The Pulchritudinous Premiership

Greetings, gentle readers.
So the football season has ended in England. What does this mean? It means that my Premiership of pulchritudinous females will need to be revised. Three must be relegated, and three must be promoted into the top ranks. Since none of the ladies involved have any more than a negligible chance of finding this page, I should feel relatively confident in my ability to express my opinions without causing any distress or negative emotional feedback.
In short, here is the Top 20 at the start of the season:
(Which you can see by clicking on this convenient link in greater detail:
http://jdsilentio.blogspot.com/2004/12/its-coffee-table-book.html#comments)
1. Melanie Chisholm
- Lovable scouse wag.
2. Emily Mortimer
- Mistress of dialects.
3. Lisa Loeb
- Quasi-folksy musician.
4. Sadie Frost
- Hyper-intelligent actress.
5. Laura Harring
- Fascinating cosmopolite.
6. Jennifer Hedger
- Eminently desirable sportscaster.
7. Joanne Guest
- Erudite laddish fantasy.
8. Mira Sorvino
- Self-effacing goddess.
9. Janeane Garofalo
- Flaky but fun comedienne.
10. Linda Bresonik
- Best female footy player in the world today.
11. Natalie Portman
- Darth Vader's chick.
12. Hazel Irvine
- The only woman that can make Stephen Hendry speak in anything other than monosyllables.
13. Miranda Otto
- The most expressive eyes in existence. Could make a stone weep.
14. Wendy Mesley
- Devastatingly intelligent.
15. Anna Faris
- Versatile to the point of incredulousness.
16. Jennifer/Cynthia Dale
- Fundamentally Canadian.
17. Ali Landry
-Phenomenal sense of humour and a healthy lack of egotism.
18. Kara Lang
- If I ever needed a shooting wide midfielder...
19. Jennifer Love Hewitt
- Multi-taltented, though not a virtuoso in any particular category.
20. Hillary Rodham Clinton
- A future historical figure.

And here are some of the contestants fighting for promotion:

1. Claire Danes
After a phenomenal run in "My So-Called life", Claire hasn't demonstrated a huge range of versatility. She was fantastic in demonstrating teenage angst, but it is still open to debate whether roles in such films as "Terminator 3 - Rise of the Machines" will dissuade observers from drawing conclusions that her abilities are limited. Her official website is at http://www.clairedanes.com/

Claire Danes in Terminator 3
2. Jakki Degg
Comfortably edging past other English personalities such as Jennifer Ellison, she's still the second-most attractive woman I've ever seen wearing a Liverpool kit. Check out the site: http://www.ultimatenzsoccer.com/About/id794.htm if you don't believe me. I expect some serious response from my limited quantity of readers. She's the kind of lass that will cause you to fall in love at first sight. And she's wearing a Liverpool kit. That's HUGELY sexy.

Jakki Degg in an LFC home kit.
3. Rosamund Pike
Takes the biscuit from Daniella Bianchi and Luciana Paluzzi as the sexiest Bond woman of all time. Comfortably outshone Halle Berry, and that's not an easy task. Made "Die Another Day" a watchable cinematic experience. You can have a peek at her at http://www.absolutely.net/Rosamund_Pike/

Actress ROSAMUND PIKE at the special screening in Los Angeles of her new James Bond movie Die Another Day.
11NOV2002. © Paul Smith / Featureflash
4. Nina Elizabet Persson
Lead singer/songwriter with the band The Cardigans. Can knowlegably discuss aesthetics and literature over a glass of Scotch whiskey. Well-read, well-spoken, and well-educated. She's funny, intriguing and creative. I find myself hard-pressed to name another woman with whom I could discuss Faulkner and Steinbeck for hours on end. Information on her can be found at http://cardigans.com/news.php.

Nina Elizabet Persson
5. Lene Nystrom
Lead singer of Aqua, this energetic and dynamic Dane can be found on-line at http://www.lenemusic.com/. She is equally at home singing fluffy bubble-gum pop, crashing punk rock, or melodic ballads. Fun lass with a great sense of humour.

