Awaydays being turned into a film when I first met him 10 years ago. United have won 10 titles since, Liverpool 0.

Friday

Drive back to Manchester and get some fresh quotes by telephone off a man who scores lots of goals at Camp Nou.

Hopefully hear news of a book idea which is being submitted by a man to whoever book ideas are submitted to in 'that London'. That would be for Christmas 2010.

Saturday

Continue transcribing Andrew Cole quotes for my next book. I’m already at 6,000 words, with 90 minutes of tape still to go.

I like Cole's vernacular, which includes ‘fizzing’ (training very well) and ‘five bags’ (£5,000).

He’s also talked about Vietnamese boat people, the miners’ strike, XR2’s and Kevin Keegan calling him Adrian.

Sunday

Travel to Kingston Upon Hull to see Manchester United at the KC Stadium.

Catch up with mates from the match. Try and spot a white phone box. Secretly hope that Hull stay up.

End the week with the prospect of an even bigger week ahead.

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Puressence in Athens and a donkey in Venezuela

2009-05-12T11:00:00Z

I watched the Manchester derby in Athens. Walked the streets and asked around for anywhere showing “the English football.”

We were accurately directed to a bar with big screens in an area below the Acropolis surrounded by a flea market.

Before kick-off, three shaven-headed lads walked in and sat at the bar. They had strong Manchester accents. To test such an accent, ask them to say ‘chunky monkey’. The ending of both words would sound nothing like 'key'.

I hoped the lads weren’t City and didn’t wait long to find out. Pagey from New Moston and Wozza from Newton Heath buy United We Stand from a garage on Broadway each month. Their mate, a Blue, doesn’t.

Columns for goalposts, isn't it?

Both the Reds used to go home and away, but stopped after the 2005 Glazer takeover. They liked the idea of FC United, but not the fact they played in Bury while they search for a site in the city of Manchester.

Two more in an increasing number of lads who now watch their football in the pub rather than go to the match.

They were in Greece with the Manchester band Puressence, who will support Depeche Mode in a sell out concert.

Depeche Mode are far more popular on the continent than in Britain. When they played in Barcelona, it seemed that every good-looking girl in the city went with their mates. I was standing at a nearby Metro station perfectly positioned to make such an observation.

We’ve interviewed Puressence in UWS and they have quite a following. I’ve liked them for years and seen them play in concert several times, like at the Astoria in London in 1998 when a girl came up, pointed proudly at one of the band and said: “See him? He’s my boyfriend. They’re going to be massive. Chunkeh monkeh.”

Despite faultless music and some outstanding tracks like This Feeling, Puressence never did become massive. One mate in the music industry reckons that they never got their image right, which would be sad if it were true.

I’ve watched them since, but was at Goodison rather than Heaton Park in April 2003 when their bass player Kev Matthews ran on stage during the Stereophonics set (they’d supported the Welshmen) and shouted ‘United are champions’ in front of bemused and surprised Leeds fan Kelly Jones.

Puressence have done well, make a living doing what they love and getting followed around Europe by a load of barmpots.

Kev Matthews at work (Leeds fan not pictured)

United won the derby and the lads sang songs while Greeks in Manchester United caps looked on, scared. Few had been to Old Trafford, but that’s not to assume that all Greek Reds are the same.

One, who goes by the unoriginal name of ‘Steve the Greek’, has seen United play in over 40 countries. He regularly absconded from his national service to watch his team play in Europe by rail.

Given the geography, that wasn’t so easy during the Balkan conflict. Steve is full of tales about brushes with Bulgarian border officials and Transylvanian transvestites, and also travels to international tournaments.

One of the last times I saw him was at the Copa America in Venezuela, 2007. He arrived unannounced in a mountain town 12 hours from Caracas by bus and turned his nose up at internal flights and any fare above sixpence to travel with the locals between cities.

He was last spotted on a donkey in Maracaibo looking for peace and quiet. He won’t have found it in Athens this week.

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Rome, Rotherham & Ronaldo in his pants

2009-05-09T11:00:00Z

I booked my flights from Manchester to Italy before the semi-finals.

Given that I’m a Manchester United fan who writes about Barcelona and watches the Catalans around 25 times a season, I figured that one of the clubs would reach the final.

I used to dream of seeing United in Rome - before 2007 the club had never a competitive game there. The European Cup final on May 27 will be United’s fourth appearance in the eternal city in two years.

And it’ll be my sixth trip to Rome since 2007. I’ll be there again next week to do a rough guide to the city for Channel M. Next season, I’ll wish for Rotherham over Rome.

United fans in Rome (again)

In Manchester and Barcelona, all talk is about tickets and travel to the final. My £140 return flights have now shot up to £420 – and they are only as far as Pisa.

My phone has not stopped since Wednesday night. I thought it was busy when the two clubs met in last year’s semi-final, but this time will be another level.

I’m not complaining. I’m made up that United have a chance to be the first club since the great Milan side of Baresi, Maldini and Van Basten to retain the European Cup. I’m delighted that it’s a United vs Barca final, the most eagerly expected in memory (though Liverpool fans may disagree).

And in Rome too, a fantastic place. I’m looking forward to seeing mates from United and Italy, though I won’t be able to stay up all night like they will - at least before the game, because I’ll have more work than a McDonald’s junior manager.

There will be irritants. Spanish radio will ring five times a day, hoping to pick my brains for free. I assume the journalists calling also work for free and that they have no bills to pay. They’ll say things like: “Can you get us an exclusive one-on-one sit down interview with Cristiano Ronaldo in his underpants?”

One station rang me eight times in Moscow. “Look,” I finally said testily, though I’m not sure of it sounded like that in Spanish. “This trip has cost me €700. I’m working for three different companies here and they are paying.

"It costs me a pound-a-minute to receive a call from you in Russia. It’s not fair on the people who are paying me that I work for you for free. And I’m certainly not paying for the inconvenience.”

I should bin my Spanish phone - Wire style - by throwing it off the Baltimore waterfront. The British radio stations like Five Live are much more professional, but the best one is Newstalk in Dublin. They’ll regularly give an interviewee eight or nine minutes and go into real depth on a subject, asking difficult questions.

One group I will do work for free for is the Football Supporters’ Federation. Their honcho Kevin Miles was on last week about getting some articles for a magazine they will give away for nish as part of their fans’ embassy in Rome. The work they do is never fully appreciated.

My dad called too, at 7.15am.

“We f**king destroyed those Cockney ***** last night,” he said, the morning after the Arsenal away victory. “Did you see the face on that **** Wenger?”

It’s all or nothing with my dad. He wanted the whole United squad to be sold after “those Scouse *****” beat United 4-1 in March.

"Look at his face, just look at his face..."

“What we doing for Rome?” he went on as if we go to every United game together. He meant: ‘What are you doing to get your dad to Rome?’

“Tickets will be hard, dad,” I explained. “It’s not like Moscow last year, Rome is easy to get to. Then there’s the flights, connections and hotels.”

“Oh,” he said meekly, like a little boy deprived of a car in a toy shop, having realised that I wouldn’t be able to fix him a seat next to Sir Alex Ferguson on the Olimpico bench and a post-match pint with Pep Guardiola.

And even that wouldn’t be enough – he’d also want Francesco Totti’s wife Ilary Blasi to show him around Rome before the match.

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Stockport strife hits stars of the future hard

2009-05-04T10:00:00Z

My younger brother Sam has been with Stockport County for a year, playing in their U14 side.

On Monday, I had an email from his mum. In contrast to his school report, Stockport’s coaches had given Sam a glowing report.

They said he thinks like a true centre-forward and that they had been delighted with his progress. If his improvement continues, they said, then prepare for a few surprises.

Without getting carried away, the family were delighted. It had been a big burden on time and resources just keeping him at Stockport.

Tommy Rowe: Youth team hopeful to first team star

He was required to train on a Monday and Wednesday night on the other side of Manchester – a journey which would have taken over two hours each way using public transport.

So the family weighed in with support. My dad would drive Sam through the Manchester rush-hour once a week, watch him train and bring him home. Sam’s mum would do likewise – and wait freezing as he trained.

My sister and her husband chipped in. I did a small stint too, getting up at 7am to drive him two hours to Lilleshall on a freezing November morning. It was worth it, he scored two belters.

Parents and family are seriously told not to celebrate goals. I’ll face the rap on that one then. I was up for letting flares off in the Shropshire countryside.

Given Sam’s weekly wage was £10 for collecting and sorting United We Stand’s mail and £5 for delivering newspapers, all the petrol money came out of the family’s pocket. It seemed worth it.

I received another email on Wednesday from Sam’s mum. “Can you check out rumours that Stockport County are going to shut their school of excellence?”

As I chased it up, I received another email a day later.

“All the lads got told that they are being let go last night. They are gutted. The centre of excellence will close.”

Then the events began to gather momentum. A friend at a television company in Manchester, who didn’t know that Sam was at Stockport, emailed to say: “Stockport have gone into administration.”

The following duly went out on the wire: “Stockport County have gone into administration after falling into financial difficulties. The club are reported to have appointed Leonard Curtis, an accountancy firm, as administrators and say they remain hopeful of finding a buyer.

“We are keen to work with the board to explore all possible solutions to ensure the club's future prospects are protected as far as possible.”

Leonard Curtis said in a statement: “We are extremely hopeful that we will find a buyer for the club and are already aware of a number of expressions of interest.

“We are committed to working with the club’s management team to resolve this situation as quickly as possible, balancing the needs of concerned creditors with the future of the club.”

Uncertain future for Edgeley Park outfit

That means little to Sam. His team-mates have taken the announcement as a personal judgement of their ability. He’ll miss his mates and the summer tournament in Ibiza which they’d been looking forward to.

He idolises his coach, Mick. Even my dad, who hates everyone apart from Bill Clinton, likes Mick. He could be out of a job too, but Mick was more concerned about the welfare of the kids he’d been coaching and the negative effect it will have on them.

It’s a harsh introduction to the real world for Sam. He has no club, but there’s a possible silver lining.

A scout from a club called Manchester United watched him last week against Burnley and, along with another Stockport player, has been offered two trials with United this month. His focus is now on staying fit for them.

So watch out Macheda and Welbeck. OK, OK… but what’s football without dreams?

BLOG: Stockport: That was never a penalty!

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Gallipoli, Guiza & Galatasaray

2009-04-30T13:00:00Z

A decade ago, on a Manchester United pre-season tour of Australia and the Far East, I walked through Sydney’s Hyde Park past the Anzac Memorial.

I was on my way to interview “lifelong United fan” and chief executive Peter Kenyon at United’s team hotel. In interviews with players for my next book, I’d find how that hotel had been the scene of considerable shenanigans as Sir Alex Ferguson left Steve McClaren in charge for the first part of the tour.

I staggered by the size of the Anzac memorial and went to investigate. I soon felt angry and slightly ashamed to be British after reading about the ill-fated Allied campaign to take the Dardanelles Straight from the Ottoman Empire in what is now Turkey.

The landings are better known as ‘Gallipoli’ after the peninsula which straddles the straight.

The battle was one of the bloodiest in the First World War. Over 200,000 Allies and 98,000 Turkish soldiers lost their lives in eight months of battle before the Allies retreated.

The British officers, including First Lord of the Admiralty Winston Churchill (he devised the grand plan to outflank Germany), made some horrendous errors, sending men into battle against lines of machine guns. Many didn’t get off the beach.

Nearly 12,000 Australian and New Zealand Army corps (ANZAC) under their orders perished. The memorial day is still a huge event in those countries and thousands of Aussies and Kiwis of all ages make the pilgrimage every year for the April 25 ANZAC day.

Guiza: Struggling to set Turkey alight

They take some comfort from the words of Turkey’s founder, Ataturk: “Those heroes who shed their blood and lost their lives. You are now living in the soil of a friendly country therefore rest in peace.

"There is no difference between the Johnnies (Allies) and the Mehmets (Turks) to us whether they live side by side in this country of ours. You, the mothers, who sent their sons from faraway countries, wipe away your tears; your sons are now lying in our bosom and are in peace. After having lost their lives on this land, they have become our sons as well.”

I went to Gallipoli for the memorial day. Woke up at 4.30am and watched the sun rise over the peninsula, the floodlights go out on the giant war memorials.

Visited the immaculately maintained war graves of the commonwealth forces. In the British cemetery, 26 of the first 40 graves were lads from the Manchester Regiment.

Many of the others were Lancashire Fusiliers, most aged 18, 19 and 20. Of 1,100 who fought from one regiment, 11 survived. 94 years after the battle, I picked up three rusting bullets, which is no surprise when you consider that 6,000 were spent for every square metre.

A game of football had been organised between Australia’s U16 side and their Turkish counterparts in Canakkale, the nearest city to Gallipoli.

Football is huge in Turkey and a day later I watched Fenerbahce in Istanbul. Managed by former Spain coach Luis Aragones, they are not having a good season despite featuring Roberto Carlos and last season’s Primera Liga top scorer David Guiza.

Fenerbahce’s stadium, which has been completely rebuilt to hold 52,000, will stage the UEFA Cup final next month. I was going to review it for Manchester City fans ahead of a possible appearance, but there was no need.

The Sukru Saracoglu: Setting for UEFA Cup showpiece

20 British pounds bought a ticket among the ultras behind the goal, young lads the same age of those who had perished at Gallipoli. They sang and jumped around, despite their team losing to lowly Ankaraspor.

The Turkish league title looks like it's going outside of Istanbul for the first time since 1985, with Sivasspor the current leaders.

I visited the home of second placed Besiktas, which occupies a wondrous position overlooking the Bosporus and Asia. A guard said told me to ‘go away’ in English as I took a picture.

“What?” I asked.

“Go away.”

Ignoring his charm offensive, I considered watching Galatasaray play at home to Ankaraspor in one of the final games at the Ali Sami Yen stadium before they move to a new Fenerbache style home in October.

I’ve still yet to visit a stadium as noisy as Galatasaray’s, but there was little chance of a repetition when I discovered that the game was to be played behind closed doors.

My source, a man selling roasted conkers in the street, was not good, but he seemed right as I watched the game on television in front of thousands of empty seats.

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Postcard from Beirut...

2009-04-25T11:00:00Z

I write from Beirut. Banish any wartorn image you have of the Lebanese capital because it’s nothing like it.

Known as the Paris of the East before the civil war which killed 200,000 and seriously injured 400,000 between 1975 and 1990, the city of 1.5 million was destroyed in a manner which residents of Mostar or Grozny could relate.

Terry Waite, John McCarthy and Brian Keenan were names of hostages captured by Islamic Jihad who became synonymous with Beirut.

On his release, television images showed a joyous Keenan saying that he wanted to make love to every woman in the world. He was no Brad Pitt, so that was unlikely, but we understood him completely.

Beirut’s towering former Holiday Inn is still scarred by mortar and bullet holes, but it’s in a minority of battered buildings. A book shows pictures of hundreds of Beirut streets then and now, and the transformation is staggering.

The city has been virtually rebuilt to an exceptionally high standard. With the best nightlife in the Middle East, it’s well worth a visit.

Construction continues to rebuild Beirut

Beirut even has a shop selling the current edition of FourFourTwo, albeit for £11 after air freight charges. I saw my piece on Cardiff vs Swansea, though I’d already heard that someone had lifted it and typed it out on a Swansea message board. Thanks for that - we were only talking about pirates two weeks ago.

I didn’t write about one of the players I met in Swansea in the piece. I’ve known Andrea Orlandi for five years after meeting him when he played at Barcelona.

I did a Spanish-English language exchange with his team-mate Arnau Riera and we all became friends. I made them agree never to join Liverpool or Manchester City.

Both footballers were set on becoming Barca first-teamers. They both made it into the first-team and have proudly kept the pictures to show it, but never came close to establishing themselves.

After rooming with Samuel Eto’o and selling United We Stand outside Old Trafford, Arnau moved to Sunderland on a three year contract in 2006, received man of the match in his first game at Southend and was sent off after three minutes in his second.

He was bombed out by Roy Keane and has been on loan at Falkirk for two seasons.

Andrea is at Swansea City, where he lives with his Catalan girlfriend Laura. Her sister lives with Swansea’s Jordi Gomez. Laura and Andrea looked after me when I stayed in Swansea last September.

Orlandi fends off Fulham in the FA Cup

She went to Tesco’s at 11.30pm to buy some food and cooked me a meal at midnight. Andrea was concerned at his lack of first-team opportunities but determined to get into Roberto Martinez’s side.

I spoke to Andrea and Arnau last weekend, two Spaniards who have ended up playing in Britain. Both are making a good living as professional footballers. And they are ultra professional. Show either a beer and they look like a slug faced with a salt mountain, except for a four-week spell post season, when they put the P in Pacha.

Andrea was delighted because Swansea are close to the play-offs and he’s in the team. Arnau wasn’t because Falkirk are struggling in the SPL.

He hadn’t been a regular, a fact which annoyed Falkirk fans so much that they recently sang his name constantly at Kilmarnock. Many rate him as their best midfielder. He described it as “very emotional”. And it must be.

Imagine you’re a kid from a small town in Mallorca (albeit one which has produced a disproportion number of athletes including Rafa Nadal) and hundreds of men in a foreign country sing your name non-stop?

Imagine how proud his parents Esteban and Barbara felt, even though they were disappointed that he wasn’t playing.

Did they go into work on Monday morning and tell their peers; Barbara in the clothes shop and Esteban as he organised the bin men?

Riera makes his parents proud

Arnau played for 90 minutes in a 0-0 draw against Hearts and threw his shirt into the crowd. I hope he got man of the match in the Scottish Cup semi and goes on to win the cup with the Bairns.

And that Barbara gets a new outfit and Esteban has a rare day off to see their son play at the same stadium where Real Madrid beat Eintract Frankfurt - a game Esteban considers the best ever.

It’s great that football transcends boundaries, that people in Mallorca now know about Falkirk and two friendly young couples from Catalonia about Dylan Thomas and the Swansea Jack.

I knew another player called Riera too. Albert. He’s equally professional and also from Manacor. Except he joined City and then Liverpool didn’t he?

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Six-pound papers, fake Wigan shirts & a cockney Bedouin Red

2009-04-18T11:00:00Z

A joy of six. What I’ve come across recently:

1. Huge adverts for the English Premier league around Africa’s biggest city, Cairo.

They feature Ronaldo, Lampard, Gerrard et al. British marketing men rightly boast of the Premier League being the most popular in the world, though it omits one of the key reasons for its status in much of Asia - it’s also the most trusted.

While games are bought in several major European leagues, the dirty practice occurs far less frequently in England. Gamblers like that.

2. Counterfeit Wigan Athletic shirts being the most popular English shirt in Egypt, thanks to their tardy forward Zaki.

3. A Bedouin youth wearing a decade old Manchester United shirt in Petra, Jordan (pictured). Like many of his peers, he bizarrely spoke English with an exaggerated cockney accent.

"Oi... this smells like a knock-off"

4. Raffish, nauseous grafters and taxi drivers. Egypt must be the worst place I’ve visited so far for aggressive men in bad shoes hawking tat and trying to rip you off.

I’d been in Sharm El Sheik (go to Barry Island or Butlins Pwellhi instead) for five minutes when a scruff approached us.

“Where you from?”

“England.”

“Very good. Lovely jubley.”

“We don’t want to buy anything, thanks.”

He went onto introduce himself as an artist and said: “All I ask is that I give you my card please?”

Not wanting to be impolite, we said yes. Mistake.

A minute later we were in a shop being congratulated as the first customers of the day – on the boss’ son's first day in the company too! Would you believe the coincidence? The shop owner (the artist’s dad) looked at my fiancée.

“English women, the best in the world,” he said. “My wife is from Welwyn Garden City.”

“I’m Brazilian,” replied the better half.

“Brazilian second best! Please sit down and let me give you a wonderful gift for free.”

You end up becoming embroiled in an argument because you don’t want to buy a fake papyrus wallchart that looks like it has been drawn by the man who advises Stephen Ireland what colour car to buy.

"Allo me old china"

5. 10 minutes later, by a bookshop which didn’t sell books, a man approached selling British newspapers. I’d not seen one for a while and was interested. They all had their prices on the cover so I pulled the equivalent of £2 out.

“That’s not the price,” blagged the blagger. “That’s a code.”

“Is it really? So how much is the paper?”

He wanted £6.

“No thanks.”

“How much you pay,” he shouted aggressively as if I’d just informed him that I’d kidnapped his parents. “HOW MUCH YOU PAY?”

6. I met the pianist Christopher Schellhorn. He’s one of Britain’s best and hails from Doncaster, from where he studied at Chetham’s music school in Manchester and then Cambridge University.

Refreshingly, he had no interest in football. Given that my knowledge of tickling the ivories extended to a go on a Bontempi organ and attempting to play ‘When the Saints go marching in’ I could hardly talk shop with him.

Christopher took a taxi in Bombay for what should have been a straightforward 10-minute drive. The taxi stopped and the driver got out to see ‘a friend’ who owned a tailor’s shop.

He invited Christopher into the shop for a drink. Five minutes later he offered to measure him up and make him a hand stitched suit for $50 dollars. The pianist couldn’t believe the price and, while he didn’t need a suit, felt he couldn’t refuse one for $50.

He then spent 40 minutes being measured up, before the tailor told him to come back in four hours with the $500.

“But you said $50,” replied Christopher.

“$500,” raged the tailor. “Are you stupid? Who can make a suit for $50?”

"How much!?!"

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View that Glazers are perfect gaining worrying currency

2009-04-14T11:30:00Z

Here’s an extract from an interview with the award winning journalist Martin Samuel from the current edition of United We Stand.

“I accept all the issues that people have with the Glazers, but the football has been superb while they have been in charge. They have said: ‘Whatever the Scottish bloke wants, just say yes,’ It’s not a bad way to run a football club because he knows what’s best. Whatever Fergie wants, they do. I like that.”

But the club’s £645 million in debt…

“And? That’s business. That’s for the boardroom. Are we transforming into a new breed of football fans who want to look at balance sheets? What are we, accountants?

"Some fans wander around saying ‘Premier League survival is more important than the FA Cup.’ It’s not. Winning the FA Cup is the best thing that can happen to a fan.

"I remember the 1975 FA Cup final and the 1980 final better than any other moment as a West Ham fan. Do people look back in 30 years and say: ‘Remember that season when we came 15th, that was a season and a half.’ Or do they say, ‘Remember when we won the FA Cup?’ Nobody cheers a balance sheet or puts it on an open top bus.

"There’s no prospect of United becoming Leeds United so why the worry? You’ve just won the f*cking European Cup and the league.

"We’ve got a bloke at West Ham who had money and now it seems that he’s potless. That’s the way the cookie crumbles. What am I going to do, support a different club? I cheer the team and boo the team, that’s what supporters do.”

Bryan, Avram and Joel observe

I like Samuel and he’s a superb writer. But I don’t agree with him.

Despite recent pieces by David Conn, Des Kelly and Henry Winter pointing out the contrary, the view about the Glazers being the perfect owners is gaining worrying currency, as much among United fans as outsiders.

90 percent of match going United fans have no interest in the owners of the club. As long as the team are winning, nothing else matters. That figure is close to 100 percent among the millions around the world who don’t go to matches.

Of those who are more interested, there’s swelling opinion that the debt is not an issue, it’s just the way business works. And if you don’t like the ticket prices, tough, there’ll always be someone else to take your place.

Well we’ll see, but I’m not convinced.

I spoke to the former chief executive of a major bank recently. He’s a football fan and I wanted his view.

“They (the Glazers) have done nothing wrong,” he said. “What they did happens in business all the time. What matters is their ability to pay the loans and they are doing that.”

The conversation depressed me, yet there are plenty who shrug their shoulders and say: “It’s Manchester United, we’ll be alright.”

Maybe United will, but the club’s holding company recently posted an annual pre-tax loss of £44.8 million, that after the most successful financial season in the club’s history.

Rising ticket prices, commercial deals, on the field success and television money all helped United’s turnover to a massive £256m, yet the club are sitting on a rising debt of £699m.

Before the repayments, United made £66m, but that was wiped out by the interest payments and unless the club refinance, United have to pay back £1.1 billion in the next nine years.

Under the current lending terms, that’s £75m in 2013, £150m in 2014, £150m in 2015, £150m in 2016 and a final payment of £600m in 2017.

Opinion remains very much split

You won’t find any dissenting voices from those within the club. If fact you won’t find any because United have refused to comment on the latest figures to journalists.

The Glazers too have refused to do interviews in the four years since they took over the club. They have a public relations man on the payroll who is based in England. What, exactly, does he do about from say “no comment”?

Sir Alex Ferguson has described them as “terrific owners” and that, sadly, is good enough for most fans. His justification was based on a lack of interference and the fact that compared to the abomination that is Hicks and Gillett at Anfield, the Glazers could be worse.

Last summer, I received a text. It was from someone who was about to meet one of the Glazers. Was there anything that I’d like to pass on to that particular brother? There was and it was very strongly worded.

“Consider it done,” came the reply. I never heard any more.

The Glazers were not needed any more than they were wanted. United were the most profitable club in the world, respected for their commercial acumen and virtually peerless on and off the field.

They will probably re-finance until they sell Manchester United for profit, having maintained the increase in revenues which attracted them in the first place.

Except debt, they’ve added absolutely nothing to Manchester United and taken much away. And if they get away with it, they’ll have one person to thank above all others. And he’s from a lot closer to Mount Florida than Florida.

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Protecting my prized possession from Somali pirates

2009-04-09T08:00:00Z

I’m in ‘pirate alley’ - the area of sea between the coast of Somalia and Yemen known as the Gulf of Aden.

We were supposed to stop in Yemen but the foreign office won’t let us. The risk is too high and there were several murders, attempted murders and kidnappings of westerners last week.

We’ve had a letter from the captain of the ship explaining the pirate situation...

“As you will are no doubt aware we will be passing through an area of the Gulf of Aden. The area at present is considered a High Risk Area due to the presence of Somali Nationals harassing shipping passing through the Gulf of Aden.

“We will be transiting using the Recommended Transit Corridor supported by the UK, US and European Naval Forces. This is considered the safest route. Naval Forces from the following countries have ships patrolling the corridor: United Kingdom, Germany, India, Russia, USA, Denmark, Holland, Sweden, Malaysia, France and China.

"I’ve seen Indian, British, French and German navy ships in recent weeks, but they have a vast area to patrol. All communication will be switched off because the captain doesn’t want members of the public contacting the media if there’s an incident. Guards monitor the decks, which have been closed at night and the back of the ship has been made as impenetrable as the Maginot Line.

"A Royal Navy Middles East expert is on board dispensing advice. Positions must be reported to the nearest navy vessels on a special communication channel. The ship is travelling at full speed and the muster stations have been changed to more secure areas."

So I was alarmed to see a fleet of high-powered skiffs around the boat this morning of the type used by pirates. They looked far too small to be so far out at sea. Several zigzagged around the ship, each containing five or six men.

They didn’t look like fishing boats. One skiff zipped across the bow of the ship at high speed, forcing us to quickly change direction.

Yemeni fisherman sail alongside our ship

“This is it,” I thought. And I wasn’t the only one. The pirates would board and hold the ship to ransom before a fistful of dollars would be dropped at an agreed location. Like outside Boots in Dudley town centre, or Selfridges in Mogadishu.

Aside from my fiancée, I was worried about pirates having my dictaphone away containing nine in-depth interviews for my next book. I’ve decided to call it ‘Glory, Glory… Man Utd in the 90s: The Players’ Stories'.

Lose the dictaphone and I lose the book. I don’t fancy trekking around Europe to do all the interviews again and I’m sure the players would be even more reluctant. So I’ve found a hiding place for it that no pirate will be able to sniff out.

“You can see the Yemeni fishermen to the starboard side,” announced the captain calmly. The fishermen waved. Some held up tuna. The pirates tend to go for slower cargo ships which sit lower in the water and are easier to board. Our ship soon steamed past.

“They’re weighing us up, testing our speed and reactions,” theorized one passenger. “They’ll then radio ahead to the pirates.”

Conspiracy theories and rumours abound. He said, she said. It’s like being at a European away game.

Postscript

It’s two days later and all communications have been switched back on. We’ve just exited the dangerous area into the safer Red Sea. Eritrea is the left, Yemen to the right.

We weren’t attacked, but four other ships were on the day we transited. Four! I was incredulous when I saw that reported on Al Jazeera. Three are being held by Somali pirates including a cargo ship which sailed just 20 miles behind us. I like the idea of doing a feature on the pirates and spending time with them in Somalia.

But I also like being alive…

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Football in Bombay? It's just not cricket...

2009-04-04T11:00:00Z

I write from the heat of Bombay (Mumbai since 1995), one of the biggest cities in the world with a heaving population of 13 million.

It’s full of Indians. And plenty of cowboys, including every taxi driver we’ve come across. Walk to any tourist sight and you’ll be pestered non-stop. Fake sunglasses, giant balloons, spices, flowers, fabrics, counterfeit books. Anything.

Professional slum dogs pull at your leg and your conscience with wide eyes and open mouths. It’s easy to be overwhelmed in Bombay, with the very rich and the potless living cheek by jowl.

There are brilliant nightclubs full of Bollywood babes who dance like Shakira, not a mile from slums and vast outdoor laundries. The Indians are as friendly as life is frenetic.

They are also crazy about sport… as long as it’s cricket.

"Football? Pah"

The game is king in Bombay, India’s biggest metropolis and the most lauded player is Sachin Tendulka, the little genius. Opus published their giant £3,000, 32 kilo books dedicated to Manchester United, Arsenal, Tottenham and Celtic. Tendulka is to have one of his own.

The Indian Premier League’s decision to move games to South Africa because of security concerns is a big story. Mumbai was attacked with a great loss of life last November. We’ve visited the distinctive and still mostly closed Taj hotel plus the Leopold café and seen the gun shots in brick and shattered glass.

With elections approaching, the Indian government had said that it could not guarantee security which is now a greater concern since the terrorist attacks on Sri Lanka’s cricket team in Pakistan.

A sniper in a baseball cap sits on the roof of our hotel. In front, four security guards hold machine guns and watch the sea. “60 rounds a minute,” explained one yesterday. “The terrorists came from the sea. That is why we watch the sea.”

Hundreds of Indians played cricket in front of them on the beach. Thousands played it on the Oval Maiden in the centre of Bombay. I was invited to join in one game and faced four balls. I didn’t come close to hitting one ball and they laughed at me for being crap.

Football is marginalised in Bombay. Manchester United are used to selling vodka and beer in the tourist resorts like Goa further south, though you do see the odd English football shirt .

I received an email asking if I could interview Eric Cantona in London this week. I can’t. Nevermind.

And I met a Celtic fan, a Stalybridge Celtic fan that is. They’re a good non-league club and I watched my brother play at their Bower Fold home in 2004.

I remember it well because I witnessed an argument in their busy snack bar. “There’s not 30 in there,” said a pubescent pre-teen lad, whose fluorescent jacket denoted his status as a match-day steward, despite his tender years.

“Yes there is,” replied the shy girl behind the counter, who had just counted the 30 penny sweets into a plastic bag. A queue formed as the contents were duly tipped out and recounted. There were 30. Unabashed, the lad shuffled off to his official duties, immune to embarrassment.

"What do you mean 'you're busy'?"

Bower Fold is one of the best grounds in non-league football, with four modern stands and cover on all sides overlooked by the craggy west Pennine hills. Football friendly Tameside Council had worked closely with Stalybridge to develop a ground fit for football league status. With numerous junior teams, Stalybridge was a focal point of the community.

Yet Tameside, the administrative area to the immediate east of Manchester artificially created in the 1970s, also boasts six other non-league clubs playing within a six miles radius.

So this seemingly cosy relationship can provoke envy and ungenerous conjecture amongst fans and officials of fellow Conference north clubs Droylsden and Hyde United, as well as Unibond league Ashton United, Mossley and Curzon Ashton means that no area in Britain has a concentration of non-league clubs playing at such a high level as Tameside.

James Purnell was the local MP. A possible future prime minister, he had taken a full page advert in the programme and a perimeter advertising hoarding encouraging his constituents to contact him. It must have delighted him that the ink used was conservative blue.

Stalybridge’s pre-fabricated social club was like Phoenix Nights, without pretensions.

A six foot tall bird sidled up to me at the bar. Then it pulled its beak back and ordered a pint. It was Ashton’s mascot and it’s supposed to be a robin after the team’s nickname. “You’ve got to start the day with a pint haven’t you?” said the man under the outfit, looking my way.

I took a seat, soon to be joined for company by a man who, unlike the majority supping their pre-match pint, was not interested in the televised darts. He was the father of a Stalybridge player who was a regular for Wales U19s.

He told me about watching Craig Bellamy and Robbie Savage from the age of 14 upwards. He was astonished that Bellamy became a professional footballer.

“Tell me what’s he got?” he asked.

“I’m no fan of Bellamy, but he must have done something right to play in the Premiership,” I countered.

He disagreed. Bellamy was “useless” in his eyes. He knew that his son was a better player.

I stood with the 60 travelling Ashton fans in the 700 crowd. They were a funny collection, characters much older than the Premiership average.

The Curzon crew

To them, rivals play three miles away and foreigners are people from the other side of Manchester. When the referee signalled for the teams to swap ends before the game, these visitors shuffle around and stand in the end their side are attacking.

The game was six minutes old when a middle aged man with the disturbed expression sharing the crush barrier to my left had an axe to grind with Ashton’s centre forward and top scorer.

He was an Ashton fan, but the verbal onslaught he unleashed at the object of his rage was brutal. It was if he’d been caged all week and let out of the house to blow off steam for two hours.

The target of the criticism happened to be my brother. And while he was entitled to his opinion, so was I. After more abuse, I broke in and told him that he was being unfair.

He didn’t agree and we both let fly a few choice words as we debate the point.

“Do you realise that you’ve just had an argument with a man wearing a bubble jacket?” said a mate.

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We all follow United, over land and sea...

2009-03-31T08:45:00Z

I write this on a ship leaving Goa for Bombay, or Mumbai as it’s now called.

We’re getting close to pirate waters, but there’s a large navy presence in the area. HMS Portland is starboard and the captain has just dropped the ensign in respect. Portland was the vessel which intercepted four tonnes of cocaine in the Caribbean two years ago.

I’m turning into a bit of a ship geek and recently, when I’d made sure I was alone, bought a massive book called ‘Ships’. Maybe it comes with growing up by the Manchester Ship Canal.

When dad played at Flixton, ships would pass right by the pitch. My brother and I would run out of the ground and towards the canal to wave at the passing sailors. We were 29 and 26 at the time.

January 1990: United take on Hereford

My mate Wilky is a United fan who has spent most of his life at sea in the Royal Navy. He grew up in Bury and his neighbour and playmate was Gareth Southgate. They had no ship canal in Bury so they played football instead.

Wilky is full of stories about rushing from bases to watch United play. In 1990, while working at a base in Huntingdon, he raised the sunrise flag before driving a battered Fiesta through flooded roads and paying a tout £50 to watch United play at Hereford. He drove back and pulled the flag down that evening.

He always tries to keep in touch with United while travelling the world. Technology has improved and he now get updates through the internet and satellite phones. Previously, he crowded around a speaker to hear the crackly BBC World Service commentary which was regularly interrupted by the electric beep of the radar.

He told me that The British Forces Broadcasting Service has improved and if you’re on a bigger ship you get live matches. He was in the Omani desert on exercise while listening to commentary of United’s 5-3 comeback against Spurs in 2001. And to see the 1999 European Cup final, he left the ship on the Suez Canal to watch the game in the Cairo Hilton.

He had been sailing to the Persian Gulf and had seen United win the league that year in Malta and the FA Cup in Crete at a USAF Base - which took some explaining to the Yanks.

Wilky was on the mighty Ark Royal when it came into Barcelona a few years ago. He did a deal. His boss would show me around the ship and the flight deck… and I had to show the Navy lads a good night out.

All went well, but in hindsight it would have been easier smuggling 60 giant elephants into the Royal Box at Wembley. Dressed as a pantomime cow. That mixture of beer, pent up testosterone and girls was a potent one.

"Oi, wait for me!"

There were lots of football rivalries onboard. The ship was like a mini town, only populated by people (and football fans) from everywhere.

Wilky said: “Some of my best mates are City, Leeds or Scousers. I’ll stick wind-up pictures from the fanzines on their lockers, but it never gets too nasty as they could be rescuing you the next day. There are many Reds in the navy which makes the petrol money cheaper getting to games from Plymouth or Portsmouth.”

“While abroad, people often ask where I’m from. I always say Manchester, never England. The reply has been the same for 21 years: “United, Bobby Charlton, George Best, Ryan Giggs…”

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Journey to paradise ruined by Reds romp at Old Trafford

2009-03-27T12:00:00Z

I’m supposed to be in paradise, but I’m getting abuse from all sides.

A week ago, we went to Reunion. Not for one, but to the French-owned island in the middle of the Indian Ocean.

Up to date copies of France Football were on sale for less than two euro and the books shops were loaded with Carla Bruni and her husband, who, like the former Manchester City chairman Peter Swales, wears Cuban heels.

The sport shops displayed shirts of Marseille, Nantes, Bordeaux and Lyon for 75 euro and men in stripy Breton jumpers chomped on onions while singing Joe Le Taxi. It was like that French baguette place in the Trafford Centre.

"Heels! Come and say that again to my face"

After that, Mauritius, which is full of Manchester United and Liverpool fans. As I tried to leave the port, a security guard collared me.

“Where you from?” he asked.

“Manchester,” I replied wearily.

“Liverpool is the best,” he went on. “Number one glorious team of England. Five European Cups. Manchester three. The most popular team on earth.”

I humoured him for a bit but he was deadly serious. He wouldn’t know the Kemlyn Road from a cowshed and has never seen ‘his’ team play in his life, but he was hammering me when all I wanted to do was pass his checkpoint.

“We’ll see what happens later today then,” I confidently concluded.

I saw what happened later that day with my brother-in-law, who is a Manchester City season ticket holder and was there on holiday. He just smirked as Liverpool scored four.

The following day, in front of 400 people, the captain of the ship, a Liverpool fan for over 60 years and long time friend of Sir Matt Busby, Joe Mercer and Bill Shankly, said: “Do we have an Andy Mitten in here?”

He knew full well I was there. 800 eyes looked at me, then him.

“We have a football result for you,” he went on. “Manchester United 1 Liverpool 4.” People actually cheered.

The ship’s receptionist is a Scouser who worked on reception in the famous Adelphi hotel. She delivered a note to me with the score on. Thanks.

Dossena pops in number, erm, four

Peter Hooton, formerly of The Farm and a home and away Liverpool fan, texted. He’d seen Terry Christian and Tommy Sheridan buying United We Stand when he went to get his copy.

A week later, the captain had a note sent to me with a rhyme celebrating Fulham’s win over the league leaders. If United beat Liverpool in the European Cup final, I’ll paint ‘MUFC’ in red across his ship while she’s in dry dock.

As I write from the equator, the closest landmass is Somalia. A fair few of the Somalians who haven’t left their lawless country for Streatham have turned to piracy.

Security has been stepped up on the ship and barbed wire spread, among other measures, to prevent unwanted boarding. I shouldn’t be trivial about a serious issue and we’re to pass the troubled Horn of Africa after visiting India.

But knowing my luck we’ll get attacked by pirates with knock-off Liverpool shirts and Terry McDermott haircuts shouting ‘four’, ‘five’, ‘19 years’ or whatever else they chant these days.

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The Black Pearl, Brian Kidd & Tottman Unispur

2009-03-21T12:00:00Z

There’s a kid from where I hail called ‘Mozam.’ He’s got a big hooter. Or beak.

I never thought I’d have reason to go to Mozambique, but I visited the capital Maputo last week. If you’re ever considering a trip, I hope I saved you a journey because it makes Widnes look like New York.

Civil war ensued in Mozambique when Portugal’s dictatorship fell in 1974 and it pulled out of its former colony. Peace and democracy was restored in 1992, but while Maputo is full of character, it remains a dirty, oppressively hot, grid-locked, port city.

It also has a shopping centre which makes Manchester’s Arndale appear handsome – and a Lacoste shop which charges $200 (about £200 the way we are going) for a T-shirt.

Eusebio: "Brian who?"

We hired a taxi for a couple of hours. The driver always drew up short of the places we wanted to see. After two stops I worked out why. The city is on a gradual incline and he had to jump start his unreliable old motor by rolling it down the road because it wouldn’t start normally.

We visited the barrio where the great Eusebio grew up. Kids wore counterfeit Benfica, Sporting and FC Porto shirts, but it was easy to see why ‘the Black Pearl’ seldom returned. Cars had been striped down to metal in their parking places and the streets were litter-strewn.

Brian Kidd idolised Eusebio. As a 16-year-old, he went to watch Portugal train before the 1966 World Cup at Cheadle Town’s ground near Stockport and asked for his autograph and a picture. He watched Portugal play at Goodison just to study Eusebio and reckoned Eusebio’s club Benfica were the best team in the world in the mid 1960s.

Two years later Kidd played against his idol in a European Cup final. Before the game, one newspaper had Eusebio saying: ‘Who’s Kidd?’

Rather than take offence, Kidd agreed with Eusebio’s opinion. Indeed he said he felt humbled to be on the same pitch as him. The Collyhurst Kidd also scored on his 19th birthday as United beat Benfica and became the first English team to lift the European Cup.

"...that would be me"

United fans have sung “Eusebio, and I say Kiddo’ (to the tune of The Beatles Hello Goodbye) ever since. When his mother died a couple of years ago, Kidd cleared out her loft. He found a picture of him with Eusebio from 1966, which he still treasures.

I considered leaving Maputo for nearby Swaziland, the tiny landlocked country which was once attracted English teams as sanctions prevented them playing in neighbouring South Africa.

United and Tottenham once played a post-season tour there in 1983. United played Spurs twice in the Lobamba national stadium. But in between, United and Spurs combined to form a single team: ‘Tottman’. This bizarre entity of Hoddle and Robson et al beat a Swaziland XI 6-1.

Tottman team-mates: Robson and Hoddle

Madagascar was supposed to be our next stop, but the Foreign Office issued a statement, the gist of which was: “If you go to Madagascar then you’re going to gets your balls crushed with sledgehammers and boiled alive. It’s kicking off badly between the government, the army and protestors. More than 100 people have died since January.”

I didn’t fully trust the Foreign Office. Aside from the wonderful lady I met recently who worked for the British Government in Brasilia and Mauritius, everyone who I’ve ever met who grafts there seems to be called Giles and is a little detached from reality on the ground.

I always thought that they spent their lives walking round in smoking jackets holding a tray of Ferrero Rochers for rival ambassadors and governors, talking about glamorous postings to Washington or Paris rather than Mozambique and Maputo.

But I trusted them enough not to go to Madagascar.

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A one million capacity stadium & the death of a legend

2009-03-17T12:00:00Z

From Cape Town, we took five days to drive to East London – the forgettable South African version rather than the one full of chirpy Cockneys.

On the way, we passed by the World Cup stadium in Port Elizabeth, whose downtown is a not a place any visiting football fans wants to find themselves in after dark during the World Cup.

The same can be said of Durban, which is very moody, though most of its suburbs are completely different. Durban, like any other South African city, is also full of taxi drivers who ignore that they have meters and try and rip off visitors.

“See that stadium,” said one such driver as we passed the splendid arena going up in Durban after agreeing a price, “it will hold one million people when it is finished.”

“What?!”

“One million people. It will be the biggest in the world.”

I went silent and let him have it. Nobody was changing his opinion and if he wants to go round telling people then that’s his shout. I once read a book on Spanish football which had the potential to be superb… except the writer quoted taxi drivers in the cities he visited as reliable sources.

Durban's (ahem) 1million capacity Moses Mabhida stadium

Durban’s World Cup stadium will seat 75,000. There will be a giant white arch right over the pitch and a capsule will take people over the pitch – though I doubt FIFA will allow it during a game.

The stadium had made much progress since my last visit in July, but I also felt sad returning to Durban. I’d arrived in the city last year with Manchester United fan Mike Dobbin.

