Confessions of a Correspondent

United fans won't panic despite loss of prize pair

Andy Mitten — Thu, 02 Jul 2009 11:55:00 GMT

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.

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.

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.

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

Andy Mitten — Wed, 24 Jun 2009 11:00:00 GMT

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

Andy Mitten — Sat, 20 Jun 2009 09:00:00 GMT

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'

Andy Mitten — Tue, 16 Jun 2009 07:00:00 GMT

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

Andy Mitten — Wed, 10 Jun 2009 09:30:00 GMT

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

Andy Mitten — Thu, 04 Jun 2009 11:00:00 GMT

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

Andy Mitten — Mon, 01 Jun 2009 14:00:00 GMT

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

Andy Mitten — Tue, 26 May 2009 09:00:00 GMT

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...

Andy Mitten — Mon, 18 May 2009 13:00:00 GMT

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

Andy Mitten — Tue, 12 May 2009 11:00:00 GMT

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

Andy Mitten — Sat, 09 May 2009 11:00:00 GMT

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

Andy Mitten — Mon, 04 May 2009 10:00:00 GMT

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

Andy Mitten — Thu, 30 Apr 2009 13:00:00 GMT

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...

Andy Mitten — Sat, 25 Apr 2009 11:00:00 GMT

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

Andy Mitten — Sat, 18 Apr 2009 11:00:00 GMT

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

Andy Mitten — Tue, 14 Apr 2009 11:30:00 GMT

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

Andy Mitten — Thu, 09 Apr 2009 08:00:00 GMT

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...

Andy Mitten — Sat, 04 Apr 2009 11:00:00 GMT

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...

Andy Mitten — Tue, 31 Mar 2009 08:45:00 GMT

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

Andy Mitten — Fri, 27 Mar 2009 12:00:00 GMT

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

Andy Mitten — Sat, 21 Mar 2009 12:00:00 GMT

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

Andy Mitten — Tue, 17 Mar 2009 12:00:00 GMT

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

Andy Mitten — Sat, 14 Mar 2009 14:00:00 GMT

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

Andy Mitten — Wed, 11 Mar 2009 13:00:00 GMT

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

Andy Mitten — Sat, 07 Mar 2009 10:00:00 GMT

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

Andy Mitten — Thu, 26 Feb 2009 11:00:00 GMT

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

Andy Mitten — Mon, 23 Feb 2009 12:00:00 GMT

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

Andy Mitten — Thu, 19 Feb 2009 11:00:00 GMT

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

Andy Mitten — Mon, 16 Feb 2009 12:00:00 GMT

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

Andy Mitten — Thu, 12 Feb 2009 10:00:00 GMT

“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

Andy Mitten — Tue, 10 Feb 2009 10:00:00 GMT

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

Andy Mitten — Wed, 04 Feb 2009 12:00:00 GMT

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

Andy Mitten — Thu, 29 Jan 2009 11:00:00 GMT

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

Andy Mitten — Mon, 26 Jan 2009 12:00:00 GMT

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

Andy Mitten — Thu, 22 Jan 2009 12:00:00 GMT

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...

Andy Mitten — Mon, 19 Jan 2009 12:00:00 GMT

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.

“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.”

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

Andy Mitten — Wed, 14 Jan 2009 12:00:00 GMT

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

Andy Mitten — Tue, 06 Jan 2009 08:00:00 GMT

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

Andy Mitten — Tue, 30 Dec 2008 12:00:00 GMT

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

Andy Mitten — Thu, 18 Dec 2008 12:00:00 GMT

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

Andy Mitten — Tue, 16 Dec 2008 12:00:00 GMT

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

Andy Mitten — Wed, 10 Dec 2008 10:00:00 GMT

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

Andy Mitten — Wed, 03 Dec 2008 15:00:00 GMT

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

Andy Mitten — Wed, 26 Nov 2008 14:00:00 GMT

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

Andy Mitten — Fri, 21 Nov 2008 18:00:00 GMT

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

Andy Mitten — Tue, 18 Nov 2008 09:00:00 GMT

“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...

Andy Mitten — Thu, 13 Nov 2008 14:00:00 GMT

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

Andy Mitten — Mon, 10 Nov 2008 15:00:00 GMT

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

Andy Mitten — Fri, 31 Oct 2008 09:00:00 GMT

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

Andy Mitten — Mon, 27 Oct 2008 16:00:00 GMT

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

Andy Mitten — Wed, 22 Oct 2008 14:00:00 GMT

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

Andy Mitten — Fri, 17 Oct 2008 13:00:00 GMT

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

Andy Mitten — Wed, 15 Oct 2008 08:00:00 GMT

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

Andy Mitten — Thu, 09 Oct 2008 14:00:00 GMT

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

Andy Mitten — Thu, 02 Oct 2008 11:30:00 GMT

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)

Andy Mitten — Mon, 29 Sep 2008 14:00:00 GMT

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

Andy Mitten — Mon, 22 Sep 2008 16:00:00 GMT

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

Andy Mitten — Fri, 19 Sep 2008 13:00:00 GMT

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

Andy Mitten — Tue, 16 Sep 2008 13:00:00 GMT

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

Andy Mitten — Wed, 10 Sep 2008 11:00:00 GMT

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

Andy Mitten — Wed, 03 Sep 2008 15:00:00 GMT

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

Andy Mitten — Thu, 28 Aug 2008 14:00:00 GMT

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

Andy Mitten — Tue, 26 Aug 2008 12:48:00 GMT

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

Andy Mitten — Tue, 12 Aug 2008 14:39:00 GMT

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

Andy Mitten — Thu, 07 Aug 2008 16:00:00 GMT

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

Andy Mitten — Mon, 04 Aug 2008 12:10:00 GMT

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

Andy Mitten — Tue, 29 Jul 2008 15:30:00 GMT

“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

Andy Mitten — Wed, 23 Jul 2008 14:00:00 GMT

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

Andy Mitten — Mon, 21 Jul 2008 15:30:00 GMT

“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

Andy Mitten — Fri, 18 Jul 2008 11:22:00 GMT

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

Andy Mitten — Wed, 16 Jul 2008 12:32:00 GMT

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

Andy Mitten — Wed, 09 Jul 2008 14:29:00 GMT

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

Andy Mitten — Thu, 03 Jul 2008 17:28:00 GMT

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

Andy Mitten — Fri, 27 Jun 2008 15:00:00 GMT

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

Andy Mitten — Mon, 23 Jun 2008 15:50:00 GMT

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

Andy Mitten — Tue, 17 Jun 2008 11:51:00 GMT

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

Andy Mitten — Thu, 05 Jun 2008 06:00:00 GMT

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

Andy Mitten — Tue, 27 May 2008 13:48:00 GMT

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

Andy Mitten — Fri, 23 May 2008 20:00:00 GMT

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.