Lene Nystrom on stage.

So any and all comments and suggestions are welcome, and I'll try and sort out the promotions and relegations over the next couple of weeks. But for now, all thoughts are on Istanbul for the 25th. The biggest match of the last twenty years, and I'm getting twitchy just thinking about it. Until next time, take care everyone and cheers,

- mARKUS
^+Justice for the 96+^

Preaching to the Converted

Greetings, gentle readers. You have my most heartfelt apologies for transforming this ostensibly eclectic series of abstruse ruminations into a cavalcade of footie ramblings. I shall try and diversify the topics of discussion further by shifting my attention to music. Since the football season in England ends in two weeks, the sea-change was due anyway, though perhaps not in the true Shakespearean sense "into something rich and strange." And so onward into discussions not of things rich, but of things Richey. Richey James Edwards was the guitarist and co-lyricist of The Manic Street Preachers until his disappearance in 1995. Prior to his departure, the band were renowned as a Welsh indie punk bank that had just begun to make major commercial inroads. In the years since he vanished, the remaining three members of the band - Sean Moore, James Dean Bradfield, and Nicky Wire (Jones) - evolved and developed musically and aesthetically into a completely different manifestation of themselves. However, they still rankle at the notion that a part of their success is due to the mythology of their missing childhood friend and colleague, and their most recent album, characterised as "elegaic pop", deals with their own sorrow and the challenge of escaping the past. If you don't own a copy of "Lifeblood", I would suggest giving it a listen. I've listened to the Manics for years, and there are references to them strewn throughout my meandering monologues. Several things contributed to my growing fascination with the band: - Their penchant for hyper-literate intellectual references was combined with an almost bizarrely diverse variety of musical styles, making it challenging to listen to them. Their academic analysis of biographical, historical, and political knowledge combined with an astute understanding and contempt for (post-) modern society to create songs that are not only angry and scornful, but with an educated perspective. Their iconoclastic lyrics tear down a lot of the aedifices that have been constructed to shield people from critical thought or personal responsibility. - Their image has changed in the seventeen years since they first formed the group, but has always been provocative and interesting. Just as Brian Epstein spoke of his first meeting with the Beatles, and commented that he was struck most forcefully by their personalities and charm, the Manics in the late 80's dressed and acted in a way consistent with conveying a political and cultural message. Richey, alternatively flamboyant and sullen, tended to become the focus of media attention, though his personality quirks and flaws were soon afterward to overshadow his accomplishments as a writer and performer. - In classical mythological terms, the Manics have been the Cassandras of popular culture. Consider 9-11 and the events that followed the Bush administration going ballistic on Iraq, Afghanistan, and whomever else they felt like bombing. One can imagine the conversation: (Bush: "Let's attack there." [points at globe] Advisor: "There? But sir, that's Sweden..." Bush: "I have it on good authority that there is an Al-Qaeda headquarters there." Advisor: "Sir, that's the headquarters of IKEA, not Al-Qaeda.") The Manics had already addressed the issue of American culture pervading the global community, and the backlashes some cultures and religions would experience in trying to curtail that influence. Months and even years before some elements of the global community let their hatred of America boil over from passive resentment to violent assault, the Manics were singing songs like "IFWHITEAMERICATOLDTHETRUTHFORONEDAYITSWORLDWOULDFALLAPART", "Freedom of Speech Won't Feed My Children", "Baby Elian", "Democracy Coma", and "Motorcycle Emptiness". Interesting to consider how Americans would respond to these lyrics from "Repeat (Stars and Stripes)": "Useless generations / Dumb flag scum" following the love festival the American public had with their flag after the World Trade Centre attack. Particularly since the song was released in 1992. - Related to their insightful critiques of international politics is their frank and blunt confrontation of deeply rooted personal problems. Issues such as anorexia, bulemia, self-harm and mutilation, depression, substance abuse and suicide are all briliantly swept across a musical canvas of bleak isolation and alienation. No other band was quite so honest or authentic in their treatment of these issues, which was another contibutory factor in their transition from indie club band to cult heroes amongst disaffected youth in Great Britain. - The lads are good people. Nicky Wire is an eloquent exponent of social change and political reform as well as poetic exploration of truth and the human condition, in addition to being a phenomenal source of media-friendly quotables. Not that he's friendly toward the media, but he often expounds some very controversial opinions and attitudes - and those sell papers and get ratings. And they played at the concert for the Hillsborough Family Support Group at Anfield on 15th April, 1999. That puts them in my good books for life. - Finally, the sheer breadth of their musical spectrum is awe-inspiring. From the gut-busting screaming hard-guitar punk on the album "Generation Terrorists" to the soft acoustics of "Raindrops Keep Falling on My Head" and "Bright Eyes", they play the lot. If I've observed these various different avenues of tremendous appeals, one is tempted to question why the North American exposure of this phenomenal group is as limited as it is. There are three albums currently floating around out there in distribution: "Lipstick Traces - A Secret History of Manic Street