I gave Mike a lift to the game and we got stuck in traffic for nearly two hours. As kick-off approached and it looked like we might miss the game, Mike was very nervous, for reasons you’ll read. We made the game with minutes to spare.

Mike passed away recently and we dedicated the last issue of United We Stand to him, in which I wrote the following editorial...

“He’d hate to be referred as such, but Manchester United lost its most loyal fan recently. Mike Dobbin, 61, passed away at the end of January, less than a month after finding out that he had pancreatic cancer after feeling unwell in Tokyo.

Mike’s record as a fan was staggering. The last game he missed before his illness was in 1991 when he agreed to be a godfather at a christening on the belief that it wouldn’t clash with a match. It did.

Before that, he’d missed a handful of games since the mid 60s. After ‘91, Mike watched more than 1,000 consecutive matches in all competitions including friendlies. In total, he watched United in 45 countries from Bermuda to Nigeria, Brazil to England.

He saw United at more than 250 different grounds and the last European away game he missed was Milan in 1969. Mike’s penultimate United game was the Club World Club final in Tokyo. I saw him inside the ground.

“Not feeling so good,” he said, “but it’s great to be here seeing United trying to be world champions.”

United crowned Kings of the World in Japan

I last spent quality time with Mike last summer in Cape Town during pre-season. The annoyance of a delayed flight to Durban was compensated by three hours chatting to him about his life as a red, including being the travel secretary of the United London Fan Club, a group he joined months after its inauguration when he moved from Manchester to London in 1965.

Thousands of Reds will be familiar with meeting Mike at the top of the escalators at Euston Station before a trip to see United. Many say he was the London Fan Club.

Mike told me of his plans for the next few days. It pained him that it was impossible to see the final game of the tour in Pretoria and travel to Nigeria for a friendly a day later.

He described it as “unfortunate.” So here’s what he did. He flew back to London, went straight to Oxford to watch a United XI before driving back to Heathrow and flying to Nigeria.

Mike was fortune to have the resources to travel the world, but his diligence as an accountant paid for his great love of watching the Reds.

Born in Manchester, his mother maintains that she took him in a pushchair to see the 1948 FA Cup homecoming parade. His first United memory was watching the 1957 Cup final on television, his first game in 1961 against Spurs.

Mike travelled to matches by train. “I don’t really like driving to matches because of the restrictions it places on drinking,” he told United We Stand when he appeared in ‘They Bleed Red White and Black’ in 2004.

He had to put up with all kinds of acting up from those he handed tickets out to and collected fares from, but those same people in the United family always protected him.

A quietly spoken confirmed pacifist, he read The Guardian (plus all his favourite United fanzines), liked classical music, opera and collected football memorabilia.

He owned most United league programmes going back to 1947, plus a programme from Arsenal away in 1930/31. He liked that one, not that he was one to shout from rooftops. A quiet, considerate man, his seat was on row 11 of the Main Stand, just to the left of the half-way line.

Mike’s idol was Denis Law, with whom he had the privilege of sitting next to at a dinner years after The King had retired. “It was as marvellous to talk to him as it was to see him play,” he said.

Few would argue with Mike’s best XI of Schmeichel, Dunne, Pallister, Buchan, Irwin, Beckham, Robson, Charlton, Best, Law, Hughes, with subs being Bailey, G Neville, Crerand, Keane, Cantona.

The Holy Trinity guard Old Trafford

It’s also important to remember those off the pitch like Mike. His record of matches is unique and deserves celebration. He would admit that he made a lot of sacrifices to watch United, but he never boasted about the number of games he went to, nor cast aspersions on others – unless they were selling a ticket above face value.

We’ll miss Mike and his ginger beard and we dedicate this issue of United We Stand to his memory. Rest In Peace.”

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Cape Town League Cup fever & Confed Cup disinterest

2009-03-14T14:00:00Z

While in Cape Town, I met up with the United supporters club in the city to watch the League Cup Final. Around 200 of them filled the top floor in Mitchell’s Brewery by the Waterfront, completely outnumbering Tottenham fans.

It was an interesting, friendly and raucous mixture of expats and South Africans of every creed and colour. Many had never been to Old Trafford, some once held season tickets.

Almost all wore replica shirts, which they proudly buy from Old Trafford each year when they also renew their memberships.

The Cape Town Reds

The issues which affect them are completely different to the fans in Manchester. Ticket prices or allocations are irrelevant because they don’t go to games, yet import taxes almost double the cost of their merchandise and they were peeved by the cool reaction of some of the visiting United players last summer.

The biggest hit with them was one Patrick Crerand who they shared several wines with.

I thought I’d escaped Crerand’s name, though I sent him and Noreen a postcard from Tristan da Cunha. I wrote that while there were only 270 residents, there was a massive Glasgow Rangers supporters club but not one for Celtic.

That’ll get him fuming over his morning toast when it arrives, probably next year.

The enthusiasm of the Cape Town Reds was unquestionable – they even made up songs about players which I’d not heard at Old Trafford and they all went mental when United’s penalties hit the net. So much for the League Cup final being worthless.

Anderson sparks celebrations in Africa

From Cape Town, we drove inland for four days and through cities which will host World Cup matches like Port Elizabeth and Durban. I was in both last summer and could check on progress, which has been significant.

The stadiums will be top level in South Africa and I believe the World Cup will be a success. There are issues to address like public transport, rip-off taxi drivers and crime hot spots. There are many doomsayers to overcome, but South Africa’s a beautiful country and the media portrayal is often hysterical.

Last summer, The Sun ran one such piece about the crime there ahead of the World Cup. I sat with the author a few days later in Cape Town and shook my head.

Even with a goosed pound it’s cheap, the roads and hotels and nightlife are excellent and it successfully staged other big events like the 1995 Rugby World Cup.

FIFA will reduce prices for South African residents and the country will stage the Confederations Cup this summer – though the ticket uptake has so far been disappointing.

The organisers have been ordered to boost local ticket sales or face accusations that they are only interested in attracting rich foreign football fans.

Durban's Moses Mabhida Stadium takes shape

I didn’t see one advert for the Confederations Cup in the country, but I did see someone wearing a Leeds United shirt in a street in Durban.

Despite featuring world champions Italy as well as Spain, Brazil, New Zealand, Iraq and the United States, only 170,000 out of 640,000 tickets have been sold for what is effectively South Africa’s warm-up for 2010.

Empty seats will be an embarrassment for FIFA and South Africa and it’s not like Spain or Italy can rely on a travelling support like the northern European countries…

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Boats, bat detectors & buzzing bee bother for Sir Alex

2009-03-11T13:00:00Z

Aside from the hulking Table Mountain, Cape Town’s 75,000 capacity World Cup stadium is the most dominant sight as you approach the city by sea.

Cranes tower over the structure, a larger version of Arsenal’s Emirates. I’m sure it will become an iconic television image during next year’s World Cup, much like the high-board diver against the backdrop of Barcelona was in the 1992 Olympics.

As we left the ship, I said goodbye to people I’d met: the world traveller from Hyde near Manchester who has visited 189 countries and was leaving for a bus to Lesotho.

The friendly bat expert from near Cheltenham who had set up bat detection equipment in Antarctica - and found none.

"Look boss, I've found some..."

The retired gentleman of army background who kept using military metaphors – “Support coming on the right flank, opposition limited” – to do such mundane things as get a cup of tea.

He probably went to the ships’ museum in Cape Town, which, aside from anything else, showed what a glorious ship building industry Great Britain once had. Glasgow, Belfast, Birkenhead, Newcastle, West Hartlepool, Sunderland, Barrow - British shipyards built the finest vessels in the world until the 1950s.

Or maybe he went to Robben Island, two miles off the shark-infested coast, where Nelson Mandela was imprisoned for 27 years until 1990. They used to play football on the island and had a prisoner league. A book by an American writer has just been published on the subject.

Once ashore, a two kilogram package was waiting for me packed with the latest magazines including FourFourTwo and United We Stand, sent over by my 14-year-old brother, who is doing well at Stockport County where he’s the top scorer.

Packages of small mercies that are vital when you are away, even in the internet age. Aided by a trusted team, I’m still editing UWS and reading everything online, but it’s great to get a physical copy in your hands, to touch and smell the shiny paper and see the finished pages.

Then I had two days of catching up. The administration and hosting for many of Britain’s biggest football websites is done in South Africa, where labour is cheaper than the UK, so there were people to meet and emails to read.

One was from Andrew Dickman, a boss at Channel M whom I went to Tokyo with. The United players like him and always stop for him in mixed zones. Dickman’s not ashamed to admit that he’s got a 5,000 strong football programme collection in his parents’ garage – all neatly numbered and filed.

In fact he’s got the exact number written on a piece of card which he keeps in his wallet to show any females he may be looking to impress. At least the type turned on by a Connah’s Quay Nomads vs Bangor City programme.

Dickman interviewed Sir Alex Ferguson many times when he worked for MUTV. Once, he could see a bee buzzing around Ferguson’s head. The manager had not realised it so Dickman was unsure what to do.

What do you do? Say: “We’ve got to stop as there’s a bee making a beeline for your ear, Sir Alex?”

"Get that thing away from me..."

The manager eventually spotted it and saw the funny side. Another time, he pretended not to see the egg yolk on Dickman’s trousers after a pre-interview egg and bacon butty bought in a mobile van by Carrington spurted in his lap.

And it was a decent touch of the United manager to call him in his office when he left MUTV for a chat and to wish him well.

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Whaling stations, paper rounds & texts from David May

2009-03-07T10:00:00Z

I’ve just spent 17 days on a ship, travelling from Cape to Cape via Antarctica, The Falklands, South Georgia and Tristan Da Cunha in the Southern Atlantic.

60-mile-per-hour winds meant we were unable to land at South Georgia and see the grave of the explorer Ernest Shackleton. His ship got snarled up in ice during a 1914 Antarctic expedition, so the crew took all their belongings and equipment off and, after playing a game of football on the ice, set up a camp.

The settlement of Grytviken (population 13) is a former whaling station which Shackleton managed to reach and raise the alarm in a tiny lifeboat months after abandoning ship. Grytviken also has a football pitch, despite not having enough people to form two teams.

Tristan da Cunha, a further three days away by sea, is the most isolated settlement in the world with a population of around 270. A UK overseas territory, there are just seven established surnames and the main man on the island told us that most are Manchester United supporters.

I’ll never complain about Fratton Park being a trek again. And jokes about being inbred are not appreciated. Seriously.

Fortress Fratton: Not that far, really

Having so much time to spare at sea has allowed me to read and write extensively. I’ve started my book on United in the 90s by so far transcribing 8,000 of David May’s words.

He’s a proper lad full of great anecdotes which usually involve childish pranks and beer. I’ve got nine other interviews on a dictaphone which I’ve been guarding with my life since January.

I’d not spoke to David for two months, so it was a coincidence to get a text from him with his new phone number as I wrote about
him. Many footballers or former players change their phone number frequently to avoid being mithered.

“You lucky tw*t,” May’s text read. “I hope your boat doesn’t sink.”

Better than one from a mate which read: “I hope a big wave sinks you and pirates attack you.”

"What? No invite?"

And I wrote up Cardiff vs Swansea for FourFourTwo’s More Than A Game feature next month.

I went to watch the game twice – first from a Swansea perspective and secondly with Cardiff’s Soul Crew. I met some right characters in South Wales on those trips and I’ve met even more at sea.

Like the Sir and his Lady who own a castle and two planes. I found out that he owns two planes by asking him if he uses Easyjet to commute between the castle and their island estate.

“Actually,” he replied, “we use our own planes.”

“Well I used to have a paper round racket going round Urmston,” I could have replied to Top Trump him.

And there was another Sir who boasts a two-mile full size railway in his garden. In Henley (an awful place to do a paper round because the houses are too big).

"No, WE are Swansea!"

And an erudite Norwich City fan who was in such a position in the world of finance that the BBC’s economics man Robert Peston used to email for advice.

He let the top floor of his house for eight years… to his good friend John Major. I wouldn’t have liked delivering papers to that one with gun-wielding security in the garden 24/7. He explained the Glazers takeover of Manchester United in terms I’ve never heard before.

Then there was the Lancastrian who spoke of nothing but fighting off burglars with dogs, whenever we saw him. By the time the ship neared Cape Town, the dogs had grown into wolves and the burglars a division of barbarians.

Again, his house wouldn’t be ideal for a paper boy.

Several of the ship’s staff are into football. The chief engineer is a Sunderland fan who subscribes to the A Love Supremefanzine. And the captain and his wife are Liverpool fans from Merseyside who just want to talk about football when most of the people around them have no interest in it.

They knew Sir Matt Busby and Bill Shankly well and the captain wants to show me some old pictures of them. They congratulated me on United winning the league after Liverpool’s defeat at Middlesbrough, which was very generous of them, especially because I don’t play for United…

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Freak injuries, grazing geese & more Crerand classics

2009-02-26T11:00:00Z

After the war memorial, I visited Stanley’s football pitch, which was occupied by grazing geese as big as Andy Reid.

Then the office of Penguin News, the newspaper of The Falklands. Bizarrely, a football story was front page news.

Wayne Clement, one of the islands’ most promising players, had tripped in a hole on the pitch and broken his leg in three places, dislocating his foot too.

The hospital on the islands doesn’t deal with that type of injury, so he went by air ambulance to Chile where his leg was re-set. Islanders – or Bennies or Kelpers as they are called – are worried that he won’t be back in time to represent the Falklands in the Small Island games next year.

Dr Prado, the bone specialist in Chile, said that if the accident had not happened on a Friday the delay in getting him to the clinic could have meant he would never have played again.

I also visited Globe Tavern, one of eight or nine pubs in Stanley. Many of the British forces at Mount Pleasant have drunk in there and the roof is covered in union flags with the names of the soldiers marked on them.

Flags adorn the Globe Tavern

I’d missed a United game being televised by a day, but was told about an islander called Steve who was named after Steve Coppell. Coppell is one of the brightest men in football. I’ve interviewed him a few times and he’s come closer to articulating what it feels like to make a debut in front of 50,000 than most footballers.

“My heart was jumping out of my chest and I’ve never had another experience like it,” Coppell said. “I wasn’t running; I was floating across the grass. Words do not do the experience justice; it was a drug-like euphoric trance. I’ve had a few operations, and it was like that little pleasant stage after the anaesthetic. Only multiplied by a hundred.”

In the pub, I got speaking to Don, 82, who had been a driver to the island’s governor when the Argentinian troops invaded. As we spoke, two Tornados did a low-level fly past before shooting almost vertically upwards. You could literally feel the tremendous noise they made in your bones.

“That’s to remind any visiting Argies that we’re not asleep,” Don said. “Some of them come by ship and refuse to present their passports because they claim they are still in Argentina.”

Along with the 30 or so British marines in Stanley in 1982, they had to surrender. It’s a tenuous thought, but it’s good job Paddy Crerand wasn’t the governor.

For one, he would have kicked the ‘Thatcher Drive’ signs and, for two, I reckon he would have fancied his chances against 9,000 Argentinians - partly out of revenge for Estudiantes beating United in 1968.

Not that Paddy would ever work for the British government. In Tokyo, we were both interviewed by a Japanese journalist who is writing a book on English football.

Crerand went first and within five minutes he was telling the poor girl about Irish politics. She was too polite to stop him.

“Paddy, she’s writing a book on English football, not internment,” I interjected.

And I’ll never forget the image of him on the same trip struggling to work out a translation machine.

The idea is that you wear headphones and click to the language of your choice as the various players and coaches spoke in their own language. Thus you could hear Ferguson in Spanish or Japanese as his words were immediately translated.

"I'll be answering the next question in Swahili"

Crerand, who only briefly owned a mobile phone before throwing it in the River Mersey because “it was driving me crackers,” tried to wear his on his arm before I fixed it on his ear. Except he fiddled with the switch.

“The manager’s speaking in Spanish,” he whispered, nodding approvingly as Sir Alex spoke, “very clever man, the manager.”

“He’s speaking in English, Pat,” you are listening to the Spanish translator.” I wish I hadn’t set him straight.

Another time, a Japanese fan presented him with a picture of him playing. He’d never seen it before and was visibly moved. Out of courtesy, he was wished a safe journey back to Manchester.

“No, I wish I had a Tardis which could transport me back to Sale,” he replied crossly.

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From Argentina to Antarctica & the Falklands

2009-02-23T12:00:00Z

From Buenos Aires we flew south to Urshuaia, the world’s southern most city in Patagonia, where we boarded a ship to Antarctica. The Drake Passage, which you enter after rounding Cape Horn, is notoriously rough and I spent the first day being seasick.

There were many scientists and academics on the ship, well-spoken British twice my age with two brains and who knew absolutely nothing and cared even less about football. Conversation was about flora and fauna rather than Falkirk and Ferguson.

After going on land, four Argentinian sailors from their Antarctic station boarded and I was asked to be an interpreter. I could have had them right over.

“Would you tell the sailor that I was in charge of New Zealand’s base on Antarctica,” could have been changed to: “The man here says that he admires your moustache very much and that you look like Terry McDermott.”

“And how is the penguin population this year?” to: “I’d like to feed the penguins some chicken McNuggets.”

"Hey... you promised us a Happy Meal"

The sailors live on the frozen continent for four months a year. One was a River fan so I showed him photos of the Monumental. Another loved Carlos Tevez.

Nike have branded Tevez his own range of clothing in Argentina. It’s surprisingly smart. I told the sailor that Manchester United fans frequently sing "Argentina" when Tevez plays, which he liked. The chant is controversial for more than one reason, the most obvious being the Falklands War.

The Falklands was my next stop and after three days at sea we arrived at Stanley, the tiny capital of 2,000 souls. My memories of the Falklands go back to childhood, the 1982 conflict and the television pictures showing the British Task Force setting off for the South Atlantic. I was nine, so my dad formed my opinions. One night I asked him if we would win the war.

“Yes, because the Gurkhas and the Paras are there,” he replied. “The Gurkhas will fight with their bare hands if they need to.” That was all the assurance I needed in the top bunk.

23 years later, I dated an Argentinian girl.

“You know,” she said to me after a few weeks, “I was scared of the British when I was a child. We lived near a military base and we thought the British planes were going to bomb it. We had to practice climbing into the shelters when we heard the air raid siren at school. Some friends of my parents lost their son. He was 19. Our leader was a military dictator who should not have started a war, but the Malvinas are ours.”

It’s still a very sensitive subject in Argentina. I’ve read several books on the conflict, most, but not all, written in English from a British perspective.

I visited the Argentinian war memorial in Buenos Aires, which lists the names of nearly 700 dead. It’s a sobering, saddening experience. Ironically, the memorial stands opposite a clock given as a gift from the British government in earlier, happier, years.

Then I visited Stanley and saw the places which made the news 27 years ago: Goose Green, Wireless Ridge, Mount Tumbledown. Bleak, Pennine-like windswept hills where hundreds died in fierce battles between dug-in Argentinians and the attacking British - including the Paras and the Gurkhas.

I saw the war memorials, with names like ‘H Jones’, who was posthumously awarded the Victoria Cross, engraved into the stone. He died leading his men on an attack of a machine gunners’ nest.

I also visited the museum, which has an extensive section on the war. What struck me most was a handwritten note from a young Argentinian soldier, which was given to one of the 500 islanders who stayed in Stanley while the Argentinian forces were there for 74 days until surrendering to the British.

Many of the Argentinian soldiers were young and poorly trained. “We are sorry,” it started in hand-written English. “But we are hungry. Can we have some food?”

It went on to explain that they would get in trouble with their superiors if they were seen talking to the islanders, but if they could possibly pass by later it would be much appreciated.

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A whistle-stop tour of Buenos Aires arenas

2009-02-19T11:00:00Z

I ducked out of the shade and flagged a taxi down in the scorching Buenos Aires sun.

“The stadiums of Racing, followed by Independiente,” I said.

“OK,” replied the driver, “but why do you want to go there?”

“I’m a football fan and I’ve got two hours to visit some stadiums in your city. I’ve already been to Boca and River so I wanted to see Racing and Independiente because they are so close to each other.”

"Five stadiums in two hours please driver"

“The battle of the barrio,” he replied as we headed south. “They don’t like each other.”

“Two hours you say?” he went on, sizing up a healthy job. “I can also take you to some more stadiums if you are interested.”

Interested? Does Garth Crooks ask long-winded, multi-claused questions?

Taxis in Buenos Aires are very cheap. The two hour trip would cost me £21 and I got to see a lot more than two stadiums.

At Racing, the gatemen welcomed me in when I told them that I was from Manchester and just wanted a quick picture. Even better, they got the groundsman to walk me into the centre of the pitch where Ricky Villa once played.

“Where else are you going?” asked the groundsman.

“Independiente.”

“Don’t bother,” he said, shaking his head. “They are not as friendly there.”

He was right. At Independiente, a surly gateman wouldn’t let me take a picture unless “you get permission from the club.”

They are building what will be Argentina’s most modern stadium, but we didn’t hang around to sort out the bureaucracy and got on the motorway to see the home of another great club, Velez Sarsfield.

Velez Sarsfield's Estadio Jose Amalfitani

The taxi driver liked football.

“Who do you support?” I asked.

“River,” he replied. “And Quilmes, the team from my barrio. And I like Manchester United, Liverpool and Arsenal in England. English football is very strong and I watch them every week. And Barcelona in Spain.”

"Anyone else?"

“I also like Flamengo in Brazil and Inter Milan in Italy.”

“Who do you want to win when Liverpool play Manchester United?”

“Manchester United, because I prefer Tevez to Mascherano. But I am happy if it is a draw.”

After I’d been to Velez and their steep-sided 48,000 ground, where another friendly gateman let me onto the pitch and a kindly club official insisted on showing me some of their trophies (like the Inter-Continental Cup, won in 1994) we went to the nearby home of All Boys.

It was here that Carlos Tevez played before Boca Juniors signed him. The Islas Malvinas stadium (what Argentinians call the Falkland Islands) was another traditional football ground, with steep painted terracing.

All the grounds were the opposite of the new identikit stadia that have spread around Europe. They were loved and cherished, even though they would never get a health and safety certificate in Britain.

There was also a map of The Falklands behind one goal. I’ll write about the Falklands next week as I’m to travel there by ship via Antarctica.

The final stadium was La Paternal of Argentinos Juniors, the first club of Diego Maradona himself. Stunning murals cover their homely 24,000 capacity ground – with several unsurprisingly dedicated to El Diego.

A young Diego in Argentinos Juniors colours

“Do you remember when he scored against England in Mexico?” the taxi driver asked as he sped me back into the centre of a quite brilliant city.

He wasn’t going to have an Englishman in his cab without bringing that up was he?

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Croc shoes, Crerand quotes & a Colon comeback

2009-02-16T12:00:00Z

I arrived at Paddy Crerand’s house one morning when I was ghosting his autobiography to be met by a sight I’d rather forget.

“Well?” he asked, as he opened the door and pointed to his feet. “What do you think?”

Paddy, who is no longer 21, was wearing a lurid pair of Crocs - with socks underneath the hideous plastic ‘shoes’.

“They’re all the rage in Europe,” he proudly stated. “They were bought in Mallorca. All the fashionable people wear them. And you should know that living abroad.”

I shook my head and we sat down to talk. I spent a lot of time with Crerand in Tokyo in December. And there was no shortage of amusement.

When a Japanese journalist asked Sir Alex Ferguson how his players would contain the mercurial talents of Gamba Osaka’s Endo, Crerand shouted out: “F**king kick him.”

Endo: If in doubt... kick him

Crerand wasn’t allowed on a rollercoaster outside our hotel because the age limit was 64. Another time, in the bowels of the Yokohama Stadium, he shouted to me:

“Andy, don’t you be going!” as I made my way up to work.

“Why?”

“Because I’m by myself.”

This was a man who, along with Nobby Stiles, kicked seven bells out of midfields from Belgrade to Bolton. And he didn’t want to be left alone.

Another time, while waiting in the mixed zone, Crerand saw Cristiano Ronaldo. The pair get on well. “Cristiano,” shouted Crerand and the winger looked up.

“Real Madrid TV.” Ronaldo laughed.

"Tell us another one Paddy"

On a different occasion, Crerand was having a spot of bother over his accreditation with the officious Japanese officials. I slipped him the required pass and nodded to the officials, who let Crerand through. His reaction?

“You never told me you could speak Japanese!”

And at yet another time, I was interviewing the journalist Martin Samuel. The conversation was deep, when Crerand saw us and came over.

“Don’t worry, I won’t interrupt,” he said as he sat with us. “But I should say that the ginger ale is lovely over here.” Then he took over the interview!

Want another Crerand quote? “The food is lovely here in Japan. I’ve had the same thing every night.”

“What?”

“Chicken.”

I’ll save some more for another blog. But back to the Crocs.

I’ve never ever wanted a pair. They are uglier than Ronaldo’s boots. But on Sunday afternoon, for the first time in my life, I would have replaced my Adidas shell toes with Crocs. That’s how baking the heat was in Buenos Aires.

I’d paid £12 to watch River Plate’s first league game of the season. Their 65,000 capacity Monumental home, which staged the 1978 World Cup final, has no cover.

River Plate's melting Monumental

The sun was burning everyone and as I’d got into the ground an hour early I was starting to struggle as I had no sun cream. The rubber on my trainers felt like it was melting into my feet. Oh for the air conditioning of Crocs.

I sort of rolled my T-shirt up, to which a man shouted: “Take it off, you’ve not got breasts.” I smiled but didn’t speak. I wasn’t keen being outed as an Englishman by the River hardcore. Often, when I go to derby games, I go with a local. Here I was alone.

Some mates watched Boca a few years ago and found it very unnerving and threatening, though they did stand with the loons behind the goal. The atmosphere was incredible, they said, but they were often asked for the time by locals keen to suss out where they were from (they lied and claimed to be Irish) and what watches they were wearing (they’d left them at the hotel).

River Plate, as you’ll know if you read Daniel Neilson’s excellent blogs, are not having the best time of it. But they were the only big team at home in Buenos Aires so I went to see them play.

Before heading to Monumental, I visited La Bombonera (the chocolate box), the 50,000 capacity home of Boca Juniors. The area around the ground makes a trip to The New Den seem like a stroll through Euro Disney.

Boca street art near La Bombonera

In contrast, River play in one of Buenos Aires’ more affluent neighbourhoods and, sunburn aside, watching them was a brilliant experience, apart from one thing.

Maybe I’ve been spoiled watching United, but the football wasn’t anywhere near as good as I had expected.

What made the day so special, once again in South America, was the atmosphere. As in Brazil, it’s far superior to England and Spain. The singing is non stop and brilliantly orchestrated by the fans. There are hundreds of colourful banners. The drums and various other musical instruments only add to the experience.

The crowd was 40,000, and I estimate that 25,000 sang. One area in the middle of the terrace was kept empty. Then, five minutes into the game, a few hundred lads walked into the empty space. They were the main boys. With them in place, the terrace was full and exploded into more beautiful, melodic, anthems.

The 1,500 visiting Colon fans were on top form too, especially when they came from 2-0 down to draw 2-2 with 10 men.

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City shadows, Seba Veron & a Primark in River Plate

2009-02-12T10:00:00Z

“Sexo, droga y Penarol” – Montevideo graffiti.

Uruguay is a football country and Montevideo, its fading capital of 1.2 million, its epicentre. According to the football museum at the Cententario stadium, the British military introduced football to the country. The Uruguayans repaid us by winning the first World Cup in 1930 – to celebrate a 100 years of independence.

The Estadio Centenario in Montevideo

I walked through the centre and spoke to a man selling T-shirts celebrating that 1930 World Cup win.

“Where you from?” he asked.

“Manchester, England.”

“United or city?”

City’s profile is higher than I’ve ever known. It used to be: "Ah, United. Nobby Stiles, Bobby Charlton.”

“City mucho dinero,” he replied, rubbing his fingers.

“Yes and no trophies,” I replied.

“Soon,” he hit back smiling. “Soon.”

A more paranoid man would think that City’s chief executive Garry ‘Milan bottled it’ Cook had paid someone to shadow me and wind me up.

Cook: "Follow that Mitten"

The street vendor was a Nacional fan and he went onto explain that his club were better than United on account of winning three Inter Continental/World Club championships to United’s two.

It got worse an hour later, as I stumbled across a wonderful shop selling old football memorabilia. Pride of place was a record with ‘Liverpool’ written on it.

“What’s this?” I asked the owner.

“They are a club here in Uruguay. They wear blue.” Then I discovered that the main market in Montevideo was constructed in ‘Liverpool, England.’

Later, we met Johan Jensen, the Norwegian journalist who covers South American football for United We Stand. He grew up in Tromso, which houses Europe’s most northerly university.

Only natural then that he’s spent three years in South America, the last few months in Montevideo. Before that he did a three-month football tour around the continent. I wanted to interview Juan Sebastian Veron on this trip, but I’m limited to four days in Buenos Aires and Veron, 33, has been recalled by Argentina for the first time since the 2007 Copa America.

I saw him in that, spraying the ball around like a knee-bandaged God. I’m fascinated by ‘Seba’ as the United players called him and Johan pleased me by explaining how he’s putting his own money into the youth set up at his current club Estudiantes – where his father also kicked, sorry, played.

Oh, and that he was the best player in South America last year. I asked Johan if he’d cross the world’s widest river to interview Veron and he’s up for it.

Veron dictates vs Venezuela

Next day, I visited the Centenario stadium, which was built in just eight months to hold 90,000 for the 1930 World Cup. It seats 75,000 now on its vast tiered banks, but, like Uruguayan club football, it has sadly seen better days.

There’s a football museum inside the stadium and I came across another ultra enthusiastic host, who showed me all the exhibits and let me into the stadium.

From there we caught a bus to Colonia, which is where I’m writing from. We went past where the German cruiser ‘Graf Spee’ which was scuttled after the Battle of the River Plate in World War II and we’ll board a boat to one of the greatest football cities in the world… Buenos Aires.

It just so happens that our arrival coincides with the first weekend of the season. I really hope there’s a Primark in BA to keep my girlfriend occupied as River Plate are at home…

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Bouncing Brazilians & Mancs in Montevideo

2009-02-10T10:00:00Z

Sunday meant a Gremio away game in Novo Hamburgo, an hour north of Porto Alegre.

It was in the Gaucho tournament, played by all the major clubs of Rio Grande do Sul and 7,000 away fans flooded into town, then paid eight quid for a ticket before taking over three sides of the 9,000 capacity ground.

Then they sang non-stop for two hours, bouncing up and down. I love the enthusiasm and passion of the Brazilian fans, but they must have been more knackered than the players.

Another 500 didn’t buy tickets, but stood instead in the nearby streets, drinking beer and buying meat from impromptu BBQs. And chanting Gremio. A line of police on horseback made sure they didn’t overwhelm the small stadium.

"You're supposed to be at home..."

Gremio won 5-1 against their opponents who had no less than five shirt sponsors. Word went round that their rivals Inter were about to sell their best player Alex (who came on for Kaka to make his Brazil debut in October) "to England."

“Where in England?” I asked a nearby fan.

“England.”

From Brazil we left the airport where Robinho was on the front cover of the respected Veja news magazine for his off-field exploits under the headline "Why doesn’t he grow up?" and headed south to Montevideo, Uruguay.

After hiring a car which the Flintstones would have turned their noses up, we drove two hours east to Punta Del Este – the Ibiza of South America at the edge of the River Plate.

Argentinian money (and a fair few corrupt European politicians who fled rather than face charges) helped Punta prosper, so I was surprised to hear a northern English accent as we settled down in a bar at sunset.

‘It’s Alright’ by Sterling Void was playing and life was close to perfect. Then my curiosity got the better of me.

“Excuse me, where are you from?” I asked the lad with the northern twang.

“Manchester.”

“Whereabouts?”

“Oldham, but I live over here. You?”

“Manchester,” I replied.

“I’m a blue. You’re not a United w**ker are you?”

That was it. I politely inquired where he was from and he asked me if I was a United w**ker. I could think of many who would have sparked him out there and then, but their middle name isn’t Boutros Boutros-Ghali like mine.

I thought about saying: “I’m not into football, but if you need any hints on carp fishing I’m your man. There’s a good bait shop near Boundary Park as it happens.”

Instead I said: “Yes, I support United.”

“Oh f**k off,” he replied, with genuine anger. It was my time to be a smartarse.

“I’ve just got back from watching them in Tokyo.”

“Why, what happened there?”

An imaginary drum roll rippled through my head. A sell out Free Trade Hall awaited.

“You know, when United were crowned world champions.”

He didn’t want to hear any more.

“I’ve not seen the papers for a few weeks,” I lied. “Did Kaka join City? I mean, you could see why he wanted to swap Maldini for Richard Dunne.”

Richard Dunne almost had Kaka fooled... almost

With that he was off. And the sun had finally set.

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Forlan, Falcao & fantastic breasts

2009-02-04T12:00:00Z

Fourteen things I’ve done in the last few days...

1) Visited a town in southern Brazil where German is the first language and all the buildings look Bavarian. I didn’t catch Rudi Voller quaffing fat-headed beers in a beer hall wearing lederhosen though.

2) Bought Sexuality by Billy Bragg.

3) Got told off for singing it. I think the line: “I’ve had relations, with girls from many nations” caused the offence, rather than “I had an uncle who once played, for Red Star Belgrade.” Or maybe it was my dreadful voice.

4) Watched United win on TV against West Brom and Everton. It’s easier watching United on television in Brazil than it is in Burnage. Not that I’ve ever watched United on the box in Burnage.

Though between 1999-2001, I often used Burnage station as a starting point for my journeys as it was the closest to my flat. I can recall one particularly nervy occasion when I was with a fully laden mountain bike ready to board a train north to do the coast-to-coast ride.

The local scrotes weighed my bike up. Had the train not arrived, it could well have been ‘liberated’ next to be seen ridden on the streets of Moss Side by a young dealer.

That happened to me when I was 17…

"Weeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee"

5) Decided that I’m going to watch a Gremio away game in Novo Hamburgo. Alone.

6) Tried to work out the best way of getting to Punta Del Este from Montevideo this week. Uruguay’s most famous current export Diego Forlan told me that Punta is the best place in the world for girls and nightlife. That opinion should be set against the fact that he was listening to INXS’ Greatest Hits at the time and describing it as “the best album ever.”

While I’m dropping names of strikers excelling in Spain, Samuel Eto’o once told me that I have to go to Cameroon because the women have “fantastic breasts.”

7) Finally got hold of Falcao’s number. I had intended to interview the brilliant Brazilian, the only one from the ’82 World Cup team who played in Europe. He was a bigger star in Rome than Cesar. I’ve run out of time in Brazil though so it will have to wait until next year. Shame - I was looking forward to that.

8) Had a conversation with my brother Jonathan – aka the 'non league gypsy'. Aged 32 and about to become a dad, he’s just parked his caravan at Salford City, his 6th (sixth) semi-professional club in the last year.

“Where are you?” he asked.

“In a lounge at an airport,” I whispered.

“Does it have free beer?” he continued, getting straight to what matters to him.

“Yes.”

“Why aren’t you drinking then?”

“Because I don’t want to.”

“You’re not right in the head,” he went on. “There’s free beer and you’re not drinking. I’d drink until the plane came and stuff my pockets full of peanuts.”

9) Conversed with Andrew Dickman, a boss at Channel M who has a fetish for stadiums and a 4,000 strong football programme collection. He keeps a card with the exact figure in his wallet and warrants a blog alone for some of his stories interviewing the likes of Sir Alex Ferguson. I’m to speak to Mancunian expats on my travels.

10) Emailed my other brother Sam, who is doing really well in Stockport County Under 14s. I’ve given him a job selling United We Stand and collecting the mail from the PO Box. He’s keen.

One of his jobs is typing out the names and addresses of subscribers and sending them to me to forward to the subscriptions man. Sam’s common sense has room for improvement and he’s managing to get the names wrong of subscribers. He listed a ‘Smith’ as ‘Smim’ last week and a ‘Robinson’ and ‘Robisn’. If they are actually called ‘Smim’ or ‘Robisn’ then I apologise.

11) Did a 58 minute interview for an American website about Mad For It. They were in LA. We did it on Skype, which is the best invention since Anne Hathaway.

If I fail to convince Andrei Kanchelskis to meet me in Sevastopol in May, I’ll try and get him to do the interview on Skype. I’ll put 33 pence on him never having heard of it.

"You want to interview me with a what?"

12) Finished reading Best and Edwards by Gordon Burn. It’s one of the best books I’ve read about football. The sad chronology of Best’s drinking was not dissimilar to Brian Clough’s in the two excellent books about him by Duncan Hamilton and David Peace – the other British novelist in the class of Burn.

13) Paid my tax bill. I hope Gordon Brown (don’t mix him up with the writer Gordon, nor the Gordon Burn who used to present the Krypton factor from a moor near Bury) spends the money supporting those thoroughly likeable and underpaid hedge fund managers and bank bosses who now find their bonuses reduced after years of living frugally in Dickensian conditions.

14) Had a nice cold glass of Shumpt, the Belgian soft drink advocated by Alan Partridge, who contravened BBC’s advertising protocol in the process.

The reason? To mark a year of doing this blog.

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Beach boys, Silkmen & pineapples called Pele

2009-01-29T11:00:00Z

A mate recently put an advert up on a supermarket notice board.

“Dog for sale,” it read, before listing the pedigree of the animal. The price was £55 – a tenth of the true value. He then put the phone number of his 55-year-old work colleague, who doesn’t like dogs. He was inundated with calls and had no idea why.

I thought of that when I went for a run on the beach the other day. Word is that Brazil’s best girls come from the south, but I didn’t run into Alessandra Ambrosia or Gisele Bundchen sunbathing and looking for a big nosed Englishman to rub cream where their hands wouldn’t reach.

Bundchen: "Keep your hands where I can see them Mitten"

Nor were there donkey rides or stalls selling rock, though I did see a stall selling pineapples called ‘Pele’ – probably the world’s best player, who changed his name to ‘Pele in Association with Mastercard’ sometime in the 90s when he began travelling the globe and telling local journalists that the star of the local team in whichever city he was in was his favourite player in world football.

Back down on the beach I witnessed several games of football taking place as the massive Atlantic waves crashed nearby. I wanted to play so I stood at the side like a kid in a playground, wearing nothing but a pair of Manchester United shorts.

After a few minutes, a lad beckoned me over to join in. “Manchester,” he didn’t say, pointing to my shorts. “Colin Bell, The Kippax Street Stand, Forward with Franny and The Junior Blues.”

“That’s City,” I replied, correcting him. “They’re the other team from where I am from. I support Manchester United. Clayton Blackmore, Russell Beardsmore and Darcy Glazer?”

The lad shrugged, said that he’d never heard of "Unite" and beckoned me to play. Brazil are frequently World Beach Soccer champions and I was asked to play in a holding role in a rigid yet attack-minded 1-1-3 formation.

What actually happened was that one of the players called me “Neville” after a bit and it stuck. Unfortunately. And not least because Gary and I see eye-to-eye like Bosnian and Serb tennis fans in Melbourne.

The lads varied in age, but their skill level was outstanding: one touch passing, flicks and outrageous tricks. They reminded me of the Macclesfield Town team which won the Conference in 1997. I was a bit out of my depth, but I enjoyed it, as I did the last time I played Beach Soccer in Colombia 18 months ago.

Beach football in Brazil: A lot like mid-90s Macclesfield

Three of us had been in neighbouring Venezuela for the Copa America and we were at the end of the trip. My two travel partners were perfect for a journey to some dangerous parts.

Both were street-wise, wily, well-travelled and boxed – one had been a heavyweight in Northern Ireland, the other was more like Sugar Ray and was not unknown to the authorities.

Problem was, when a guidebook said: “Don’t go to Parque whatever as it’s very dangerous,” they took that as a challenge to go. Then I’d look the fool for being hesitant as we walked through the supposedly dangerous area and weren’t shot at.

They were in their element playing football, where locals called us "The English" to the annoyance of the Belfast boy.

And I’ll never forget one kid coming up to us. He wasn’t mithering, but wanted to tell us about his friend, Wigan’s Ecuador international Antonio Valencia. It was mad hearing a Colombian say "Wigan Athletic."

But then try telling a Colombian that Oasis wrote a track called ‘Colombia’ only 20 miles from Wigan.

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Anderson, Santa Cruz and a Lenny Kravitz concert

2009-01-26T12:00:00Z

I’m in Rio Grande do Sul in Brazil’s south. The capital is Porto Alegre, home to two million and a veritable footballer factory.

Ronaldinho’s from here, Anderson too. Both played for Gremio. Anderson’s mates are right rum coves. They use pea shooters, don’t file their tax returns on time, go through traffic lights on amber, that kind of thing.

It’s a football state and you see the flags of the two main teams flying above houses all over the region: Gremio, who wear blue and black and Internacional, who wear red and white.

Both are huge clubs with their own 50,000 plus capacity stadiums just a mile apart. And both are among the most successful in South America and have won the Copa Liberatadores.

Gremio's fans make a din

Gremio were Inter-Continental champions in 1983 and Internacional world champions in 2006 following a sweet victory over a Barca side containing Ronaldinho – a former star of their detested foes Gremio.

I’ll return for their Gre-Nal derby game one day. The easily mocked Danny Dyer went in 2007 and the footage he got was superb, with fans creating a din only an Old Firm game can come close to matching in Britain. I like the fan culture in Brazil and wanted to experience it again.

With the Brazilian football season starting, I looked in the paper for any fixtures. Inter were at home in a cup match. My girlfriend reckons she’s Inter and loathes Gremio, but the closest she has come to seeing either team was when she saw a Lenny Kravitz concert at Gremio’s ground.

Which is a poor substitute on many counts.

Kravitz makes a racket

I suggested that we watch Inter vs Santa Cruz - and sit with their ultra style fans in the cheap seats. Her friends said that it was far too dangerous. They also raised their eyebrows when I told them I’d used the excellent - if incomprehensive - Sao Paulo metro.

Apparently muggers and murderers lurk down there. Apparently nothing, it was fine.

We arrived at the ground an hour before kick-off and bought tickets for around £8 in one of the cheapest sections where all the vocal fans stand. It was a great experience, but as I’m writing about it for another magazine I’ll limit my vague description to ‘great.’

I should mention the minute’s applause before the match, held at the start of the game to honour the players of second division side Brasil de Pelotas.

A bus carrying their team crashed into a ravine after a game against Santa Cruz recently and three passengers – including two players – died.

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Robinho, Rafael & an unmistakable moustache

2009-01-22T12:00:00Z

FourFourTwo was on sale in the newspaper kiosk outside my hotel in Sao Paulo. It’s well respected, as I would soon find out. The headlines from the newspapers featured Ronaldo’s rapidly reducing waistline.

The great, though far less hefty striker is now back in Brazil. Another big story had the words ‘Kaka’ and ‘Manchester City’ in the headline.

“City want him because they have a history of great players beginning with K,” one columnist didn’t write. “Kinkladze, Kenny Clements and now Kaka.” I shouldn’t be harsh on Kenny, a very pleasant character with a formidable moustache who paints Warhol-esque pictures in his garage just outside Manchester.

A trip to a market in one of the poorest areas of Sao Paulo saw fake City shirts with ‘Robinho’ on the back taking pride of place ahead of Milan and United. Such is star power.

Clements: Formidable 'tache... and monstrous head of hair to boot

From there, we walked to the Pacaembu Stadium, which sits on the square of Charles Miller – the British son of a coffee merchant who introduced association football to Brazil in 1894.

Corinthians’ home ground is so dilapidated that they play most of their games at the 45,000 capacity municipal stadium, which has views over downtown. I like Corinthians and stood with their nutty fans in the Maracana for the final of the World Club Championships in 2000.

I first heard of Ronaldinho on that trip, not realising that writing about him alone would pay for a new bathroom six years later as he hit his peak. I once told him that and he laughed.

The highlight of that final was the 30,000 Corinthians fans, virtually all of them dressed in black, doing a 20 minute rendition of ‘Todo poderoso Timao’ (‘All power to our almighty team’).

Rival Vasca da Gama fans were equally loud in an atmosphere which would put any British ground to shame.

Back at the Pacaembu, I wanted a quick look around and a photo of the stadium, but here’s what happened. As we arrived, we saw a sign for the newly opened national football museum by the ground’s glorious art-deco facade. It was free to enter.

Pele's shirt from the 1970 World Cup finals

The museum at Old Trafford is impressive, but it’s not in the same league as the one in Brazil. A vast area chiselled into rock under the stand has been built to recreate the experience of being in the Maracana at a big match and the photography of Brazilian football put into context against world events is breath-taking.

A friendly guide approached and asked where we were from. He then showed me a picture of Manchester United winning the World Club Cup in Japan. I pickled his head a bit by showing him a very similar picture on my camera.

“You were there?” asked the guide, Andre. We then spoke about FourFourTwo, English football and his frustration that the current three-time title-winning achievements of Sao Paulo had barely been mentioned in Europe. Then his eyes lit up as he noticed someone behind me.

“Please excuse me,” he said. “We have a very special visitor.”

Andre came back and introduced me to the visitor, one Antonio Lopes. Lopes is one of the most successful coaches in Brazilian football and, as well as discovering Romario, was Felipe Scolari’s number two for the 2002 World Cup finals.

He recently coached Vasco da Gama – whom he led to success in the Copa Liberatadores in 1998. He’s managed an incredible 33 clubs or countries.

“Pass Felipe my regards,” said Lopes, assuming that I’m on speaking terms with the Chelsea manager. As Mrs Lopes conversed with my girlfriend about shoes, her husband continued: “And I see Manchester are doing well with the Brazilian boys. I hear the twin boys they took from Fluminense are doing very well and that the boy (Fabio) who hasn’t played yet is as good as the one who is playing (Rafael).”

Morumbi: Home of Sao Paulo... and James Blunt

We then took a taxi to Morumbi, home of Sao Paulo. We passed posters advertising a concert with Radiohead, Elton John and James Blunt.

Music remains among Britain’s most successful exports. Morumbi seats 80,000 and will stage the opening game of the 2014 World Cup. I popped inside, where the Copa Liberatadores was on display alongside the World Club Cup trophy which Sao Paulo won for beating Liverpool to be crowned champions of the world in 2005.

Seems I can’t escape City and Liverpool, even on the other side of the Atlantic.

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There's an awful lot of Stokies in Sao Paulo...

2009-01-19T12:00:00Z

Three times the size of Paris and still growing, Sao Paulo overwhelms with its sheer scale - the picture at the front of this month’s FourFourTwo only shows a fraction of the urban sprawl.

‘Sampa’ has few of the physical attributes of its smaller sibling Rio to the north, but it generates 40% of the GDP of the fifth largest country in the world. As a result, the best bars and restaurants are in Sao Paulo and locals consider Rio a backwater.

I arrived on Wednesday and, after seeing someone wearing a Chelsea shirt with ‘Drogba’ on the back, took a bus to the centre. Closely packed vertiginous skyscrapers justify Sao Paulo’s tag as the New York of Latin America.

Sao Paulo: Officially bigger than Bradford

There are huge disparities of wealth, from sprawling gated mansions to people living in cardboard boxes under vast flyovers. Then I saw a man selling Corinthians flags by traffic lights.

Surely Brazilians aren’t that into football that they pop out to the shops for a paper and come back with two metre flag on a stick? Then again, I know a man in Manchester – let’s call him Michael Webster – who once popped out to get a paper in his slippers while his wife made breakfast.

He was a local character, famed for downing pints of Pernod and Rod Stewart impressions. A coach was waiting near the paper shop to take a stag group to Blackpool. Up for some fun, Webster allowed himself to be persuaded to get on it. He returned home two days later, presumably to cold eggs but burning ears.

In 1975, non league Altrincham drew away at Everton in the third round of the FA Cup. Webster was – and still is – close mates with then Altrincham player and now current manager Graham Heathcote.

Altrincham were cast as cup heroes and a press call was held at their Moss Lane home the following morning ahead of the replay. Heathcote invited Webster who, naturally, pretended to be an Altrincham player. How were the media to know differently?

Such was the demand for tickets for the replay that the game was switched to Old Trafford. The decision was justified – 35,530 showed up.

Out on the Old Trafford pitch, Heathcote made an early error, a back pass to Bob Latchford who scored. Mick Lyons added a second in the second half.

“I learnt then that you only ever get one chance against the top teams,” Heathcote rues. “ I was distraught as I walked back to the changing rooms – until I was distracted by a loud splashing noise.” It was Michael Webster in the players’ bath. He had cut the picture of himself out of the paper and blagged his way into the changing rooms.

Another time, Webster ran on the pitch at the other Old Trafford and sprinted to the crease where he kissed Clive Lloyd’s boots.

But back to Sao Paulo. It’s not a tourist city. Of the city’s 18 million inhabitants, there are more than two million of Spanish and Italian descent and the largest Japanese population outside Japan. There’s apparently a thriving colony of people from Stoke, but I’ve yet to stumble across them.

They’ll be doubtless singing songs about hating Manchester United in some favella.

At my hotel, I switched on the television and saw the youth teams of Corinthians playing another Brazilian giant in the Sao Paulo youth tournament. So that’s what the flag man was up to. United will probably have had a scout there.

"Ole Ole Ole Ole... Ole... Ole"

I’d not seen my girlfriend for a month as she left for Christmas in Brazil when I went to Tokyo. As I waited for her to arrive from her home city of Porto Alegre, I typed the following into Google: “Irish Bar Sao Paulo.”

I felt bad as I did it. The editor had told me to forget about football and spend some time with her. Despite being Brazilian, she wasn’t into football when we met. Now she sends texts saying: “F*ck off Middlesbrough” and her mum updates me on any local news of Manchester United’s Brazilians. Which will soon be half the team.

A place called ‘O’Malley’s’ came up on the screen. I clicked on their website. “Manchester United vs Wigan Athletic 5pm,” it said. “All beers half price. Free food.” In such a massively sprawling city, I was delighted to discover it was only 200 metres from our hotel.

“What do you want to do over the next few days?” asked my girlfriend a few hours after arriving. I had to be honest.

“Watch United tonight and visit two stadiums tomorrow,” I said. “Then it’s up to you.”

She was fine about it. Maybe she had a premonition about who we would meet at one of the stadiums…

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Derby daze, book bonanza & recruiting Cantona

2009-01-14T12:00:00Z

As some Manchester City fans would concur, I’m a bit of a tool.

Like last week at Derby. I arrived early at Pride Park and walked around the ground, past the posh man from Radio 5 interviewing an elderly Rams fan wearing a coat covered in enamel badges. Past the police escorting a raffish group of young Mancunians from the train station. And to the away end, where I texted to meet a mate who had my ticket.

“I’ll see you in the ground,” he replied.

“I can’t get in without my ticket,” I texted back.

“I gave it you at Christmas.”

And so he did. But I’d completely forgotten.

Looking for something Andy?

There were four minutes to kick-off when I spotted M, a ticket tout I’ve known for years.

“It’s crap here,” he lamented, “I’m going in with loads.” At least that’s what I understood as ticket touts speak their own language where a ‘cockle’ mean ten and ‘nevis’ is seven.

Having liberated a ‘brief’, I watched the worst Manchester United performance of the season. Derby were worthy victors and their fans celebrated by singing: “We support our local team” - from behind a banner which read ‘Dublin Rams’. Dublin must be near Normanton.

Then I left the ground early and drove back to Manchester through the Derbyshire mist. The integrity of fans who leave games early is often questioned, but if you have fanzines to sell there has to be a compromise – for which we suffer.

When Beckham scored that goal at Selhurst Park in 1996, I was stood outside the Arthur Wait Stand with the latest United We Stand.

At Derby, I needed to get back as I had a very early flight from Manchester the following morning. I listened to Tim Lovejoy present 606 and the dreadful calibre of calls his show attracts.

The worst were from United fans with yokel accents who’d not been at the game. One plum was whinging about the team, the world champions no less.

I then spent five days in Barcelona, saying goodbye to friends ahead of my travels and hoping to play one last game for Manchester La Fianna. The match, to be played in Terrassa, the home city of Xavi an hour from Barcelona, was postponed due to heavy rain so ignore those who tell you that the rain in Spain falls mainly on the plain. We were informed of the postponement an hour and 10 minutes before kick off after we’d all began travelling.

I’ve passed over the managerial responsibility to a 40-something Glaswegian called Steve Love, who once played in the French ninth division and was described by the local paper as ‘the Scotsman with a beautiful name’. He’s already bought a suit, banned the BBC from press conferences and once visited the Rock of Gibraltar.

On Sunday, I watched United demolish Chelsea in a dark room at the back of a pub surrounded by Senegalese street grafters, a few Reds and two Chelsea fans who were in Moscow last May. I could have sang ‘Viva John Terry’ at them, but they would have rightly thought I was a knob.

Still, the Derby fans would have approved as the Chelsea lads support their local team and have done for over 30 years. We then watched Barca come from behind to beat Osasuna and Madrid easily overcome Mallorca. Barca sent me a message wishing me luck on my travels and said that they hoped to see me in Rome for a European Cup final against Manchester United. How ace is that? Perhaps Pep Guardiola will loan Manchester La Fianna some fringe players.

Monday was lunch with Ian Hawkey from The Sunday Times and Mr Y, who is having a little difficulty with one of the Premier League players he manages. Hawkey, who looks like the former Boltonian snooker player Tony Knowles, is completing his book on African football which should be excellent.

Here's the books you wanted for your trip Mr Mitten...

I’m on another plane now, this time to Zurich, where Cristiano Ronaldo picked up another trophy on Monday night. Martigues and Marseille, with its snowbound airport, sit 30,000 feet below. Eric Cantona will be down there somewhere pontificating.

He should be Love’s assistant. Cantona told me that “money means nothing” so the finances wouldn’t have been difficult. He loves Barcelona. And football. And one of our players knows him well. I’d better ring Cantona’s brother Joel when we land to try and fix something.

An overnight flight to Sao Paulo in Brazil follows. I have 57 kilograms of luggage, a third being books. As well as the research books for my United in the 90s tome, I’ve got a pile that I’ve been meaning to read for years.

It comprises of the weighty autobiographies of Churchill and Mandela. Sir Bobby Charlton’s didn’t make the cut, but I’ve heard James Lawton did an excellent job and I’ll read it when I get back. Providing I don’t get attacked by Somali pirates in April.

Then there’s Jonathan Wilson’s book on tactics, Berlin by Beevor, that 30 quid book with 1000 pages on the history of world football who’s author I can’t remember, Best & Edwards by Gordon Burn, 1984 by David Peace who wrote the seminal ‘Damned United’, Catch 22 – which I’ve tried and failed to read six times, The Power of the Dog by Don Winslow, both Barak Obama’s books and the autobiography of a cricketer called Trescothick which my Derby ticket mate bought me.

Oh, and all five series of The Wire. Never watched a minute, but I’ve heard nothing but rave reviews.

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Coley's recollections and global gatherings

2009-01-06T08:00:00Z

Four hours...

That’s how long I spent interviewing Andrew Cole. Me and him in a room overlooking the snow-covered golf course where Sir Alex Ferguson found out that Manchester United were champions in 1993.

Cole was superb, far better than I expected. Funny, bright, frank, serious, awkward. He wasn’t in my first XI hit list for my still untitled book on United in the 90s.

I’m not sure why. Subconsciously, perhaps, I thought there were friendlier and more interesting players. Then I saw a piece on him retiring at the end of November. Footballers seem to metamorphosise the minute they retire into mature, far less ordinary individuals so I called him and asked him to be part of the book. He agreed.

"See, I can be serious and awkward"

His description of United’s 3-3 draw at Camp Nou in 1998 gave me goose bumps and left me with a high comparable with leaving the cinema as a kid. Then, if the film was Superman I’d come out thinking I could fly, Rocky meant I could box and the ID that I could fight.

The elation was brief and I had to click out of that mode quickly or face being run down outside the hospital in front of the cinema, but I felt it today as I walked out into the cold Cheshire air invigorated by Cole’s glorious tales. I wanted to punch the air and shout ‘United!’ or have a kickabout there and then, but then I remembered I was at a posh hotel and would have looked a tool.

I’d love to get Cole, Keane and Beckham to sit down with Luis Enrique, the lungs of that Barca side, together with Pep Guardiola and Rivaldo to talk about those games. Serious footballers who slugged it out to the best of their ability over 180 minutes, scoring six goals between them but neither triumphing.

Prancing, dancing and scoring in 3-3 draw with Barca

Not only the highs of Cole’s life were fascinating. The story of his older brother, a Nottinghamshire miner who refused to cross the picket line in the miners’ strike was engrossing. His relationships with his father, wife, Roy Keane, Dwight Yorke and Teddy Sheringham were detailed in an equally engaging manner.

“Is there any chance that I can give my fee from today to charity?” he asked, further going up in my estimation. And to think that the last footballer I met in that particular parish was Robinho…

Bert Trautmann, Peter Beardsley, Eric Cantona, Lucas Radebe, Roy Keane, Steven Gerrard, Gary Bailey, Samuel Eto’o and John Gidman - sometimes you interview someone who makes a powerful impact for many different reasons. I think I can add Andrew Cole to that list.

I’m off back to Barcelona on Thursday after spending two days sifting through a photographic archive in Watford in search of previously unpublished images. After a night in an Alan Partridge style travel tavern, I’ll drive to Derby for my final United game before a mammoth 28-country journey which will begin in Sao Paulo next week.

"Right, I'm off to a BP garage for a mushroom slice. Back of the net!"

I’ll write the United book on my travels, hopefully with a clear head. That’s the idea.

The book needs to be 100,000 words and I’ve agreed to write 40,000 more words for other projects by the end of May – that’s before the blog and other bits. The editor wants me to carry on doing this blog, so I’ll introduce you to the various characters I encounter on the way in places like Buenos Aires, the Falklands, India and Lebanon.

I might even find a pirate in the gulf of Aden wearing a Leeds shirt, a snake charmer or sheep farmer in Tristan de Cunha who looks like Alan Biley or an arms dealer in Syria who dreams of visiting Sincil Bank.

I’m excited, nervous and puzzled as to how I am going to get 20 kilos of research material into one case, but we’ve been planning this for over a year so it’s not been a decision made in haste.

Biley: "So you want to see my snake huh?"

Aside from watching United, I would have hoped to have seen more local games over Christmas, but the weather put paid to the likes of Altrincham vs Northwich, Trafford vs Newcastle Blue Star and Hardly Atheltic vs Fallowfield.

My City supporting mates were wishing that their FA Cup game at home to, Cole’s hometown club, Nottingham Forest had fallen victim to the weather too…

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The Twelve Days of Christmas

2008-12-30T12:00:00Z

1. Saw my sister get married to a Manchester City fan. He goes frequently, but his brother goes to every single City match. He asked me for advice ahead of their trip to Santander and I have done the same about a possible trip to Deportivo La Coruna. Who says charity doesn’t begin at home?

2. Had a very pleasant conversation with Andrew Cole about being in my next book. He’s well up for it and we’ll meet for lunch in Cheshire on January 5. He wants to give his fee to charity.

3. Interviewed the former Manchester United chairman Martin Edwards at his house for almost three hours. It’s no squat. He wants to give his fee to the worthwhile body that is the former Manchester United players association.

4. Watched United at Stoke. As I stood in a queue for a pie outside the ground, a Stoke fan sidled up to me and said: “I really hope we beat The sh*t today.” They didn’t. Bunny, the former editor of a Stoke fanzine, was much more cerebral company – but he still hoped they’d beat us, obviously.

The away end in full

5. Spent a week getting over the jet lag from the trip to Japan. For the first six days after my return I woke up between 4 and 5am. It was worth it – it’s not often that you see your team crowned champions of the world.

6. Received a sledge for Christmas from my dad. I’m 35 and spend most of my time where it’s sunny. I don’t need nor desire a massive wooden sledge. I told him this and he looked at me like a little boy lost. I’ve received your emails and yes, I’ll dedicate a future blog to the lunatic who, when once introduced to my then girlfriend for the first time, said: “Dear me love, you’re horny.”

7. Stood with Altrincham’s kit man when he received a call from their manager with the news that they had beaten York City 2-1 away with a late winner. Oh to witness the joy on his face. Football gives those moments of unconditional happiness. I’ll watch them play Northwich Victoria in the Cheshire derby on New Year’s Day but have refused his offer of a free ticket. Clubs like Alty need money on the gate.

8. Sat at a table as a beautiful dancer who’s done the Moulin Rouge and all the big Paris shows came over to say hello. The cat was away but the mouse didn’t play. My sister used to dance with her and I’ve not seen her for a few years. 20 minutes into a conversation, she asked what I was doing the following day. I replied: “I’m going to pop in at Kendal Town’s ground to take a picture and then get back to Manchester." "Oh,” was her reply.

"Not tonight luv, I'm off to Kendal"

9. Sold fanzines as the temperature plunged to minus 4 outside Old Trafford before the Middlesbrough game. Not good. I’ll reward the other sellers and writers by treating them to pictures with the four trophies won by United in 2008 at Old Trafford.

10. Had a birthday beer in Tokyo. Word spread fast. By the end of the night, it seemed that every Manchester United lad was in the bar. There were even some who haven’t received banning orders. A great night.

11. Received a request to write a match report for the Club World Cup final in Tokyo from a national British newspaper. The request was sent the day after the match when I was on a flight home…

12. Met three Pachuca directors in a Yokohama bar and stayed out with them until 5am. They were extremely posh, well-educated Mexicans. By the end of the night I’d persuaded one of them to give Finch a trial and one of my travel partners, a TV presenter/journalist who I shall write about in a future blog, had them standing up singing La Bamba. And Please Don’t Go by KWS.

A Happy New Year to you all.

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Legend of Finch causes Club World Cup confuzzlement

2008-12-18T12:00:00Z

I’m rooming in Yokohama with Stuart Mathieson, the Manchester United correspondent for the Manchester Evening News since 1995.

I’ve stayed in some dreadful hotels in my time, but they can wait for another blog because this isn’t one of them. It’s better than the hotel opposite where the United players are staying and Dimitar Berbatov is confined to his pit with a virus.

United wanted to stay in this hotel, but they were knocked back because the victorious Milan team stayed here a year ago and the hotel were unimpressed by the commotion created by fans outside.

"Ah, ahh, ahhh, ahhhh... choo"

Anyway, I should apologise to my room-mate.

Last week, for no reason other than I thought it was amusing, I published United’s squad list for the Club World Cup on United We Stand’s website. It was sent to me early and so we had it online before the Manchester Evening News or the official club website. Nothing amusing about that, but I added the name of a blag player, who I listed as “Number 25: FINCH.”

Stuart saw our list and began checking it out. He called the club, but United were not even aware that the squad list had been released.

“And this player Finch,” he continued to a Manchester United director. “I’ve checked the reserve and youth teams but can find no trace of him. Several other big name sites also carried Finch in the squad.

Sorry.

But there’s a good story behind my choice of name for the bogus player. Round Urmston where I grew up, there’s a lad called Finch who is legendary for hanging his goalkeeper gloves up when he was 15 in order to take a Saturday job in a shop opposite the Roebuck pub selling Airfix models.

So while Finch’s career may have gone no further than playing for Wellacre school, the few who saw him reckon he was better than Lev Yashin. He’s about 34 now, so that assertion can never be tested, but why not go with it?

And since then, the Finch myth has mushroomed. I’ve heard mates slating Peter Schmeichel by saying: “Finch would have saved that.” And imagine the headlines had he made it.

Like ‘Finch and Chips’ - if he played with an actor from the cult 70s American television cop series. Which, frankly, would have been unlikely.

"Damn it... Finch would have saved that with his eyes closed..."

Some charlatans pretend to be famous footballers when chatting girls up in foreign lands. I’ve seen lads pretending to be Finch.

Three years ago I was invited to a rather swanky party. I think they thought I was the president of the United States and not editor of United We Stand. With me were two trainer-wearing shaven-headed Mancunian friends visiting Barcelona. It wasn’t my scene, less so theirs.

Stay with me here.

As we went in, we had to give our names on the door. Later in the night, there was a prize draw. One mate hated public attention. I prayed that his name was drawn as it would have meant him going up on stage to collect his prize.

There was one prize remaining, a haircut at Toni & Guy. My mate’s name was called out. It was a life-affirming moment as he walked across the dance floor, absolutely mortified. Aside from anything, what could Toni or Guy have done with his grade one? As he accepted his prize voucher in an envelope, a beautiful girl said: “You’re so lucky.”

“You can have it love,” he replied, handing the envelope over and disappearing back into the crowd.

20 minutes later, the girl came over to say thanks. She was with her Swiss mate. They were both beautiful lawyers who spoke five languages. In short, they were so far out of our league we decided not to chat them up.

Instead, we asked them if they’d ever heard of Finch. They hadn’t, so while a clutch of posh Euro bores were trying to impress them by saying that daddy owned Singapore or some investment banks which gambled away the money of the world’s hardworking, we were telling them about Finch’s Gordon Banks vs Pele style save for Wellacre’s fourth year against Stretford Grammar in 1988. I swear there’s now a Finch fan club in Lausanne.

The girls? One came over to Manchester a month later, but I never introduced her to the legend that is Finch.

Because I don’t even know him.

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From damp at the Nou Camp to jet-lagged in Japan

2008-12-16T12:00:00Z

It’s 5am in Yokohama. I arrived in Japan’s second biggest city of four million yesterday morning and now I’m up early, jet-lagged and unable to sleep.

The view from my waterfront hotel room over Japan’s biggest port is superb. The Manchester United players arrived yesterday and are staying next door. It’s no youth hostel. If I was paparazzi I’d train a long lens on one of the players relaxing on their rooms about 100 metres away.

It would capture Paul Scholes up early reading The Oldham Chronicle and Ji Sung Park playing darts with a temporary dartboard he brought over in his rucksack.

"They call me Ji-Sung 'One Dart' Park..."

I left Barcelona on Sunday morning after covering El Clasico on Saturday night. Good game, a real war of attrition between old foes. Six friends came to Barcelona and I managed to get all of them tickets outside the ground for more or less face value. Which is about £100 in these days of the pound being worth less than a grain of rice.

The heavy rain unleashed on Barcelona before kick-off helped kill the ticket market for a game in a stadium which is largely uncovered. Catalans don’t do rain. Mancunians are lost without it.

After a few hours sleep I flew to Helsinki, before boarding a Finnair plane to Tokyo on Sunday night. Despite United’s first game of the World Club Championship being on Thursday, there were a few other United fans and journalists on the 10-hour flight.

I didn’t sleep for a minute and was feeling like a zombie as I caught the Narita Express train to Yokohama. Tokyo’s main international airport is so far from the urban centre it serves it may as well be in Stoke.

The team arrived shortly after to a warm reception – though nothing on the Beckham-mania of past pre-season tours. I don’t think we’ll ever see another footballer feted in Asia as much as David Beckham.

I was last in Tokyo in 2005. Much has changed. Then, the pound was worth something and prices were similar to the UK. It has halved in value against the Yen this year alone so last night I paid £9 for a sandwich in Subway. Breakfast in my hotel costs £24. Half a pound of sprouts will be about £327.

If anyone knows of any decent soup kitchens here then let me know.

In 2005 I was in between relationships and single. I was out most nights, living the life in the nightlife district of Roppongi. I woke up one morning in the hotel where ‘Lost in Translation’ was filmed. She was from London. Her room was so big it took me about half an hour to walk to the bathroom in the morning.

"Room with a view Mr Mitten? That will be one arm and both legs please..."

The shower room was the size of the old East Terrace at The Valley and once I’d found my way out of it I had to scarper for an interview with United chief executive David Gill on the other side of Tokyo. Which is no small feat as it’s the biggest city in the world.

I’ve got a lot of writing to do ahead of United’s first game against Gamba Osaka, covering the tournament for a number of publications and making a video diary for Channel M.

Right, I’m starving and going to get some breakfast. But first I’ll need a loan from a bank.

What do you mean, they’ve all gone bust?

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Shakhtar see off Barca with Rat infestation

2008-12-10T10:00:00Z

Greetings from a half-empty Camp Nou, where fewer than 20,000 are watching Barca playing Shakhtar Donetsk, who have a player called Rat, in a pointless final group game.

It’ll be the same at Old Trafford tonight, except the crowd will be three times the size. And it’ll be a lot colder.

Barca fans noticeable by their absence

There’ll be few empty seats on Saturday when Real Madrid visit for El Clasico. The Madrid who sacked coach Bernd Schuster on Tuesday, an event which turned a busy day writing into a manic one.

Given Madrid’s dreadful recent form, I knew it was coming, especially when Schuster said he couldn’t see Madrid winning against Barca at the weekend. Such a defeatist attitude didn’t wash with his players, the fans, the media or the directors who relieved him of his duties.

Thankfully, Manchester United don’t change their manager every time it’s cloudy, so I rarely write about big managerial sackings.

Barca’s football has been incredible lately, their 4-0 victory last Saturday over a Valencia side who had not lost away from home was close to being the complete performance.

Tonight though, Saturday’s hat-trick hero Thierry Henry is on the bench as Pep Guardiola does his best to confuse commentators by fielding three right-sided players called Sanchez, Vazquez and Rodriguez. In fact Rat is marking all of them. Go on Rat! Gnaw away at the ezs. Sanch, Vazqu and Rodrigu would be much easier for the men with the mikes.

As I don’t have to write about tonight’s game, I’m going to leave before the end so that I can train with Manchester La Fianna for one last time before Christmas. We train at 10pm every Tuesday. We’re still unbeaten and at the top of our group, but then we’ve only played five league games so far this season.

To keep the players occupied, we’ve arranged friendlies. We need to because there are times when there are hardly any games – our match on Saturday will be our only one in seven weeks.

Stephen F. Kelly is coming over with his family for El Clasico. As are the entire first team of Dutch first division side NAC Breda. One of our players is sorting them out a club after the game so they can chat up girls while sounding like Steve McClaren.

The scourge of Barca: Razvan Rat inspires Shakhtar success

Anyway, Stephen is a lifelong Liverpool fan who has written 18 books (I’ll tell him that’s one for every year since Liverpool won the league) and a thoroughly pleasant man. Three decades of living in Manchester have done his development no harm, but I like hearing his stories of being a union man at the Cammell Laird shipyard on the Mersey in his younger days.

That was before he became a political journalist, working on Tribune and heavyweight television programmes like World In Action.

I’ll try and get him a ticket for El Clasico, then I’ll write my 600-word match report before getting my head down ahead of any early morning flight to Helsinki – and then a later one to Tokyo for the World Club Championship next week.

“Come on Rat. Give it to Fernandinho!” Sorry. Where was I? Yes, Tokyo City, as in the Massive Attack lyric: “Tokyo City’s one place that we toured.”

I bet one British pound bought them more than a grain of rice when they did tour. Unlike now. It’s no joke, this credit crunch. My print manager emailed today to say that paper is going up in price by 9% in January. The weak pound is to blame. That may not affect most people, but then most people don’t publish a paper-based publication like United We Stand.

Shakhtar have just scored. And Răzvan Raţ started the move! He’s buzzing his head off as the 44 away fans unfurl a mighty banner of… a mouse. He’ll be fuming now.

I’m now getting evil looks off a fat Catalan journalist and two Ukrainians for shouting: “Give it to Rat, you pr*ck!” In doing so I broke the laws of press box etiquette, but it’s not every night that the world’s greatest rodent-named left-back gets a chance to showcase his substantial talents.

It’s now three hours later and I can’t sleep because I’ve been playing football. I’ve just seen Riera’s goal for Liverpool. Nice lad, Albert. I helped him settle in Manchester when he joined City two years ago as he didn’t know anyone and we had a mutual friend.

Riera rocket guides Liverpool to group summit

His younger brother Sito was at Barcelona at the time in the B team. He’s crackers. I once saw him try and stand on a surf board and then surf… on a street.

And I’ve just seen that Shakhtar won 3-2. Guess who set up the killer third goal? I’ll leave that honour to Graham Hunter, writing for UEFA:

“Răzvan Raţ is involved again as Shakhtar restore their two-goal advantage in Camp Nou. His low cross goes all the way to the back post where Fernandinho is lying in wait to slide in and find the back of the net.”

I knew I’d spotted a star.

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Anfield, Greenwood, Cardiff, Macc and Robinho

2008-12-03T15:00:00Z

It’s 7am at Liverpool airport. I was due to take off back to Barcelona five minutes ago but the pilot informed passengers that there was smoke at the back of the plane and that we had to return to the terminal.

As fire engines surrounded the aircraft, one passenger observed: “It’s probably something to do with those terrorists killing people in hotels on the news.”

Stupid people rarely fail to lighten up my life.

I’m also cheered by some of the other passengers wearing Liverpool colours. As they walked through the wind and the rain back to the terminal, I wondered whether they really had hope in their hearts after last night’s 0-0 draw at home to West Ham.

Or whether their team, despite being top of the league, are simply not good enough to be champions for the first time since 1642.

For no obvious reason, I can’t get England’s 1982 World Cup song out of my head. It started as I left Manchester this morning at 5.15am. There was no cue.

The harrowing subject of Baby P was dominating the radio, so had I started singing Baby D’s Let Me Be Your Fantasy it would have been understandable. But no, I began with: “We’re on our way, we are Ron’s 22. Hear the roar of the red, white and blue.”

By Merseyside and the "Welcome to Knowsley – the New, New York" signs, I was humming the B-side, a tuneful melody called We’ll Fly The Flag.

I loved that record as a nine-year-old and I wondered, like a Hampstead-dwelling Guardian columnista who seldom strays north of Finchley, why my boyish enthusiasm for the fortunes of my national team has long since dissipated into indifference.

When Mitten was a boy, and men were tuneful

I’ve been getting used to the early starts. I was up at 7am in Barcelona on Saturday morning to write, and at 6am in Cardiff on Sunday in the house of Dave Jones, one of the main men in Cardiff’s Soul Crew.

The Bluebirds played rivals Swansea on Sunday at 11.15am so it necessitated an early start as Jones and his mates met for a breakfast in the dark, near the soon-to-be-condemned Ninian Park. There was a lot to write about – and not just because of the superb game, which finished 2-2.

After I’d watched the Manchester derby, I drove to Manchester ahead of an interview with Robinho on Monday at Macclesfield Town’s ground (don't ask).

I’d never visited the Welsh Valleys so I went via Neath, Merthyr and Ebbw Vale. Crunching credit times or not, don’t book two weeks there next July, though the nearby Brecon Beacons looked brilliantly bleak and imposing.

Macc's ground Moss Rose (Robinho not pictured)

On the way, I listened to 606 with Alan Green. For years I’ve stayed clear of the near-worthless opinions aired on there, but I was struck by how cringeworthy every Manchester United fan sounded. It’s little wonder that our fanbase is so loathed.

So to Robinho, who bounded into the room like an energy-packed tornado. Why had that bounce been so absent the day before in the derby? The Brazilian's not short of confidence and couldn’t sit still.

He told me that he’s studying for his bus driver’s licence and aims to get a job on the buses in Stoke-on-Trent when his career is over. With Ji Sung Park training to be a bus conductor, they'd make an unlikely double on the streets of Burslem.

Carlos Tevez and Cristiano Ronaldo were also there as a Nike advert was being filmed, so I got the latter in a headlock and rubbed his gelled mop with my knuckles, making him say: “I might be European Footballer of the Year, but I will not solve Madrid’s injury crisis” over and over again in a Mancunian accent.

Perhaps it would have been wiser to do that to Tevez instead, but would you fancy getting that mane in a headlock?

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Stalemates, derby days and the world's busiest man

2008-11-26T14:00:00Z

I got back from Villarreal at 4am on Wednesday morning after driving 300 kilometres to Barcelona.

The trip went well – lunch by the Ebro Delta yesterday and a visit to CD Castellon, the biggest club in the area before Villarreal’s recent rise. The staff at Castellon were very friendly. Gaizka Mendieta started his career there in 1991/92. If they are promoted I’ll go back and watch them play Villarreal as there’s a good story to be written.

The game between Man United and Villarreal finished 0-0 as it always does when the teams meet. Before the game I interviewed a drag queen dressed in Villarreal’s colours (pictured). She was advertising her services outside the main stand and was good value to speak to. I told her that I once had an 'escort' myself - a mark II - but it went over her lurid yellow hat.

As the stadium cleared and I waited for the world’s busiest man - aka the journalist Graham Hunter - Ray Houghton came over for a chat. I last met him in Villarreal three years ago and he’s excellent company. Graham did around 16 interviews in five minutes while we talked. He has that rare talent of not wasting a single word when on air – that’s why radio stations from Ireland to Botswana call him for his views. He once interviewed Pablo Aimar at Valencia and was the last to leave the ground. As he walked back to the centre, a man approached him. It was Aimar taking his dog for a late night walk.

“Your Spanish is very good,” he said to Hunter, “but I’ve been wondering where you are from.”

“Aberdeen, Scotland,” replied Hunter, doubtless before telling Aimar about how great Alex Ferguson’s Aberdeen side were and how Willie Miller was better than Maradona.

Once Hunter had taken another 45 phone calls, we left the main stand and walked out of the ground towards the mixed zone. Edmilson, the God-fearing Brazilian World Cup winner, strolled down the street wearing his Villarreal tracksuit. It coincided with the United fans being let out of the away end, yet nobody recognised him.

The mixed zone was the usual scrum, though it is neatly divided up by the different types of media – daily papers, Sunday papers, television, radio and Spanish media. I was working there for The Sunday Times. Ronaldo ignored all the journalists and Anderson was about to, saying that his English wasn’t good enough.

“What about in Spanish?” I asked.

“No problem,” he replied in Portuguese.

So we were away, me asking questions in Spanish and Anderson replying in Portuguese. I told him that I was going to his home city of Porto Alegre in January and he looked at me like I was not right.

I’m not a fan of mixed zones. It’s far better to sit down one-on-one to conduct an interview, a privilege I’ll have on Monday in Manchester when I’ll interview Anderson’s international team mate Robinho. Wonder if he’ll get a bus there to meet me?

That interview will be after I’ve spent the weekend in South Wales for Swansea vs Cardiff. I focussed on Swansea for the game in September and this time I’ll follow Cardiff, starting with a night out with the lads behind their ‘Soul Crew’ firm on Saturday night. That will only be one aspect of the piece, but they’ve been very helpful. As have Swansea City in all my dealings with them so far.

I’ll miss the Manchester derby as a result which is unfortunate, but I’ve long held the opinion that it’s one of the most underwhelming derbies in football. Unaccountably the atmosphere is rarely better than mediocre. For such a huge football city, Manchester’s encounter is nowhere near the top 10 in the world.

I’ll also miss a Manchester La Fianna friendly on Saturday. We dropped our first points of the season last weekend with a 1-1 draw against the Spanish West Ham (pictured after the game). Their players all sang ‘Fortune’s Always Hiding’ after the game in English. Bobby Moore would have been proud of the rendition.

My 14-year-old brother Sam came on for the last 15 minutes and did very well. Our players generously voted him man of the match, a slight problem as that means downing a large, cheap, neat whisky. I slipped an iced tea, which looks similar, into a glass but didn’t tell anyone. Sam knocked the ‘whisky’ back in one as his mum looked on open-mouthed. As did all the others.

“I just thought... well, they are from Manchester, that’s what they do,” stated an onlooker as if we were some kind of sub-species who let their kids down whisky at 14.

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Morrissey, my mum and Robinho on a bus

2008-11-21T18:00:00Z

The life of the correspondent in the last 24 hours…

1) I managed to sort some Villarreal tickets for face value in the Manchester United end next week for two Red supporting mates. Unfortunately, face value is £57 – for an uncovered seat in the corner of the stadium.

If I had more time on my hands I’d ring Villarreal, who are usually a very helpful club, and request a statement justifying their rip-off ticket prices. And I’d make a flag in Spanish which I’d get placed at the front of the United end calling them thieves.

Never mind Best, Law and Charlton, there should be a statue of Phil Holt, the lad who sorted the tickets outside Old Trafford. For years, he’s helped Reds out with tickets for face value – he’s the oil in the engine of hardcore United fans.

2) I was told that The Sun had run an ‘exclusive’ story about Robinho catching a bus to the Trafford Centre – or ‘Traffic Centre’ as it should be known.

My mum refuses to believe that there’s any sort of economic crisis on the strength of that place always being busy. She could lose her job and still think that everything was fine because there’s a queue at Debenhams. And she should know, she goes five times a week to buy clothes which look exactly the same as the ones she already has.

Anyway, we got the story first and printed it in United We Stand four days before The Sun. And five before the rest of the media who are now running it. Four newspapers have now ripped off stories from our current edition this week and none have credited us. I can feel a full blog coming on this subject soon.

3) I felt my brain numbing ever so slightly after writing profiles of around a dozen Getafe players. The editor wants profiles of every player at 10 top-flight Spanish clubs. The best writer on Spanish football will do the other 10.

The advantage is that I’ll watch Barca vs Getafe on Sunday night and know absolutely everything about every visiting player. Did you know, for instance, that several Israeli clubs tried to sign their Argentinian left back Lucas Licht because he’s Jewish?

4) The Galician Gun, a Manchester La Fianna player who told my mum that she seemed like she was “looking for sex” in a nightclub, called to boast of his latest sexual exploits. He reckons that he’s got six new Italian girls coming out with us on Saturday. I’m sure they’d love to meet my girlfriend.

5) My 14-year-old brother is, so I’m told, “beside himself with excitement” at the prospect of coming to Barcelona this weekend. Stockport County don’t have a game, so he won’t miss out there. I’ll name him as a sub and hopefully make him the youngest ever player to appear in the Barcelona International Football League.

He hasn’t called, because he’s never got any credit in his phone, but I’m told that “he’s looking forward to seeing Barca, but he can’t wait to play for Manchester La Fianna.”

6) I wrote four emails to lads explaining why I wouldn’t be including them in our squad on Saturday against the 'Spanish West Ham.' Over 20 players wanted to play and Jorge Garcia, our former captain of the Belize national team, is back from a three-month spell overseeing a peace treaty in the Middle East.

7) In my inbox was my first ever email from my dad, which I opened with great excitement. He’s an absolute loon. I’ve introduced him to new girlfriends in the past and he’s described them as horny. To their face.

After an industrial accident, he’s spent the last four years teaching 17-year-old lads who haven’t had the easiest of lives or the best educations in the shadow of the Stretford End.

They adore him because he talks about football, music and women. Apparently, he goes mental on a Monday morning if United have lost and absolutely savages Silvestre (his old scapegoat) or Carrick (his new one).

I once gave him a column in UWS, which got me in trouble with virtually every player because he was never happy, not even when United won the treble. His sign off line was ‘Mind Your Minges.’

Sadly, the email was boring. “The son of one of the teachers wants to be a sports journalist and is looking for some advice,” he wrote.

8) I booked a hire car to drive to Villarreal on Tuesday. Among the passengers are two United fans who live in Barcelona who haven’t properly met.

One is a Catholic from The Markets in Belfast who plays central midfield for us. The other is a Protestant from Shaw Road in Belfast, a former heavyweight boxer. Both are brighter than a sunrise over the Antrim coast. I love how Manchester United transcends religious boundaries.

9) I wrote an opinion piece on Real Madrid for a newspaper in Abu Dhabi which is giving me a lot of work at the moment. I found out that one of the editors I’m dealing with in the Gulf is from Stretford where I spent my first five years. Morrissey hails from Stretford too. And Jay Kay from Jamiroquai was born there.

10) I received a request from an advertiser who still owes us money from two years ago. He wants an advert in UWS for a big multi-national he’s representing. I told him to pay up front. He said “fair cop.” Last time I looked in the mirror, I’m sure I didn’t have ‘thick as sh*t’ written on my forehead.

11) The front cover of the new Offside magazine from Sweden arrived. Underneath a big picture of Wayne Rooney and Cristiano Ronaldo, the main strap reads ‘United We Stand’ with ‘Karleken pa Old Trafford rostar aldrig’ below in Swedish.

I’ve no idea what it means, but it’s talking about a 7,000 word piece I’ve done for them on the champions of England and champions of Europe.

One online translator says ‘rostar aldrig’ means ‘toast never’…

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Communication breakdown: the journo's dread

2008-11-18T09:00:00Z

“Is everything ok?” asked the email from an editor in Abu Dhabi on Monday morning. And aside from the pound collapsing against the Euro, it was.

The sun was shining; United beat Stoke 5-0 on Saturday – a scoreline equalled by Manchester La Fianna in Sitges; the rain held off at Old Trafford and the new edition of United We Stand sold well; and work was fine.

“It’s just that we didn’t get your article yesterday.”

I’d sent the reaction piece on Real Madrid’s defeat at Valladolid 24 hours earlier. Having watched the match, I’d got up early on Sunday to write it, leaving friends on Saturday night despite their cries of “just come for one.”

The article didn’t arrive. Maybe pirates had intercepted it off the horn of Africa. Maybe Manchester City’s owners in the Gulf State have banned my email.

Either way, a journalist who doesn’t meet deadlines may as well stop being a journalist.

"Arr! Give us yer words!"

The problem was down to the internet company Pipex, who sponsored Fulham between 2005 and 2007. In the past three months they have managed to delete over 200 of my emails and cut the service seven times, including once on deadline week. In the last four days they’ve not been sending my emails – despite them appearing to be sent.

So the La Fianna lads didn’t get the team I sent out last Thursday, and another newspaper didn’t get my reply saying I would like to interview Maradona for them.

Despite having the option of using the likes of Hotmail or Yahoo for free, I’ve paid Pipex for 11 years for a supposedly professional service. This year it has been anything but.

When there’s a problem you can’t ring them from abroad because they’ve abandoned all their numbers for dreaded (and expensive) 0871 versions. I found a way around that, only to be directed to a call centre where the staff’s grasp of English was questionable. One refused to proceed with my complaint because I wasn’t giving her the correct phone number.

“Your phone number should start with zero, sir.”

“Zero and ‘0’ are the same,” I replied.

The call centres were always unable to help and never deviated from the line: “We’re experiencing technical issues. We understand your frustration, sir.”

“It’s like talking to a robot,” I said to one.

“We understand your frustration, sir.”

The email from Abu Dhabi was the tipping point; I’m cancelling Pipex and reluctantly changing my email address.

"We understand your frustration, sir.”

But they're not the only ones. O2, the mobile company I have effectively been with since 1992, sold me a faulty iPhone last month. The same O2 who started charging me to receive calls in Spain six months after I signed a contract that allowed me to receive free calls.

“Do you really think I'd change a contract for one that started charging me?” I asked in exasperation to an O2 fool who was thicker than a loaf of Hovis. They eventually offered a full refund and I’ve complained to Ofcom.

But could I get O2 to change my iPhone for one that worked? No. I was given conflicting information several times, before they asked me to wait at my mum’s for two days for a new one.

“But I work,” I said. “I can come and collect a new one? Name your city – Manchester, Middlesbrough, Glasgow, Newcastle, London, Barcelona. I can be there.”

“I’m sorry sir, we understand your frustration, but we’re not part of the O2 that has shops."

Lord, give me strength.

As it transpired a former Manchester City youth player who wants to be a football agent sorted it direct with Apple. He manages O2’s shop in Manchester. I’ll never knock City fans, nor their team that never wins, again.

Well, for about a month at least.

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Why Curzon Ashton are better than Barcelona...

2008-11-13T14:00:00Z

Greetings from the press box at Camp Nou.

Barcelona are about to kick-off a cup tie against Benidorm of the regional third division in front of the smallest crowd I’ve ever seen here for a first team game – around 20,000.

You can easily pick out ‘Mes Que Un Club’ (More Than A Club) in yellow seats opposite. Barca’s website optimistically stated that there was no excuse for missing this game. Plenty have found one.

"The game is tonight isn't it?"

I was hoping that Benidorm fans would enjoy a trip to Camp Nou, much like QPR buzzed of going to Old Trafford on Tuesday, where they took 7,000 giddy fans. Hoping to see thousands of raffish Benidorm supporting ex-pats who work in garish bars serving all day English breakfasts for a Euro (about a pound these days) and boast signs saying ‘No Foreign Muck.’

Until 1,000 skinny skyscrapers (they are thin so that as many rooms as possible get a sea view) were built and tourism took over, Benidorm was a pretty fishing village on Levante beach. Now it’s known as the Manhattan of Spain.