Preachers", "Forever Delayed - Manic Street Preachers Greatest Hits", and "Lifeblood". Can anyone just find one of these albums down the corner store? Most likely not, if you're living in Canada or the United States. Through diligent effort, these albums have been found in the New World, but the fact remains that there is no effort made at promotion, touring, advertising, radio-play, or any of those other typical marketing strategies aimed at selling products or expanding consumer interest. Are MSP just too much of a political correctness liability for a North American record label? Let's rewind back to 1995. Nicky, Richey, Sean and James had been signed by Columbia Records for three years at that point, and had popped out three increasingly bleak albums, culminating in the release of the album "The Holy Bible" in August of 1994. They had agreed to do the title track of the film "Judge Dredd" starring Sylvester Stallone, and were poised to conquer the North American market. "Holy Bible" was already becoming a cult classic amongst the punk underground cognoscenti, and the Manics had already done what later groups and artists such as Marilyn Manson would later copy - the androgynous stage performances, the scathing criticisms of the society that birthed them, and a wide variety of original songs. Again, they had established that they could slam out punk tunes, but they were also using string sections and woodwinds for songs like "Dead Trees and Traffic Islands."
That was when Richey disappeared from the scene and entered rock 'n' roll mythology. His car was found, out of petrol and with a dead battery, near a bridge over the river Severn renowned for suicides. He had previously been hospitalised for his anorexia and self-harming behaviour, most alarmingly demonstrated when, at the beginning of an interview with Steve Lamacq, he was asked if the band were for real. He promptly drew out a razor blade and carved "4 real" into his arm. He was rushed to hospital, where he politely declined treatment until others in more serious medical need were addressed first. Following the announcement that Richey was in fact suffering from a number of anxiety disorders, the fan mail bag swelled with letters from listeners (predominantly female) who were experiencing similar nervous problems.
Richey was declared officially dead by the British government after no traces of him were found and after five years of waiting. The possibility that he might still be floating around anonymously somewhere hangs over the band to this day. It's been ten years of grief and trauma, but every interview and every public appearance they make has some form of reference to their missing comrade. "Lifeblood" is their most erudite effort to date expressing the draining, damning conditions under which they've laboured since Richey left. Of course, it's also a grander metaphor expressing any sort of regret and the persistence of memory, but Richey's spirit is clearly manifested throughout the album. I'm reminded of the film "Scorchers", where a father tells his daughter that her mother is still with them. "I love her too much for her to be gone all the way," he drawls in a Cajun accent. Similarly, it's tough to listen to songs like "Judge Yr'self", "Nobody Loved You", and "Cardiff Afterlife" without thinking of Richey.
To be brutally honest, the band has become better musically in his absence. Nicky still laces the lyrics with reams of academia, James still sings and plays the guitar, and Sean is still a capable and reliable backbeat. Gone are the over-complicated diatribes which made songs virtually unsingable, but then, so is the stage presence which made the Manic Street Preachers such an unpredictable and dynamic set of performers. And in the absence of Richey, Nicky has become quite vocal about his own hang-ups - that he is in fact quite a boring and unexciting guy who loves to watch telly, eat crisps and hoover his flat. Of course, I can relate to that, but it doesn't exactly perpetuate the rock idol stereotype. Happily married, living near his hometown in a sleepy part of North Wales with his two kids... not the stuff of legend.
Some of the Manic Street Preacher trademarks are still continued - the use of quotations to punctuate the album liners and lyric sheets, the ongoing dialogue with historical biography (or biographical history), and the lingering feeling of sad emptiness.
Personally, I feel indebted to the group. Where else would I have stumbled upon the life-stories of Paul Robeson, Emily Pankhurst, Kevin Carter, and Bret Easton Ellis? And whenever I need to just sit back and absorb information at work, I just surf to http://www.manics.nl and start reading. I suppose that the most poignant comment I can make about the Preachers is that even if you don't fancy their music, you won't find them boring.
So now I'll quit shamefully plugging one of my favourite bands of all time, and instead give myself a huge pat on the back. Who was it that said that you could stake your mortgage on a bet saying that Barçalona would win La Liga, but not the Copa del Rey? I think that it was me. The Oracle rides high again. I'm going to have to check the archives and find out exactly how many months ago that prognostication was made, so I can blow my own trumpet in the correct key.
And my next post should be after the titanic struggle on the 25th, so be ready for some heavy-duty sports commentary. After that, I'll mellow out again and maybe blast off some articles on the Lightning Seeds, my ongoing employment quandary, the emerging trend of marketing to the adult male demographic, and my latest spin on male-female romantic entanglements. I won't use the "R" word because I loathe it - I'll let Oprah and Dr. Phil beat it all the way down the highway to Clichéville.
So for now, this is me signing off and wishing you a happy... everything. Don't forget to staple disposable diapers to your ceiling, and to fill your galoshes with sauerkraut and shaving scum to celebrate the annual coming of the magic yak in his flying canoe. Whenever that may be.
Take care and cheers,