I was hoping for chants in English and flags calling people w*nkers. Instead, there’s about 40 Spaniards in the nose-bleed seats at the back of the third tier getting wet.

So I’ll talk about Curzon Ashton instead, who beat Exeter City in the FA Cup First Round last Saturday at their impressive Tameside Stadium.

My brother Jonathan, the 'non-league gypsy' has thrice parked his caravan at Curzon and remains close friends with their manager Gary Lowe, whom he argues with on the phone every day.

Lowe is in tonight’s Manchester Evening News, pictured with his wife Anna holding a glass of red wine. The headline is ‘The Romance of the Cup’ and his wife talks of how they met and his opening chat-up line in an Ashton bar: “Why don’t you give me a kiss, gorgeous?”

Lowe has always made me feel welcome to come training whenever I am in Manchester (one heavy session saw me need six sessions with a chiropractor at 30 notes a pop), like at the start of last season.

Michael Norton strokes home Curzon's opener

There were a lot of new players and I only recognised a few. Not wanting to unbalance the tender dressing room etiquette, the gypsy didn’t introduce me.

Instead, he let the other players weigh me up as we walked onto the training field and took great delight in telling one of them that I’d been signed from Morecambe to play in his position. I kept my head down, but it was clear that I wasn’t as good as them.

Then Lowe came out of the dressing room and told everyone that I was the gypsy’s brother. “And don’t be smart with him,” he shouted, “because Andy’s been… to university!”

Several players looked at me like I was an alien. One even asked me what it was like, as if Lowe had said ‘on death row’ and not university.

Lowe then made me mark Rhodri Giggs for the entire session, which was hard because while he’s got nothing on his brother, he’s far quicker, younger and better than me. My team-mates did help me a lot though and I enjoyed it thoroughly.

A few days later Lowe called me. The gypsy had got him to do something similar several times before, saying things like: “It’s the FA Vase Semi-Final on Saturday and my right-back has picked up an injury. Do you think you can do a job for us?”

I wanted to, I really wanted to and I swear I would not have let him down, but I knew he was winding me up. But this call was different. “I’m thinking of bringing the missus over to Barcelona for a weekend,” Lowe said. “Are there any shops there?”

Benidorm have just hit the post after 20 minutes and so the naughty 40 are getting raucous, as they should, for at this stage Barca are usually four up. Actually, the police are now moving them to better seats lower down.

Congratulations then to Curzon, who play at level eight, for beating Exeter, who play four leagues higher. Glynn Barker, one of the Curzon players, had booked to come out to Barcelona to play for Manchester La Fianna last weekend, but decided that he’d better stay for the Exeter game. He’d scored the surprise winner in the fourth round qualifying tie which set up the clash with last season's Conference Play-off winners.

"Kidderminster here we come!"

So Curzon did what Manchester United couldn’t, and beat Exeter at home in the FA Cup. And given that Barca couldn’t manage a draw at Old Trafford, that would make Curzon better than Barcelona. And, because I’d trained with them, me better than Lionel Messi. Who has just scored a penalty. 1-0 to Football Club Barcelona.

I’m going to applaud the Benidorm players for their efforts. I might even get a discount on a one Euro breakfast on my next visit.

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From Pallister's sofa to 'ell at the Emirates

2008-11-10T15:00:00Z

Where I've been and what I've seen after nine exhausting days on the road...

1) A lad in a Liverpool shirt with ‘Gerrard’ on the back… walking down Chester Road past thousands of Manchester United fans heading to Old Trafford before the Hull game. He seemed to revel in the abuse. Definitely a ‘not right’.

2) Being the only United We Stand seller at Old Trafford before the Hull game after the usually reliable lad who looks after our sellers failed to get out of bed because he’d been on the piss. That’s never happened in the 19 year history of UWS. I was absolutely livid.

3) Getting up at 7am on Sunday morning to drive my brother Sam to Lilleshall to play for Stockport County against Shrewsbury Town. He scored twice. The boy can play.

4) Doing a three-hour interview with Gary Pallister at his house in the beautiful village of Yarm, near Middlesbrough. Pallister conducted the entire interview lying on his sofa. He was good value and finished by saying: “I’ve told you far too much haven’t I?”

"Did I mention I've just had a brand new sofa delivered..."

5) Walking into St. James’ Park just as Newcastle scored their second against Villa. It’s easily the best-located stadium in the country.

6) Nicky Butt turning up 40 minutes late for an interview because his car had a puncture. He apologised profusely then said: “I’m not going to train today so we’ve got as much time as you like.” Butt was superb – his frankness surprised me. He kept saying: “I’ve never said this before, but…”

7) Visiting Bamburgh Castle in Northumberland on a sunny winter’s day. There was barely another soul about at what must be one of the most beautiful spots in the British Isles.

8) Celtic fans singing “We shall not be moved” after United got a late equaliser at Celtic Park. The atmosphere wasn’t on a scale with Vasco de Gama vs Manchester United in the Maracana, but it was very, very loud.

9) As the TAG style police stood outside the pub I was in with many other Manchester United fans close to Glasgow’s Buchanan Street, I hopefully confused one of them by asking for directions to the city’s Burrell Collection. He didn’t know, but his colleague did.

10) A lift to Celtic Park with the very affable (despite getting a parking ticket) Michael Grant, chief football writer for the Sunday Herald. He’s an Aberdeen fan and Sir Alex Ferguson is still like a god to him and his fellow Dandys.

11) Larry McMahon, a Celtic fan sorted two United We Stand writers out with tickets for the match. I expected them to be face value. Larry insisted that they were free.

"What do we want... FANZINES... When do we want them..."

12) Watching Paddy Crerand meet and greet old friends and foes at Celtic Park. It gave me great pleasure just to watch and see him full of energy and enthusiasm for life.

13) Having to keep my Mancunian accent very quiet as I did an interview for a radio station in Dublin… while walking alone surrounded by thousands of Celtic fans down London Road after the game.

14) Hearing the thud as an elderly Celtic fan slipped off a rail and banged his head on the wet concrete outside Bridgeton rail station after the match. He’d tried to climb over the rail by the side of the road. It was horrible. I told a police medical officer (quietly) and he was soon trying to help him. I hope he’s alright.

15) The Caledonian Sleeper from Glasgow to Euston. Why was I as excited as a six-year-old at the prospect of sleeping on a train?

16) An Irish girl asking me if I was a Scouser in Kilburn because “my accent sounds Scouse.”

17) Highbury used to be one of the cheapest top flight grounds for away fans. At the Emirates it is £48 to sit in the away end. And several Reds asked me why they couldn’t buy UWS at the Hull game. Grrrr.

18) My discomfort at the result was tempered by meeting a Michael and Justin, a father and son from Oxford on the tube after the game. Both Gooners, Michael is a doctor who has been working in Uganda. They were delighted with their team, but complimentary about United. I hope Justin doesn’t think all United fans are evil from now on.

19) Getting 82 emails on Friday and telling my girlfriend that I need a secretary, ideally a 21 year old female. “She has to be 60 and fat,” she replied.

"Telephone call for you Mr. Mitten..."

20) Arriving back in Barcelona to see that Barca were again smashing another team to pieces in the first half. And to meet the delighted Manchester La Fianna players who had beaten main rivals Dynamo 2-0.

Travels for work have seen me become a more peripheral figure. Perhaps that’s why we’ve won every game this season and are top of the league…

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Cruyff, Cliftonville and The Ketchup Song

2008-10-31T09:00:00Z

Another exciting and hectic week awaits.

It starts with an interview with Jordi Cruyff on Friday, who lives in Barcelona, before a flight to Liverpool. It’s with Ryan Air so they will have worked out three new surcharges to extract coins from customers since my last flight. Maybe there will be a credit crunch tax or a new tax for each wing.

They’ve additional fees for everything else. They’ll charge me for checking in at the airport later as I’ll commit the heinous crime of carrying baggage. Where else am I supposed to check in? The pet shop?

After doing an interview with a Norwegian magazine in a greasy spoon café tomorrow morning, I’ll watch the mighty Tigers play at Old Trafford at 3pm. That’s only Manchester United’s second 3pm game so far this season and clashes with, my brother, Jonathan’s game.

Now 32, he’s been labelled ‘the non-league gypsy’ for his attempts to play for every semi-professional club in the north-west before he retires. He’s only got about four to go.

'Non-league gypsy' Mitten (L) in action for FC United vs Leigh RMI

On Sunday morning, I’ll drive my little brother Sam - another centre forward - to Lilleshall for Stockport County vs Shrewsbury Town at Under-14 level. After, we’ll go and see our grandparents. Granddad’s brother Charlie was the family star, but granddad played professionally for Ballymena in Northern Ireland.

While on a job at Cliftonville four years ago, an elderly Cliftonville director told me that he’d played against my granddad half a century ago. “Hard b*st*rd. Centre forward,” was his description, which threw me as I’d only ever known him as someone who watched horse racing and gave me sweets.

I called granddad and handed my phone over. The elderly pair chatted for 15 minutes about a game 50-years ago when they were on opposing sides. It was lovely to watch and there was a tear in Mr Cliftonville’s eye as he handed the mobile back.

“Lovely fella,” said granddad. “Haven’t got a clue who he is though.”

"Who's that? Is that you young Andrew?"

Monday morning means the United debate show on Channel M. The Manchester Evening News bigs it up on the front page, listing the show’s participants… everyone except for the small-time no-mark that is me.

We’ll then drive north, to Gary Pallister’s house in Yarm for an interview. I say ‘we’ because the girl’s coming along. That’s partly because Michael Martin, the editor of the Newcastle fanzine True Faith, told her about the virtues of his city and the north-east when they met.

He didn’t tell her it will be freezing and the opposite to the Brazilian summers she is used to this time of year. So it’ll be Bamburgh Castle and Lindisfarne then… after interviewing Nicky Butt on Tuesday morning.

What I won’t tell Nicky is that I invented the song Manchester United fans sang for him, the one to the tune of KC and the Sunshine Band’s, ‘Baby Give It Up.’ It’s the only chant I’ve ever started and it caught on after Peter Boyle, the lad who starts a lot of the chants at Old Trafford, put it on one of his CDs of United songs.

A lot of the Manchester grafters are going up to Glasgow a day before Celtic play United to work the Oasis concert and one has invited us to go along. He’s known the Gallaghers since they were kids and, despite being United, he likes them.

Falkirk’s mighty Arnau Riera – who lists his favourite song as Las Ketchup – The Ketchup Song , is coming too. He’s back from injury and ready to storm the SPL. After watching Oasis.

Riera celebrates scoring at Ibrox... and getting Oasis tickets

A day of meetings and greetings in Glasgow will be followed by Celtic playing United on Wednesday. United no longer have Louis Saha to miss a penalty in Glasgow’s East End, so we should do alright. I’m looking forward to the atmosphere as it’s superb for big matches and that new Celtic song sounds brilliant.

A night train from Glasgow will deposit us in that London the following morning. I’ll never tire of arriving in London, but I’m always happy to leave.

The editor rang earlier to sound me out about interviewing a Spanish speaking Arsenal player down there. If I do, I will attempt to sow seeds of self-doubt into his mind ahead of their game at the Emirates against the champions of Europe next Saturday.

And after that, it’s back to Spain for Barca vs Valladolid. Oh, and I’ve got to find time to edit the next edition of United We Stand. I’ve already sent the designer a dozen pages, but there’s still 32 to go.

Good job the internet exists...

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Hull, Harriers and Heaton's Housemartins

2008-10-27T16:00:00Z

I once went out with a girl who lived in Hull, as did a mate of mine – a different girl obviously as we’re not from Burnley.

We’d drive along the M62 to see our girlfriends, fearful that we were going to get attacked for being out of towners at any point beyond Selby. We’d time our visits carefully so they wouldn’t clash with Manchester United games and would watch the free public boxing bouts each weekend night in Hull city centre.

On one visit, I arrived in Hull on a Saturday afternoon.

“It’s a nice day, let’s go to the park,” I said to my then better half.

“You don’t know any parks in Hull,” she replied.

“Trust me, I do.”

It's got grass, seats and six pylons. What more do you want?

An hour later we were stood on Bunkers Hill, otherwise known as the south terrace at Boothferry Park, her bored and baffled, me engrossed by the six floodlight pylons – it was the only ground in Britain with six giant pylons. It was 1995, crowds were around 5,000 and Dean Windass was still a sprightly 43.

Often derided, Hull has some salient points. The Paragon railway station is wonderful. If it was in London it’d have a champagne bar, six branches of Pret a Manger and homosexual men in square glasses from Hampstead talking about the relative aesthetic value on television.

But it’s in Hull and serves as a rail station, where passengers buy tickets, board and alight trains. Which is what it was built for.

The view of the Humber Bridge rivals the Golden Gate in San Francisco, the Deep’s (an aquarium) modern architecture contrasts smartly against the Hull Tidal surge barrier and they even have a huge church named in honour of Law, Best and Charlton - the Holy Trinity.

And on your left you can see Alcatraz island. Err, hang on...

As well as having one of the best fanzines around (Hull, Hell and Happiness), Hull had a great record shop called Sidney Scarborough. I once walked up to the counter and hummed a song I wanted to buy. The assistant, who looked like he had a brain the size of the internet and therefore should know, looked at me as if I was from Grimsby and didn’t reply: “That’ll be Inner City Life by Goldie.” Which is what I was trying to hum.

My next encounter with the Tigers was in 2004 when, following the early kick-off in the FA Cup semi-final between Man United and Arsenal at Villa Park, I spurned my friends’ invitations to go into Birmingham, drink beer and peer at attractive girls in Broad Street before getting filmed and sectioned by the ever hostile West Midlands constabulary.

Instead, I drove alone to Aggborough, home of Kidderminster Harriers and arrived late for their game against Hull.

My mum called to see where her 31-year-old son was.

Aggborough: Home of the Harriers. Watch out for tigers

“I’m just going to the loo, while watching the mighty tigers,” I said, half in jest.

“You’re at the zoo watching tigers?” she replied, while going for the yellow pages to find the number of a counsellor.

Kidderminster are now non-league, Hull are heading for the Champions League. I’d love to see them in it, though it’d be a chore for their fans to apply for passports ahead of travelling.

Imagine people from Hull outside Milan’s Duomo or the Prado in Madrid? They’d turn their noses up and say things like: “Nothing on Princes Quay and there’s no a ferry to Zeebrugge round the corner either.” And imagine manager Phil Brown in Milan? He’d be able to buy a properly tailored suit and not something that had been left in Studio 54’s coatroom.

I’d like Hull to reach the 2010 European Cup final and play United, who they will probably beat on Saturday because they’re Hull City and they win football games every week.

Paul Heaton, a famous former resident of Hull (he moved there for no reason other than he’d never been and wanted to be near the sea), helps run a football team a lot of my mates play for in Manchester. I played a game with them last season. Heaton leant me his boots and I got changed pitch-side by his scooter, my feet sinking into the waterlogged South Manchester earth.

Heaton: Currently penning 'London 0 Hull 10'

Last Sunday, Heaton was continually distracted by media calls before their game. Who would have thought that in deciding to name a Housemartins album ‘London 0 Hull 4’ two decades later it would symbolise Hull City beating four London teams including Tottenham and Arsenal in the first two months of the season?

I’m made up for them, and for the fact that they’re smashing through all perceived Premier League predictabilities, but they need bringing down to earth.

Starting with Saturday when I’ll be throwing Grimsby processed fish from my seat into the Hull end.

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May musings, Sharpe stories and befuddling Bhoys

2008-10-22T14:00:00Z

After being a guest on Channel M’s ‘United Debate Show’ with former goalkeeper Alex Stepney (Noel Gallagher watches it every week and has opined that all the guests are “w***ers”) I spent Monday afternoon interviewing David May.

From stories to how he lost his virginity to practical jokes which would make Gordon McQueen blush, he was funny, frank and fearless. He’s a lad’s lad and was hugely popular in the Manchester United dressing room. May’s going to play a game for Manchester La Fianna next month.

"So did I tell you about the time I lost my virginity..."

Tuesday was the turn of Lee Sharpe in Leeds. Although more guarded, he has plenty of tales and I like him. At his request, I spent four hours with him a couple of years ago with a view to ghosting his autobiography, but a deal had already been signed with the excellent David Conn of The Guardian.

Now single, Lee also fancies a trip to Barcelona. I then drove back across the Pennines with a heavy heart at the prospect of what lay ahead.

It wasn’t that I had to start a 7,000 word feature for the first-rate Swedish magazine Offside, which likes depth and colour in articles - they had a 28-page feature on Real Murcia last month.

My piece will be about the ‘other’ Manchester United, the grafters, touts, collectors, singers, fanzines, hoolies, jibbers, obsessives and anoraks. I’ve known most of the characters for 20 years and trust, which I’ve never mislaid, was vital to them talking and being pictured. It was enjoyable, hearing from characters in the football world whom Sky TV don’t even know exist.

Then I sold United We Stand, knowing that it would be an awkward night because we were playing Celtic. I’m a patient soul well versed in directing face-painted, jester-hatted day-trippers towards the 76,000 capacity stadium right in front of them, but I’m as tired of inebriated Celtic fans at Old Trafford as many Mancunians are of Rangers fans. I know plenty of good people who support an Old Firm team, but their stock is low in Manchester.

Bhoys fans make a racket at the Theatre of Dreams

Most away fans at Old Trafford keep their heads down. Not Celtic.

Scuffles broke out at the top of Sir Matt Busby Way, while nearby, a drunk approached me an with Irish accent and asked for two copies. He rolled them up, placed them in his pocket and refused to pay, before asking why they weren’t free.

His English was appalling. That’s because he was a Polish Legia Warsaw fan who lives in Galway! He showed me Legia tattoo on his wrist and he stayed around, but he was steaming.

I got the fanzines back off him and told him to stop wasting our time. Then I bombarded his brain with useless information.

“1972,” I said. “Tin of beans. Aeroplane. Big park. Fat lion. Tizwas.” He looked suitably befuddled and wandered off. I decided to retain the tactic for any smashed Celts. They soon arrived. One mess of a human being walked up, nearly banged into me and pointed at a fanzine.

“Tshn osid agwy p,” he blurted.

“What language are you speaking?” I enquired. He made the Geordie hotel porter in Alan Partridge sound like the Queen. So I looked him in the eye.

“Two donuts,” I said firmly. “Odeon cinema. Albion Market. Terry Tibs. Zebra crossing.” He rolled back onto his feet and moved on to mither someone else.

Never mind where you're sleeping, DON'T SPILL YOUR BEER!

Another, more aggressive lad soon approached.

“What’s that?” he said in a clearly Glaswegian accent, jabbing his finger towards the fanzine.

“The Maastsrict Treaty,” I replied. “Finbar Saunders, Mull of Kintyre, Crystal Meth and Barry White.” He looked at me menacingly. Then he saw my two shaven-headed cousins standing close by and lurched, completely plastered but with hope in his heart, towards the away end.

Once inside it, Celtic were very, very loud. Their team were outclassed and twice wronged by the referee, but they carried on singing, even though songs like “You’ll Never Walk Alone” got the kind of reaction Celtic fans would give on finding out that their half-time pitch entertainment would be Graeme Souness playing a flute - and wearing an orange suit.

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Sharpey, Chiles, Big Ron, fags and horse tranquiliser

2008-10-17T13:00:00Z

Manchester La Fianna got off to an 8-1 winning start in the league last week. Everything went well on the pitch, but not off it.

Players take turns to wash the kit. The player with the kit didn’t arrive on time and sent a message to say he’d also “forgotten” to wash the kit. The other lads weren't happy as they waited for the stinking shirts, especially as there was still no sign of the player after 40 minutes.

Two groups were thus dispatched into the barrios – one to pick up a different set of shirts, another to buy 15 pairs of black socks. A sports shop close to the stadium called neighbouring stockists and 15 pairs were eventually procured as kick-off approached. Shorts? We’d work that one out.

The player eventually arrived with kit bag and putrid contents. I was fuming. Running a team is requires a lot of effort, efforts which can be undone by such actions. And it’s not the first time he’s let the team down.

The same lad missed a vital game last year after someone spiked his drink the night before a game in a nightclub (his line of work). With horse tranquiliser. We’ve all but weeded out to the difficult characters to create a better team spirit, but I never wanted to lose him because he’s a great lad who's always smiling. That and he’s one of our best players.

"Did you nick my pint?"

He was apologetic; I was apoplectic. I had a word outside the dressing room and explained how I felt. He looked at me with big innocent eyes, so much that I felt out of order. He then apologised to the team – while I dropped him to the substitutes’ bench. He eventually came on, did well and at 3am the next morning got everyone into his club for a brilliant night. What’s there not to like about him?

We play our second league game this Saturday, but I’ll be absent watching Manchester United against West Bromwich Albion. When I was 10, there was a picture of West Brom in our shed.

It wasn’t just that I liked them for selling us Bryan Robson and Remi Moses, plus giving us manager Ron Atkinson, but they were sponsored by the no-smoking logo whose people came to our school. As they told us about the dangers of nicotine, they handed out posters of the Baggies… in a Manchester United stronghold.

Remember when West Brom had a sponsor?

I’ve always liked West Brom. Their fanzine Grorty Dick was a decent read and even their most famous fan, Adrian Chiles, is alright. The day before the ’95 FA Cup final I was a guest on Working Lunch, which he presented.

Along with some mates, I travelled from Manchester to the studio in London. They went in the green room and snaffled beers, while after it had finished Chiles offered us a lift into London. He was sound.

Sadly, he wasn’t with One Show co-presenter Christine Bleakley, as she was 15 in 1995 and would, presumably, have been at school. Like many teen girls then, I bet she fancied Lee Sharpe who I’ll meet in Leeds in Tuesday after spending Monday afternoon with David May. Both interviews will be for the 90s United book.

Then I’ll sell the new edition of United We Stand before the Celtic game at Old Trafford. Selling fanzines when either Glasgow club are the opponents is not for the nervy – visiting fans either abuse you, bump into you or hug you because they’re utterly inebriated… or buy 10 copies for the same reason.

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Clayton's confession & McQueen's messy mishap

2008-10-15T08:00:00Z

I’m currently interviewing people for my next book, an as yet untitled tome about Manchester United in the 1990s which will be published next autumn.

When I’ve got 11 in-depth interviews on record, I’ll sail into the sunset on a ship called Dignity armed with a laptop and write it between January and May 2009.

I wrote a similar one called ‘We’re The Famous Man United’ about United in the 80s, where I spent at least three hours each with 11 former players, from Bryan Robson to Gordon McQueen, Billy Garton to Gary Bailey.

I chose each on account of their great anecdotes and life stories rather than solely on their footballing ability. Some of the best chapters were with lesser players, like Garton whose rollercoaster of a life story had bigger inclines than most, or Clayton Blackmore who, three hours into a four-hour interview, said that he’d never told his father he loved him and that he was going to do it soon.

I wasn’t expecting that.

Blackmore: "This one's for you dad"

Or Gordon McQueen, who took me on the beer for the day in Yarm. When his lovely wife picked us up at 5pm to take me back to the train station, she said:

“You’ve been drinking.”

“I’m allowed, it’s the close season,” he replied.

“But you haven’t played for 20 years,” she countered.

McQueen was outstanding company and told me stories like the one where he was rooming with Kevin Moran in London’s Royal Lancaster, the night before flying to Majorca for a week’s break with United.

The Irish defender was lying on his bed busy with a telephone conversation as McQueen walked out of the bathroom wearing just a towel. The big Scot positioned his backside close to the face of the distracted Moran and removed the towel before attempting to squeeze out a "wee fart" while announcing "Kop a bit of that."

But McQueen involuntarily followed through, spraying the Republic of Ireland defender’s face with warm excrement. Moran did not immediately realise what had happened, before emitting a loud “Aaaarghhh!” then shouting: "You dirty b*st*rd, you dirty, dirty b*st*rd." Moran’s pained cries were heard by the rest of the team, much to their delight.

"Kop a bit of this Moran..."

The book was great fun to do and from the feedback I had the players enjoyed it too. Frank Stapleton helped promote it by signing copies and another player bought 20 copies to give to friends. And then there was John Gidman, the most mental of a mental bunch. He still calls from his den in the south of Spain.

United in the 90s was very different to the 80s and so it was always going to be more difficult getting players. Whereas the 80s lads appreciated the money (not their main reason for giving the interviews), most of the 90s lads don’t have to worry about their finances. I’ve approached 10 players so far and every single one has agreed to it. I’m surprised and delighted.

Most of the 80s players still live in or around Manchester (though Garton is in California and Bailey in South Africa), whereas the 90s players are spread far and wide. One lives in Moscow, another just called from Kuala Lumpur airport to say that he’s up for it. He likes his tropical destinations, this kid. Another flies to the Ukraine tomorrow and will return next week so we can meet in Spain.

Again, I’ve gone for those who I think have the most interesting stories and are in a position to tell them, people I know and I would like to think trust me. Two emailed back (well, one got his secretary to do it) to say that they are happy to appear in the book but don’t want paying.

They are still earning a Premiership wage playing, but they are entitled to be paid for their time like anyone else. One wants to talk towards the end of the season as his job is rather exacting, another next month.

"Blomqvist: "Going so soon? But I know this great little Italian..."

I’ve done three interviews so far, with Jesper Blomqvist the most recent. He was very generous with his time in Stockholm recently where I spent a couple of days with him. At midnight on the second day I considered my work complete, when Jesper said: “I know a good Italian café we can go to – and an Iranian place after that if we’re not finished.”

Jesper Blomqvist was fascinating and not only because he was so honest. Don’t ever think that fame and fortune makes for an easy life. I want to write more here but that really defeats the object of doing the book and I doubt my publisher, who is paying for me to travel far and wide, would be too pleased. Still, I intend to keep you posted with bits of information.

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Gerrard, giant Germans and Chas 'n' Dave

2008-10-09T14:00:00Z

I don’t like international weeks.

The papers are filled with dull-as-Dewsbury tactical discussions about the lad who kissed the badge on his chest (then put in a transfer request), injury news and anodyne player quotes.

I shouldn’t be too harsh on Steven Gerrard. He may be King Rat, star of the Scouse, yet I spent a day with him in Barcelona and enjoyed his company, partly because of his non-stop mocking of Man United and Manchester. Which is what the captain of Liverpool should do.

"Unlucky at Anfield last month lads..."

But back to international week, where the England manager is either cast as a demon or a deity. I was in the company of several leading football writers at the time the FA were chasing Phil Scolari to be England boss – an invitation he sensibly turned down.

“It’s whether he can handle what comes with the job,” said one.

“You mean us lot?” asked another.

That’ll be suggesting managers be sacked if a country usually ranked between 8th and 14th in the world don’t fulfil the ridiculous expectations thrust upon them. Nobody crucifies the Aston Villa manager for not finishing in a Champions League position, so why do England managers get hammered for not overachieving?

But what I hate most about international weeks is the absence of club football. Take last Saturday. I said goodbye to the girl at midday and told her I’d see her in 12 hours.

Ahead of me was Manchester La Fianna’s final pre-season game. We won 2-0, making it four wins and a draw from five. We must have looked at 30 players and I now have a good idea of the 19 lads who’ll be asked to pay to be part of the squad ahead of the season starting this Saturday.

Among our new players is a seven-foot tall German midfielder whose Slovak girlfriend is so fit that I’m going to request that she doesn’t attend matches as the lads won’t be able to concentrate.

Alongside him is a diminutive, bespectacled, Belgian who played for Mouscron, birthplace of Steed Malbranque. It’s also twinned with Barry in South Wales.

If we didn’t have enough midfielders, we’ve also got a Paul Scholes look-a-like from The Markets area of Belfast. It’s safe to assume that he’s not a Glasgow Rangers fan.

There’s a cockney Tottenham fan who listens to Chas ‘n' Dave on his iPod in the dressing room while chomping on jellied eels and wondering why Berbatov joined United when they don’t have electricity in the north.

Chas, Dave and the Spurs squad have a right old knees up

And I still have West African characters straight out of Fonejacker who think that playing for Manchester La Fianna is a stepping-stone to starring for Manchester United.

“I’d like to play in English second division next season and see where I go from there,” one player, who claims he’s 22, told me recently. Do you shatter a dream there and then?

News of our team has travelled – United themselves are sending their coaches to Barcelona in February to study Barça’s training methods.

And the coaches wondered if we wanted a game. I’ll not be around there then - that and I don’t fancy marking Brian McClair, one of the brightest people in football, because he’ll destroy me.

Then I watched Blackburn vs United in a pub. Which is where most of the 8,000 travelling United fans appeared to have been before the 5.30pm kick-off given the number of drunken texts I received, including one from the players’ lounge telling me his afternoon had been spoilt by the mere presence of Robbie Fowler.

I wanted to be at Blackburn, always one of the best away games of the season because of the substantial ticket allocation and proximity to Manchester.

Rooney wallops home United's second at a wet Ewood Park

And I hate watching football in pubs in Barcelona because they are full of “United” fans who call the team “Man U,” have never been to Old Trafford and don’t even know that the Stretford End used to have 1,900 bench seats at the back. I got carried away there, but they do fulfil several stereotypes of United’s support.

After that it was a trip to the Camp Nou. What a game. Barca were three up against Atletico after nine minutes and led 5-1 after 28. 20,000 Barca fans watched their team for the first time this season, boosting the gate to 75,000. They were mesmerized by Messi and I can’t recall a better 45 minutes of football in Spain as Guardiola continues to get it right.

And so to this weekend. No United, no Barca. Can’t Borat come out of retirement and brighten up the Kazakhstan game?

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Cantona quote controversy & Aaron 'the Axe' Mokoena

2008-10-02T11:30:00Z

Did you see the Eric Cantona quotes in the media earlier this week?

The ones where he told The Sun about how he feared for Manchester United’s future once Sir Alex Ferguson left the club? After being printed, the quotes were picked up by websites around the world. The BBC quoted The Sun, as did Manchester United’s official website.

Except Eric Cantona didn’t speak to The Sun. The interview he gave was to me, for FourFourTwo. The very interview that I’ve written about in past blogs.

I saw Neil Custis, the Sun journalist who wrote the story in Aalborg on Tuesday and asked him why his newspaper had not credited FourFourTwo. He said that he had in the piece that he had sent to his office, but a sub editor must have removed any reference to FourFourTwo. Ah, that old chestnut. I think they were taking the piss and told him so.

"I don't remember talking to The Sun..."

As I left Aalborg’s tiny Subbuteo stadium, my phone rang. It was M'bazo; aka ‘the Axe’ - Aaron Mokoena to his employees at Ewood Park.

He may play for Blackburn and be the captain of South Africa, but he’s a United fan who idolised Roy Keane when he was growing up in Boipatong, one of the roughest townships near Johannesburg. The pair met on the field and clattered each other when 'the Axe 'arrived in England in 2005.

He said he was concerned about me.

“Why?” I asked, waving goodbye to AaB’s cheery staff as I snaffled some left-over Champions League sandwiches.

“This girl you are seeing. I hear it’s all a bit serious already.”

"What's this I hear about you settling down, Mitten?"

“Aaron,” I replied. “If you’re going to try and wind me up, at least tell my brother who has clearly put you up to it not to giggle in the background.”

“It’s nothing to do with him,” he continued. “I’m just worried.”

Not half as worried as Jose Mourinho was after 'the Axe' cut Arjen Robben to size with an admittedly shocking tackle a few years ago. He always got on fine with Robben, whom he’s played against when he was at Ajax, and apologised.

But I could hardly blame him for trying it on. When he’d just arrived in England I told him that Blackburn’s most loyal fans were called ‘The Burnley Clarets’ and that he should make a reference to them next time he spoke to the press, saying how much he appreciated their support.

He and my brother did manage one successful blag on Tuesday – as revenge for Aaron’s business advisor ringing my brother Jonathan two years ago.

“Hi Jonathan,” he said. “Hertha Berlin have been watching you closely. They have had to cut their budgets right back and buy cheaper players, but they are looking for a big centre-forward like you. Would you be interested in playing in Germany and helping them push for a Champions League place?”

Mitten (L): "Hertha Berlin? Yeah... good one"

My brother was playing in the North West Counties League at the time, but believed the caller. Because he wanted to believe the caller. He even discussed the move with his girlfriend and they agreed that they would try and learn German and that he’d give up being a plumber. He was so devastated when he found out it was a blag that I actually felt guilty.

While the professional game may have passed him by, things are looking good for our youngest brother, who turned 14 on Sunday. Three games into playing for Stockport Country and, in the words of his coach, “playing with category A rather than category C players for the first time,” he’s the top scorer in his age group.

There’s a long, long way to go, but he’s giving himself a chance…

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Spanish Jacks, James Brown, Oasis and Plymouth (again)

2008-09-29T14:00:00Z

Greetings from sunny Stockholm, capital of Sweden. I was travelling for most of last week, meeting interesting types.

I'm seeing Jesper Blomqvist again later; we're halfway through a four-hour interview, having watched the Milanese derby together last night (he used to play for the Rossoneri before joining Manchester United).

He’s invited me to watch the team he manages in Sweden’s second division tonight: they're bottom of the league and play the team above them. Tomorrow I’ll fly to Denmark to watch the red-shirted heroes at AaB.

Young Jesper at AC Milan. See?

First, though, I’ve got a bit of time to kill in a coffee shop before I meet Jesper again. If I can keep my eyes on my keyboard and not be distracted by the stream of perfect blondes walking into the establishment, I’ll give you a Perfect XI of people I’ve met on my travels in the last week, in chronological order.

1. Andrea Orlandi, the Barcelona-born Swansea City player. We met after the Swansea vs Cardiff game, at which he was on the bench. I am indebted to his girlfriend, who went to Tesco at 11pm to buy some food so that she could make a meal. They both speak good English, but the Swansea accent throws them.

2. Jordi Gomez, another Barcelona-born Swansea player, on loan from Espanyol. Andrea introduced me to him after the game in which he scored the only goal against arch-rivals Cardiff. He was friendly enough, but the significance of the moment was wasted on him.

3. Kris O’Leary, Swansea’s longest-serving player and a lifelong fan from nearby Port Talbot. Scoring the winner wouldn't have been wasted on him, but he didn’t make the squad against Cardiff. Kris is a great lad; Swansea fans should chip in and have a statue of him made by the Swansea Jack pub.

Kris O'Leary (right) gets stuck in for his beloved Jacks

4. Ian Rush, the former Chester, Juventus, Newcastle and Wales striker. I found myself sat next to him in the pressroom at Swansea. He was very friendly, so I didn't tell him that I used to stand on the Stretford End singing “Oh we’d like to know where Rush got his nose from” (to the tune of The Hues Corporation’s soul classic Rock the Boat), nor that for much of the 1980s I hated him more than any individual on Earth.

5. Matt, the lad who designed the covers for the first three Oasis albums. He’s from Wigan and supports the Latics. When the team played at Springfield Park, he went home and away, but he and his mates now find the whole Premiership experience a turn-off.

6. James Brown, who I mentioned last week. The former Loaded editor was hoping that his beloved Leeds would be drawn with the European champions in the next round of whatever the League Cup is called these days: “It’ll be great, we’ll bring thousands and I think we’ll give you a real go. We’ve got a good team.”

They'd bring far, far more than the few hundred Middlesbrough fans who made it to Old Trafford last Tuesday. Now that Leeds no longer appears as an option on his favourite computer game, he chooses to play as Tottenham as they also play in white and have several ex-Leeds players.

But Leeds weren't paired with United in Saturday’s draw, as United don’t get interesting cup draws these days.

James Brown: Spurs player by default

7. Joyce Woolridge, the Mancunian writer who wrote Brian McClair’s season diary a decade ago and lives on the same Bristol street as one of Massive Attack in a house full of books. She writes for When Saturday Comes and has written for United We Stand for 13 years.

She was saying what a gent the former Man United and Scotland striker Joe Jordan is and admiring the cuts on his suits, which she thinks he picked up while playing for Milan. I think she fancies him.

8. Trevor, the Dagenham and Redbridge secretary. I was driving through Dagenham towards Grays on the Thames Estuary when I decided to pop in unannounced. He probably thought I was a burglar, but he was friendly and gave me an update on his club, who are flying high in League 2.

9. Paul Parker, the former Fulham, QPR, Man United and England defender. He welcomed me to his manor in Essex ahead of doing a feature with him on Setanta’s coverage of the Grays vs Stevenage game. I left a notepad and a book at his house; at 7.45am the following morning he called to ask where I wanted it posting.

"Forgotten something, Andy?"

10. Peter Taylor, the former England manager. At Grays I followed him up a ladder overlooking suburban back gardens into a television gantry.

11. A Southend United groundsman. I had time to kill so took a look at Canvey Island and then Southend. I walked in an open door at Roots Hall and said “Alright mate.” He grunted but didn’t tell me to leave. On the nearby seafront, stalls sold whelks and jellied eels by the world’s longest pier.

Sub: Bojan Djordjic, the former Man United player now playing for AIK Stockholm in Sweden. He swore like a trooper but was very friendly. He’s currently injured so we met at the AIK game yesterday in Stockholm, where he talked about United, Rangers, Red Star Belgrade and Plymouth.

Another lad came up to me in a pub last night and said: “Do you speak English, mate?” He was a Plymouth fan who had arrived in Stockholm that day. Why do I keep bumping into people associated with Plymouth Argyle?

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From Cantona to Grays via Swansea vs Cardiff

2008-09-22T16:00:00Z

I’m leaving the rain of Barcelona for the sun of Bristol on Tuesday morning, before driving to Swansea to watch the big game against Cardiff for FourFourTwo’s ‘More Than A Game’ feature.

I’ll return for the league game in November and meet up with the lads from Cardiff’s Soul Crew the night before.

For this first game, my focus will be on Swansea City. The club have been exceptionally friendly to deal with so far and I’ve got interviews lined up with players, journalists and fans.

Alan Tate and 'that flag' - 2006 LDV Vans Trophy final

Andrea Orlandi is one of several Spanish Swans and someone I know from Barcelona, where he played once for the first team. He also performed for Alaves. I was going to get in touch, but he texted on Saturday to say that we should meet up so I’ll see him after the game.

I’d imagine what happens next will depend on the result. If Swansea beat Cardiff then the city should be lively. If not, well, let’s see.

Andrea is a talented professional who was hampered by injuries last season. He played on Saturday against Burnley though so hopefully he will play against Cardiff.

“The game against Cardiff is a big game for us,” he said. No sh*t!

Orlandi: Has been swotting up on the south Wales derby

On Wednesday, I’ll interview Swansea’s longest serving player Kristian O’Leary at their training ground. He’s the only one who has played against Cardiff before and is a Manchester United fan.

Then I’ll drive the length of the M4 to London ahead of Thursday’s game between Grays and Stevenage. I’ll catch up with James Brown in London. He’s Leeds, but he’s a decent lad. He started Loaded magazine and then edited GQ, bought Viz and founded (the now sadly defunct) JACK magazine.

He once told me that Stephen McPhail would be a better player than Roy Keane. McPhail, formerly of Leeds, should play for Cardiff at Swansea.

Brown came to stay last year with his son and used my computer to go on a Leeds messageboard. He inadvertently left the computer on and had written: “I’m in enemy territory surrounded by Man U (that’s Manchester United, the European champions) books and a picture of Eric Cantona. There’s even Granada Reports on the tele and Lancashire cheese in the fridge!”

On Thursday, I’ll head east to Grays to do a fly on the wall feature on how Setanta cover a game. Paul Parker and Steve Bower, who was at MUTV, will be doing the commentary so I’ll shadow them and observe with the photographer I last worked with in Marseille.

Grays' Recreation Ground: It's no Marseille...

From Eric Cantona by the Med in July to a non-league game by the Thames Estuary at the end of September…

I’ve never been to Grays before, though I saw them destroy Altrincham in the FA Trophy when my brother played there three years ago. They rose to non-league’s top flight where they have stayed, but they’ve just been hit with the resignation of their owner, manager and chairman Mick Woodward.

Should be interesting…

Guardiola, Corrie and Kelly Brook

2008-09-19T13:00:00Z

I’ve watched Barca twice this week at the Camp Nou, first in the 1-1 draw against Racing Santander (who, trivia buffs, count singer Paul Heaton as a fan) when Thierry Henry didn’t even make the bench and also in Tuesday’s 3-1 win against Sporting Lisbon when he started.

These are interesting and uncertain times at Barcelona, the mood reflected by sub 60,000 crowds for the first time in president Joan Laporta’s five-year reign. New manager Pep Guardiola is being given a chance, his bank of goodwill credit still very full with Catalans who have fond memories of him as a player and all round Catalanista.

Barcelona: The Wigan of La Liga...?

Guardiola was a great midfielder, criminally underrated outside Catalonia and he’s a fascinating character, with clear ideas of how football should be played the Barca way. The Cruyff influence is clear and understandable given he joined Barca at the age of 12.

In a weird column this week, Cruyff described the Santander game as one of the best he had seen in years. I’ll bow to his far greater knowledge, but it wasn’t.

Guardiola likes to be his own man though. Outside of football, one of his hobbies is writing poetry and he taught himself English, though he’ll never tell anyone.

The only reason I know is that the actor Lee Boardman (one time pseudo gangster Jez Quigley on Coronation Street and now voiceover man for the guilty pleasure that is Road Wars) once came to Barcelona to interview him.

Meeting 'Quiggers' ... Pep's career highlight

Guardiola isn’t always happy with his lot, which includes females from Girona to Tarragona fancying the Armani’s off him, and was being, well, a bit arsey with Lee, who he considered a mere journalist. That all changed when Lee told him he was an actor. Pep was then much keener to impress and Lee spoke very highly of the latest king of Catalonia.

But Laporta is a different character. I’ve never had any problems in dealings with him, but I knew him when he was a ‘mere’ fan who ran a protest group called the Blue Elephant which was trying unseat Barça’s then ruling Nunez regime.

Laporta suckered up to Manchester United fans - fans he now ignores. When he was running for president in 2003 he couldn’t speak to enough journalists – he told one English hack that he couldn’t talk at that moment but suggested they went for lunch.

I suspect the English hack regrets saying that wouldn’t be possible as he had a Spanish class. That’s like telling Kelly Brook that you won’t accept her invitation to join her in bed as you’ve just blown up an inflatable which you’ll use instead.

Kelly Brook: Almost certainly better than an inflatable

Within minutes of Racing equalising and the six-strong Santander press posse going mental - causing their Catalan colleagues to stand up and tell them to shut up as it wasn’t appropriate to celebrate in a press box - the Barca Ultras behind the goal were singing “Barca Yes, Laporta No.”

Following waves of resignations and sackings, Laporta has become a more isolated figure. Plotters are many, but the strength of anti-Laporta sentiment will depend on results.

Because, sadly, that’s all what most fans are bothered about.

City fans fume at derby day omission

2008-09-16T13:00:00Z

The Manchester Evening News did a feature on Mad For It last Thursday.

I had a straightforward chat with a good journalist about the book and rivalries. A local angle was put in the piece, the emphasis on the future of the Manchester derby given City’s new owners.

As well as being in the paper, the feature was then posted as a headline… on the Manchester City section of their website. The paper knew it would cause a stir. It did.

Bigger than the Manchester derby?

It was one of the most read articles last week and 179 people have so far felt the need to reply – most of them part of the hydra-headed massive in blue. I read through all of them yesterday. Here’s a selection of my favourites:

“This book is just another reason of why MANURE are disliked"
A Manc and blue

“Whats Old Trafford on a Saturday at 4.45pm and Wormwood Scrubs got in common? ANSWER: They are both full of Cockneys trying to get out."
Seven Stars Smooth Blue, Manchester

“Whisper it - the swamp dwellers are rattled.
I can smell the fear."

LOVIN' IT!!!
Fifth column blue (within smelling distance of the swamp), Trafford”

“Andy Muppet (sorry Mitten) is displaying the typical utd fan behaviour/mindset.

Nice try, but it won't wash, the only reason you are saying Liverpool is a more important game is that you have a better record against them than you do against City over the last few seasons."
bigusdickus, Brighton

“the venom coming out of the new BITTERS mouths is a sight to behold,why is this?Ive noticed a distinct quietness among my many United friends,why is this?Fergie payed over the odds for the smoking mard *rse,why is this?4 words my bitter red Herberts-MANCHESTER CITY FOOTBALL CLUB."
francis lee's bellybutton, Manchester

“Hahahaha....Andeh Mittohn, a typical arrrogant divvy Utd looking goon.

What does this 20yr old kid know about Manchester derbies and their history ?..... trying so hard at being a top boy Mancunian, stop it you big girl."
simon23

“Ha ha ha Andy would obviously state the DERBY isn't a great fixture these days considering the fact for example last season CITY won both games - deary deary me these are ill timed comments indeed. HOW I LOOK FORWARD TO ANOTHER SIX POINTS FOR CITY THIS COMING SEASON......"
ted knott, droylsden

“this idiot is just another london glory hunter how he can even say liverpool v utd is the derby is a joke but then again the rags are not from manchester are they? so the idiot could have a point after all

1-0 1-2 i bet that hurt alot more than they like to let on red scum

just look at his face on that pic doesnt homer simpson spring to mind? DOH
Bluetobitz

“this muppet knows nothing derby has always means two local sides against each other it does not mean anything to most united fans because most dont come from manchester simple as that, to not put City V United derby in his book is a discrace to all fans from manchester, City and United."
Bart the Blue,Springfield USA

“What a total prat. Doesn't know squiddly about squat. Mr whatever your name is, you are the singular of the toolbar prompt which is nestled between Favourites and Help at the top of my screen"
Peter Barnes

"Mitten, you don't know what you're talkin' about..."

It appears I’ve incurred the ire of City’s intelligentsia, attracting so many concise and well-reasoned points from what seem like thoroughly decent and emotionally balanced individuals. Therefore I must be wrong.

Another poster (I’ve spared your eyes) left his caps lock to deride me JUST SO I KNOW WHAT AN ARROGANT RAG MUPPET I AM!!!!!

Either that or the evil Ferguson will be to blame for the keyboard slip, him and the rest plotting with a United obsessed media to undermine City, Manchester’s true club, the richest in the world with the best fans bar none. I mean, which other fans could improvise with Arab head wear at such short notice?

A blue mate emailed: “I’m cringing with embarrassment at the posts of my fellow fans. Always thought your fan base had more clowns than the rest, but we’re giving you a good run.”

What can he possibly be getting at?

Lost Pilgrims, City oil slickers & Carra gold

2008-09-10T11:00:00Z

Two men stood in the street by my house looking confused last Friday afternoon.

Wearing Lacoste t-shirts and small enamel badges, I figured that they were English football fans in Barcelona to watch the Andorra game. I offered to help as they struggled over a map by the metro they’d just exited.

Through a mixup of names, they were miles from where they wanted to be. It wasn’t like getting a train to Liverpool Street and thinking it was Liverpool, but Gracia station to Passeig de Gracia is longer than the trek to the away end at Aldershot.

"It's that way, lads"

We got talking as I showed them the way. Jason and Chris were Plymouth Argyle fans who also watch England home and away. It’s not often you get members of the famous Green Army marching through the streets of Gracia. I’d last seen Plymouth when they beat Sunderland two years ago and then manager Ian Holloway offered to buy every one of the travelling fans a pint. Loads took him up on his offer.

The fans offered to buy me a beer for pointing them on their way, but we arranged to meet later, away from the dire, overpriced Irish bars of Calle Ferran by La Rambla where most visiting British football fans gather. Whisper it quietly, but I'd rather a night with proper fans than the En-ger-land tabloid pack.

The Plymouth fans told stories of 10 hour bus trips to Ipswich, two-day away games in the north east, banning orders, Argyle goalscoring legend Tommy Tynan being a taxi driver in Plymouth, the Pilgrim fathers and their rivalries with Bristol City and Exeter.

"It's that Mitten bloke again"

The following day, they joined the other 10,000 England fans (and 14,000 Coldplay devotees who performed next door to the Olimpic Stadium while England laboured) while I managed 60 minutes for Manchester La Fianna in a 6-1 victory at Sitges, our first pre-season friendly.

Our goalkeeper is a Manchester City fan who hails from Wythenshawe and flies back for plenty of matches so he was feeling happy at this season’s City takeover, which naturally had United fans talking.

United We Stand’s website registered its busiest ever time last week and I had a lot of work writing pieces about the likely effects on the Manchester rivalry and calls from Spanish radio stations to explain just who Manchester City were. Cheers, City.

United’s biggest game remains Liverpool, not City, and the 18 times champions (them) meet the 17 times champions (us) at Anfield on Saturday. There’s been a lot of interest in Mad For It, partly as the first chapter is about Liverpool vs United. That’s meant interviews from Sweden in the north to Tenerife in the south.

Scousers will no doubt delight in the news that Jamie Carragher’s new autobiography has knocked Mad For It off the top of the football charts. I’m not surprised though given the success of his mate Gerrard’s book. Autobiographies of Liverpool players are far more frank and easily outsell those of United players.

I won’t be at Anfield as I’ll be watching Barça’s first home game against Racing, followed by the visit of Sporting Lisbon and work travels in a few weeks to Swansea vs Cardiff, Grays vs Stevenage (I’ll explain that one nearer the time), a big game in Stockholm followed by an interview with Jesper Blomqvist, then Aalborg vs United in Denmark.

But first, I need to pin down Villarreal’s press officer for that interview with Giuseppe Rossi she has been promising for six days…

Cantona, Dinho, Shots, Bantams and... soap

2008-09-03T15:00:00Z

Gaz and Wendy Knight got lucky.

On my way to interview Eric Cantona in Marseille in July (to be published in the November issue of FourFourTwo, in shops October 1), I popped into an internet café. Gaz, a long time friend, had emailed to say he and his wife were holding a charity football match in August to help raise funds for SANDS: Stillbirth and Neonatal Death Society.

Last year, their son Ged was stillborn at 37 weeks. It was fresh in my mind and I told Cantona about the couple and asked him to sign something which could be auctioned.

“I would like to do this,” replied the King, except there was nothing like a shirt or poster to sign. We were in the conference room of a Marseille hotel, stood by a large flip chart of A2 paper.

“Just write something on there,” I said, eyeing the big felt markers.

“What?” he asked.

“You’ve just told me that you’re an artist. Show it,” I replied. “Or write a message to the people of Manchester.”

With that, Eric did a Miro-esque squiggle and a message. So as not to crease it, I ‘borrowed’ the hotel’s roll of flip chart paper and tucked Eric’s work in the middle.

Eric 'the Artist' Cantona churns out another masterpiece

Smartly framed, that squiggle was auctioned for £2,500 on Sunday. I would have been happy with a tenth of that – which is what a signed Ruud van Nistelrooy shirt went for.

Norman Whiteside, another former United great, turned up to support the couple and got impressively inebriated before telling a load of mates: “You know what lads, I’m just a working class lads like you lot. I’m just United!” With that, the Shankhill Skinhead’s stock rose even higher in West Manchester.

I wasn’t there. Instead I was playing cricket in Oxford at Jim White’s 50th birthday. Jim’s a United fan who writes for The Daily Telegraph. Other guests included another Red, the BBC’s Newsnight editor Michael Crick and Roger Alton, editor of the Independent.

By getting bowled out for a duck, I made a fool of myself in front of all. I’ve played cricket twice so my humiliation wasn’t surprising, but I also injured my foot fielding, an injury which stopped me training as Manchester La Fianna’s pre-season got underway last night.

There were eight or nine new faces and a similar number of players have moved on – to live in pastures new or, in the case of Dinho, join Spanish third division side Lleida, where Juande Ramos used to manage.

Dinho wasn’t offered a contract in South Africa with Ajax Cape Town after his trial. I hear his attitude could have been far better. To break the ice, we held a penalty competition and everyone who missed had to stand up and describe the worst girl they’d ever slept with.

The sight of shaking heads descending into hands became common, something I also saw in Hampshire on Saturday watching Aldershot vs Bradford in League Two.

The Recreation Ground: They don't make 'em like this anymore

It was a superb experience. Baked in sunshine, a crowd of nearly 4,000 saw the Shots win 3-2 against the early league leaders. The walk to the away end took in a winding country path and once inside, Bradford’s sizeable following created a din to match the Ultras in the home end.

A traditional ground with pylon floodlights, terracing, pay on the gate and Bradford’s excellent City Gent fanzine being sold, it was a joy to attend.

Tradition added to the enjoyment, though even Aldershot have moved with the times. I’m not sure what was more bizarre – seeing fans stand obediently within a designated smoking area (a box marked in paint on open tarmac), or having a choice of three soaps or moisturisers in the away end toilets.

When you’ve witnessed the stinking, airless, lightless urinals of the away end at Derby’s former Baseball Ground, it seems like another world.

Monaco woe, Aldershot and oddballs

2008-08-28T14:00:00Z

Manchester United play in the European Super Cup in Monaco on Friday and I can’t go. I’m gutted.

I’ve not missed a European away game for ages and it’s not difficult to travel from Barcelona. There’s a train for £74 which skirts the Mediterranean coast and stops for a leisurely two hours in Montpellier, scene of Clayton Blackmore’s greatest moment in 1991 when he struck a shot two nautical miles from the Herault goal.

To make matters worse, some mates are going who don’t usually get to European aways and I’ve had two offers of work there and a call from the former United player Andrei Kanchelskis.

He’s up for an interview for my next book about United in the 90s. I’m starting it now and aim to have it finished by next May. Andrei will be there for Russian television as United’s opponents are Zenit St. Petersburg. Russia’s second city of five million is twinned with Manchester.

Blackmore: Great tash

But I can’t go. A close friend is 50 at the weekend and he’s having a party in Oxford. We arranged the trip in February at a time when I didn’t think about the European Super Cup. I’ve looked at lots of permutations of getting from Monaco to Oxford, but it’s not happening. Flights and hire cars have already been booked, so I’ll miss it.

Instead, we’ll fly to Gatwick late on Friday night and as compensation I’ll watch Aldershot vs Bradford City at the Recreation Ground on Saturday.

I’d like to offer some justification for going. The Bradford striker Peter Thorne is the same age and from the same part of Manchester. Or that Aldershot fullback Lewis Chalmers used to play with my brother at Altrincham. But I’d be lying.

I’m going partly because I’m a freak and partly because I’ve not been to the Recreation Ground before. My girlfriend understands it as ‘work’ so I’ll take her to somewhere like Windsor Castle beforehand before setting out for Aldershot.

I’ve told two people I’m going. One said: “Aldershot’s awful, my brother was based there with the army.” The other: “Aldershot will be fun, they have a very strange entrance for the away fans that's worth checking it out... you have to go around the ground, up a hill, into a wooded park, and then down a little dark and windy path and into the ground. Quite odd.”

The first was a girl, the second an AFC Wimbledon fan.

Aldershot: "Awful" or "fun" depending who you ask

Ground-hopping is an affliction I’ve had since I was a kid when I watched my dad play non-league around the country and would draw diagrams of the grounds when I got home. Sad to say, I could describe every stand at every clubs in the England’s top five levels.

A mate rang yesterday. He’d been to see FC United play at Buxton last Saturday and was raving about his day out.

“Great town,” he said, thinking that I’d not been. I went along with it, but didn’t tell him that a decade ago, I caught a train from London to Macclesfield, visited the grave of Ian Curtis before getting a taxi over the Cat & Fiddle (the most dangerous road in Britain) to the Derbyshire spa town. Alone. Through driving rain. I kept myself to myself, but was spotted in the main stand by the Flixton manager who shouted, “What the *** are you doing here?” Then he invited me on the players’ bus back to Manchester.

Although I’m a bit of an oddball, I’m not compared to some. Like the Trafford fan ‘Rain Man’. A former Trafford player and Manchester legend/ticket tout Chris Simms has a story about Rain Man.

“We played at Whitley Bay near Newcastle one night in February. There were no away fans. I went to take a corner and I heard: ‘Simmo! Simmo!’ I looked around and couldn’t see anything. Then I heard it again. I spotted Rain Man’s head above a concrete fence. He’d hauled himself up and was shouting, ‘I’ve spent all my money on petrol for my motorbike getting here. I can’t get in the ground.’” Simmo made sure he did.

Whitley Bay: Can be a bit grim in February

One lad who goes to United is on another level. We’ll call him Stuart Trueman. He’s a bright, handsome, well-dressed casual who takes his two kids and girlfriend to every single Manchester United first team matches, United reserve games and FC United games home and away.

If none of these teams are playing he’ll go to a Manchester United youth team game or to see another competitive match, usually somewhere near his Lancashire home like Blackburn, Burnley or Darwen.

Psychologists would love to examine his brain, for he also supports Roma and lists his two heroes as Francesco Totti and Ryan Giggs.

Go figure.

Gidman, Ronaldo and Magic Sam of Chorley

2008-08-26T12:48:00Z

John Gidman called last week. Now 54, the former Manchester United full-back lives on the Costa Del Sol with his air stewardess girlfriend. When I interviewed him two years ago, I met him at 8am in Torremolinos. The first thing he said was “Are we going to have a bevvy or what?” I left him 12 hours later after hearing his crazy life story of Shankly, girls, guns and one England cap.

John’s a character and we speak most weeks. “Just been playing golf in Mallorca,” he enthused, “with Jamie Redknapp and Andy” – his best mate, Andy Gray. “Fucking brilliant.”

I told him that his fellow ex-United defender Paul Parker had complimented him on his fitness after playing with him in a veterans’ tournament in the Isle of Man two years ago.

“There must be another John Gidman because I haven’t fucking been to the Isle of fucking Man since I was seven,” he replied. “I lived near the docks in Liverpool and we got a boat there on holiday. I’ve not been since.”

Gidman in his pomp at Big Ron's Old Trafford

Gidman lives with a lot of other Brits, but something surprised me at the opposite end of Spain in Catalonia last week – a Spanish family wearing English football shirts. I’ve never seen it before, but two lads played football on the beach, one in a United shirt with ‘Ronaldo’ on the back, the second in a Chelsea one with ‘Shevchenko’ (oops). I’ve not been as surprised since seeing Barcelona shirts outnumber Celtic and Rangers ones on a journey from Glasgow International to Govan in 2006.

Waterstones emailed asking me to sign copies of Mad For It the next time I was in Manchester, so I popped in last Monday and left an hour free. I realised that wouldn’t be necessary when the man in the sports department said: “We have nine copies. Four here and five downstairs.” I was done within a minute and left, wondering why they had bothered.

I also questioned the motivation of another character I came across on a trip to see my brother play in Chorley, Lancashire, two days before. I was minding my own business in the clubhouse, listening to my dad tear strips out of anyone who has ever played football (sample quote: “And that Pele/Maradona/Cruyff was a diving, spineless, foreign cheat”) when a man in ill-fitting jeans approached.

“This is Magic Sam, the most famous magician in Chorley,” he said with the confidence of a man on his fourth pint. I looked around to check that I wasn’t an extra in a new series of Phoenix Nights. The venue fitted the bill, but Sam was genuine and he was soon performing a card trick which involved me missing the first three minutes of the second half. He’ll soon be leaving the armpit of Chorley (it nestles beneath the M61/M6 intersection) for the bright lights of Blackburn or Blackpool.

Chorley: looks quite pleasant, for an armpit

We left Chorley, passing a pub advertising live Polish league football, to meet some visiting Newcastle fans in Manchester. I’d swapped dad for girlfriend as he would have instantly offended them. I once introduced him to a former Manchester City player, to hear him describe them as “classless blue c*nts.” The silence was as awkward as you’d expect.

“We’re having a good night because we don’t expect anything from tomorrow,” offered one of the Geordies. He was wrong, for Newcastle were worth their point at Old Trafford.

We left the Geordies and went to a bar which my cousin helps run. She’s a girl about town who knows everyone, but the omens didn’t look good when we saw footballer Chris Eagles being refused entry “for being too casual.” I went for research purposes, you’ll understand. Cousin got us in alright and introduced me to various phonies, before saying, “You should meet my friend Titus, he’s involved in football like you.”

I looked up to see Titus Bramble. How I wished I’d still been with the no-nonsense Geordie lads to see how they would have reacted to meeting him....

Facing fears, tying knots and Big Sam's big seats

2008-08-12T14:39:00Z

So glamorous is my job that I had to work 12 hours on Saturday and Sunday, a situation which improved markedly on Monday as Paul Parker (ex-Manchester United and England full-back) came to Barcelona and I met him for something to eat.

He ended up going to the Camp Nou with his youngest son Jake, but he wasn’t impressed at the world’s biggest all-seater stadium. Yes, I know there are stadiums in Iran and North Korea which claim to hold 5 million, but the Camp Nou is bigger.

I told Parker that perhaps he felt that way because it brought back bad memories. He nodded, claimed that he was injured before that game and said:

“I saw that Stoichkov years later and he pointed at me and said: 'Parker. Manchester. 4-0.' Cheeky get. Romario was just arrogant. Great player though. I couldn’t deal with his acceleration.”

Parker: Exorcised Camp Nou demons of '94

“Like my mate?” asked Parker’s son.

“No Jake, you can’t compare your 11-year-old mate with one of the greatest ever goalscorers.”

Afterwards, I received the following message from the publicist at Harper Collins, who published Mad For It. It was from Talksport, whom I did an interview with last week.

“I just wanted to say a big thank you for setting up the interview with Andy. Ian Wright was so impressed whilst listening in his car on the way to our studio that he promptly nicked the book from me when he arrived!”

I had mixed feelings. Wright ruined the 1990 FA Cup final for me after coming on as sub and scoring twice for Palace. The game finished 3-3 and I knew I wouldn’t be able to go to the replay because I had a history exam on the afternoon of the match. The emotional scar still hasn’t healed.

Barca start their European campaign on Wednesday against the Polish champions so I’ll go to the Camp Nou to see Guardiola’s new team while preparing for an interview with some lad on Thursday. He’s from Madeira and wears number 7 for a team who play in M16. He’s got a low profile so I’ll need to do a bit of research on him.

Wright hammers home to send 1990 FA Cup final to replay

I fly to Manchester on Friday for the start of the season proper – and two weddings in one day.

The first is a City fan – one of the few Blues from our part of Manchester who went home and away when most of my mates were watching United.

He saw his team at over 80 grounds from Gillingham to Gigg Lane and was always first in the line for away match tickets as he supported City through thin and thinner. Yet something happened on the plane home from defeat to Groclin in Poland a few years ago.

“I just thought, the players are clearly not arsed, why should I be?” he explained. He’s barely been since.

The second wedding is the former Manchester United reserve player Kirk Hilton. When Sir Alex Ferguson sold Danny Higginbotham to Southampton for £2million, he was quoted as saying that he did so because he had a better left-back at Old Trafford – Kirk.

Unfortunately, Kirk’s career has been leathered by injury. He’s had more hernia operations than United have won trophies, but still managed to play for Livingston, Blackpool and Royal Antwerp until last season.

Hilton in FA Youth Cup action for United

I’m most looking forward to seeing our kid play on Saturday for Trafford as they kick off their Unibond League campaign away to Chorley. The last time I was there I was in Sam Allardyce’s car as Bolton train close by the town satirised in Phoenix Nights.

“That pink palace is the biggest Mormon church in Europe,” said Sam, pointing to an indeed sizeable church from the comfort of his extra wide driving seat as we headed down the M61 back to the Reebok.

I won’t mention Allardyce to the Newcastle lads from the True Faith fanzine who helped me out with the Tyne-Wear chapter for Mad For It. They are in Manchester Saturday night so I’ll keep an eye on them before our two sides meet at Old Trafford the following day.

I just hope it’s a better game than the 0-0 opener against Reading last season, but given United’s lack of fire power pre-season, I’m not so sure.

First dates, best sellers and worst nightmares

2008-08-07T16:00:00Z

This job is seldom dull. Here’s some of the communications I’ve had in the last 24 hours.

1) A phone call from a British lad in a Greek prison serving 14 years for allegedly drug running. He’s a Manchester United fan and wants me to send him some posters for his cell. Like I have posters of United players.

2) A call to say that ‘Mad For It’ is now number one in Amazon’s football best-sellers chart. I celebrated by making a brew and turning my office fan up from ‘1’ to ‘2’ to stop me dying in the Spanish heat. I’ve been promoting the book all week, doing interviews with media outlets as diverse as The Jewish Telegraph and TalkSport.

3) News from a friend about her first date with a boy recently. “We went to a bar and both went to the toilet at the same time,” she said. “But he came back ages after me which is unusual for a lad. After finally returning, he apologised and told me that he’d really needed a *** but that there wasn’t any toilet paper. So he used his vest instead.” They’ve not seen each other since.

4) A call to from the editor of a Surf/Style magazine commissioning a 4,000-word essay on the hero that is Eric Cantona. Turns out that the said editor was born in the same Brazilian city as my girlfriend. He wants the piece to have “an element of overwrought grandeur.”

5) A phone call from the former Manchester United and England defender Paul Parker. He’s in Barcelona in a few days and his son wants to visit the Camp Nou.

“Why don’t you take him then?” I asked.

“Because the place still gives me nightmares,” he replied. “I don’t ever want to go there again in my life after that night.”

Parker played against Stoichkov and Romario when Barca battered United 4-0 in November 1994 in front of 114,500. I know where he’s coming from. I don’t think I’ve ever felt as down after a football match as that one.

Parker (2nd left) and United feel Barca's wrath in 1994

6) An email from a journalist who is two days into a three-week stint in Beijing. He said that the humidity and heat is killing him… and he’s not an athlete.

7) A surprise visit – the son of the journalist in Beijing. He’s a student at one of Britain’s best universities and is keen on a girl in Malaga. So he booked a flight from London to Barcelona... which is 1000 kilometres away.

Realising his mistake, he asked to stay the night. There are regular flights between London and Malaga, Spain’s third biggest airport. The visitor stayed and, upon realising that the train took 10 hours, booked another flight to Malaga a day later.

8) A plea from a Manchester La Fianna player for another chance this season. He received two red cards in two games last season and I told him he wouldn’t play for us again. He’s a good player, but I’ve been adamant... but not as adamant as he is persistent, which I respect. We need to sit down and talk.

9) A call to say that a football club who start with ‘Man’ and doesn’t end with ‘ity’ have been watching my 13-year-old brother. I’m not allowed to tell him.

10) A call from a Rangers fan who watches his team home and away. He was so despondent about his team’s fortunes that I felt like passing him on to the Samaritans.

11) A link to Royal Antwerp fans at Bristol City singing “Let’s Go F*cking Mental.”

Antwerp have a link with Manchester United and I’ve been over several times. On each occasion, Paul Bisteaux, the Antwerp secretary, has taken me for several strong Belgian beers in a bar where all the fans drink.

I couldn’t quite see that happening in the Premier League.

A pain from Spain and a ban on book signings

2008-08-04T12:10:00Z

If you don’t ask then you don’t get…

Manchester United officials are not adverse to criticism, so fair play to chief executive David Gill for issuing 14 free tickets to the loyal Reds who carried on from South Africa to support the team at the friendly against Portsmouth in Nigeria a week ago.

I returned from Africa and spent the week writing a piece on the Old Firm, preparing the first United We Stand of the season and dealing with calls from Spanish journalists.

On Friday, I received one from a Marca scribe. He was in Manchester and wondered why United were not being overly helpful with his requests to attend press conferences.

"We'll have none of those sods from Marca attending, ok..."

Ignoring the piece he’d written hammering my city of birth, I told him to expect no favours as Marca is seen as Real Madrid’s puppet publication, a protagonist in the tiresome Cristiano Ronaldo transfer speculation.

I advised him that it wouldn’t be a good idea to go to Sir Alex Ferguson’s Friday conference as the Scot would humiliate him. As he should.

A few hours before Ole Gunnar Solskjaer’s testimonial on Saturday, the Marca writer got another journalist to text me to ask me to help translate the anti-Ronaldo songs.

I replied: “Tell him to f*ck off back to Madrid and speculate about who their next five managers and presidents will be. There will be no anti-Ronaldo songs. Seriously.”

I received the following: “Understood.” And there were no anti-Ronaldo songs.

I’ve got a new book out today about world football rivalries – Mad For It - which is advertised on this site and has been number two on Amazon’s football best seller chart for much of the last week. There will be no book launch and no signings are planned, which doesn’t concern me too much after the humiliation of my first book in 2001.

I wrote the ‘Rough Guide to Manchester United’ with Jim White, now of the Daily Telegraph. The largest book shop in Manchester’s Trafford Centre asked us to do a book signing, saying: “It will be a huge success, Daniel O’Donnell was here last week and hundreds of people came along.”

The publishers were delighted but as Jim was on holiday I had to go it alone. Bored at the prospect of spending four hours alone with people staring at me, I asked my mate Grant to come along.

The reasons were several-fold.

One, he was/is hard and would offer protection against any freaks – like the man who wanted to talk to us about United’s likely formation for the coming season. For an hour.

Two, he was/is good looking and would attract any female buyers. Three, he was/is a close mate. Four, he was skint and made good use of Penguin’s money and five, he was/is one of the biggest United fans about. We’d travelled around the world watching the team together, but considering that he wasn’t an odd ball, his United obsession often became worrying.

Like the time he bought figurines of all the United players – and turned them around to face the wall for a week as punishment for United losing their European home record to Fenerbahce in 1996.

We sold about 40 signed books. I reckon I knew 30 of the buyers. And that 20 of them were my mum’s mates. Shoppers would walk past, stare and say: “Who are they?” Grant would stare back.

With the four hours up, we walked away… then I saw David and Victoria Beckham walking through Selfridges nearby. He would have been useful drumming up interest half an hour earlier.

I did another book signing in 2006 at the same shop. With Frank Stapleton alongside me, 95 people bought the book in an hour. Which is 85 more than turned up for a Abi Titmuss book signing in Manchester on Friday.

I ghosted Paddy Crerand’s autobiography last year and a big Manchester store asked him to do a book signing. Paddy wasn’t up for it and asked me to go with him.

Bestseller: Paddy Crerand

“It’s you they are coming to see Pat,” I replied. “And anyway I’m away.”

He sounded uneasy but went along. Afterwards, I called him.

“Aye it was alright,” he said, but no more, so I asked to speak to his wife, the former 1958 Gorbals beauty queen Noreen.

“He sold 342 and was well chuffed that so many people came to see him,” she said. “There were queues of people. You should have seen it. I was so proud of him.”

At home with Lucas Radebe

2008-07-29T15:30:00Z

“It’s not safe for you to walk to the stadium alone,” agreed the receptionist and a customer in my hotel in Port Elizabeth, a World Cup host city, ahead of the derby between Kaizer Chiefs and Orlando Pirates. “Not safe for a white person.”

As I sat in my hotel room looking over the Indian Ocean contemplating rubbing boot polish on my boat, my 13-year-old brother Sam called.

“I’ve been signed by Stockport County for two years,” he said excitedly. He’s a centre forward, captain of his school team and scored over 50 goals last season. He’ll now train with County and play for their junior sides every weekend – a future Kevin Francis if he were black.

I drove to the stadium in Port Elizabeth, where I was one of very few white faces in a 30,000 crowd. There were crushes, curses and confusion outside the ground. Chiefs won 2-0.

Pirates & Chiefs fight for the right to play Man United again

The next morning, I flew from Port Elizabeth to Johannesburg where I was driven to meet Lucas Radebe, the former Leeds and South Africa captain, by his business manager Glynn Binkin. Radebe has never had an agent.

Lucas was watching his kids at their sports day. They idolised him. After, he took me to his house and encouraged me to look around. There was plenty to see. Not every player has pictures and notes from Nelson Mandela.

If Lucas was a cult hero in Leeds, he’s close to a god with his compatriots. One survey put him second in people South Africans most respect behind Mandela.

FourFourTwo (right) with Lucas Radebe & friends

Despite his wife being unwell in hospital, Lucas spent the afternoon driving me round Soweto, the dense township of four million where he grew up. It was utterly fascinating and he was a great host. I met several white people from Johannesburg who have never been to Soweto as they don’t consider it safe. With Lucas, there wasn’t any danger.

He had a tough upbringing and admitted that he used to steal cars, before his parents sent him away from home because he was getting into too much trouble.

He only returned after signing for the Kaizer Chiefs (and the Leeds connection meant that the band took the name, though they spelt it wrongly as ‘Kaiser’), where a lack of space in his house meant he slept on the floor in the kitchen. Then, at 18, he was shot outside his house. He still doesn’t know why.

Lucas took me to the only road in the world where two Nobel peace prize winners have houses – Mandela and Desmond Tutu. Some local kids rapped for us, we visited Soccer City - the stadium which is being refurbished ahead of staging the 2010 World Cup Final - some informal settlements where there is no electricity and running water, his old house, his brother’s place and the slag heaps from the gold mines where he played as a kid.

Don't worry, it'll be ready in time. They always are

He couldn’t do enough. We went to see his barber, his old school (where a cow was tied up outside waiting to be eaten) and the Orlando Pirates 'stadium before he dropped me back off at my hotel after telling me his stories of life under apartheid and playing against Manchester United. It was a privilege to spend so much time with Lucas Radebe.

Finally, he wound me up about Manchester United, saying that he had once turned down a move to Old Trafford for more money because his heart was at Elland Road. I told him about getting punched by the moody tunnel on the Lowfields Road by Leeds fans before a Leeds-Manchester United game in 1992. He laughed!

Many footballers change opinion with the wind. He was adamant. “I’m Leeds.” End of. Fair play…but his son is a Manchester United fan.

Pirates, punch-ups and interpreting for Tevez

2008-07-23T14:00:00Z

I’d spent a pleasant day interviewing people in Durban, checking the progress of the new World Cup stadium and watching Manchester United train ahead of a friendly match against the Orlando Pirates.

For training, I had media accreditation and was directed into the stadium and down the tunnel onto the pitch with the players. There were about 400 fans in the stand behind.

I felt out of place as the only other people there were Sir Alex Ferguson, chief executive David Gill and a few members of the club staff, more so when some shouted from the stand to ask when the next United We Stand is coming out. The other journalists were soon on the pitch, however, the ones for the dailies getting their 15 minutes with Ferguson in the dug out.

Rooney goes it alone against Orlando Pirates

Paddy Crerand was there too, always a brilliant figure with United fans. He’ll talk to absolutely anyone and their pet about Cristiano Ronaldo’s intentions. He owed me some money and handed over a cheque with his 1950s handwriting on. I told him an hour later than it had bounced and he believed me.

Then he collared me to talk about Real Madrid. He doesn’t like them. He did, but he doesn’t now. Given that arranging a fight between Paddy and President Calderon is out of the question, his anger will have to fester.

After training, I drove away from Durban’s rougher-than-Dewsbury city centre to my hotel in the wealthy northern beach suburbs where you get an awful lot of hotel for £46 a night. That’s when the phone went, with a representative from a large American sportswear company on the line.

“We need a Spanish speaker now to interview Tevez,” he said. “Can you do it?” I could and drove to the heavily guarded players’ hotel to be ushered to a room, where various stylists, photographers, assistants, advisers and advisers’ assistants were fussing around the diminutive Argentinian. He couldn’t communicate with any of them.

“Can you tell him that the glycerine we are spraying on his face will not do him any damage?” asked a stylist as soon as I’d arrived. “But that he must close his eyes.”

“Er, hello Carlos. Nice to see you. This stuff they are spraying on your face will not cause you any damage.”

"Ahhh... my eyes, MY EYES!"

Tevez was fine. He’ll never be invited to the United Nations to deliver a speech on macro economic policy of the emerging economies, but he’s a top-level player, a grafter’s grafter who never stops running.

He was brilliant against Barcelona in the Champions League semi-final at Old Trafford, better still against Chelsea in Moscow. Lionel Messi told me that he was a little bull. That’ll make the two of them.

I told Tevez about the Messi quote and he laughed. Told him too that an Argentinian girl I know used to be a volunteer helping homeless people in his childhood neighbourhood of Fort Apache, Buenos Aires, which is no Belgravia. And wouldn’t want to be.

Interviews cannot be one way. You have to give the player something back. I saw a journalist shrivel in front of Messi in February because he had a list of 10 anodyne questions. Messi wasn’t interested. Human conversations are not one way, so while the focus remains firmly on the subject, they should be engaged. Do that and your 25 minutes with Cantona can turn into over an hour.

Then I did the interview.

Crerand vs Calderon? No contest

Afterwards, I had a drink in the hotel where Sir Alex Ferguson had spent much of the day sunbathing. The United staff were having a quiz on the club’s history.

The following day, I met some of the 50 travelling United fans in a bar outside Durban’s Absa stadium. 14 of them are travelling on to Nigeria to see the team play Portsmouth on Monday. They deserve free match tickets and I’ll make sure that the powers that be at United know about their support.

While they go north, I’m now in Port Elizabeth to see the Kaizer Chiefs against the Orlando Pirates. It’s supposed to be one of the best derbies in Africa, with the winner playing United in Pretoria on Saturday.

Passports, jobsworths and the Kaizer Chiefs

2008-07-21T15:30:00Z

“I’m sorry Sir, you’ll not be boarding the aircraft to Johannesburg.”

“But…”

“I’m sorry.”

This was the culmination of a conversation at midnight on Thursday, shortly after I’d tried to board the Air France 777 to South Africa at Paris Charles De Gaulle.

As I handed in my final boarding card, an airline employee flicked through my passport. He paid particular attention to each visa stamp. Was it because I’d been to Cuba, Israel or Saudi Arabia? No, it was because there wasn’t a free page for my South African visa. There were half pages – and a previous South Africa visa took only half a page, but Mr Jobsworth was adamant and I wasn’t allowed to fly with my passport.

As my head started to spin, I heard: “You’ll have to try and get a new passport and we’ll put you on tomorrow night’s flight.”

“But I’m in Paris? How can I get a new passport in a day?”

“We’re sorry.”

Rooney tussles with Jimmy Tau in Cape Town

I was escorted out of departures to an Air France desk, where a lad overheard my conversation who lived in Manchester. He’d missed his connection to Rio de Janiero and Air France were putting him up for the night in an airport hotel. He was a United fan. With no space in the airport hotels, he said that I could crash in his room. I appreciated the gesture immensely.

First thing on Friday morning, I rang the British Consulate in the French capital.

“We can’t promise anything, but come down,” offered a soothing voice.

I took a train into Paris, thinking about lost flights and interviews. The staff in the Consulate were highly efficient and promised me a brand new 48 page jumbo passport within four hours for €194. I called my mum and praised the Consulate.

“They knock the British for many things,” she said, “but we’re good at things like that.”

Then I rang Carla Bruni to see if she could whip up some eggs on toast and a brew, but she was at Lidl buying cleaning products. So I walked the trendy Arrondissements around the Consulate, the Champs Elysees and St. Germain in the same clothes I’d been wearing a day earlier as my luggage was held in the airport.

The Brits were true to their word with the passport and at 5pm Friday I headed back to the airport hoping to finalise my flight connection to Cape Town, the destination of Manchester United’s first pre-season friendly at 3.30pm on Saturday.

The first Air France official told me it would cost €3,064 as my ticket needed to be upgraded to Business Class. I laughed. The second took an hour, but did it for free. My new flight meant I would arrive 1 hour 10 minutes before kick-off. I boarded the plane, with officials barely glancing at my new passport and not checking any pages.

I rarely sleep on planes, but managed eight hours as we flew south before switching for a connection to Cape Town where a hire car was still waiting. 47 hours after setting off, I arrived two minutes before kick-off. United drew 1-1 against the Kaizer Chiefs.

Goalscorer Chris Eagles congratulated by Ryan Giggs

Later, I was further surprised when a Manchester United director told me that he too had a full passport – but that he’d had no problems boarding the plane.

“I didn’t have any free space so they just stuck a little visa over my Macau stamp,” he said.

I had barely 24 hours in Cape Town, a superb city as I learned in 2000 when first visiting with Quinton Fortune for a magazine feature, before flying to Durban, where I’ve finally been able to unpack my case ahead of United’s game against Orlando Pirates on Tuesday night.

A few of my mates have travelled out to watch the tour, but while they enjoy beaches and beer, I’m holing myself up for two days to write. I’ve got to deliver 4,000 words by next Monday. I’ve already got 8,000 words of notes and interviews, so I need peace to work.

And no planes.

Ronaldinho, Kate Moss and The Stone Roses

2008-07-18T11:22:00Z

I’d just left home for the 12-day trip to South Africa. Literally walked down the street, past Barcelona’s Botafumeiro seafood restaurant, where a day earlier Adriano Galliani, Silvio Berlusconi’s right-hand man at Milan, had concluded the deal to take Ronaldinho to Italy with Barça’s under fire President Joan Laporta and the buck-toothed Brazilian himself.

Manchester City’s influence in European football has been so limited for over three decades that when Continental fans talk about ‘Manchester’ they mean United, but City’s bid for Ronaldinho was more substantial than Milan’s and the Italians had to raise their offer by €5m to €21m.

I’ve interviewed Ronaldinho over a dozen times and always got on well with him so I’m sad to see him go. He was unquestionably worthy of the many individual honours bestowed upon him, but Ronnie and the side he played for are a shadow of their 2006 world beating best. And we shouldn’t be surprised he’s left given Barça’s history of losing their best players from Maradona to Ronaldo.

Ronnie ties up Milan move, accompanied by his minders

Kate Moss spent a lot of time in Barcelona when things came on top for her in Britain a few years ago and she used to lunch daily in Botafumeiro. I never did catch up with the Croydon waif to discuss the uneasy juxtaposition of stands at Selhurst Park, but I did eat there once.

Yet with prawns costing about £9 each (cue original ‘prawn sandwich’ comments from weapons who’ve got no idea about Manchester United’s match-going culture) and that being before the pound became weaker than Liverpool’s title challenges in the last 18 years, I’ve swerved it since.

The text came a minute after I’d walked past the fabled restaurant. “Its Mani mate,” it said. “Im in barca and thought you might want the scoop of the w3k. Im playing 4 roses tunes with him for the 1st time in yonks. Could be a good interview opportunity geeza. Hope u r well. X. Mani.”

My acquaintance with popular music stars is limited, though I did once sit behind Bonnie Langford on a flight back from the Faroe Islands. And play for Paul Heaton’s football team in December. But the Mani, of Stones Roses and Primal Scream fame, is a United fan and I’ve known him for years. And the ‘him’ in the text is Ian Brown. The pair are playing in Barcelona this weekend. “I would love to,” I replied. “But I’m on the way to the airport to see United in South Africa.”

“Have a good one. Champions of Europe,” he replied. So I’ll miss out on the interview, but any Stone Roses fans reading may be interested.

When I started this blog, the editor said: “If you have an hour in an airport then I want you to write a blog.” Six months on and this is my first blog written in an airport, terminal 2E of Charles De Gaulle (the Frenchman who once played a support striker role in Billy the Fish in Viz).

My flight to Johannesburg leaves in 30 minutes and from there I'll take another to Cape Town. I’ll go straight from the airport to Manchester United’s first training session, watch Louis Saha get injured if he’s made the trip, pick up my accreditation, meet the photographer and then finally go to the hotel, 25 hours after walking past Botafumeiro…

"Crap, which one's going to South Africa..."

Interviewing Eric and going solo in South Africa

2008-07-16T12:32:00Z

I’ve just got back from Marseille after interviewing Eric Cantona ahead of the Beach Soccer World Cup, which starts in Eric’s hometown this week.

Without flights, I drove the 550 kilometres from Barcelona. It took five hours and nine pay tolls on a motorway via Girona, Perpignon, Beziers, Montpellier and Nimes.

Cantona’s grandmother made the same journey around the Mediterranean coast when the family was exiled after the Spanish Civil War. It took five days.

Without a confirmed time for the interview I met the photographer, a match-going Chester fan who had flown in from London. We sat in the Old Port, a beautiful, serene spot which looked very different when England fans fought with the police, local youths and the chairs outside McDonald’s during the 1998 World Cup finals.

Marseille's Old Port: Look at all them boats

It was Bastille Day, the French national holiday, and the centre of the city was closed to traffic. It would have been good to have a proper look around, but I had to interview two former Old Firm players, Mark Hateley of Rangers and Darren Jackson of Celtic for a forthcoming piece on the Old Firm.

I was waiting on a phone call from the pair so settled into a quiet café. The call came… as the owner decided to try out his new speakers for the impending Bastille party. The interview was impossible to record but shorthand, which I hardly ever use now, came in useful. Both men were articulate and interesting.

And then it was Cantona, at least after an overnight delay it was. Despite defending him staunchly after his indiscretion at Selhurst Park, I’d never properly interviewed him. I don’t get nervous interviewing, but Eric was a hero and there’s the old saying about never meeting your heroes because you’ll be disappointed. So I asked Justyn Barnes, an editor who spent a day with him a few years ago for some pointers.

Eric gets stuck in at Selhurst Park

“Eric was an absolute gentleman when we did the photo shoot with him for the United Opus and he gave Jim White a brilliant interview too, “ said Justyn. “He’s the only footballer who comes close to Maradona for charisma.

“He'll probably weigh you up a bit to start with because I think he's a bit suspicious by nature, but he seems to like people who are straight with him so I'm sure you'll do fine. I don't think you can control too much what he talks about - and you probably don't want to. If he goes off-piste from your line of questioning, I reckon you just roll with it and see where the conversation leads you and I'm sure you'll get loads of mad/brilliant quotes.

He takes himself and his work seriously (I remember him sitting me down before the Opus shoot and showing me pictures in a pile of books which he was using as inspiration, then he was totally in charge, directing the whole photo shoot for the next 12 hours. He's definitely a bit of a control freak), but I think he has a sense of humour about himself and is quite down to earth in other ways.”

Justyn was bang on the money. We were initially promised 25 minutes with Eric, which isn’t ideal for an in-depth interview. We ended up having an hour more than that, with him on fine form. Some of his lines were sublime; others will doubtless make headlines when the interview appears in FourFourTwo.

Cantona sizes up FourFourTwo's correspondent

He spoke about beach soccer, Leeds, Sheffield Wednesday, Sartre, Camus, Morrissey, Beckham, Ronaldo, Ken Loach, acting, motivation, British beer, love, Barcelona, Sir Alex Ferguson and Manchester United. And FC United fans will have a collective orgasm when they hear his thoughts. Eric also won over the photographer. “I was indifferent to him before I met him,” he texted earlier. “But he made all the waiting and getting home to my family at midnight worth it.”

I’ve got two days in Barcelona before I fly to South Africa for Man United’s tour. I’m meeting lots of people over there including a different (and quite superb) photographer who will fly in from Nairobi. She’s worked in Bosnia, Kosovo, Romania and all over Africa… but I’ll basically be travelling alone.

After much research, I’ve decided to hire a car in the four cities I’ll visit, but wanted a bit more information on safety after reading about car-jackings and crime in South Africa, especially Johannesburg. One contact told me that she never drives at night because she fears for her safety. Another laughed at my question, saying: “There are bigger dangers from lions, elephants and locals practising witchcraft on unsuspecting English visitors in hire cars.”

It’s time to find out for myself.

King Eric, pirates and penalties

2008-07-09T14:29:00Z

The Cantona interview was confirmed yesterday, so I’m to see him in Marseille “between 1400 Monday and 1400 Tuesday.”

I’m working out how to get to France’s second biggest city. The only direct flight between Barcelona (where Eric lived for three years after leaving Man United) and Marseille (where he lives most of the time now), the Mediterranean’s two biggest ports, costs £904 return. Ridiculous.

The train takes eight hours, a boat even longer, but Ian Hawkey, the Sunday Times European Football correspondent who lives in Barcelona, reckons I can drive it in five. The Beach Soccer World Cup starts in Marseille next week and Eric is apparently integral to the French setup, though not as a player.

Cantona: Integral to French beach soccer, not as a player...

I’ll be in France twice next week, as my flight to South Africa for Man United’s pre-season tour and the Orlando Pirates vs Kaiser Chiefs game is via Paris… it feels like the season has started again.

For my brother Joz, who plays semi-professionally, pre-season training has started at a new club, Trafford, who had 51 players at their first session. There are countless footballers who make the football equivalent of a New Year’s resolution to get themselves in shape and join a team each summer.