-mARKUS
^+Justice for the 96+^

We shall start the bidding at...

Greetings, gentle readers.
As I seriously contemplate my job and career options over the next few hours, it's interesting to note that one of the more significant factors which will influence my final decision with be the Final. The European Champions' Cup Final. Any job which will impede my ability to watch the game will be immediately dropped like an overheated tuber. So I shall let the negotiations begin this morning at Dell. Make me an offer which includes having the 25th of May off, I shall drily quip, and imply that TELUS is tabling a competitive counter offer. Then tomorrow, it's to the management at TELUS and we'll see what they can do for me. I have no paucity of opportunities here, and my services are up for grabs. I shan't trouble Castle Rock too greatly, since I'm only part-time there and they've proved terribly flexible.
But once again, Liverpool FC have proven just how inconsistently they can perform in the Premiership by dropping a clanger against Arsenal yesterday. In the first half, they ambled about in a lacklustre daze while Arsenal's rapier-like midfield movement caught a very... erm... flat flat-back four for Liverpool out of position again and again. Players who only five days earlier were absolute titans, repelling Chelski assaults on a regular basis suddenly seemed knackered and off the pace. Djimi Traoré seemed lost as he wandered inside from his left-back position to support a befuddled and mystified Sami Hÿypia. Jamie Carragher's typically colossal heroics were unfortunately inadequate to address the wit and inventiveness of an Henry-less Arsenal squad eager to clinch automatic qualification for next season's Champions' League.
Going into half-time with a two goal deficit, the Reds looked listless and depressed.
But, as so often has been the case with this team, the alarm bell rang and the skipper answered it. Shouting and charging about like a man possessed, Stevie G slid inch-perfect passes about the pitch, wreaking havoc amongst the previously confident and strutting Arsenal players. Ozzie winger Harry Kewell began to expose Arsenal right back Lauren's lack of pace, and Luis Garcia looked far more dangerous drifting inside from the far right. Before long, the pressure created a free kick outside of the box as Xabi Alonso was fouled as he went for an aerial cross. Stevie calmly assessed it, then hammered a screaming, scorching blast through the defensive wall and into the back of the Arsenal net past a desperately clawing Jens Lehmann.
Liverpool continued to attack, press, and probe with creativity and flare, but finally they ran out of time, and Arsenal scored an injury-time goal through young Cesc Fabregas. Game over. The match was a perfect illustration of some things which have characterised Liverpool throughout the season.
First, they're a different team in European competition. Whether that be because the players motivate themselves differently, or because the continental style of play suits Rafa Benitez' tactics better, or a combination of the two, the fact remains that when Juventus win the scudetto, Liverpool will have beaten the champions of both England and Italy in home and away series. In other words, they can beat the best in Europe, but can't beat Middlesbrough or Birmingham.
The paradox is less conspicuous in the second trend which has manifested: Liverpool FC produce completely different form when they play away from home. This is not completely baffling, considering the cauldron of emotion that is Fortress Anfield and the "12th man" effect that the singing, whistling and cheering of the Kop produces. The legendary Shankly said that he would be happy to win at home and draw away. The team at present wins at home, and calamitously plunges into perilous depths of incompetence and mediocrity away. That generally entails losing. The Kop is a powerful force, but as soon as the Reds play away from it, it's as though the players all suffer severe withdrawl symptoms and wither into emaciated, quivering shells of their former selves. That much was demonstrably true during the first half against Arsenal.
Finally, the lads play crap in any game which immediately follows a European match. If playing away from home is like suffering from heroin withdrawl, then playing a game after a European tie is like playing with a hangover, possibly even delirium tremens. Even with a few days rest and training during the interim, they simply fall apart in the ensuing match.
Add those three trends together and you get the first half of the match last Sunday. Slow, clumsy and unimaginative play, coupled with a listless, anodyne attitude which generally culminates in a catastrophic, soul-eroding loss.
So now there's only the final match of the season against Aston Villa this coming Sunday, which can serve two purposes. A win can cement fifth (eurgh...) place in the Premiership, and can test the fitness and form of the squad ahead of the big match against likely scudetto runners-up AC Milan.
The rossoneri are scared. And well they should be. Despite some wonderful early season form and results, they are suffering from a lack of squad rotation and fixture congestion. Some of their players like Jaap Stam, Alessandro Costacurta, Paolo Maldini, Cafu and Rui Costa are not the sprightly and energetic players they were when they were on the younger side of thirty years old. The average age of the Milanese squad is 29 years old, and several players are looking over their retirement options. The only starter they have under the age of 25 is the Brazilian star Kaka, and even he is starting to look a bit knackered after a gruelling campaign in Europe and Serie A.
So they're old. They've played ten games in the last month. They're tired. Now consider their form. They just got run off the park over the weekend by title favourites Juve, and prior to that, were humiliatingly forced to score a consolation goal in order to advance past PSV Eindhoven in Europe, losing the match 3-1. Were it not for that single goal, scored near the death of the match, Eindhoven would have steamrollered over them and onto Istanbul. Their confidence is shot, they know that they were intercoursingly lucky to advance in Europe despite a dire performance against a better team, and the scudetto is vanishing into the distance. Unless they start getting some results in Italy, Europe is going to be well beyond them. They play their final game of the season on the weekend immediately preceding the final. They still need to fly to Turkey, get acclimitised, and get some training in before the game. My assessment is that they will not be in the best fettle imaginable.
What if Liverpool win? The controversy continues to swirl around the possibility that Liverpool may win the Champions' Cup, but fail to qualify for next season's competition. Neutral observers ought to be aghast at the idea that the Champions cannot defend their crown, and UEFA boss Lennart Johannson has rather emphatically thrown his influence behind the Merseysiders returning after the summer, should they triumph in Istanbul. As the rules stand now, a victorious Liverpool would meekly enter the vastly less prestigious and lucrative UEFA Cup. A proposal being considered at the top levels would see Liverpool and Chelsea automatically enter the competition as seeded teams, with Arsenal, Manchester United and Everton entering the competition at the qualifying stages. This would sting Arsenal fans, whose team has fought valiantly for the runners-up spot ahead of the Mancunian Red Devils in the belief that they could avoid the qualifying rounds, but their outrage would surely be minor compared to the feeling of injustice throughout Europe that would manifest, should the champions not be allowed to return. Particularly amongst the fans of teams that Liverpool has already beaten this year. Supporters of Olympiakos, Bayer Leverkusen, Juventus and Chelsea would feel cheated. Not only would they not get a chance to try and directly redress their losses against the 'Pool, they would be implicitly told by UEFA that their teams were defeated by a team not deemed worthy of being in the competition. It would cheapen and undervalue the entire tournament. Win the big prize and get sent packing thereafter would be the subtext.
Rumour has it that the huge multi-million euro sponsors of the tournament have exercised their leverage to avoid that very possibility. Anything that might jeopardise television viewership or attendance means less exposure for the same expenditure. Europe's premier club tournament - the most prestigious in the world - in addition to being a sporting spectacle is also an enormously lucrative money-spinner. I just want to see Liverpool back in the European Cup next season, and I'll take the support of any forces of blind avarice and mindless greed that are available.
Of course, this is all dependent on LFC being victorious in Turkey's largest, although not capital, city, which all of my learned readers should know. If you have the ability to wade through this much of my twaddle, you must be able to memorize the odd geographic fact.
But I should actually sign off for the nonce. I need to work on my third draft of my resignation letter, to be used in the event that TELUS won't change my schedule for the game. Until next time, which I hope will be considerably shorter than some of my textual droughts, I wish everyone a fantastic turn of fate and a kiss of starlight at dawn. Cheers,