Joz is 31 and a diet of cigarettes and alcohol mean he’s unlikely to play as long as Lord Edward of Sheringham.

He’s returning to Trafford, who are based in Urmston, West Manchester, where we grew up. It’s the club where he started out before a rise that led him to scoring in the penalty shootout for Altrincham at Nuneaton Borough in the 2005 Conference North play-offs.

I was the giddy older brother who followed his progress closely, who got into arguments with a freak wearing a puffa jacket who slated him at Stalybridge - top scorer Joz had failed to find the net in each of the first three minutes - who jumped up and down on a bus in Latvia after receiving a text to say he’d scored the winner away for minnows Ashton at promotion favourites Southport.

I was the one who stood alone away at Barrow on a Tuesday night after turning down a job to cover Barcelona at Celtic Park. Barca were brilliant. Barrow were not. Their 20 strong hooligan firm sized me up, but ignored me when Joz scored the equaliser in a heavy downpour and I ran down the terraces to celebrate with him.

I was in Spain for the Nuneaton game in 2005. Altrincham were not expected to reach the play-offs and I had a date. It didn’t go well after I peeled myself away from a meal to listen to BBC Radio Warwickshire on the internet, where I heard the words.

“The sub is Mitten. He looks a handful.” The concerned co-commenter agreed. My pride surged and I shouted: “That’s my brother.” At a computer screen. Never did see the girl again, but 20 minutes later, I heard: “And Mitten steps up to take the penalty. 2,500 Nuneaton fans hold their breath. Hits it hard and low. Disaster for Borough. It’s in!”

Penalty hero: Joz Mitten

Joz had no excuse for missing penalties. Our great Uncle Charlie held the record for the most consecutive penalties scored at Manchester United until Eric Cantona came on the scene. He once scored three at Aston Villa away in 1950, and told the goalkeeper where he was going to place each one.

Charlie always said that you should never miss from 12 yards. I’ll ask Eric for his thoughts “between 1400 Monday and 1400 Tuesday”. And if you’ve got a question for Cantona, please leave your questions in the FourFourTwo forums.

Planes, trains, King Eric and Liz Hurley

2008-07-03T17:28:00Z

I travel to South Africa in two weeks for Manchester United’s pre-season tour. I’m going to be covering the trip for the magazine of a newspaper I’ve never worked for before. They have given me a substantial word count to do a large feature and are meticulous about style and types of photography. I like their attention to detail.

In contrast, the budgets involved with the United We Stand fanzine I run are miniscule. Think beer money. There’s no such thing as expenses, apart from avoiding them. One lad – who we will call Steven Lewis Black – once jibbed the train to London for an interview with Teddy Sheringham, and then proudly rang to say that he had saved the fanzine £52.

He also said that Teddy Sheringham was not happy with some of the content of United We Stand and he’d questioned why I hadn’t turned up to do the interview myself, inferring that I’d bottled it. Not so.

'Too scared to meet me face-to-face Mitten?'

Along with the venerable football writer Simon Kuper, I was in Dublin, having been invited by the debating society of Trinity College to discuss commercialism in football. I was told that Howard Wilkinson would be there too, but he never did show. I wrote my speech on a napkin on the flight over and let rip with my words after being shown to my accommodation, which was posher than the accent of Justin Webb, the BBC North America editor. I bet he didn’t grow up on the mean streets of Tottenham.

I’d not done a debating chamber before and was stunned when one of the students butted in a minute into my heartfelt speech with a “point of observation.” I observed his point, then ignored him.

When I got home, there was a copy of Sheringham’s autobiography waiting for me, with the following note inside the front cover.

“To Andy. Go easy on the lads, eh? Best Wishes, Teddy.”

Eight months later Sheringham scored a goal in the Camp Nou. We went very, very easy on his Lordship of Sheringham from then on – but a year before that goal sections of United’s fan-base were not over-enamoured with Sheringham.

Given that he was bought to fill King Eric’s Nike’s, it wasn’t really Sheringham’s fault. I’m interviewing Eric before South Africa week in Marseille. When. He. Gets. Round. To. Confirming. It. But this blog isn’t about either of the former United strikers.

The newspaper which is sending me to South Africa kindly offered to book all my travel. They even have a travel department. Instead, I said I’d do it myself. That has meant searching for and sourcing nine flights, four hire cars and four hotels. It’s taken over a day, time I could have spent writing or investigating or scouting new players for Manchester La Fianna.

I’ve spent even more time researching my destinations and learning that it’s not a good idea to stroll around downtown Johannesburg alone, nor stop at traffic lights in a township while driving an open top Bentley, smoking a Cuban cigar and singing anti ANC songs in Afrikaans. Dressed like Justin Webb. Seriously though, the former South African captain Lucas Radebe has offered to take me round Soweto, so that should be more interesting than the soap opera at Manchester City.

But I don’t regret sorting out my own travel. That’s because I’m an odd ball. A freak who likes searching internet sites for the best prices and flight times. A weirdo who’d rather stand in Milano Centrale and look at the architecture (and the trains) than sit on a deserted beach with Elizabeth Hurley massaging my back.

Hurley: Less appealing than a Milan train station

I’m not a fully-fledged trainspotter yet – and I do have a bird – but I actively glance at plane and train magazines in airport newsagents. I’ve never bought one, honestly, (well there was the once), but I could draw a picture of Norwich Thorpe or Richard Rogers’ new airport terminal in Madrid, which could soon have the Luis Aragones Stadium close by for company if many in Spain get their way. Aragones may be off his head, but he’s got nothing on Pepe Reina, who led these tributes with the Spain players on the flight home from Vienna.

At least the stadium in Madrid has been built, unlike some I’m to check on in South Africa.

Now I’m meandering like the Mersey as it passes the southern fringes of the European Capital of Trophies for 2008 (Manchester), so that’s your lot for today.

Where else could you read about Africa, Dublin, the BBC, planes and jibbing trains, Cantona and Elizabeth Hurley in less than 750 words?

Jordi Cruyff and the Sexy Newsreader World Cup

2008-06-27T15:00:00Z

I spoke to Jordi Cruyff yesterday, a star of the 1996 European Championships. His performances for Holland - mainly a scooped goal against Switzerland - and a low transfer fee as he was effectively pushed out of Barcelona, were enough to earn him a move to Manchester United, although things could have worked out better for a player Ryan Giggs described as the best he’s ever seen technically. On the training ground.

Jordi joined United from his hometown club of Barcelona. I’ve long since forgiven him for setting up Hristo Stoichkov for Barca’s first goal in their 4-0 rout of United in November 1994 and we keep in touch. He spent two years injured between 2004-06 and we’d meet for a coffee as his private hospital was near my house.

Like his old man, Jordi is outspoken, bright, articulate and interesting. He once told me: “I’m like a bear. I sleep in the winter and I’m wide awake and hungry in the summer - ready to play. I always got injured in November. Some said I wasn’t strong enough to play in the Premiership. Rubbish. My strong point was not playing with my back to the goal, but dribbling towards goal.”

Jordi in his Euro 96 pomp

He’s just finished a two-year contract playing in the Ukrainian first division for Metalurh Donetsk and he’s looking for a Mediterranean club to play out the final year of his career.

I was not in any way trying to coax him into playing for one such club, Manchester La Fianna. No, honestly. The sight of him playing for us would finish off some of the less enlightened minds in our league whose noses were put seriously out of joint when a newspaper did a big, soft, feature on us (and not them?) ahead of the Barcelona vs Man United game. They’d have a seizure if Jordi did sign and his dad came to watch him play.

Jordi was laughing about how all the media have started to highlight Andrei Arshavin, when he’s known about his talents for five years. He was convinced that Real Madrid had already done a deal with Ronaldo and are now trying to drive the transfer fee down “like they always do” by saying that Ronaldo wants to leave. “United should hold out for €100 million,” Cruyff added.

He considers himself Catalan, Spanish and Dutch and wanted Spain to beat Russia. Which they did, displaying great confidence. Arshavin had an off day, as did the cameraman whose job it is to pick out pretty girls in the crowd.

Maybe someone’s had a word, because until last night every game has been accompanied by gratuitous shots of gorgeous girls. Last night we had Princess Leitizia of Spain. The Princess is lovely in the same way that Natasha Kaplinsky is nice. Or Fiona Bruce. Or that French anchor Melissa Theuriau, the Zidane of newsreaders.

Theuriau: Better looking than Huw Edwards. Probably...

Before becoming a princess Leitizia actually read the news in Spain so you’d always trust her. It would be good to go out with a newsreader. They are bright, pretty and there would be no problem introducing them to your friends and family. A bit high maintenance maybe and they would probably be appalled seeing your mates singing anti-Liverpool songs, but you could live with that.

I’ve seen some of the Brazilian ones and it’s actually impossible to concentrate on the news. Though that’s partly because I can’t speak Portuguese. My mind is wandering… anyone want to help me organise a newsreader World Cup?

Given that no team from the British Isles would reach the finals, we could start with a home nations (plus Ireland to include Sharon Ní Bheoláin). I can visualise it now: Kirsty Young (Scotland) vs Katie Derham (England); Sharon Ní Bheoláin (Ireland) vs Sara Edwards (Wales). We could stage it at somewhere central like the Pirelli Stadium in Burton or, or my house.

(10 minutes later)

Where was I?

Spain march on: with or without Catalan support

2008-06-23T15:50:00Z

It’s a strange one watching Spain’s Euro 2008 games in Catalonia, because Catalans are divided on the fortunes of the national side.

Mariano, one of the Manchester La Fianna players, is a Catalan who watches Spain. He was in Austria for one of their group games last week, but he estimates that while 70% of his Catalan mates want Spain to win, 30% of them would rather Louis Aragones' side lost – despite several Barcelona players being in the side.

A lot of friends are in Austria and Switzerland – fans from Manchester who have gone for a bit of a beano and who will drift without a fixed itinerary and doubtless get where water wouldn’t – which in this tournament is almost nowhere.

Journalist friends who are there for work and who call at midnight from a bar to say a) what a great time they are having without the England fans throwing plastic chairs at each other or b) ask obscure trivia questions that I can’t answer in the hope of settling a drunken argument.

I’ve stayed at home. I need to recharge the batteries and read through all the proofs and libel reports of my next book, which comes out on August 4. After the sorties with Man United and for the book, I’ve done enough travelling this year.

Besides, in less than a month’s time next season starts with a trip to South Africa to see United. That’s after a quick hop to Marseille to see King Eric, who has been in Manchester filming for much of the last month.

Spain’s King was in the stands in Vienna on Sunday night with his wife Sophia, while back in Barcelona almost every bar - and there are 700 in my ultra Catalan neighbourhood alone - advertised ‘Espana v Italia’. I’d do that little squiggle over the ‘n’, but it always comes out wrong.

I once had a full-page article printed in The Independent, which frequently mentioned a club called ‘Baria’. That was The Indy’s system not picking up the squiggle (a cedilla to those who need to know these things) under the ‘c’ of Barca.

Around 45% of Catalans watched Spain’s group games, the lowest of any region in Spain, with 56% of people watching in Madrid. Much of that 45% will be immigrants who moved to Catalonia from other regions, but the bars are still full for the matches.

When Barca play away, you can hear the shouts of fans in my neighbourhood as they celebrate a goal they have seen on television. Population density is much higher than in Britain as people live on narrow streets in apartments, so it can be quite a racket.

If it’s a big result, the streets are soon filled with cars beeping their horns to the accompaniment of fireworks. It didn’t reach the same level on Sunday, but I heard cheers and saw fireworks when Spain went through. They were louder because it was a Catalan, Cesc Fabregas, who scored Spain’s final penalty.

With Xavi, Iniesta and Puyol in the starting line up, there are more Barca than Madrid players. Madrid, for those who don’t know, are a team from the Spanish capital who were outplayed by Roma in the last 16 of the European Cup. Roma were then outplayed by Manchester United, the champions of England, who then beat Barcelona and Chelsea to be crowned Champions of Europe. Just in case anyone needs reminding of Madrid’s current status in European football.

People in my neighbourhood have less time for Madrid than Sir Alex Ferguson - the finest football manager in the world - but there appeared to be relief and surprise that Spain managed to get beyond a quarter-final, as if the country’s famous inferiority complex had been (temporarily) laid to rest.

Spain play Russia in Thursday’s semi-final, but I’ve got a slight problem. I bought a smart Russia football t-shirt in Moscow when I was there for the Champions League final – which Madrid came nowhere near reaching. They were probably too busy working out how to sack their 30th manager in three years. But if I wear the shirt this week then people will think I’m an ultra nationalist Catalan who hates Spain so much that I support the opposition.

Or a Russian.

The caring side of Fergie

2008-06-17T11:51:00Z

Two days before Sir Alex Ferguson went on his recent holiday, he drove to a suburb in Bury to see his long time friend, the former Manchester United kitman Norman Davies.

Norman was seriously ill after a long battle with cancer, but Ferguson cheered him up, just as he had done on his frequent visits, playing football in his garden with Norman’s grandchildren and giving each £20 as a treat. Because of the convoluted makeup of families in modern Britain, one of those grandchildren is my little brother. Ferguson and wife Cathy never forget a birthday or Christmas present for him.

Norman passed away a couple of days later. Last Tuesday, Ferguson broke off his holiday in France to attend the funeral in Flixton, west Manchester. He drove straight to a semi-detached house in an area full of United fans, where he picked up Norman’s wife Hilary and took her to St Michael’s Church, overlooking the Mersey valley. It’s a beautiful spot on the edge of Greater Manchester’s urban sprawl where Busby Babes captain Roger Byrne’s funeral service took place 50 years ago.

At Norman's funeral, Ferguson spoke of the value of loyalty, trust, the nature of friendship and of the great loss of a dear friend. Davies, a former taxi driver with Crystal Cabs from Stretford, was given a job by then United manager Tommy Docherty in 1973 and served as kitman until his retirement in 1996. His retirement was marked by a large black tie dinner at the Midland Hotel, where Eric Cantona turned up without a black tie. The players chipped in and bought him a car.

Cantona wasn’t at his funeral last Tuesday, but Denis Law was. And Paddy Crerand, Mark Hughes, Brian Kidd, Ray Wilkins, Ron Atkinson, Gary Pallister, Sammy McIlroy, Phil Neville, Paul Scholes, Frank Stapleton, Arthur Albiston, Tony Coton, Alex Stepney, Carlos Sartori, Martin Buchan and Martin Edwards among many others.

David and Victoria Beckham sent a beautiful bunch of flowers, with David writing that he’ll never forget Norman because he gave him the best boots. The respect was genuine - Davies was invited to the Beckhams’ wedding in 1999.

After the funeral, the mourners went to Old Trafford, where Manchester United laid on food and drink in a function room overlooking the pitch. United had suggested Manchester Cathedral for the funeral, but Norman – who was sent to escort Eric Cantona to the dressing room following his ‘Kung Fu’ kick at Selhurst Park in 1995 - wasn’t one for the fuss of “town.”

There are many sides to Manchester United. And people don’t always get to read about the good ones. Nor do they get to read about people like Davies, characters at the hub of every football club who see much and say little out of loyalty. Faces that appear on television screens in front of millions as they sit next to the biggest names, yet faces which remain relatively anonymous. RIP.

Rooney can play but not Pique... not with that hair

2008-06-05T06:00:00Z

After finishing fourth in the league in Barcelona, Manchester La Fianna play our final game of the season on Saturday.

Tomorrow, we set sail for a friendly against the U19s of third division SD Eivissa at their 6,000 capacity stadium in the glorious Ibiza Town – the antithesis of the dire San Antonio.

We’ll take a strong side but, after last year’s post-season game in Mallorca, my expectations of us playing well are low. Then, the team arrived 24 hours before the game and went straight on the beer. Until 5am. The pre-match warm up consisted of watching players scoff bananas and down as much water as possible.

Playing on a lush grass pitch overlooking the sea, we went 1-0 up in the second minute and thought it would be a stroll. Until we shipped six goals as the former Barca and current Falkirk midfielder Arnau Riera ran the show. He hails from Mallorca and was playing for his dad’s team.

A consummate professional, he’d already started a solo pre-season routine, while our captain was vomiting by the side of the pitch because of excessive alcohol consumption. We got battered, until we persuaded Arnau to swap sides for the second half.

The timing of the match is good as Ibiza’s clubs throw their opening parties this weekend. I wrote a piece on S.D. Eivissa - the white island’s main team last year - when their sporting director, an Andorran international, had copies of FourFourTwo stacked in a neat pile on his desk. And I was happy to accept an invitation to play a friendly – though thankfully not against their first team.

Ibiza may attract millionaire football stars from Ronaldinho to Raul, but most come to party rather than play. The Balearic island isn’t a football hotbed, but S.D. Eivissa were promoted to Spain’s regional third division last year.

Part of the reason for their success is tourism. It ensures that Ibiza’s economy is strong and businesses which include the biggest discos, are always keen to curry favour with the local authorities. A way of doing this is to support the island’s football teams.

Pacha, one of the biggest club brands in the world - used to be Eivissa’s main sponsor and still have a prominent advertisement at the stadium. Amnesia is a sponsor too. Discos support other smaller Ibercino clubs: Space sponsors San Antonio, DC-10 backs San Jordi while Amnesia’s money also assists San Rafael.

It is S.D. Eivissa who are making the headlines though, after they won their first Balearic league title - in Spain’s fourth tier - in 15 years with crowds as high as 3,000 last year.

Eivissa fans finally have something to shout about

“People associate Ibiza with discos, not football,” Luis Elcacho, the affable coach of S.D. Eivissa told me. “Hopefully that will change after what’s been happening.”

Gerard Pique, the former Manchester United defender and new Barcelona signing, found out that we were going to Ibiza and said: “I’m in Ibiza and Wayne Rooney will be there for his stag-do this weekend. Rio is coming too. I’ll come along to your game, but I won’t be allowed to play in case I get injured.”

He’s a good lad, but the real reason he won’t play is because we’d never let anyone with a Marge Simpson/Kim Jong-II style bouffant wear the sacred shirt of Manchester La Fianna.

We’d break our ‘no-Scouse’ rule to give Rooney a run out, mind. The white Pele would be well suited to a game in the white island.

No such thing as a football free weekend

2008-05-27T13:48:00Z

It’s an addiction.

A few months ago my girlfriend saw in my diary that there was no football planned for last weekend. No Manchester United, Manchester La Fianna, Barca or trip to write about a derby game. So she booked a cheap flight to Italy for a romantic weekend.

The Ryanair flight cost £20 each way. Add on extra fees for tax, insurance, boarding cards, payment for using a credit card (do they expect you to pay with mung beans?), a tax for being English, another one as my name begins with ‘a’, a further supplementary one for taking a toothbrush, a fuel surcharge and a final penalty as I wasn’t nice to that dog in Moscow last week and the total cost came to £900. Each way.

After the hysteria of Moscow, it was to be a football free weekend. I must admit that I did look at the Italian fixtures to see if Fiorentina were at home, but Serie A finished a week earlier so I knew I wouldn’t have to broach that one.

I prepared myself for no football. Nothing. No internet to look at the result of the play-offs. No newspapers to read about that glorious, glorious night in Moscow. No watching, training or playing.

We arrived in Pisa on Friday night. That’s when I started to buckle. I heard the hotel receptionist talking about the big game on Sunday featuring second division Pisa. I felt an urge to go, but quickly suppressed it.

The next morning I saw Pisa’s stadium lurking behind the leaning tower in a postcard. How could I not see it when I was only five minutes walk away? 10 minutes later I was standing in the main stand imagining where Paul Elliott, Diego Simeone, Dunga, Wim Kieft, Christian Vieri and Marco Tardelli once played. My girlfriend waited in the car.

The easy to say Arena Garibaldi-Stadio Romeo Anconetani, Pisa

We drove an hour to Florence, a city famed for its beauty. But Fiorentina interests me more than any cathedral and I secretly programmed the SatNav to take us back to the hotel via the Stadio Artemio Franchi, with its clean Nervi designed spiral staircases and once groundbreaking concrete stands. Unfortunately, my girlfriend couldn’t see the attraction, despite being an architect.

I watched Manchester United there in 1999 a few months after the treble, but an excellent Viola made United look like kids with Rui Costa and Gabriel Batistuta dominating.

Sunday meant Siena. I was as determined not to see any more stadiums as Viz magazine’s alcoholic cartoon character ‘8 Ace’ is to stay off the beer. A map of the tiny Tuscan city was all it took to undo my resolve – they are in Serie A and their 15,700 stadium (another Artemio Franchi – the Siena born former Fiorentina president who was also UEFA supremo between 1972-83), lies within the walled city in a lush valley set against a backdrop of grand churches.

Just four teams beat AC Siena there this season. It was within walking distance. I was soon climbing up the back of the main stand with a camera.

Siena's Stadio Artemio Franchi. Girlfriend in car

We flew back from Pisa airport. Another quick look of the map revealed that Livorno was only 10 miles away, the port city being the home of the Serie A side famous for local hero Cristiano Lucarrelli; the striker who constantly shunned better offers to join bigger clubs until last season.

They went down without him. Livorno are famous too for their left wing connections as graffiti about Che Guevara outside another ageing Tuscan stadium testified.

Trouble at Italian stadiums means incongruous metal gates dominate the streets around the stadiums. It’s more 1980s’ west Belfast than Tuscany in 2008. They cage fans, which is probably where my girlfriend would have liked to have me detained so I could go cold turkey.

Mancs emerge as top dogs in Moscow

2008-05-23T20:00:00Z

It’s 3.25am on Thursday morning and I’m stood alone in the massive square outside Moscow’s garish, scruffy Belorusskaya train station.

I’ve just exited the superb metro system, which the authorities kept open until 4am for the benefit of the travelling United and Chelsea fans. Security has been tight but effective - I’ve not seen one incident of trouble during three days in the Russian capital.

It’s raining heavily, I’ve got no coat and I’m exhausted. Two hours ago, I witnessed my team lift a third European Cup. I’ve never been so nervous watching a game. Never. The match had everything and the experience was life affirming. But now I just want my bed.

Mentally, I’m drained. How can watching a game of football take so much?

Physically, I’ve gone. The beer, fast food and lack of sleep haven’t helped, nor has playing in an 11-a-side match for Manchester United fans against Spartak Moscow equivalents at their training ground stadium five hours before the final.

Andrei Kanchelskis, the Russian media and 400 Spartak fans watched us go down 3-1. Not a bad result since we’d never played together, and not bad for supposedly dodgy Anglo-Russian relations either. The hospitality from our hosts was first class.

Man United in Moscow: Good times had by all

I’m due to fly in five hours and need some sleep if I’m going to carry on living, even if it’s for two hours. Raffish mates made of sterner stuff have gone to the players’ after match party. They’d get where water wouldn’t.

I’ve just said goodbye to two Doncaster Reds, a dad and lad who will sleep rough in the station before catching a 20-hour train back to Berlin and a flight to England. They only arrived on the morning of the match after a train from Warsaw.

I’m now alone but only five minutes from my hotel, virtually the last leg of a problem free trip. But my passage is blocked – by a dog.

Moscow’s authorities estimate that 30,000 strays populate the city and that many of them congregate around metro stations. A local quoted in The Guardian said: "Some of them even go up and down the escalators."

This mutt is snarling at me. Maybe it’s a Scouse dog and the “Scouse Free Zone” flag in the Chelsea end of the Luzhniki Stadium was wrong. If I move, it growls. It’s as if my bag is full of aniseed and not a dirty football kit and final memorablia. Like a Mastercard pen.

The beast looks more like a cross between a wolf and hyena and I’m flummoxed as what to do. I try to edge away, but the hound has none of it and barks so loud that workmen 100 metres away look over. I can’t speak Russian, so I can hardly shout for help.

With my brain ceasing to function, I consider improbable solutions. Like calling Ji Sung Park and getting him to come and eat the mongrel. But Park is probably doing an early morning marathon as his team-mates celebrate by singing - seriously - French house music. And I don’t have his number.

Or by booting it harder than Anderson hit his penalty. But the *** would end up in Serbia if I did that. And I’d end up in a Siberian salt mine as punishment.

So I wait and shuffle nervously, like Ronaldo before he takes a penalty. And like Cristiano “I stay” Ronaldo, I’m eventually saved by someone else, a doleful looking local whom the whelp finds more interesting.

It’s a dog eat dog world. Just ask John Terry.

No love for Laporta as Barca go from bad to worse

2008-05-17T16:15:00Z

I’ve just got back from the Russian consulate. I was half expecting to be asked to perform a traditional Cossack dance to a panel, but the reality was a mute official who didn’t make eye contact slipping my passport under a glass screen.

I met a Barca fan there who has two tickets for the final which he applied for before his team lost to the champions of England in the semi. He’s intending to spend three days in Moscow and sell his match tickets for a £1000 each. His face dropped lower than Barca’s morale when I told him that tickets are not hard to come by.

But before I fly to Moscow, it’s the final weekend of league fixtures in Spain. For Barca fans, it can’t be more eventful than last Sunday when in-form Mallorca and their captain Juan Arango - the only decent footballer to ever come out of Venezuela - came to the Camp Nou.

I arrived an hour before kick-off to see several elderly fans standing outside the main entrance with placards and a loudhailer. One freak who looked like he had absolutely nothing else in his life shouted that the president Joan Laporta should resign and be replaced by Sandro Rossell, Laporta’s former side kick who many expect to run for club president at the next elections.

Barca's elderly protesters

Inside the stadium, a crowd of 39,000 – by some distance the lowest of the season – chanted: “Barca Si, Laporta No.” Laporta sat in his usual seat at the front of the second tier, his expression largely unchanged by the theatrically staged demonstration.

Given it was almost a week since their last one, the locals were in mood for a protest. One unfurled a ‘Madrid Loves Laporta’ banner and plenty of others had similar calling for Barca’s president of five years to do the decent thing and go. Behind one goal, the diehard Almogavers - but not diehard enough to travel to away games - even turned their flags upside down as a mark of disrespect.

Other fans wore shirts emblazoned with the slogan 'Frank Si, Laporta No.' In many eyes Rijkaard has been made a scapegoat for the club’s alarming drop in form. Barca have not won a game since 1987.

Rijkaard, in his penultimate game as coach before Catalan demi-god Joseph Guardiola replaces him, was applauded every time he left the dug out. He will have seen the ‘Frank Gracies Per Tot’ banner (Frank, thanks for everything) in Catalan. And the glorious ‘Rijkaard. You’ll never smoke alone’ in English.

39,000 into 98,000 = a lot of empty seats

So why is he going? United didn’t sack Ferguson when the team finished third and Arsenal won’t dispense with Wenger’s services. Why do the Spanish look for quick fixes and have an obsession with “cycles” and “projects?”

Why is there always the unsettling force of a potential president posturing in the background offering a panacea for every problem and promising to deliver Cristiano Ronaldo? And while we’re on that one, don’t they understand that Cristiano is very happy at Old Trafford playing for a better team with his mates? That he values his stable relationship with Sir Alex Ferguson, rather than playing for a club who sack their manager every time the wind blows?

Back at the Camp Nou, Barca’s players were given similar treatment to Laporta. They entered the field to thousands of black flags and hankies. The team were booed, as were the players individually as their names were announced - even Messi, the one Barca player who couldn’t be faulted for effort in the last tortuous month for Barca.

Deco and Eto’o were singled out for particular criticism and called cowards, the perception being that they had deliberately been booked so as to miss Barca’s 4-1 recent defeat at Real Madrid. Deco looks like he sucks a dummy, so it was little surprise when he spat it out at half time, fed up with the cries of derision. Barcelona will listen to offers for both players.

Barca actually played well and led 2-0 before Messi was substituted. That’s when it all started to fall apart as Mallorca scored three times, the final a last minute winner from Daniel Guiza, La Liga’s top scorer.

That left Barca in third, 18 points behind Real Madrid and 10 behind Villarreal. It should be the Barca players who are forced to do a Russian dance in penance, as they won’t be travelling to Moscow.

Vexed by visas on long march to Moscow

2008-05-13T10:44:00Z

I’ve spent a lot of time sorting out my trip to Moscow for the European Cup final on May 21.

By booking early, I found £395 direct flights with Aeroflot from Barcelona, leaving two days before the game and returning a day later. I’m told that Aeroflot have improved since I last flew with them to Volgograd in 1995 on what seemed like a giant drainpipe with seats in it. And given that the cost of a day trip from Manchester is around £700, I was happy with the price.

The next problem was a match ticket. As I’ve been fortunate to see every United away game in Europe this season, UEFA issued my accreditation without any problems. I’d rather be in the United end, but not with the video camera and laptop essential for my work.

A giant drainpipe with seats in it... the Aeroflot airbus A310

I had two more problems to fix – hotels and a visa. The cheapest hotel I could find was £273 a night. That was the morning after the United – Barca second leg, so who has booked all 35,000 hotel rooms in Moscow, if they have been booked at all and not held back by greedy hoteliers waiting for a bonanza?

All 38 hostels I looked at had been supposedly snapped up too, yet I know of no more than a handful of United fans who have rooms reserved. A journalist friend kindly said that I can stay in his room, so that was my accommodation sorted and when I heard that the Russian authorities had waived the normal visa requirements for 72 hours around the game I was delighted.

My relief was short-lived. Fans just need to show a match ticket, but as I have accreditation I pick mine up in Moscow – after entering the country.

So I need to get a visa. UEFA and Alla G. Goncharova, Deputy Chief, Foreign Dept in the Russian government have been very efficient, securing me an invitation stating grandly: “The Moscow Department for Physical Education & Sport avails itself of this opportunity to renew you the assurance of its highest consideration and has the honour of extending an invitation to…” one Andrew Mitten, hopefully.

But I still need a visa. Having secured an invite, I’ve had to book an appointment – at a cost of £1.80 made payable to the Russian government – with the Russian consulate in Barcelona at 10.08am tomorrow morning. I have to present my invitation and a filled in form – sample question: “How did your first pet die?” and will then be quizzed about my proposed trip to Moscow and, depending upon the success of the interview, be invited to spend €33 applying for a visa.

If all goes well, I’ll then make a return trip to the consulate to pick up a visa.

'You shall not pass without a valid visa'

Kevin Miles, all round good egg and the man in charge of the football fans’ embassy in Moscow, called the other day. They are producing a fanzine for travelling fans and he wanted some help with the content. Kevin ran a similar fans’ embassy for England fans in Moscow and what he said unnerved me slightly.

“Be very careful,” he advised. “I’d say one in three England fans that we saw were assaulted or robbed in Moscow. I may sound like a paranoid Geordie but it was the worst place we’ve run an embassy in by far.”

I’m not one for scare stories and always prepare well when travelling. I travelled through Venezuela, Colombia and Ecuador last summer around the Copa America without serious problems, despite Venezuela being very dangerous. Granted, I was with two ex-boxers, but what good’s a decent southpaw against a bullet? We did see a gun pulled and pointed outside a nightclub, but thankfully it wasn’t at us.

With mates going on day trips from Manchester and many more home and away United fans not going at all because of the high cost, I was preparing to spend 72 hours in Moscow writing and making my video diary for Channel M. Here’s the last one from Barcelona from episode 37.

I was going to travel around on the splendid metro, speaking to everyone from Russian Reds to tramps and super models to get plenty of colour, but I fear I’ll have to modify my usual approach. Unless the injured John Terry wants to be my bodyguard and miss the game. He was a childhood Manchester United fan after all…

Pesky passengers and Barca's six-strong support

2008-05-09T11:09:00Z

I write this on the new 300km/hour AVE train from Madrid to Barcelona, returning from witnessing champions Real Madrid destroy Barca 4-1 and record their first league double over the Catalans in 24 years.

Barca were woeful and coach Frank Rijkaard looked like a man who knew his time was up when he faced the media after the game.

I settle down in a solitary seat, hoping for a bit of quiet while I type, but for some unknown reason everyone wants to ask me questions. I try to be helpful.

“This is seat 19a – 18a is that one.”

The 78,000 crowd created a party atmosphere and loved seeing Barca reel. I scanned the Bernabeu hoping to spot some away fans celebrating when an otherwise dire Thierry Henry finished superbly to record Barca’s consolation goal. I couldn’t see any. Not even a small pocket of a few hundred. Nothing. I asked a few questions and found out that there were just six Barca fans. Six. And they had flown with the team.

“I think the buffet’s in the next carriage.”

Man United fans in Rome. A few more than six

I’m sure there was the odd cule in the home end – I heard one elderly fan on the train to Madrid before the game winding up his Real supporting mate in what seemed like his first ever mobile phone call - but for one of the biggest clubs in the world to take six away fans for a league game against their biggest rivals is not only shameful, it shows the difference between the hard core support of British clubs and their Iberian counterparts.

“Those magazines are free, but I’m not the man to ask.”

There were mitigating factors. The prospect of Barca fans watching their hated rivals celebrate a 31st league title would have been as agreeable as swimming up the Mersey in winter. The game kicked off at 10.05pm midweek and given Barcelona is a six-hour drive to Madrid, the earliest any fan would have got home would have been 6am. But still…

“Yes, I think the next stop is Zaragoza.”

Barca should have taken 2,000 and every one of them should have sung for 90 minutes. And they should have got louder as Madrid’s goals flew in to counterbalance the deficiencies of their team. Barca fans have experienced enough highs, shouldn’t they be prepared to back their team through the lows?

Henry & co look on as Real celebrate goal number four

One of the most impressive sights I’ve witnessed in Spain came in a cup-tie between holders Espanyol at home to third division Real Vallecano. There were 6,000 in a stadium that holds 55,000 on a freezing November night when, 10 minutes into the game, a hundred Rayo fans entered the main stand.

They’d organised two buses from Madrid but were late due to heavy traffic. Startled Espanyol fans were woken from their slumber and didn’t realise what had hit them.

“I can hear the music from his headphones too, but it’s nothing to do with me.”

The Rayo team responded and pulled off a genuine cup shock, defeating the holders away from home. The away fans, a right bunch of scruffs who’d clearly spent their dough on watching their team rather than clothes, got louder and louder and the celebrations at the end cemented a bond between fan and player. The journey home would have flown by.

The penny finally drops about why my fellow passengers think I have all the answers. I may be sitting at the end of the carriage on my own but, as I point out to the next bloke with a query, I’m not the train guard.

FourFourTwo's blogger: Always happy to help fellow passengers

One of Manchester United’s greatest away supports came in adversity as we played at Liverpool in September 1990, back in the dark ages when the Scousers won league titles. Liverpool played superbly and scored four but, as the Scousers’ domination grew, the 3,000 United fans got louder. Reds left the ground with their heads held high because they’d done their bit, even if the performance hadn’t exactly merited such fervour.

It’s a different set of rules in Spain, but some of the expatriate fans I’ve met writing the book on derbies are bending them. Like the Tenerife fans who took two flights to support their side at Numancia in northern Spain.

You do wonder whether the Tenerife players were spurred on by Brits chanting for them 1,000 miles from their stadium. Or just confused.

Sun, sea, nudist beaches and an update on 'Dinho

2008-05-06T13:08:00Z

Manchester La Fianna played away at Sitges last weekend.

Their stadium - where Johan Cruyff plays most of his charity matches - backs onto a beach and overlooks the Mediterranean. Uninterrupted sunshine bathed the town 30 kilometres south of Barcelona - home to Bobby Robson and Gary Lineker when they were employed by Barca.

Before the game, the BATS (birds and that) went to the beach as I pondered what team to play. Suspensions and absences meant we were short on numbers and a text from the captain Tommy Rogers 40 minutes before kick off didn’t make things easier.

Sun. Soccer. Sea. Sitges

“Missed flight mate. Had nightmare. Good luck.” Tommy was supposed to be flying back from Stansted for the game, but I wasn’t overly surprised that his travel plans unravelled. Tommy’s from Essex and is an Arsenal fan. He played semi-pro when he lived in England and he’s been superb for us – a John Terry type player in central defence. And like Terry he’ll probably end up trophyless this season.

But Tommy has his blond moments, like at Christmas when I fixed him a ticket for Arsenal vs Tottenham. He’d begged for one for weeks and some friends helped out – for face value, naturally. All Tommy had to do was get to the Emirates to collect the ticket…but he slept in.

As for Saturday, it later transpired that Tommy made it to Stansted, but fell asleep in departures and missed his flight.

We did alright without Tommy and beat a Sitges side largely comprised of British expatriates 6-2. The hosts always give us a decent welcome and invite us back to their pub for sandwiches and a beer. That’s one reason why we’ve already accepted their invitation to play our first pre season game there next season. The other is that the fantastic walk from stadium to pub takes us past a nudist beach.

Manchester La Fianna line up in Sitges

Rob Moore, the football business manager who represents Benni McCarthy, Aaron Mokoena and Stephen Pinnear among others came to watch us play as his two sons help out on the Manchester bench. He didn’t approach any of us with a view to taking a trial at some second division Albanian team, but told us that our striker Dinho had done OK at Ajax Cape Town on his trial. Dinho’s having a further trial at another top level South African club this week. (Blog: The other 'Dinho in Barcelona)

Despite our big win on Saturday which leaves us just six goals short of 100 league goals with two games to play, the league title is out of our hands. We’re second, but that single goal defeat to Strollers and a subsequent draw to Dynamo have rendered our title hopes improbable.

Manchester La Fianna would be clear at the top if there was an overall league table from when we started in 2006. It’s a case of statistics proving anything, but overall league tables are far more significant in Spain than Britain. Kids can recite the top 10 like a times tables: Madrid, Barca, Athletic, Valencia, Atletico, Espanyol, Sevilla, Real Sociedad, Zaragoza, Betis.

Recruitment poster for La Fianna's clash with Sitges

Madrid have moved further ahead of Barca this season and were crowned champions on Sunday. I’m going to the capital tomorrow to see them play Barca for the final game of my derby book. I covered the game in Madrid in 2002 for FourFourTwo, but much has happened since and the publishers Harper Collins would like an update.

There’s talk that Barca will have to form a guard of honour to welcome the champions on the pitch, which will be like rubbing salt into a fresh wound for the Catalans. Madrid vs Barca is one of the great moments in world sport, but for the first time in years this game doesn’t actually mean much.

Not that either team will see it like that…

Twelve hours on Tuesday

2008-05-01T05:00:00Z

12am: Make my way into a sunny Manchester. Shout ‘Visca Catalunya’ (Forever Catalonia!) at a group of Barca fans stood outside where the Hacienda was. Manchester preserved the memory of this world famous club by turning the site into apartments. The Catalans look confused at first, but punch their arms in the air and cheer.

1pm: Get stood up for a pint by Mike Duff, the Bard of Blackley and Manchester’s finest poet. From 12,000 entries, he won the BBC ‘A Poem for Manchester’ competition with this:

“I don't care if you're black, chinese, white or tan, don't care if you're old, gay, a woman or man, you can sit down next to me, if you're mancunian.”

As I wait, I overhear a conversation between the organisers of the fans’ festival for the forthcoming UEFA Cup final. Consider offering some pointers, but decide it’s none of my business. I was impressed at the amount of thought that has gone into where the translator will stand on the stage.

2pm: Get chatting to some Barca fans, including the goalkeeper of Europa, one of the 10 founder members of the Spanish league. Their stadium is in my barrio in Barcelona, which confuses him.

Pleased to see that they like Manchester. Meet Barca supporter Toni Gols, who plays for Manchester La Fianna. He’s a part time model and is on prime time Spanish TV most night for his bit part in a beer commercial. He waves his Barca scarf with pride and takes lots of photos. I tell him that it’s best to conceal the scarf as we’re going for a pint with the Manchester United fans who are known to the authorities.

Have a pint in the Stoat and Helmet, the finest pub in the world, with said fans. They welcome Toni and some even try their Spanish on him.

3pm: Word goes round that the sun is shining and that pints should be taken outside to enjoy the weather. Toni is bemused as he is freezing.
3.01pm: It starts to rain and we return to the warmth inside.

4pm: “Manchester’s not so bad,” says Toni as I drive him towards Old Trafford. In the shadow of the Stretford End, we watch my 13 year old brother Sam play in a big cup derby game for his school ‘Wellacre High’ against ‘Stretford High’. Sam is the team captain and his midfield sidekick Louis has already been picked up by Manchester United.

The two schools are only four miles apart, yet nearly all the Stretford lads are Asian or black and most of the Wellacre lads are white. Both teams are impeccable in their manners, calling the referee ‘Sir’ and giving their all.

The game finishes goalless. I embarrass Sam by calling him ‘Sambrotta’, before he embarrasses himself by missing his team’s first penalty in a crucial penalty shoot out. Wellacre win said shoot out 2-1. It’s heartening to see both teams applaud each other. 1-0 to football and the Corinthian spirit.

Sam’s P.E teacher praises him, but tells me that Sam doesn’t always attend training sessions for he has frequent appointments with dentist and doctor. This is news to me, his mum and dad.

Toni Gols (left) and Sambrotta fresh from penalty-shootout glory

5.30pm: Take Sambrotta to my dad’s so that he can shower and get ready for the United game. Given that tickets are going for £300 on the black market, he doesn’t realise how lucky he is to have one.

Discover that Gols doesn’t like cheese as he rejects the pile of butties my dad has made. Father is horrified at the prospect that Silvestre may feature at some point in the game. “If I ever see him I’d have to smack him,” says father, rather unfairly, especially given the Frenchman’s solid performance at Stamford Bridge on Saturday.

6pm: Pray that the rain holds off as we start selling the new issue of United We Stand outside Old Trafford. You can already hear the Barca fans inside the ground.

Get all kind of feedback from readers and really enjoy selling, plus catching up with fellow fanzine editor Barney from Red News and many of the contributors. A man introduces himself as the last surviving member of the Charlie Mitten fan club.

Everyone welcomes Toni Gols and he even sells a few fanzines. Although not to a man who has come to the stadium dressed like a United Christmas tree. “Is that a programme?” he asks? “No,” I reply. “You can get the programme inside the stadium which is there (and I point to Old Trafford, whose vast hulk is but 50 metres away).” Christmas tree doesn’t even realise that I’m extracting the urine.

7.30pm: Enter Old Trafford. Watch Toni’s face light up on his first visit. Find myself being more nervous than I have been watching a game for years. The atmosphere is staggeringly – and surprisingly – good. Fans at both ends hold up red and white cards. One end reads ’68’ and ‘99’, the other ‘Believe’.

Old Trafford inhabitants remember past European Cup triumphs

8.04pm: Paul Scholes scores the first goal of the tie. Old Trafford erupts.

8.35pm: Bump into David May, who wasn’t shy when it came to getting in the photos the last time United won the European Cup. He’s in the concourse with ordinary fans. He’s a good lad, for someone who once claimed to be a City fan.

8.36pm: Get a tap on the shoulder from Mark Molyneux, a local legend, semi professional goalkeeper and former minder to the Salford boxer Steve Foster (see my Goole blog).

“I bet you didn’t expect to see me here,” he says, wearing a United’s steward’s outfit.

As a City fan, I didn’t.

“I’ve changed,” he says. I hope not.

9.15pm: Memo to self that Lionel Messi is worth every plaudit that has ever been written about him. The boy is a joy to watch.

9.16pm: Remind myself that he’s the main threat to United’s chance of reaching the final and the appreciation stops.

9.31pm: The final whistle. Life is beautiful.

9.32pm: Offer condolences to Toni Gols. But he knows as well as me that Barca have been very disappointing this season.

9.43pm: Sell some more copies of the fanzine. Get smothered with a kiss from Mani of Stone Roses/Primal Scream fame, who is as happy as the other United fans. Most are happier than I’ve ever seen them and I feel the same.

10.20pm: Do an interview with Setanta Sports News. After a few cringeworthy experiences with them (a barking dog in the kitchen of another guest during one call, them getting my name wrong and asking questions that appeared to have been scripted by a toddlers’ play group), they’re improving.

10.50 pm: Go to bed. I’ve got a flight to catch in six hours. And more flights and a visa to organise for a trip to Moscow…

There's only one Paddy Crerand

2008-04-25T11:16:00Z

It hasn’t been the most relaxing week of my life, not that my workload mattered one bit to the former United player and European Cup winner Paddy Crerand.