mARKUS

^+ Justice for the 96+^

Red Dawn

Greetings, gentle readers.
What more can be said about the awesome Anfield spectacle of the European Champions' Cup Semi-Final against Chelski? The print media have gone berzerk in their efforts to fall over one another in an effort to clamber onto the Liverpool bandwagon. Here are some of the press clippings:

"The people's club, clad in red, have shattered the biggest, blue-blooded ambitions of the most wealthy power-broker the game has ever known. They did it in an epic, defiant way too. Truly, there has not been a racket like it since, well, since Liverpool last won a European Cup semi-final on one of these white-lit spring nights or since they closed the old, standing-room only Spion Kop end of Anfield in 1994. It was not just a wall of bulging, stretching, moving red shirts upon which Chelsea had to mount a long, fruitless and toothless assault here. It was a wall of noise too.
- John Dillon, Daily Express

The scenes at the end were incredible. Gerrard was last off the pitch having gone to all four sides in ecstatic celebration. For this particular observer, Anfield will always remain special having been generously clapped off the pitch when Arsenal won the title here in 1989. Not as special, mind, as for the boy from Huyton. How can he say goodbye now to his umbilical cord? Of all Liverpool's momentous results down the years, this one could prove one of the most crucial.
- Alan Smith, Daily Telegraph