I fixed it for Paddy to appear in a United fans’ area by the beach in Barcelona. I’ve known him for over 15 years and wrote his autobiography with him last year. It was a great experience listening to the story of his life, his views and watching Paddy and wife Noreen – a former Gorbals beauty queen – argue in the kitchen about what film they watched on their first date. The final edition ran to 290 pages. It would have been twice that had I included all his swearing.

On Wednesday, I told Paddy to get a taxi into central Barcelona to meet me. “I’m not doing that, I can’t speak the language,” he said, “you’ll have to come and get me.” He’s always saying how much he’d love to speak Spanish and given that he’s holidayed in Majorca in each of the last 43 years, he’s had plenty of chances.

So I got a metro to the players’ hotel where he was staying on the outskirts of Barcelona, which took an hour I didn’t have. As the tracksuited Rooney, Rio and Ronaldo walked past, I called up to Paddy’s room from reception.

“You’ll have to come and get me,” he said. “I can’t work out how to use the lift. It’s far too fancy for me, this hotel.” I baulked at that one and he obviously mastered the technology because five minutes later he was there wearing a warm jumper to combat the Catalan sun.

We took a taxi to the fans’ area by the Olympic Port where 1000 United fans were listening to Manchester music while enjoying the beer and sunshine. As we left the taxi and heard the Stone Roses playing, Paddy had chance to ask: “Do you lot really like this, what’s wrong with Sinatra?”

10 seconds later he was recognised and mobbed. Everyone wanted a piece of him and his patterned jumper. It was like going for a walk with the Pope in Glasgow’s East End, an area he knows well as he’s from the nearby Gorbals. Spanish journalists asked: “Who is he? Why does everybody love him?”

Paddy: Mesmerising United fans, bemusing Spanish journalists

The spectacle was interesting to observe, because Paddy is a great people person. He posed for hundreds of photos and signed as many autographs. He had mobile phones thrust to his ear and got instructed to “talk to John” or “talk to my wife.” He obliged every request without complaint.

United fans would say thing to him like: “Do you remember me? I saw you on Washway Road in Sale in ’87. Near the Wimpy.” Or, “My uncle Brian says hello. Brian Jones. He was on a plane with you to Mallorca the week after we beat Juventus in ‘99” or “You knew my auntie Mary from Donegal. She said you were a rascal when you were a boy.”

Paddy would nod along, glad-handing and actually remembering some of the people and incidents. He’s like Sir Alex Ferguson for this. I finally got him into an office where he could sit down and have a glass of water before we went on stage. I was asked to introduce Paddy and tried to conduct an interview but the crowd had taken control and just wanted Paddy to sing.

There was a problem. He can’t. This woman, a contestant from Bulgarian Pop Idol has a better voice. But Paddy, despite not knowing the words, had a go

The United fans loved his efforts and it was just a shame that Ronaldo didn’t put a little more of Pat’s viva into his penalty kick…

Enrique, Tevez, Joy Division and a mute Chinese man

2008-04-22T11:26:00Z

“That’s our left-back,” announced the puzzled Newcastle fan 90 minutes before Sunday’s Tyne-Wear derby. We were walking past a pub on the way to St James' Park when Michael Martin, the editor of the excellent Newcastle fanzine True Faith, spotted a suited Jose Enrique standing in front of his 4x4 Porsche looking flustered.

The Spaniard, who joined the Geordies from Villarreal for £6m last summer, kept saying: “I don’t know where they are, I’ve lost them,” to whoever he was calling on his mobile, while passing fans admired his motor. Or took photos of him. The pub's half-dozen bouncers knew who he was but couldn’t communicate with him.

“I don’t think he speaks English,” said Michael (a fact later confirmed by Kevin Keegan after Newcastle’s 2-0 win over Sunderland). I told Enrique that I spoke Spanish and asked if he was OK. “Not really,” he replied. “I’ve run out of petrol. And I needed the toilet so I went in the pub and I’ve managed to lose my car keys.”

Right.

“I’m ringing my girlfriend, who has another key for the car, but there’s no petrol and I’m already late.” He looked like a little boy lost as he undid his collar.

Newcastle's Spanish left-back Jose Enrique: a key player

I explained the situation to Michael, who rang two contacts within the club to explain the situation; Terry McDermott immediately dispatched two security lads to sort the problem out. Enrique looked relieved when I told him that help was on the way and I assumed all was speedily resolved as he played 90 minutes - and played well.

Word of the events got through to the man who plays the music over the public address system and in among Geordie standards like Dire Straits’ Local Hero and The Blaydon Races, they thanked Michael by playing Love Will Tear You Apart by Joy Division, a band he adores.

Ian Curtis brings Joy to Enrique's saviour

I spent three nights in Newcastle around the derby, meeting all kinds of interesting souls as well as witnessing FC United beat Newcastle Blue Star 4-0 on Saturday. Blue Star – once the team of the famous brewery which stood next to the Gallowgate End - are one of the top non-league teams in the region, but they struggle on gates of less than 150 and seem lost in the 13,000-capacity Kingston Park home they share with Newcastle Falcons rugby union team. Travelling costs appeared to have taken their toll and, despite playing well this season, they had asked for voluntary relegation back to a league which involves less travelling. They’ve changed their mind, but geography always works against them and other semi-professional clubs in the North East. At least they’ve got a considerable pool of local talent to draw from.

After that game, I watched Carlos Tevez rescue a point for Manchester United at Blackburn in Rosie’s Bar, which was full of Newcastle fans. I was alone but couldn’t contain my emotions as the little Argentinian netted. A Chinese man on the other side of the bar punched the air too, before coming over and shaking my hand. We didn’t even speak. Such is the power of football to unite, as well as divide.

Barca plan party for travelling United army

2008-04-18T18:30:00Z

A mad few days, but was it going to be any different?

All journalists specialise and if I have two specialities it’s Manchester United and FC Barcelona. With the two clubs meeting for the first time since those enthralling 3-3 encounters in 1998-99, and in the semi final of the Champions League to boot, interest was always going to be high.

There’s a lot of interest from the Catalan media about Manchester La Fianna too. It’s a timely feature for them – and a chance for me to wind up some of our players in print.

I’ve just interviewed the Barcelona captain Carlos Puyol and he’s far more optimistic than most Barca fans are about beating United. But then if the captain of Barca isn’t, who will be? And it’s not like he can do much about it given that he’s suspended for the first leg.

I’ve had meetings with the city council as well. They’ve put aside an area for United fans next Wednesday between the beach and the sea by the Olympic port. There will be Manchester music, beer and food at cheaper prices than nearby bars and past games between the two clubs will be screened.

Barcelona - the most popular weekend break destination for the British - is used to staging huge events, but the city was unprepared for the arrival of over 20,000 Rangers fans last autumn and since then they have successfully organised fan areas for visiting Celtic and Schalke 04 fans before their defeats in the Camp Nou.

Rangers fans hit Catalunya Square in November 2007

They’re not for everyone, but the intention is genuine.

An estimated 7,000 United fans will travel, 2,000 of them without tickets, and the authorities are especially keen to avoid disorder next Wednesday in the centre of Barcelona. April 23 is the day of Sant Jordi (St. George) and as well as being the patron saint of England and Ethiopia, he’s the main saint in Catalonia. Johan Cruyff didn't call his son Jordi for nothing.

For one day, the Rambla – Barcelona’s main tourist thoroughfare - is filled with stalls selling roses (which men are expected to buy for their partners) and books (women reciprocate by purchasing books). A new Lionel Messi tome is expected to be a top seller among Catalans who haven’t really embraced the culture of sports books like in Britain. Ronaldinho and Eto’o may have autobiographies, but they tend to be flimsy, cobbled together and given away free with newspapers.

La Rambla: Ready to welcome travelling hordes of United fans

I’m currently finishing off my next book, which will be on world football derbies. Later, I fly to Newcastle for three nights to write a piece on the Tyne-Wear derby and the enmity between Newcastle United and Sunderland. I’ll be drinking with Newcastle lads tonight and Sunderland on Sunday in an attempt to get a proper reflection of what the game means to both.

The book will have 24 derby games in total and 22 have been written. Each will be around 4,000 words – the same as the regular More Than A Game feature in FourFourTwo. Some are obvious choices like Roma vs Lazio, Boca vs River, Celtic vs Rangers and Ajax vs Feyenoord. Others like Preston vs Blackpool, Wrexham vs Chester and the Faroes Islands’ main derby may be smaller, but they can be equally fascinating.

Then its back south on Monday for United’s biggest game of the season, Barcelona away. I’ve been fortunate enough to see every United European away game this season, but for once I won’t have to travel far for this one.

Monkey trouble, sex bans and the return of Lev Yashin

2008-04-15T09:18:00Z

Saturday meant league leaders Manchester La Fianna against Strollers, the team we displaced a week earlier.

Despite their anglicised name, Strollers are almost exclusively Catalan, save for a Lancastrian and a Chelsea born Chelsea fan (proudly from a rough enclave as opposed to SW6’s swank) who was once chased down a road in Kenya following a dispute with a local. By a monkey.

I encouraged everyone to arrive early, bought 16 ripening bananas from the supermarket and six bottles of cold water. After downloading uplifting tunes onto my ipod to play in the dressing room and printing the words to the Italian national anthem - singing it has become a team tradition in respect for two Italian players from last season. They haven’t died or anything, but the momentum is unstoppable - I got a metro to the stadium.

I did everything I could to lift the boys, starting by putting myself on the bench. I told them of a phone call to our striker on Thursday from a Manchester United first teamer who will be in Ibiza when we play our friendly in June.

He’ll be there with two team mates, who would otherwise have been in Euro 2008 and they want to watch us, but explained that “We won’t be allowed to play.” Just imagine the faces of the opposition if they agree to sit on the bench? But that’s in June.

"Manchester La Fianna: Fans in high places."

It wasn’t just the players who were up for it on Saturday. The wife of the Belizian Jorge - now known as ‘The Pigeon’ - emailed to say that she’d imposed a sex ban on him until after the game so that he could concentrate. I’d arranged for the sister of ‘Toni Gols’, one of our two Catalan players, to watch him for the first time in years, but then forget to tell her about a late change of venue. In a gesture to spread goodwill, I sort the elderly groundsman to give him a banana.

After repeating lines gleaned from Busby and Ferguson in the pre-match warm up, I watched as other players helped out by organising drills and encouraging. We were united, and with the sun setting over the mountain of Tibidabo, everyone was raring to go.

"Barcelona from Tibidabo. The stadium's down there somewhere."

I would annoy and upset other players by leaving them out because over 20 players don’t fit into a squad of 16, but the game was soon underway and Manchester played some great football.

There was no need to make any changes at the break and the fans in the stand looked on approvingly. The mum of one player who had flown from Portland, Oregon. The girlfriend of another who had journeyed from Sicily. The other wives, girlfriends and friends, who would rather have been in many other places than the back of a cold concrete stand in a distant Barcelona barrio.

If not quite beatific, it felt good. Strollers played deep and played well, somehow bringing Lev Yashin back to life in goal. Changes were made, fresh legs introduced. I bit nails, urged patience, cursed and hollered before coming on for the last 14 minutes. I couldn’t believe how much space there was before I over hit two crosses.

Nor could I believe that we lost 1-0.

Avenge against those Catalans, Cristiano. Avenge.

There's only one team in Manchester?

2008-04-11T13:33:00Z

Barcelona yesterday sent an internal memo to staff instructing them not to refer to Manchester United merely as 'Manchester'. The memo stated that 'Manchester' should be referred to as 'Manchester United' at all times, explaining that there was another club in Manchester called "Manchester City."

Hearing that made me smile and it offered respite from the barrage of requests ahead of United’s forthcoming Champions League semi final with the Catalans. Here’s one text I got within minutes of United beating Roma on Wednesday.

“Hi mate. Not spoke for a while. Any chance of four tickets for Barca? Main stand ideally.”

I’d not spoken to the texter in question for as many years as he was asking for tickets and was tempted to reply with: “Anything else? Do you want me to fix it for Ronaldinho to pick you up from the airport with a scantily clad Melissa Theuriau in the back of his motor?”

Theuriau: Free when you buy four tickets to Man United. Maybe

United have never played Barca in the seven years since I started spending the majority of my time in Catalonia. I get to watch both clubs play around 25 times a season – mainly Barca at home and United away. I’ve always wanted to see the pair meet, more so at the moment because United are just that and Barca are divided. Two years ago, Barca would have been clear favourites to beat United. Now, the opposite is true.

I’ve tried to limit the requests by putting all the information I know on United We Stand’s website, but it has only been partly successful and they go on – requests for hotels, tickets, beers and to meet my girlfriend’s fit mates.

I interviewed the Barca president Joan Laporta in his office for FourFourTwo around the same time I last spoke to the texter. He was illustrating a point about Barca’s global following and asked me to look at his laptop. As he did, he tried unsuccessfully to close down an email from America, which I nosily read.

“Hi Joan,” it said. “Are you still a big Barca fan? Great season so far! We’re hoping to catch a game at the Camp Nou soon and wondered if you could help us obtain match tickets? There will be 16 of us.”

The sender hadn’t realised that since they last met Laporta had become club president. He could fix tickets, but much as I’d like to help fellow Reds out for the semi final, I can’t.

Laporta: still a big Barca fan... as president

Week in week out, I help people get tickets for Barca matches. I usually meet friends and friends of friends (there were over 40 people who I didn’t know for one game in October). I know where the touts go, converse with them in Spanish and make sure the visitors don’t get ripped off or buy seats in the gods.

I’ve never made a penny and in seven years I’ve never failed to get a person in. Actually, there were three raffish young Mancunians who wanted tickets for Barca vs Madrid two years ago. It was getting close to kick off and, after sorting everybody else out, I searched for a bargain. I found one.

An elderly fan had three spare seats and wanted €50 a piece – a bargain given that others had paid between €100-150. I relayed the news to the lads as an editor called and told me that he wanted an 800 word match report by the final whistle. I’d not even entered the Camp Nou. I was then stunned when one of the lads said: “Fifty Euros is ok, but we’re hoping for three for fifty…”

It’s harder to help out for big European games. Demand for tickets is even higher than the Madrid game, partly because of the substantial followings British clubs bring. And with the final being in Moscow, some United fans are seeing the semi as a surrogate final, knowing that the visa and ticket issues could make reaching the Russian capital difficult.

The other 'Dinho in Barcelona

2008-04-08T15:40:00Z

At three o’clock on Wednesday morning, the Manchester La Fianna striker ‘Dinho’ will start a long journey from Barcelona, via Amsterdam, to Cape Town.

On Friday, he’ll begin a three-week trial with Ajax Cape Town of the South African first division, the PSL. They were formed in 1999 after the amalgamation of two Cape Town teams – Seven Stars and Cape Town Spurs - as Ajax Amsterdam sort to expand their worldwide network of feeder clubs.

Benni McCarthy had played for Seven Stars before he moved to Amsterdam. Everton’s Stephen Pienaar was with Ajax Cape Town, as was John Obi Mikel when he won recognition and a clutch of big name suitors playing in the 2005 FIFA World Youth Championship. So he signed for a Norwegian team…

Dinho played his final game for Manchester La Fianna on Saturday, as we came from 2-1 down against West Ham (of Barcelona) to win 5-2. We were trailing as late as the 74th minute, before Dinho et al helped strike four quick goals.

La Fianna: top of the league after beating West Ham 5-2

The win, combined with a defeat for top of the table ‘Strollers’, lifted us back to the top with five league games to play. We meet Strollers this Saturday.

After the game, when the man-of-the-match had drunk his prize of a neat whisky and another a straight Martini; after we’d heard the West Ham players - 90% of whom are not British - singing ‘I’m forever blowing bubbles’, Dinho thanked us for giving him the opportunity to play and said he hoped we could follow him to a professional club.

I’m 34 and have never been close to being paid a tenner a week to play part-time, so he wasn’t aiming that one at me. Indeed, he might not have even been speaking to me at all if I’d followed the advice given three weeks ago.

I found Dinho hard work. Seven other players complained about him to me. Seven. Surly, argumentative or maybe just misunderstood and immature, he stormed into the showers after one game and said that he wouldn’t play for us again. Heat of the moment? Yes. Frustration at playing with less talented mortals? Definitely.

Out of interest, I sort advice from a variety of football people: a former Premiership manager, the assistant manager of a North West Counties team, a former European Cup winner and a Dutchman who scores lots of goals wherever he plays, be it in Manchester or Madrid.

I was going to ask Samuel Eto’o, but that would have been like seeking Mohammed Al Fayed for a rational breakdown of the events leading up to Diana and Dodi’s death.

Dinho: Cape Town-bound for three-week trial

Those I did ask were unanimous: get rid of him. The comment from one of: “At your level you play to enjoy it, he’ll spoil it for everyone” summed up the responses.

I’m not sure why I didn’t get rid of Dinho. He was a good player who could make a difference, but we had plenty of other players who fitted that criteria. Maybe it was because two of the other players had a strong word and told him that unless he improved his attitude, then he wouldn’t have a chance of realising his dream, that of being a professional footballer.

It worked. Dinho’s been far more positive in recent weeks, a joy to have in the team. And now he has a chance to show his undoubted talent, strength and pace at a higher, more disciplined, level.

Good luck, big man.

Sorry I'm late gaffer, it was the pigeons' fault

2008-04-04T12:45:00Z

I’ve heard some great excuses off players for being late, but the following takes the biscuit.

It’s from Jorge Garcia, the former captain of Belize, who turned up at half-time last week when the score was 2-2 against Metropolitan, the 2006 BIFL champions. Manchester eventually won 5-3…

“I was ready to leave home for the game and for a change I was going to be early,” says Jorge. “Then I heard cooing and lots of feathers falling off the roof of the house. I looked up and there were about 20 pigeons, all painted different colours. I started throwing stones at them, but they would not leave."

“I was afraid they were going to roost and we would not be able to get rid of them so I went inside and told my wife. She told me that I was not to leave until I got rid of all the pigeons. I threw whatever I could find at them, but to no avail. I even hit one right on the head with a stone and the pigeon just looked at me and continued like nothing had happened."

“I finally got the water hose and started swinging it at them. That's when I heard a car park right outside the house and the driver shouted: “Those are our pigeons.”

Manchester La Fianna (Jorge Garcia front row, third from left)

“He called on his walkie-talkie saying he had found the pigeons and gave directions to our place. A few seconds later, about 15 cars were parked right outside our gate. Luckily, the water pressure on the hose was low and they didn't catch me spraying their pigeons."

“The man explained that this was a pigeon competition and asked if we would allow the referee to come into our yard to score. The referee came inside and tried to explain to my wife and I what the competition was all about. I cannot recall everything he told us except that pigeons came from all over the world (including two from Argentina - he recognised my wife’s accent) to compete."

“They let loose a female pigeon and all the coloured male pigeons chased her around the treetops and the referee keeps track of all their movements and scores.

Then the female pigeon decided to roost on our roof, which meant a further delay.

The referee had to wait for what seemed like an eternity while he scored the pigeons. Finally, he climbed on the roof and took the female pigeon. All the male pigeons then flew down, where they were placed in their individual cages by their owners. In a few minutes, all the cars and pigeons were gone. That’s why I was late.”

Jorge won’t be able to use that one again and certainly not tomorrow when Manchester La Fianna play West Ham, who are managed by a Hammers’ expat fan Nick Simons. He started the league in 1992, continuing a tradition of Englishmen influencing Spanish football.

West Ham’s squad is largely made up of Catalans and Simons gets them singing ‘I’m forever blowing bubbles’ after each game. They are all going to watch West Ham soon in London.

We’re second in the league, they’re sixth, and given that I hold Simons personally responsible for West Ham beating Manchester United in December, we’re in a vengeful mood.

Viva Ronaldo... and a lift with Lawro

2008-04-02T10:04:00Z

I write this from my hotel room in Rome, having watched United beat AS Roma 2-0 with one of the most impressive away performances in the club’s history.

Events appeared to conclude peacefully off the pitch and the Roma fans were remarkably sporting, singing about their team even though they knew the champions of England had outclassed them. Thousands on their curva applauded the United heroes as the 2,800 travelling fans sang ‘Viva Ronaldo’, the latest Old Trafford terrace anthem to the tune of, er, ‘Forza Roma’.

Cristiano heads home sparking renditon of 'Viva Ronaldo'

After the game, I got a lift back to the hotel with Mark Lawrenson and the BBC commentary team. He played here for Liverpool in the 1984 European Cup final against Roma and recalled stories of Bruce Grobbelaar’s bendy legs during the penalty shoot out and the after-match party in a villa he reckoned was owned by the Mafia.

I’ll be glad to get back to Barcelona later and sleep in my own pit, having stayed in 10 different beds in the last two weeks. Much as I love travel, I’m exhausted.

It has been fun, though. This week started with David Sadler, the former Manchester United European Cup winner who shared digs with George Best growling: “I’ve been waiting to catch up with you Mitten. I’ve spotted a mistake in your last book. You listed the United players who had played in net during a game after the goalkeeper was injured. Well, I played in goal one year at Highbury.”

I’m glad Sadler noticed. A lot of former players don’t love football and wouldn’t dream of buying a book on it, let alone reading it. After I apologised and promised to rectify the omission, Sadler and I talked all things Red for half an hour in the studios of Channel M, Greater Manchester’s own television station.

Media proliferation has seen our screens covered in below par football spin offs, but Channel M are as serious about their coverage of the grass roots game and fan culture as they are covering the four Premiership clubs in Greater Manchester. That will soon be three.

I’d arrived in Manchester on Sunday after witnessing the Old Firm match on Saturday (an incredible experience and not because of the football). Then, as the Mancunian rain was washing out the new issue of United We Stand around Old Trafford (fewer fans stop to buy a fanzine when it is lagging down), I watched Falkirk 0 Kilmarnock 0.

The latter was the worst game I’ve seen since Coventry beat United earlier this season; though I’m sure Coventry fans will disagree. I was sat between two Falkirk fans hurling abuse at each other and almost coming to blows over the merit of the Bairns’ number 6, when I heard an accent that was unmistakably Mancunian.

“Arnau said you were coming,” said a suited man on crutches, whose foot was in plaster. It was Dean Holden, the injured Falkirk defender who has played for Oldham and Peterborough. I’d never met him before and didn’t realise that he was a United fan.

“Next time I see you outside Old Trafford I want a free United We Stand,” he said. He can have as many damp copies of the current issue as he likes. Holden was sound; a journeyman professional who has boots and has travelled.

Arnau – or ‘Riera’ as Falkirk call him – has just returned from another injury and played the final 17 minutes. Unlike his team-mates, he didn’t misplace one pass, yet his endeavours earned him a bewildering ‘3’ out of ‘10’, the lowest mark of any Falkirk player in the News of the World the following day.

Arnau – or ‘Riera' – back in action for Falkirk

On Sunday I flew to Manchester and watched my 13-year-old brother Sam play away in Denton. The decent football genes bypassed me, the only person in the family who has never been paid to play.

Sam is the captain of his club side, school team and has scored 40 of his side’s 59 goals this season – in spite of our dad raging on the sidelines when he doesn’t release the ball early enough. On Sunday, Dad admonished ‘Sambrotta’ for having a shot from 25 yards. A minute later he scored from 25 yards, his second in a 6-0 win.

The game was in a working class area, yet the players of both teams wore fancy boots in a variety of colours that cost over £80. “Their mums put their boots before food for their little Ronaldos,” observed one spectator.

There was something sad about it, but with a performance like last night, you can see why kids want to copy him running down the wing and hearing United sing ‘Viva Ronaldo!’

Around the (football) world in seven days

2008-03-27T10:40:00Z

“To travel hopefully is a better thing than to arrive, and the true success is to labour” - Robert Louis Stevenson, 1881.

Taking that on board, I took a slow boat to Italy last week, but the travel has been unrelenting ever since and I’ve not had the suggested luxury of labouring.

On Friday I flew from Rome to Manchester and went straight to my first ever rugby league game, the St Helens vs Wigan derby.

The decrepit but characterful Knowsley Road stadium was full to its 17,500 capacity, four fifths of them standing. It was cold: the crowd were warm, white and working class. I enjoyed it because it wasn’t football. It was interesting to see video evidence in action and 18-stone players calling the referee, who wore a pink outfit, “sir”.

A previous Knowsley Road Saints-Wigan clash

On Saturday I ventured to Colne in East Lancashire, where it was so cold it snowed. Colne was famous for its Dynamos football team in the late-1980s. They stormed through the non-league pyramid by paying top dollar to professionals like former European Cup winner Alan Kennedy and won promotion to the Conference.

Then the wealthy owner/manager pulled out, frustrated at not being able to conclude a ground share with nearby Burnley and the Dynamos folded, later to reform as Colne FC.

I was there to watch an excellent Trafford side continue their winning run towards the North West Counties League Division One title on the sloping pitch against a backdrop of grey terraced housing and harsh Pennine hills.

Trafford’s team spirit was superb, the 40 travelling fans noisy and the club officials who volunteer to paint stands, edit programmes, organise dinners and sell pies watched proudly from the sidelines.

The atmosphere in the clubhouse afterwards, as the football results came in from around the country was quintessentially English. “Bad result for Altrincham,” one man would say, and 10 people would nod over a pie and pint. “Good win for Keano at Villa.”

On Sunday, Old Trafford enjoyed its best atmosphere of the season against a team who last won the title when Margaret Thatcher was in power. Before that, I spoke to Brian Kidd. I’ve known him for 15 years and he was in good form, despite being out of football since leaving Sheffield United last month. They wanted him to stay.

Brian Kidd: On hand to advise our man Mitten

Kidd gave some advice about Manchester La Fianna saying: “Remember that a good team spirit will win more games than anything else.” The man who was closer to Manchester United’s class of ’92 than anyone should know.

I was up at 5am Monday to return to Barcelona for an interview with a player some would argue is not conducive to a good team spirit, Samuel Eto’o. He included no less than six Premiership players in a Best XI of those he’s played against, with a further three English-based players on the bench. His ‘people’ also let me take a Puma football he’d been doing a photo shoot with – we’ll use it as Manchester la Fianna’s match ball on Saturday.

MLF had our best training session for months last night in shadow of the Arts hotel, where Roy Keane was staying with his wife and 56 kids on a short break. Maybe he watched us from his room or maybe he went to the hotel ballroom to remember the players’ party after the 1999 Champions League final.

I was there that night… sleeping rough with mates in the underground hotel car park because we couldn’t find a room in a city I’d move to two years later.

And now it’s back on the road. A flight to Scotland awaits on Friday to cover the Old Firm derby on Saturday, that’s if it goes ahead. I’ve already seen two Old Firm games cancelled this year, losing out on flights and hotels.

Later, I hope to watch Falkirk, with my friend the mighty Arnau Riera in midfield, take on Kilmarnock, before heading south to Manchester on Sunday for the United game against Villa. Except that's been moved back to Saturday, partly because of television, but mainly because United want more time to prepare for Tuesday's game in Rome. Which I’m also going to.

So that means a flight back to Spain on Monday, another to Rome for the moodiness surrounding the game on Tuesday and Wednesday a flight back to Spain to inspire Manchester La Fianna in a push towards silverware… by not playing myself.

I’ll just kip on the bench instead and dream of not travelling anywhere. I hope Stevenson would approve.

If it's Rome, I've lost me passport

2008-03-25T13:07:00Z

I arrived at the Stadio Olimpico two hours before last Wednesday’s Roman derby to pick up a pre-arranged press pass. Nobody knew from where I should collect it.

"This is Italy,” said my Milan-supporting translator, who had travelled to the capital from the north. “And this is Rome. Nothing is simple here.”

I found myself in an office with a stunning girl dressed more for the catwalks of Milan than the accreditation office of Lazio. Sadly, she directed me to another office.

The Stadio Olimpico (pretty lady not pictured)

I handed over my passport, but they had no record of the fax from FourFourTwo confirming I was who I said I was. I handed my journalist’s card to another official, who checked a different list. The girl with my passport dealt with other ticket requests, handing over envelopes.

Five minutes later they told me that I could not have a ticket and returned my press pass.

“What about my passport?” I asked.

“We don’t have it.”

“I handed it to you.”

“You didn’t.”

“Did.”

“Didn’t.”

She searched the office. Nothing. She got a torch out and shone around where I had been stood. Nothing. I began to question my sanity. Had I really handed over my passport?

It had taken me 26 hours to get to the stadium (my choice, as I’d travelled by boat) and within 10 minutes of arriving I’d been told that I didn’t have a ticket and my passport had gone missing.

Back with the stunning girl, my translator worked his magic and finally got two tickets, but I was still without my passport as I walked into the vast Olimpico. I was convinced that the lady had inadvertently handed over my passport when she dealt with the other ticket request, but how could I prove that?

I’d left my phone number and said I’d give her €100 if the passport was returned and she got it back to me. I’m not one for losing my head, but I started to envisage a nightmare scenario of trying to get a new passport in Rome on Good Friday, when the city is thronged with pilgrims, and offices are closed.

Endless potential problems kept occurring to me. Even if I got safe passage home, how would I get my hire car in Manchester without my passport? How would I get a new passport to fly back to Barcelona on Easter Monday? Or, for that matter, to take the plane to Glasgow this weekend for Celtic vs Rangers?

As my mind spun, I watched Roma captain Francesco Totti lay a wreath in front of the Lazio Ultras in honour of a Lazio fan shot dead by police in November. The atmosphere was subdued and surreal for a game associated with noise, extreme passion and colour.

Then the public address system boomed out for 70,000 to hear:

“ANDREW MITTEN. ANDREW MITTEN. THE POLICE HAVE YOUR PASSPORT. MR ANDREW, YOUR PASSPORT IS WITH THE POLICE.”

I punched the air like Brian McClair and sought out the Carabinieri to pick up my right of passage, which has accompanied me from principalities (they count as visiting a separate country) to airports (they don’t).

Then I watched one of the best Roman derbies in years as Lazio took the lead, then went 2-1 down, before fighting back to win 3-2 with a last minute winner.

My concentration in the absorbing encounter was only broken when the dream girl from the office, who was so fit that she turned a hundred heads when she walked into the stand, asked if I’d got my passport back.

I nodded and smiled. Although she could have asked if my name was Javier Mascherano and I would have nodded – before, naturally, telling her to “*** off”.

‘Passion in the Stands’ not for the faint hearted

2008-03-20T14:33:00Z

“There’s an exhibition of football photos on in town, shall we go on Sunday?”

I thought my girlfriend was blagging. She might be Brazilian and claims to be an Internacionale fan, but the closest she’s been to seeing her team was watching Lenny Kravitz perform at their stadium in Porto Alegre.

Or going up to a tourist wearing an Internacionale scarf outside Big Ben and talking about how good Pato was. Internacional, as she frequently reminds, were world champions when we met - after they beat Barcelona in Tokyo.

Still, she’s been to a few matches with me. At Barca, where she likes Ronaldinho because he’s from her hometown. I hope it’s that rather than her fancying him. She came to Old Trafford and kept shouting what my brother taught her. Which was “*** off Everton.” That wasn’t ideal as we were sat by the 3,000 Evertonians. And she came to Rome, unaware that she was my decoy so I could infiltrate the Roma Ultras.

The exhibition, in the Caja Madrid building on the main Plaza Catalunya, was shocking. I half expected familiar arty photos of Cruyff in brilliant oranje, or Maradona beating the entire Belgium team. Of Giggs evading a tackle from Jason McAteer and Phil Babb in an image so improbable it looks Photoshopped.

Instead, we were greeted by two by four metre image of a Scouser being chased by four pole wielding Italians at Heysel. Some of the images were well known, the white horse at Wembley in 1923, Scotland fans hanging off the Wembley crossbar and the four-year-old Feyenoord fan sat on his dad’s shoulder giving the finger.

There are several photos of Arsenal and Galatasaray fans clashing in Copenhagen, when they seemed to throw bicycles and wicker chairs no further than their own Reebok Classics.

Others are less familiar, like the Leeds fan dead or dying on a hospital stretcher in Istanbul. Spanish media coverage of death differs from Britain, with photos of dead bodies of car crash victims printed in newspapers.

There are not just wall mounted images, but seized coshes, sprays, bats, homemade catapults and a Berretta pistol. There’s the battered mo-ped with the Bergamo number plate which pushed from the second tier of San Siro by Internazionale’s Ultras during a game with Atalanta in 2004.

The pig’s head thrown at former idol Luis Figo when he returned to Barcelona with Real Madrid. The CCTV images of the Ajax and Feyenoord fans re-enacting a scene from Braveheart as they clashed on the field by a motorway intersection at Beverwijk in 1997 is in all its haunting, grainy detail. The dark object lay prostrate in the mud is dead Ajax fan Carlos Picornie.

There are more positive impressions, like a packed Monumental, the home of River Plate in Buenos Aires, with thousands of Boca fans raising their arms under a beautiful sky coloured like Argentina’s flag. But not many and it’s not for the faint hearted. Perhaps that why we didn’t see one other visitor at the exhibition.

‘Passion in the Stands’ is at the Espai Cultural Caja Madrid, Plaza de Catalunya, 9, Barcelona until 20th April. Admission is free.

Fiery showdowns, derby dates and Paolo Di Canio

2008-03-17T12:45:00Z

Manchester La Fianna equalised ten minutes into the second half on Saturday. It hadn’t gone well before then.

We were missing both our wingers who have created so many of our goals this season. One, top scorer Toni Gols, managed to collide with a hand pulled cart loaded with fruit in Morocco two weeks ago and rule himself out for a month. The other texted me on Saturday morning to say that someone had spiked his drink with drugs and that he was “blind”.

I shook my head and carried on wearily, before leaving a message for another player. He duly turned up without any boots. “I didn’t get any message,” he said, “because I’ve lost my phone.”

Both sets of fans were vocal. We beat The Celtic Cross 2-1 in the first game of the season and they were in vengeful mood. “Get at Andy Mitten,” one of their substitutes shouted as I laboured at right back in the first half. That’ll be me then, the perceived weak spot of the team.

The detractor had a point. I was trying to mark Liam Austin, a fleet footed striker who played in Australia’s top league only three seasons ago and I was out of my depth. I made a mental note not to start in any big games from now on as he went past me for the third time. One of his runs led to their opener.

I benched myself at half time and tried to fire the lads up. Hans equalised with a looping shot, provoking a furious reaction from The Cross, because their goalkeeper had been on the floor. One of their defenders charged over to me and completely lost it. He finished his indecipherable tirade by clipping me across the face. He later apologised for “losing it.” Luckily for him, the referee was otherwise occupied.

He can also be thankful it wasn’t two weeks ago when less placid visitors came to watch me play. It didn’t stop there. From the stand behind, a freelance lunatic spewed profanities in my direction. Having watched too many social zeroes have a go at my brother who plays semi-professional, my mum has always maintained that football is an excuse for the henpecked to let off steam on a Saturday.

I tried to remain in control. If a manager can’t manage himself, then he invites his players to lose their concentration and discipline. I spent so much time telling people to calm down that I began to resemble one of Harry Enfield’s Scousers. And that’s not good for a Mancunian.

The game was hard and competitive. Our players were as guilty of indiscretions as theirs and I cringed with embarrassment at the actions of some. We both had a man sent off – our one has played 80 minutes for us this season and received two red cards - and another of our lads was lucky to stay on the field.

Manchester didn’t play well and the Cross deserved their 2-1 triumph. That’s football and even though it hurt, you have to lose as gracefully as you win.

I spoke to my brother later. He was annoyed as his title chasing team, Curzon Ashton, had lost 1-0 at Garforth Town – the team who once signed Brazilians Socrates and Careca and saw Lee Sharpe turn out for them.

“Take it on the chin,” he said, “and cut yourself some slack.”

Slack will come in the form of two weeks without a game. My priorities will be finishing off my next book on world football derbies, which Harper Collins are publishing in August. FourFourTwo readers may be familiar with my derby reports from the ‘More Than A Game’ feature – and the plan is to bring some big derbies up to date for the book.

That means watching Lazio v Roma, Newcastle v Sunderland, Celtic v Rangers and Madrid v Barca in the next six weeks – it’s a hard life.

I’ll catch a cargo boat from Barcelona to Italy tomorrow for the Roman derby on Wednesday. With Manchester United again drawn against Roma, it will mean three trips to the Italian capital in four months. I’ll then fly to Manchester on Friday, watch my first ever rugby league game between St Helens and Wigan, then catch a still to be decided game on Saturday before United v Liverpool on Sunday.

It’s a busy time – and that’s without a possible United v Barca semi-final. My phone has already started going about that one. It seems I’ve had ‘tourist information’ tattooed on my forehead without knowing it.

But first Rome, where I’ll speak to someone who knows all about losing it on the pitch – Paolo Di Canio.

Hey Avram, I know how you feel

2008-03-14T10:12:00Z

Manchester La Fianna are flying. We’ve won nine on the bounce and risen to the top of the 24-team Barcelona International Football League with eight games to play.

We’re still in the cup and a post-season tour encompassing a match at third division Ibiza’s stadium awaits. In those nine victories we’ve scored 54 goals and conceded four. We’re also top of the fair play league for our division.

So why did I leave training so dispirited on Tuesday? Partly because I’m finding myself spending more and more time dealing with the less exciting aspects of running a team.

In our 4-0 victory last Saturday, I substituted striker 'Dinho' after 70 minutes. Dinho is from Togo and has attracted attention from a semi-professional club here. Playing for them would be a different matter, however, as his papers are not entirely in order.

Dinho turned out in the Senegalese first division last season, dreams of having a career in the game and says he is 20 years old. He paid his way to Europe through an ‘agent’ who had lined up a move to Beira Mar (Mario Jardel, Eusebio and Blackpool’s Stephen McPhee played for them) in the Portuguese second division.

He trained there but was not taken on and ended up in Barcelona where he had friends. Unable to find them, he slept rough for four days. After a phone call to Gabon, he finally tracked his down friends, found work, heard about our team and came training.

I knew within five minutes that he could play. He's quick, strong and almost impossible to knock off the ball. He’s got a ferocious shot, even if the ball sometimes ends up in the Costa Brava. Dinho’s started up front pretty much ever since. His punctuality isn’t great and he is prone to lose his temper, but he’s still an asset to the team.

Yet it’s clear why he’s not made it as a professional. We indulge him, better teams wouldn’t. Or we did until last Saturday when he refused to shake hands with the substitute and headed straight to the changing room.

The other players were rightly furious. I was going to pull him up but was talked out of it. So I had a quiet word at training and thankfully, he reacted positively and apologised. He’ll get another chance.

After that game, one of the defeated Mallorca players said: “You’ve got a great team, but good luck in controlling your superstars.” I told him that our main problems don’t come from the best players, but players who come training (we have open sessions) and think they are far better than they are.

A few have asked me in recent weeks why they're not in the team. They say they've had interest from much bigger teams. “I’m sure you’re sleeping with Jennifer Lopez and have just invented a cure for gavarn (a Manchester word for the chaffing a fat person gets between their upper thigh and private parts),” I should say, aware that they're talking horse. But I listen and use up time I’d rather be spending with the team.

We play the Celtic Cross, probably our biggest rivals, on Saturday. Their manager watched us last week. If I were him, I’d be telling my players to wind Dinho up.

But now I’ve told Dinho and he’s assured me he’s going to be as calm as the false Nicholas Cage who managed to blag an invite to the private box of Real Madrid president Ramon Calderon for last week’s Roma game.

In the meantime, I’ll concentrate on The Cross who have got players like Liam Austin who played in Australia’s A League only three years ago and Mike Connelly, who performed in the Irish League.

They're well organised and recently went on a run of 11 straight wins. Prior to that, their only defeat this season had come with a 2-1 reverse against us on the opening day of the season. The roar when goalkeeper Raul, who was with Real Zaragoza until he was 18, saved a last minute Cross penalty still makes me smile.

As will the other surprise we’ve got lined up for Saturday…

"Hello, is that Ivan Campo?"

2008-03-11T18:09:00Z

I was reading The Sunday Times on the metro to the Camp Nou ahead of Barca’s title-denting defeat to a very well-organised Villarreal side. The excellent team spirit among the Villarreal players was evident the night before in Barcelona’s Hilton hotel.

With their distinctive yellow banana team bus parked outside, the track-suited team got up to any manner of high jinx inside. They pushed each other into lifts, tapped team-mates on the shoulders, then hid when they looked around. And one even managed a reverse cup – that is a fart wafted into the face of an unsuspecting colleague from an offside position according to the Viz profanisaurus.

The only exceptions were Robert Pires and Pascal Cygan, two wily old pros who were completely absorbed in the televised Zaragoza v Atletico Madrid game. And Nihat, the Turkish striker whose ever-expanding entourage numbered 30 glad-handing compatriots by the time the players started disappearing to their rooms around midnight.

But back to the paper on the metro and a match report from the Liverpool v Newcastle game. The headline said ‘Torres’ and the accompanying picture of Spain’s second most famous Fernando filled half a page. I turned the page, but not before noticing a dozen eyes had been looking at it.

A large interview spread with Juande Ramos followed, further evidence of the impression Spaniards are making at the highest level in England. The same eyes were drawn to the piece about one of their compatriots excelling in Inglaterra. Or maybe they were just intrigued by the format – broadsheets don’t exist in Spain.

On Friday, I interviewed another Spaniard in England, Ivan Campo, formerly of Real Madrid and over half a decade into a Bolton career. I went directly to Campo because, unlike in England, Spanish players are used to being contacted by journalists. Campo got straight back to me, his only request being that we did the interview in Spanish.

Part of the reason for openness is that because of an absence of tabloids, most Spanish footballers have little reason to distrust the media. Quotes aren’t twirled in print, talk is largely kept to football and private lives are usually respected.

Cesc Fabregas is regularly on Catalan radio doing in-depth interviews and answering the kind of probing questions which would make a British press officer faint. But the Spanish media wouldn’t expect anything less.

In England, I’ve been asked to send a list of questions for a reserve-team player. In Spain, top-level players I’ve never met have called me back and asked when it’s convenient to do the interview.

Campo was enthusiastic, warm and finished the conversation by saying: “Call me if you need anything in the future.”

It’s how it used to be in Britain according to older journalists. But not now…

FC United out to avoid kick in the goolies

2008-03-07T14:00:00Z

FC United, the breakaway club set up by disenfranchised Manchester United supporters in the wake of the 2005 Glazer takeover, play a cup game at Goole tomorrow.

FC were league winners in each of their first two seasons and are well positioned for promotion in their third. Gates are down slightly, but FC still average an impressive 2,000 for home games at Bury’s Gigg Lane and regularly take over 1,000 noisy away fans around the north of England.

Those fans fill the coffers of delighted hosts and the local newspaper in Goole is excitedly reporting that Saturday will see their club’s biggest gate in years.

One half of an away following of two, I visited Goole a decade ago to see my brother play. The other away fan was my brother’s posh girlfriend, who looked appalled when we arrived. It was 1999, the same year the Humberside town of 18,000 achieved notoriety for having the highest proportion of drug related deaths in Britain - 14 times the national average. I didn’t stay long enough to work out whether that was because of
visiting sailors at Britain’s ‘Premier Inland Port’ or locals, and nobody offered me coke, crack or cake.

The skyline around Goole’s crumbling but gloriously named Victoria Pleasure Ground was dominated by two huge water towers known locally as “the salt and pepper pots” and the cranes of the nearby docks.

The locals, or ‘Goolies’ as they are known, were friendly, despite me travelling from the other side of the Pennines. Goole once had a hooligan firm called ‘the Gooligans’ and Margaret Thatcher wrote to the club expressing her dismay after they wrecked her hometown of Grantham.

Goole Town had a rich history including FA Cup games against Nottingham Forest and holding Wrexham in a 1977 second round tie, but they folded in 1996. They soon reformed as Goole AFC at the bottom of the non-league pyramid and started the long climb back up. Goole were having success, their fans confident, when I visited. “We’ll be in the Conference in five years,” opined one, incorrectly. They were genuine football people who wanted the best for their club. I tried to buy an enamel badge to support their cause. But they didn’t have any.