It was a conflict rarely witnessed in the annals of sports. A clear-cut, zoroastrian struggle between the forces of light and darkness, good and evil, prudent and profligate, dignified and arrogant, patient and impetuous, traditional and iconoclastic, loyal and mercenary. It was a victory for the ages, when the voice of the people was heard, and the shouts of the children rang through the halls of power and shook the thrones of the rich and imperious. Roman Abramovich may be able to splash out three hundred milion pounds on players (and a manager) from around Europe, but he cannot buy the kind of deep-rooted, nigh-genetic loyalty that caused the Kop to ring out with lusty voice last Tuesday night. Chelski's crew of millionaires wilted in the glare of that red dawn as twenty years of patient tooth-grinding tolerance exploded into the realisation that dreams can come true and that future histories can record the moment local boys become legends. For too long have Scousers graciously borne the gloating, grinning jibes of Arsenal and Manchester United supporters with newly-minted allegiances. This was a time for heroes. And they strode onto that hallowed Anfield turf to a tinnitus-inducing thunderous ovation.
To segue for a moment, I'll try and explain this phenomenon to the North American contingent of my readership, miniscule though that number might be. Imagine if you will, the Edmonton Oilers. In the 1980's, they were a tremendous team. Arguably the greatest pro hockey team to have ever graced the frozen water. The roster of that squad are practically unanimously accepted to be Hall of Fame-bound, if they aren't there already. Their names are mentioned in hushed tones amongst the ice hockey cognoscenti - Gretzky, Kurri, Coffey, Anderson, Messier, Fuhr. Flash-forward to the present, where the Oilers are scrambling frantically every season to make the playoffs.
Now imagine that an Original Six team that has been around for years and never done jack squat in living memory - like the Chicago Blackhawks - is suddenly acquired by someone of the financial stature of Bill Gates, and they consequently splash out (and I do not exaggerate) a half-BILLION dollars to buy the best players from everyone in the league. Then they get a tremendously competent coach, who obnoxiously abuses the rules, the referees and the officials . The next season, they stomp everyone flat, setting a league record for most points in a season en route to their President's Trophy.
Now considering the current labour dispute which has caused professional hockey in North America to take a hiatus, not many neutral observers would be very impressed with such largesse, but the sale of Chicago Blackhawks merchandise would still increase significantly. Oilers fans would be asked to tolerate the taunts and jeers of the fans of the new juggernauts, and endure the spurious comparisons between the glory-days of their team and the accomplishments of the fabulously wealthy champions.
Then, much to the surprise of those who had heralded an end to the days of small-market teams having an ability to compete financially in the league, the Oilers blaze through the playoffs and meet Chicago in the Western Conference Final. (O, where has the Campbell Conference gone?) They then promptly knock the rich lads on their collective tuckus, sweeping them and not conceding a goal. The jubilation and delirium would be immense, and Jasper and Whyte Avenues would be seas of celebration.
So there's some perspective for you.
But back to the footy. After seeing Anfield ablaze in Liverpool red, one is tempted to consider other teams and venues in the greatest club championship in the world. There are the morons in Rome, whose patent idiocy led to the games being played against Leverkusen and Madrid at the Stadio Olimpico to be held behind closed doors. Now there's atmosphere for you. But there really is no excuse for the enormous Stadio Della Alpi sitting silent and empty, with less than seven thousand fans as Juventus played host to Ajax of Amsterdam. Sure, it's not the same Ajax team that won the Champion's Cup three times on the trot in the seventies, but what kind of fair-weather, glory houding mercenary of a fan would ignore his team when they are fighting for a place amongst the elite of the continent? Italian fans have given themselves a couple of black eyes in terms of their reputations around Europe already with the hooliganism, violence, and general stupidity, but now they have to contend with the perception that any Latin passion they once nurtured has everything to do with stabbing and beating each other, and nothing at all to do with The Beautiful Game. With a team of a pedigree as glorious as Juventus, one would expect something other than dispassionate indifference.
And so, I'm not missing the final on the 25th, come Hell or high water. I will quit my job (s) if need be, but this is what my distant relative Immanuel Kant would call a categorical imperative. What sort of misbegotten hypocrite would I be if I were to slang off all but a tiny minority of Italian footy fans and then display the same appalling lack of conviction?
And now, I must needs bid a fond textual adieu to all and sundry as I prepare to go down the pub and watch the penultimate game of the season, as Liverpool travel to Highbury to try and demolish the confused and oddly dispirited Gunners, whose form this year has been almost laughably disparate from their season last year, when they didn't lose a single game in the Premiership. What I hope transpires is that Thierry Henry misses out on the game due to a lack of match-fitness, Liverpool blitzkrieg them into submission, but they recover in time for their next match and clobber Everton. After all, Arsene Wenger has said that he will use playing form as his guide to selections in terms of the team he will field in the FA Cup final on the 21st, and Everton are opponents in close proximity to that date...
And so, good night England and the colonies. Cheerio.

-mARKUS

^+ Justice for the 96+^