My brother’s team, the mighty Trafford, drew 1-1 in an FA Cup qualifier, but the game didn’t pass without incident. Some Goole fans gave the Trafford manager abuse. Unbeknown to them, the boss was Mark Molyneux, a legendary Salford character and former minder to the boxer Steve Foster, once made one of his players who was getting a bit ‘big time’ a ‘*** butty’ – his excrement hidden by a layer of cucumber.

A former goalkeeper, Molyneux also stole a pair of the former Manchester United and Scotland international Arthur Albiston’s underpants after an away game at Barrow and wore them over his trousers in the bar later. He generously told Albiston he could wear his soiled pair.

Molyneux gave the Goole fans as good as he got, but snapped when one of them made a comment about his daughter, sitting in the dug out. Launching himself over the fence Eric Cantona style, he charged at the gobby fan, who looked absolutely terrified as he ran towards the giant pepper pot. Molyneux didn’t give chase but focussed on his side gaining a 1-1 draw. Trafford won in the replay and played Burton Albion away later in the competition.

And the story of that trip is well worth waiting for...

Bhoys fans benefit from Rangers' visit to Catalonia

2008-03-05T14:43:00Z

Every metro station in Barcelona carries several illuminated posters advertising Manchester. It’s part of an airline promotion and a fine-looking shot of the city makes it look more Lisbon than Lowry in an attempt to persuade Catalans to visit.

Barca fans wouldn’t need any such inducement to go there if their team is paired with Manchester United in Friday’s Champions League quarter-final draw.

Barcelona is just recovering from its invasion by Celtic supporters. Unlike the 21,000 Rangers travelling fans in Catalonia last November, the 12,000 who came to cheer on Celtic have received positive media coverage, despite there being little discernible difference in their behaviour.

What changed is that Celtic fans benefited from Rangers visit. The Catalan authorities were not ready for the number of Rangers supporters who constituted the largest ever following in a European away game for a British club in a non-final match. Rangers fans were short changed by authorities happy to take their money, but unwilling to provide the infrastructure their presence required.

Rangers fans were criticised for urinating in the square at Placa Catalunya. Celtic fans weren’t because scores of portable toilets had been installed.

Unsurprisingly, the numerous Irish bars in Barcelona either closed or employed heavy security for the visit of Rangers. For Celtic fans they issued commemorative t-shirts and stuck up posters of Jimmy Johnstone. A special fan zone was created for the Celtic contingent outside the city centre; Rangers fans faced lines of nervous police.

There were many ironic scenes, such as ‘dangerous’ protestant Rangers fans singing sectarian songs in those Irish bars which did stay open, while ‘friendly’ Celtic fans loudly eulogised the IRA in those same bars months later – not that the Catalans, who view noisy inebriation as weakness and not a virtue, were aware of the nuances of fan culture. Well, apart from those who unfurled a giant Irish tricolour to agitate the Rangers fans.

The sheer size of the travelling support from both clubs was impressive and far, far in excess of what Barca took to either Celtic Park or Ibrox - Barca needed only one plane to Glasgow; Rangers fans arrived on 97 flights for the return game in Catalonia.

Their range of songs was comprehensive and flags from both sets of visiting Glaswegian fans impressive. And given the sheer numbers of visiting fans, both games passed with few arrests and plenty of comic stories. Like the two Celtic fans negotiating with a Catalan tout for tickets. He cheekily asked for €200 a ticket and the alcohol fuelled pair thought about it and came back with their offer…€195.

Not since Alan Partridge bid £324,000 for a house on the market for £325,000 – and whose main selling point was “a Buck Rogers toilet” - has a vendor been so willing.

Van Nistelrooy, Maggie May and the chubby Georgian

2008-03-03T19:42:00Z

Ruud van Nistelrooy was in form on Thursday and our chat lasted twice the 20 minutes agreed.

Real Madrid were efficient and friendly to deal with, the AVE train was excellent and Ruud, aware that he was talking to the official magazine of a club he still clearly adores, spoke like a fan.

I returned to Barcelona thinking about Manchester la Fianna’s match against the league champions and cup winners from Georgia.

Positive news arrived before the game as we heard the current league leaders Celtic Cross had lost 4-1. Win and we would go top for the first time this season.

Much of what I like about our league is summed up by the Cross manager – a Leeds-supporting Yorkshireman called Steve Varley who named his fantasy football team ‘I hate Man U’. We all make mistakes. One of life’s givers, he kindly picked our Manchester United kits up from the launderette and dropped them at the stadium.

Burly Georgian fans scowled at us as we warmed up. Their team survived a vote over possible expulsion from the league due to persistent aggression, but they’ve always been fine when they played us, twice beating us 2-1.

Unbeknown to us, our largely female fan contingent were giving as good as they got in the stands matching the East European testosterone with some multi-national oestrogen.

One told a rum looking Georgian to ‘get to the gym you fatty!’ when he took his jumper off. Then they carried on, Argentinians, Brazilians, Mexicans, Spanish and English girls shouting ‘Manchester! Manchester!’ Bizarre, but brilliant.

Aside from them, everyone else in the stadium wanted us to lose – apart from a former Man United hooligan on a high after seeing his team beat Fulham 3-0.

I benched myself and could hear the Georgian bench making caustic comments about us in their language. They looked even more cocksure when they went a goal up after 40 minutes, less so when our former Belgian U18 international Hans equalised a minute later.

“We’ve got them on the fucking ropes,” I hollered at half-time, swearing unnecessarily, “they’re the champions and they’ve gone. Finish them off.”

Our second half performance was outstanding. We went 2-1 up, then 3-1, 4-1 and finally 5-1.

The Georgians bench emptied as the goals went in, their fans slunk off in the direction of the nearby beach. The buzz was so pure that I’m still on a high days later and I didn’t even get on the pitch.

Our fans went mad in the stands and the lads celebrated by singing Maggie May, which has become our unofficial dressing room anthem. I’m not sure why.

The celebrations were only tempered when the manager of a Spanish fifth division side approached one of our strikers after the game with a view to signing him up.

I can’t stand in his way and if he can make a living playing football we’ll wish him well. But unbeknown to the predatory manager, the striker ‘Dinho’ has been full-time professional all his life. And it was football which brought him from West Africa to Europe as he followed his dream, led by an unscrupulous agent.

But the story of how he ended up playing for us can wait until the end of the week. Like those Celtic fans currently filling Barcelona, we’ll enjoy our moment in the sun while it lasts.

A meeting with Ruud and train ticket torment

2008-02-27T16:57:00Z

“Bullshit.” That was the last word Ruud van Nistelrooy said to me as a Manchester United player.

It was in New Jersey three years ago following a pre-season friendly between United and AC Milan. I’d asked Ruud to respond to accusations that United’s US trip was more about commercial gain than football and he replied with a well constructed argument about the players liking America because they enjoyed the relative anonymity, the excellent training facilities and a high quality of opposition. “Whatever anyone else says is bullshit,” he concluded.

Tomorrow, I’ve got a one-on-one interview with the Real Madrid striker in the Spanish capital, something I’ve been chasing for three months. Ruud was superb for United yet, if anything, he’s been even better for the Spanish champions.

He’s maintained the phenomenal goal ratio, but he’s a more complete player who provides assists and has been central to the rejuvenation of Raul. He looks fitter, happier and more productive than he ever did in his final years at Old Trafford.

I’m looking forward to the trip and not only because interviews with bright, articulate footballers are rare. I started spending time in Spain in 2001, driving from Manchester via the Portsmouth - Bilbao ferry to Barcelona with some belongings.

The journey across the north of Spain contrasted between the lush mountains of the Basque country with the arid solemnity of the meseta – the high plateau on which sits much of inland Spain. Breaking the often desolate landscape was the construction of the high speed AVE rail link between Barcelona and Madrid. That link finally opened last week, three years late.

Previously, a train between Spain’s two biggest cities took six hours, meaning the air route between Castile and Catalonia was the planet’s busiest, with planes every twenty minutes. Now, the 342 mile journey takes just 2 hours 38 minutes on one of the fastest rail routes in the world and you get a full refund if the train is more than 10 minutes late.

Booking the ticket was a frustration, however. AVE’s website twice crashed when I tried to make payment and the lady at their call centre was thicker than the mud in Morecambe Bay.

She was confused by a simple ticket enquiry between those unknown villages of Barcelona and Madrid. As she also seemed to be doing the booking on a ZX Spectrum, I gave up, cursed Spanish inefficiency, walked to the station and paid a hefty £150. For that price I expect Penelope Cruz to be driving the train and her sister Monica to be hooting the hooter.

I intend to use the journey time well, finalising questions for the Dutchman and working out which team to play for Manchester La Fianna’s big game against Iveria, the reigning league champions and cup winners, this Saturday.

Iveria are comprised of Georgian immigrants, several of them former professionals from Tbilisi and have around 100 fans at each game. We’re on a run of seven consecutive wins, our last defeat a 2-1 slip against Iveria in November.

I was absent and received several painful score texts as I watched Bolton beat Manchester United. It was a bad day, but Manchester have improved since, a true test of which will come this Saturday. We’re without three key players, but don’t tell the Georgians that…

Beer tasting Belize captain is king of Catalonia

2008-02-25T16:15:00Z

“New 11-a-side football team starting in the Barcelona International Football League. Players of all nationalities welcome. Interested? Email XXX.”

That was the advert I placed in various publications around Barcelona in the summer of 2006. I heard nothing for weeks. When people asked how the team was going I lied and said: ‘We’re getting there.’ In reality we had four players. I put the word out to everyone from neighbours to a lad I met at a Bosnian train station who had a mate in Barcelona who played football, but responses were still minimal.

Eventually, the responses started to trickle in. Some, like the former Anderlecht and Belgian Under 18 international who merely sent his CV, looked very promising. He’s now team captain. Others, whose main attribute was listed as being “enthusiastic” didn’t. I looked at 42 players in total, whittling them down to a manageable 20. The players who bigged themselves up tended to disappoint in the flesh, while those who let their football do the talking didn’t. One player looked outstanding at an early training session. He was quiet, unassuming and easily worthy of his place in the starting line up.

A month into our first season, we beat former champions Dynamo 3-0, a real watershed for the fledgling team. An attractive Argentinian lady with a small child approached me in the bar after the game.

“I’m Jorge’s wife,” she said shyly. “We’d like to invite the whole team to a BBQ one day. To say thanks for making my husband feel so welcome. He’s enjoying his football now more than any time since he played for the national team.”

The what?

“He’d never tell you this, but he was the captain of his country, Belize.”

That explained why he was so good, despite being 37. At club level, Jorge Garcia played for Juventus (no, the story is not that good), the three-time national champions of Belize. For his country he played in the qualifiers for the France ’98 World Cup. In front of 41,000, he marked the Panamanian forward Dely Valdes, who played for Cagliari, PSG and the Malaga team which reached the UEFA Cup. Belize might be one lowest ranked countries in the world, but it was still impressive.

The season ticked over, but once a month Jorge would say: “I can’t make it this Saturday, I’m away.” I soon realised that this wasn’t an English language teacher eking out a living in the sun. Then we found out that his job, a brew master for one of the world’s biggest brewers. He gets paid to travel the world tasting beer.

We considered giving him a nickname. ‘God’ and ‘Life’s not fair’ were mentioned. Like star-struck village idiots we talked of lobbying the local government to erect a statue of him on the beach.

A defensive midfielder, he stands out at our level and has won more man of the matches than any other player. Which is a slight hindrance for him as the man of the match has to down a large whisky with a hint of cola – not ideal for a driver like Jorge.

We were 0-0 at half-time a few weeks ago when he turned up late – he’d been sorting out peace in the Middle East and knocking back Elizabeth Hurley’s advances or something. With Jorge inspirational, we won 4-0 – to the delight of his former fans who’ve discovered this blog on the other side of the Atlantic.

Tell us, dear readers, does he have any faults?

Ronaldinho, "Andinho" and the best girls in Brazil

2008-02-18T16:19:00Z

Ronaldinho has been less than spectacular so far this season, but he was on great form in the interview on Thursday.

Getting the tone right with a player is crucial. It’s professional to keep a distance. And there’s nothing worse than hearing 50-year-old journalists calling players half their age “mate”, but then if you interview the same players again and again you build up an understanding and trust as you would in any other occupation.

I first interviewed Ronaldinho when he arrived at Barca in 2003. I was granted a one on one with him at a golf club in northern Catalonia which Barca were using as a pre-season base. There were no other media present and he was relaxed as we sat on a terrace in the shadows of the lush Pyrenees.

It was impossible not to like him and subsequent meetings have done nothing to change my opinion of him. He considers himself a normal person who is decent at football. On each occasion he’s promised to speak in English “the next time.” But he never does.

And why should he? He asked how things were with me and I told him that my girlfriend was from close to his home city of Porto Alegre in Brazil. He started laughing. It’s like coming from Manchester and playing in Brazil, then getting interviewed by an Argentinian who tells you that his girlfriend is from Preston.

“How did you meet her?” he asked. “Has she made you churrasco? (Meat roasted over charcoal on wooden skewers.) I thought of saying – “No, but she’s had fish and chips in Fleetwood. In December.” What I actually said was, “She’s promised.”

“Have you listened to pagode?” (a sub genre of Samba popular in southern Brazil that he loves). I should have said, “Yes, and she’s been to see The Charlatans and Arctic Monkeys in concert,” but I just said “Yes. It’s very good.”

Ronaldinho was enjoying this conversation, as were his family, sitting close by.

“Does she play football?” Ronaldinho continued, “If you have a kid then he can play for Brazil!”

“We’ll call him Andinho,” I replied.

“Novo Hamburgo is renown for having the best girls in Brazil,” he went on.

“I’ve heard. No idea why she hooked up with a skinny big nosed Englishman.”

“You’ve got to go there. The food and the music are special. Does she have any friends?!”

We then started the interview, with him shaking his head in disbelief. I didn’t push my plan of getting him to play for Manchester La Fianna on Saturday in exchange for fixing him up.

It wasn’t that he was about to play in the match against Zaragoza where he scored a match-winning penalty, which pushed Barca within five points of Madrid; I just couldn’t see where I’d fit him into our new 4-2-3-1 system.

One of Manchester United’s chief scouts was in Barcelona on Saturday night, doubtless delighted after watching United, inspired by Anderson, another son of Porto Alegre, blitz Arsenal 4-0. But United were not the only team to win 4-0 in the cup.

Manchester La Fianna recorded probably the most significant win in our 18- month history. And while Ronaldinho, as everyone knows, has a great life story, wait until you hear the one about our man of the match…

My Valentine's date with Ronaldinho

2008-02-14T13:25:00Z

Sunday may have been the Manchester derby, but Saturday saw another all-Manchester clash – between Blue Square Premier strugglers Droylsden and Altrincham. Curiously, the visitors wearing blue also ran out victors.

Many Altrincham residents are proud of their Cheshire postcode, but the prosperous town is part of Manchester’s urban sprawl, its football team one of the non-league’s most famous.

‘Alty’ were regular giant killers in the 1970s and ’80s, twice winners of non-league’s top division before automatic promotion. Their proud history was recalled in a superb song by the 600 travelling fans in the 1,177 crowd when, to the tune of Lionel Ritchie’s Three Times a Lady, they sang: “We’ve been once, twice… three times to Wembley… and you’ve won the Manchester Cup.”

The last line was a dig at Droylsden, the East Manchester side who look set for immediate relegation following their first ever season in non-league’s top tier. The Bloods, under manager-chairman Dave Pace, have excelled in reaching this level on crowds of 400, but they’ve understandably found life difficult.

Altrincham average more – around 1,000 – and their Moss Lane home is fit for league football, but money is perennially tight and they’ve over-achieved by staying in a league where the majority of teams are full-time and far better supported.

The Robins do have one of the best websites in football though – a real labour of love by webmaster John Laidlar. Lower-level football would struggle without men like him.

Unlike leafy Altrincham, Droylsden is more hard-bitten. A takeaway outside their Butcher’s Arms home sells two pieces of chicken and chips for 99p. Another in the town centre is simply called “Smith”.

Closer inspection reveals that it sells bedding. Imagine the conversation between the shop’s proprietor and the sign writer: “Just put ‘Smith’ for the moment mate, that should entice people in.”

One thing both places have in common is that they are frequently spelt wrongly, Altrincham being ‘Altringham’ (that's how locals pronounce it) and Droylsden ‘Droylesden'. Manchester United’s official magazine even made the mistake when the club’s reserves started playing at Moss Lane.

Droyldsen, close to Manchester City’s new stadium, seemed more desirable on Saturday under an azure East Manchester sky, but Alty beat the Bloods 2-0 to increase their chances of staying up.

And now for something completely different. I’m off to interview Ronaldinho at the Camp Nou for a magazine who want a more offbeat and irreverent piece.

They’ve suggested some questions, one being: ‘Do you recycle your old plastic bottles and cereal packets?’

If that doesn’t spook him, I might ask him to spell Altrincham. If he’s really up for anything I’ll try and get him to play for Manchester La Fianna in our big cup game against league runners-up *** on Saturday.

And with it being Valentine’s Day, I’ve got an idea. My girlfriend is from Ronaldinho's home city of Porto Alegre. He's single and so are several of her Brazilian mates, who also live in Barcelona and are looking for love. It doesn’t take Einstein to do the math. Or Smith of Droylsden.

Scarf for sale. Useful for strangling the media...

2008-02-13T11:34:00Z

My phone didn’t stop on Monday with the media wanting quotes about the Manchester United ‘fans’ putting their Munich memorial scarves on eBay. They called because for the last 18 years I’ve edited the United We Stand fanzine.

United put 73,000 red-and-white scarves, plus 3,000 blue-and-white ones on the seats inside Old Trafford before Sunday’s derby. It was a well-intentioned gesture and the stadium looked magnificent during the perfectly observed minute’s silence – the highlight of the day for most Reds given the insipid performance which followed.

Those around me, sitting just 30 metres from the City fans, applauded them for being so respectful. There had been fears, not without foundation given the proliferation of Munich songs in sections of City’s fan base, that they would disrupt the silence.

Radio 5 were first on the story following complaints from City fans that ‘United fans were trying to profit from human tragedy’. They had a point. I was disappointed, but before speaking I rang around a variety of Reds to canvass opinion. All were unanimous – these people were profiteering fools unrepresentative of the United fans they knew, none of whom would consider selling the scarves.

There was a strong case for defending the vast majority of United fans so I agreed to speak, but there are dangers in doing radio- not least your mates trying to ring your house phone at the same time in attempts at sabotage.

Someone is always going to shoot the minute you stick your head about the parapet with a soundbite. Most are freaks or geeks – one weird fish once had a go after a piece on TalkSport following a United v Celtic pre-season game in Seattle.

“You said on the radio that there were as many Celtic fans as Reds in the ground – that’s well out of order,” he spluttered angrily, almost a year after the event.

“Why? There were. I was there and spoke to the organisers.”

“Well my mate said there were miles more Reds and he watched on television,” he replied.

Criticism goes with the territory, but it's not as much of a problem as media organisations who like to introduce you as a ‘spokesman for the fans’ when you're not. They're so blissfully ignorant of the nuances of fan culture that they'll happily send a film crew to Old Trafford to capture the opinions of the sort of people who hang around empty football stadiums on a non-match day. I’m sure all the TV types seek out clueless tourists to reinforce the misguided stereotype that all United fans are from nowhere near Manchester.

I offer my own opinion, hopefully an informed one given the amount of feedback we get from match going fans. I put the same message out to all who rang – including the four calls from different departments of the Sky empire.

They have some sharp journalists and others who aren’t – such as the presenter from Sky Sports News who had swallowed the story that the going rate for a £1 scarf was £5,200 on eBay, unaware that these bids were bogus and aimed at scuppering sales.

Another, looking to make a dig at United fans, asked: “Isn’t this the same as Roy Keane’s comments about the prawn sandwiches?”

“No,” I replied. Now soundbite that.

The Prince and the Ganja Farmer

2008-02-08T11:15:00Z

My team, Manchester La Fianna, won our final group game 4-0 last Saturday, our record of P11 W9 L2 easily good enough to qualify for the next stage to decide the Barcelona International Football League (BIFL) champions in June.

And on Tuesday, Prince Osito (see Messi, the Prince and Mr Pink) trained with us. Turns out, he actually is a real prince – his dad is the king of his village in Nigeria. That means he could become the first royalty to play for Manchester – although we briefly had an English lad who looked like Prince William and was so posh that I told people his grandma was 'the Queen of England'. All the South Americans, Africans, North Americans and Europeans realised I was blagging, but a Cockney defender fell for it.

I watched Prince Osito closely to see if he could play. I’d heard he was with Betis B, but I’ve heard too many players big themselves up. One told me last year that he had played for a Danish first division team and had come to Spain to join Espanyol “but they were full".

Unfortunately for him, he didn’t realise I was a football journalist. Even so, he must have been really thick, because all I did was a Google search which revealed that the Danish first division club he mentioned had average crowds of 6,000 and a slick website. And he wasn’t anywhere to be seen on it. In training, it was clear to see that he’d never played professional football. The more modest lads tend to be the best players.

The Prince, thankfully, could play. He was friendly too, and after training I asked him if was interested in turning out for us.

“Of course!” he replied. “But I have to do a show some Saturdays.”

A what?

“I’m a reggae singer,” he said, producing his latest cd from his kitbag and handing it over, “have a listen.”

Back to Google which found the video for his ‘Ganja Farmer’ song, filmed at various seedy locations around Barcelona. You can spot the bus station and Vallbona, one of the poorest overspill estates located between a cemetery, three rail lines and a 19 lane road intersection carrying traffic north to France. I know that because we play some of our games there, on a dusty pitch with shocking floodlights powered by fairy candles.

The Prince told me his story as we walked to the metro. He came to Europe to pursue his dream of playing football and ended up with the B team of Real Betis, in the footsteps of Finidi George, another boy from his hometown of Port Harcourt.

George, formerly of Ajax, went onto Mallorca and Ipswich, while the Prince came to Barcelona reckoning his “tough (football) exodus deeply marked his music and identity”.

As we’ve no game this weekend, I’ll see him next week. In the meantime, I’m going to watch two Manchester derbies: Droylsden v Altrincham in the Conference and United v City in the global Premiership.

Then it's back to Barcelona for a Valentine’s Day interview with Ronaldinho! He promised that the next time I interviewed him it would be in English. If that happens then I’m a Prince.

United and Red Star: friends forever

2008-02-06T09:06:00Z

On the morning of November 19 1991, two double decker coaches pulled onto the wintry Old Trafford forecourt. They had taken three days to reach Manchester on their journey from Belgrade, capital of a diminishing Yugoslavia.

On board were 120 Delije, hardcore supporters of European champions Red Star Belgrade. Serbia – their country – was on an irreversible slide into war, with Serbs cited as the aggressors. But it was still an undeclared war against the remnants of what was fast becoming the former Yugoslavia: Croatia, Slovenia and Bosnia.

The Red Star fans had travelled to see their team play in the European Super Cup final. Normally, the winners of the Cup Winners’ Cup and the European Cup played games over two legs for a trophy that has never really caught the public’s imagination, yet UEFA decreed Belgrade unsafe and ordered the game to be played over 90 minutes at Old Trafford.

A pathetic crowd of 22,000 attended a treat of a match, seeing United completely outplayed by the genius of Prosinecki and Savicevic. Yet United won 1-0, a Brian McClair penalty.

“Anyone who was at that game must still be wondering how we managed to win it,” wrote Sir Alex Ferguson in his autobiography. “I know I am. In the first half, the Yugoslav’s star player, Dejan Savicevic, was absolutely sensational and it was a miracle that we came in level at half-time.

"I had to make a tactical move and once again it was to Mr Reliable, Brian McClair, that I turned. I told him to withdraw into the midfield to squeeze the space that Red Star had been exploiting. He did that to such good effect that we gained some decent possession and a measure of control. Then he scored the only goal of the match to claim a fairly outrageous victory.”

Not that the defeat seemed to matter to the Serbs in the south stand. Fired by intense nationalism, the 120 fans easily outsang United.

We shouldn’t have been surprised. Six months earlier Red Star’s fans had been the principle attraction of a dull European Cup final against Marseille in Bari, a venue chosen because of its brilliant stadium built for Italia ’90 rather than its good transport links.

It suited Red Star though. Close on 30,000 of them had travelled across the Adriatic by boat from Bar, Serbia & Montenegro’s only port. As luck would have it, Bari was the only placed served by boat from Bar.

The final was an unfair reflection of Red Star (Crvena Zvezda in Serbian) because that team could really play – their 2-1 victory away to Bayern Munich in the semi-final was the brilliant blend of cynicism and sublime skill, yet against Marseille they were devoid of their usual attacking verve and allowed players like Prosinecki to be stifled.

Red Star won on penalties, but their reputation wasn’t enhanced.

More interesting that night was their fans. They knew war was coming and they mongered for it, singing a barrage of anti-Croatian and nationalist songs, as well as displaying flags in a brilliant choreography. Their fans loved Prosinecki, yet he was Croat. In the famous photo of the celebrating Red Star on the running track on front of their fans in Bari, eight of their players extended the two fingers and a thumb Serb salute. Prosinecki didn’t.

As the buses left Old Trafford six months later, news came through on BBC World Service that the Croatian town of Vukovar had fallen to the predominantly Serb JNA army. The town’s 50,000 population had shrunk to 15,000, the remainder cornered under a continued barrage of gun fire. Three thousand died.

“Red Star had always tried to be free of any political body, but our brothers were fighting so we cheered,” Red Star fan Ilija L told me when we met in a Belgrade café in the summer of 2006, “but we knew that most of us would be going home to fight in a war. We loved football, but it would have to become our second priority.”

Many Red Star fans did go to fight, members of their firm joining up with Arkan, leader of Red Star’s hooligans. The son of a colonel in General Tito’s air force, Arkan rebelled in his youth and travelled around Europe, making ends meet as a bank robber and a hit man.

Arkan was forced to learn the main European languages because of his undercover work in Europe. He spoke fluent English, French and Italian, and was also familiar with German, Swedish and Dutch.

Arkan returned to Belgrade in 1986 and became leader of the Delije. They became feared and when the war started he formed a group called the Tigers. Arkan wasn’t at Old Trafford. He led the attack into Vukovar, playing his part in killing hundreds of innocent Croats. The war made Arkan notorious on an international level.

It was a war in which football was never far away. Many claim it started at a football match between Dinamo Zagreb and Red Star Belgrade. With tensions growing, Red Star fans brought huge numbers of Belgrade licence plates and fixed them over the Zagreb plates of local cars, tricking Zagreb hooligans into attacking their own.

The outstanding Zvonimir Boban, the Dinamo captain who went onto play for Milan, became a national hero in Croatia when he launched a flying kick at a Serb Policeman who was beating up a Dinamo fan. Tensions only rose after that.

After the war, Arkan's tigers were officially disbanded in April 1996 with the threat to be reactivated in case of a war emergency. In June of that year he took over a second division football team Obilić who were soon promoted and then became Serbian champions.

UEFA, under American pressure, prohibited Obilić from participation in Europe because of its connections with Arkan’s alleged war crimes, so Arkan stepped back and made his wife Ceca, a Serbian pop star, president of Obilic.

Obilic played matches against Bayern Munich and Atletico Madrid – and although players of those team were not intimidated or threatened, rival Serb teams were.

Arkan's ‘business’ was initially based on controlling protection rackets, money extortion, and the smuggling of oil and luxury items. Later he pursued more legitimate business, and had about 400 people working for him. He owned casinos, discos, gas stations, pastry shops, stores, bakeries, restaurants, gyms, as well as a private security agency.

Arkan was assassinated while having a coffee in the Belgrade Intercontinental in 2000. Speaking to the English journalist Gavin Hills four years earlier, he had claimed to be a Manchester United fan. Hills, a superb writer who drowned off the Cornish coast aged just 31 in 1997, told me to do two things: go and see Arkan and go and write about Cliftonville and Linfield in Belfast. I got to do one.

Yet this article isn’t just about Arkan, nor a history of the death of Yugoslavia, but about Manchester United’s links with one of European football's great clubs.

Red Star Belgrade have fallen since those days in 1991 with the break-up of Yugoslavia significantly weakening their league. Where once they played foes like Hadjuk Split or Dinamo Zagreb, now they play teams from towns of 5,000. Red Star’s average gate is only 10,000 – although they get 35,000 for the visit of rivals Partizan.

Even that figure doesn’t fill the still impressive 55,000 capacity Marakana stadium – named because locals thought that the football played there was as good as anything in Brazil.

There are calls for an Adriatic league so that they can all play each other again, but UEFA are unlikely to sanction that. Regions seeking independence don’t tend to think of the knock-on effect for football.

United didn’t play in the Marakana in 1958. It didn’t have lights so the game was played at the JNA stadium, home of their rivals Partizan. Having won the tie 5-4 on aggregate – thanks to a 3-3 draw in front of 55,000 – the players celebrated reaching the semi-finals of the European Cup by going out with their Red Star counterparts for an official banquet where the Yorkshire trio of Jones, Taylor and Pegg gave a rendition of ‘Om Ilkley Moor Baht ‘At’.

As midnight approached, captain Roger Byrne asked Matt Busby if the players could leave the function and go out to experience the Belgrade nightlife. Most of the married ones headed back to their hotel – the Majestic – while the younger ones went to a nightclub called The Crystal. The club has long gone but the hotel still stands and has barely changed.

Belgrade has a population of 1.58 million. It’s a modern capital, but you sense it was better 20 years ago before the war, the Nato bombs of 1999 and economic sanctions. Evidence of the bombs is easy to find – on the night United won the European Cup, American bombers which took off in Oxfordshire picked out several strategic sights in the city. The bombs unnervingly accurate, picking out individual offices. Luckily, the Marakana wasn’t one of them, despite being located close to the centre.

Graffiti covers the walls outside the stadium with the names of Red Star’s numerous groups. Many are anglicised, like the ‘Belgrade Boys’. A few rogue Partizan fans have sprayed their own.

It’s an intimidating place, nothing like the tourist attraction Old Trafford is these days. A small door in the main stand was open so I had a look inside to see Red Star’s souvenir shop. Aside from one assistant, there wasn’t a soul around. Few tourists do Belgrade these days. The girl behind the counter suggested the club museum.

The museum curator was waiting for his first visitor of the day. His eyes lit up, he switched the lights on and welcomed me in. The museum was superb and there was a significant amount of United memorabilia.

The first item you see is the pennant which Roger Byrne presented when Red Star visited Old Trafford in January 1958 when United won 2-1 in front of 60,000. It’s beautifully woven with details of the game and shames the pennants from other English clubs – like Newcastle’s cheap plastic one. Given that match programmes from the game in Belgrade are worth over £2,000, the pennant must be worth five figures. “We’d never sell it,” said the curator. A second pennant was from the European Super Cup game in 1991, again intrinsically woven.

A silver plate, presented by United’s Oxford and Banbury branch to Red Star in 1983 as an appreciation of their continued friendship, is also in the museum, as is a ceramic tankard from United to mark a friendly game played at Old Trafford in 1987 – and not to thank them for our first foreign signing, Nicola Jovanovic, who came from the Red Star in 1980.

This game was organised to sate the appetite of United fans denied European football after Heysel, yet it was a flop with just 10,000 attending. “It used to be that Manchester United fans would turn up at Old Trafford to watch the shirts dry,” wrote David Meek in the Manchester Evening News the following day, “not any more.”

Another piece of memorabilia is a gold football, inscribed with both club badges. It was sent on February 6 2003, the 45th anniversary of Munich and is inscribed ‘Friends Forever’. United excel at gestures like this. And Red Star have surpassed themselves by selflessly giving over large chunks of their own museum to Manchester United. There’s a glass case dedicated to Munich, with ticket stubs and original autographs from the United players on display.

Red Star and United are unlikely to meet as frequently in the future. The Balkans has always produced great footballers, but the best players now leave Serbia by the time they are 23, with Red Star’s wages unable to compete with even second tier European leagues. The Champions League favours the richest leagues, the coefficient method of ranking meaning the rich will get more games and get richer, the poor fewer.

What can’t be altered though, is United’s long standing friendship with Red Star, borne out of tragedy and built on mutual respect and sympathy.

Barca, Brits and the bad, bad reporter

2008-02-04T10:37:00Z

It’s raining on the Camp Nou. Barca’s players are shaking hands with opponents Osasuna as the club’s stirring anthem – ‘Barca! Barca! Barrrrca!’ – rings round a half-empty stadium. Many home fans have stayed away because of the weather. Until a roof goes on in 2011, the stadium remains three-quarters exposed.

The 50,000 present include the Almogavers, a Barca ultra group who, incredibly, are singing West Ham’s ‘I’m forever blowing bubbles’ anthem in English. There’s a hundred strong Barca/West Ham supporters’ club in Catalonia and the English influence tonight doesn’t stop there.

The metro to the stadium was packed with groups of inebriated Brits, the sort who make you embarrassed to be a British passport holder with their louder-than-bombs approach. The Barca game was intended to be highlight of many a stag do, a small part of the growing football tourism business. The Catalan giants count on around 10,000 visiting tourists – most of them northern Europeans – for every weekend home game.

I’m here for the fourth day in succession following a two-part interview with Lionel Messi on Friday and Saturday. For a blag, I was going to copy the interview technique of the Saudi Arabian journalist who, granted access to Cristiano Ronaldo, Sir Alex Ferguson and Ryan Giggs recently, proceeded to ask the following inane and unintentionally hilarious questions. The editor would not have approved.

Messi, the current darling of Barca fans, was on good form and appeared oblivious to the pressure that others are placing on him. To finish off I asked him to name his Perfect XI – be it Argentinian footballers or a current World XI.

“Is it OK if I have a think about it and email you my choices?” he asked, ever thoughtful.

At the other end of the football scale, my younger brother Jonathan just called. Now 31, he’s a semi-professional who has played at more clubs than Erick Morillo, career highlights include scoring a penalty for Altrincham in the 2005 Conference play-off semi finals and being the first ever signing for FC United of Manchester. He’s now at rivals Curzon Ashton and played at Wakefield yesterday in a 0-0 draw.

“I got on for the last 10... and was sent off,” he moans.

“Why?”

“Their centre-half was pinching me under my arms. So I fronted him and he went down as if I’d elbowed him. I didn’t. I got sent off, despite the **** head suddenly getting up and telling the ref I hadn’t elbowed him.”

His frustration doesn’t compare with those of the Barca fans. The game is now in the 88th minute, tied at 0-0 and Barca look as though they won’t take advantage of a rare Real Madrid loss on Saturday night. Then Xavi scores cutting Madrid’s lead at the top down to six points.

Messi, the Prince and Mr Pink

2008-02-01T10:44:00Z

Greeting from the press box, high above the Camp Nou. It’s half time between Barca and Villarreal in the quarterfinals of the Spanish Cup and the place uncharacteristically buzzing after a Thierry Henry goal. I’m scheduled to interview Lionel Messi for FourFourTwo tomorrow and I want to catch some of his teammates after the game, which finishes at ten to midnight. Them and Giuseppe Rossi of Villarreal, who is excelling in Spain.

It’s been an unusual day. This morning, I received a call asking if I’m interested in signing a 34-year-old Nigerian right back called Prince Osito who “was on the books at Real Betis”. I initially thought it was Phone Jacker informing me that I had a pigeon in my bank account, but it was true. I’m not sure why he wants to play for an amateur team where players pay to play, but he does. Maybe he’s heard about our game against the Norwegians. “He’s keen to play,” said the caller. “Have a look at him on You Tube.” I did. The Prince was there in action, forcing his torso under a pole during a limbo competition in a Barcelona nightclub rather than on a football field. He’s coming training on Tuesday…

Later, another caller asked if I knew of any “established high profile players who would be interested in playing in the Chinese first division for €300,000 a year. The ideal player will be aged 28-32 and willing to move to China.” Unconvinced that I was the right man to help - and with The Prince just missing out on age grounds - I pointed him in the direction of an agent.

That was after lunch with Mr Pink, Mr Yellow and Mr Red. They all work in football: Mr Yellow is an agent to several international players, Mr Pink is on the business side and Mr Red is a journalist who knows the Spanish scene inside out. If Deportivo’s left back pulls up in training then Mr Red will hear about it. All three raved about Cristiano Ronaldo and after a heated discussion about Manchester United’s ticket pricing policy, Mr Yellow stated that it had been a quiet January transfer wise. He’s gearing up for a busy summer. I see bad agents who fulfil every negative stereotype, and some decent ones like Mr Yellow, football fans who take care of their players, be it dealing with unrelenting calls from bored twenty something’s in European hotel rooms or going on the fan message board of Premier League club in defence of one of his players. The chief executive of the club rumbled him on that one…

Trautmann: a German Englishman in Spain

2008-01-29T21:10:00Z

Catalan national radio called yesterday to ask about the Munich air disaster. They're doing a one-hour documentary on the 50th anniversary next week. I told them that they would be better speaking to someone older who remembered it, but they wanted an English Spanish speaker to explain the context of the disaster. I thought they wanted a couple of minutes, but I was still speaking 28 minutes later.

I felt flattered that such a big foreign radio station were making a documentary about United. They’ll doubtless splice the interview and I’ll end up being used for six or seven minutes, ensuring that proper space can be afforded to the former Barça and Madrid players who remembered the Busby Babes.

The radio journalist I spoke to told me that former Barcelona goalkeeper Antonio Ramallets, named in the best XI of the 1950 World Cup, still holds a silent vigil on 6th February each year in honour of those who lost their lives.

Later on, I called the former Manchester City goalkeeper Bert Trautmann to speak to him about Frank Swift, another former Manchester City goalkeeper who died at Munich while covering United for The News of the World.

These days Trautmann, the German who famously didn’t realise he’d broken his neck in the 1956 FA Cup final, lives by the orange fields on the coast near Valencia. I spent a day with him a couple years ago, a fine figure of health in his mid-80s. A rare Mediterranean swell had breached his garden and Bert was doing all the hard repair work.

Bert’s life story is fascinating. Indoctrinated into Nazism from the age of eight, he was a paratrooper in WW2. He was captured and escaped from the Russians on the Eastern Front, was then captured and released by Americans on the Western Front and finally taken by the British who put him in a prisoner of war camp at Haydock, between Manchester and Liverpool.

His English still has the deep flat vowels of the South Lancashire working-class. The first player to wear Adidas in England, he told me that he had spent his life defending the English to the Germans – and the Germans to the English.

He spoke movingly about Swift and invited me to drop in next time I’m down the coast. As his wife makes the best cakes I’ve ever tasted in Spain, I’m more than keen.

Big match over... now for Messi

2008-01-28T17:09:00Z

The big day of Manchester’s match against Strommen IF of the Norwegian third division finally arrived. Emotions were running high, not least in my own mind. I was dying to start the game, but as manager I knew there were better players than me in the squad.

We entered Espanyol’s training ground determined not to be intimidated. UEFA Cup finalists last season, Espanyol are having an excellent season and are excited about their move to a new 40,000 seat ‘English-style’ stadium on the outskirts of Barcelona next year. Letting us use their facilities is a ‘community gesture’. There are more Catalans playing for Espanyol than Barca. Too often marginalised by a Barça-obsessed media, Espanyol have been compared to Manchester City as an example of a club living in the shadow of a giant.

Two days before we played them, Strommen had lost 2-1 to a late goal against El Prat, leaders of the Primera Catalan – Spain’s fifth level. I shuddered when I saw that result but it’s nothing to how I felt when I saw their 23-man squad warming up. It was so big they needed two dressing rooms – one of them ours.

I was introduced to their manager who told me they play in front of crowds of between 600-1,000 each week. They're semi-pro. We pay to play. I just nodded but that sealed my fate. I was starting on the bench.

Our lads played superbly – 0-0 at half-time, more than we could have dreamed of. I was so proud of the performance, but my feet were itching.

Strommen were obviously surprised. I knew that the walls between the dressing rooms (we’d got one adjacent to their two) were very thin. Our players were elated, but I put my finger to my lips and told them to sit down and say nothing. “We’re not playing well,” I shouted, aware that Strommen couldn’t see the big grin on my face. Their changing room went quiet as they listened to my attempt at reverse psychology. “We’re far better than this. We need a big improvement in the second half.”

Although Strommen went a goal up after 55 minutes, Hans equalised with a wondrous free-kick. Life was beautiful.

After using our other subs, with 10 minutes to go and I felt it necessary to introduce fresh blood – myself. I can’t describe the feeling of powerlessness as the man I was marking hit a sensational last-minute winner, on the volley from a cross-field ball. The greatest compliment they gave us was the vigorous manner in which they celebrated. It meant something.

It was a great day for our team, but I must concentrate on the day job now and planned interviews this week with Lionel Messi, Josep Guardiola and Bert Trautmann.

Vandamme and the Manchester boys

2008-01-25T17:19:00Z

From Heston Services to Barcelona – where I spend most of my time – via a  £50 taxi to Gatwick airport. I bumped into Liam Austin on the Easyjet, a 26-year-old Australian who used to play for  Sydney United in Australia’s National Soccer  League. He now lives in Barcelona and is the main striker for The Celtic  Cross, a rival team of ours in the Barcelona International Football League.

Since 2006 I’ve run a team called ‘Manchester La Fianna’. Manchester United sorted us out with kits and La Fianna is the name of the bar which sponsors us. Our squad is made up of players from 13 different countries, ranging from  the 37-year-old former captain of the Belize national team, to a  couple of hopeful young West Africans who are hoping to get legal papers to live in Spain.

Our captain is Hans Vandamme, a 24-year-old Belgian who represented his country at U16 and U18 level and was a professional with  Anderlecht for two years. Barcelona seems to attract footballers who want a change of scene and I do my utmost to  attract the best ones, after first explaining to them that they won’t be  receiving a penny to play for us.  

We do alright – 4th out of 24th in our first season and we’re flying this year – but I think I’ve bitten off more than I can chew this week. Without a league fixture, I’ve accepted an  invitation to play against Strommen IF, a Norwegian third division team. They're finalising their pre-season plans with a  tour of Spain. We have a chain smoking 42-year-old Glaswegian centre-half.

At 34, I’m no Lionel Messi and I’m considering dropping myself from right-back to the bench tomorrow as I’ve not trained properly this week. Strommen’s  website shows pictures of  hundreds of fans with flags and flares, we have 10 or so girls who watch us  because they fancy Hans. 

Don't think we're not taking this seriously though. I’ve put the word around for  more support and 23 players have declared themselves fit for  selection. High-flying Espanyol have let us use their training ground for the match  and I had Strommen, who are staying up the coast in Lloret de Mar, scouted last night. I’ll let you know how we do on Monday.

Saudi Arabia and the oddly-placed tattoo

2008-01-23T18:53:00Z

An unusual week so far. A first trip to Saudi Arabia watching Manchester United in a friendly, which Sir Alex Ferguson’s side lost 3-2 to local big timers Al Hilal in the capital Riyadh. The £1 million which United received should sweeten the defeat, a fee Barcelona and Real Madrid turned down because they felt it would compromise their players. The Spanish giants don’t have a debt the size of United’s to service…

I write this in my hotel room as a brilliant sunrise sets the morning on fire. A Gulf Air plane comes into land nearby, but the view is otherwise forgettable. That’s because, like Alan Partridge, I’m holed up in a Travel Tavern style hotel, this one at Heston Services on the M4 (Westbound).

This was the only accommodation available after the flights from Riyadh yesterday. I hadn't reserved a hotel because I was supposed to travel on a £29 ‘bargain berth’ night sleeper between Euston and Glasgow ahead of a Celtic v Rangers league game. The plan was to have two days in Glasgow covering it for FourFourTwo’s ‘More Than A Game’ feature, until the Old Firm match was postponed for the second time in 18 days. That meant more money lost on planes, trains and hotel rooms.

Despite the disappointment, my overriding emotions are tiredness and relief that the Saudi trip went well. As well as writing, I had to make a video diary for Channel M in Manchester (Sky channel 203). Except I didn’t inform the Saudi authorities that I was a journalist on my visa application since that would have meant a rejection. I was nervous at explaining my video camera and computer to their ultra keen immigration officials, but the worry was unnecessary as the trip passed without incident for me and the 17 travelling United fans – the club’s smallest ever away following.

That’s if you call being introduced to a man who has a Manchester United tattoo on his penis as passing without incident...