Greetings, gentle readers.
Edmonton has suddenly transmogrified itself into a super-heated furnace. What does this mean? Well for one, I'm dragging myself from task to task as even watching DVDs provides cause for my proteins to denature and render me a twitching vegetable.
That being said, my father had a happy barbeque at his place on Sunday, which meant that I got lots of food (and lysine) and the net result is positive for my neuralgia and I also got a load of print-outs from my Africa trip. My plan now is to re-type those documents and give people a glimpse of my life in the dark continent.
First, though, is the World Cup. Going almost completely according to plan. I knew that Sven-Sven is an incompetent manager. I also knew that Carlos Alberto Parreira doesn't want his team to play according to the way his players are accustomed. Both managers, and both countries are now out. If anyone had any brains, they would appoint me their national manager. See my earlier blogs about discipline within Sven's team from TWO YEARS AGO, and you'll see what I mean. I spotted the rot years ago, and no-one listened. Winston Churchill, eat your heart out about being the voice in the wilderness.
The Brasilians? Telling Ronaldinho, Kaka, Adriano and Robinho to play defensive football is like telling Colonel Sanders to hug chickens. It's stupid. He's lucky he's not hung from the highest tree in Rio.
So who will win? The French are giving it a good run, as are the Portuguese. Hard to knock the home team, though. They've gotten stronger with every game. I won't jinx anyone, but I reckon that the 12th man will make the difference in the final. Sure, there are only Europeans left in the tournament and travelling support will be more of a factor, but I don't think the Italians have the offense, the Portuguese have the spirit, and the French have the energy. After the finals, we'll start "The African Chronicles." which will no doubt bore the legwear off all and sundry.
Until then, cheers, and good night England and the colonies!
-mARKUS
04 July 2006
06 June 2006
The Kropfreiter
Greetings, gentle readers.Just a quick post to let everyone know that my great friend Jim Kropfreiter is on vac, and isn't expected back until after the start of the World Cup. Not that he's actually going to Deutschland or anything, he's just absenting himself from the company of his colleagues and friends. Really, I suppose that the point of this post is to show Jim in all of his pomp and splendour, looking as suave and debonair as could be expected. Look out, ladies. He's available and he's ruthless.
Good night, England and the colonies.
-mARKUS
23 May 2006
Red Dawn in the West
Greetings, gentle readers.
And so the English football season has ground to a halt amidst criticism that football in Europe is becoming less competitive. The teams that won their top national leagues in England, Spain, Italy, France, and Germany last season did it again this year, and with games to spare in the season on each occasion. I scoff at such criticism for a number of reasons.
In the Champions’ League, history was made. For the first time, a team from London made it to the Final in Paris. In that Final, Jens Lehmann made history by becoming not just the first goalkeeper to be red-carded and sent off, but also the first player. In fifty years of the competition, no one had ever been sent off. Apparently, the big German national number one took that as a bit of a personal challenge, and rashly slid into Samuel Eto’o. The referee could have played advantage, since Barçalona consequently went on to score on the play, but instead chose to brandish the card of shame. No matter, really, as the Catalans went on to register their second ever European Cup.
Back in Blighty, Liverpool won the FA Cup in another historic match. Plucky, spirited West Ham managed to push Liverpool right to the edge, and were only denied the cup by Steven Gerrard’s heroics, and keeper Pepe Reina’s bizarre penchant for saving penalties.
Liverpool made it to the Final by coming from behind to defeat Luton Town, then unconvincingly knocking aside Portsmouth in the fourth round. Then they ran into their old rivals from the other end of the East Lancs road.
Liverpool had never beaten Manchester United in the FA Cup for 85 years, and after losing to the Red Devils in the League less than a month earlier, the fans at Anfield were thrilling to the possibility of doing one over on Sir Alex Ferguson’s men in the prestigious tournament.
In the end, 85 years of frustration crumbled as Peter Crouch stooped down from the clouds and nodded in the game’s only goal, and Manchester United were forced to bow out. They went on to win the League Cup, assuring themselves of at least some silverware. Liverpool on the other hand thrust themselves into the Quarter-Finals.
Awaiting them were Birmingham City. The relegation-threatened Midlands club were beginning to convulse with panic and dismay at the thought of being sent down from the top flight, and the usual rumours about managers and directors getting the sack were starting to proliferate. Their manager, Steve Bruce, was painted as being a man who needed some cup success in order to keep his job. And so the stage was set for a showdown at St. Andrew’s.
Liverpool ran riot. Birmingham had simply no answer to Liverpool’s silky pass-and-move attack, and the attempts by their back four defenders to hold a high line were punished mercilessly. The game ended as a 7-0 thrashing, with Liverpool now cruising through to the Semi-Finals.
Waiting for them in some form of eerie conspiracy of the football gods was Chelski. The mega-rich London club had already played Liverpool nine times in the last two seasons, winning five, and drawing three. Strangely enough, the only game Chelski lost to the Scouse was the most crucial match — in the European Cup Semi-Final last season that later led to Red joy in Istanbul.
I’ve already written previously of Rafael Benitez’ little daughter asking her father why his team is “always playing that team in blue.” She could have reiterated the query after seeing the teams take the pitch at Old Trafford in front of a packed house.
Chelski’s arrogant and assertive manager, José Mourinho, in a preening statement of dismissal and underestimation, fielded a mysterious line-up that included back-up goalkeeper Carlo Cudicini, and a distinct lack of width through the midfield, with wing-wizards Arjen Robben, Damien Duff and Joe Cole all riding the bench.
He is forced to re-evaluate his plans after Liverpool run rampant and leap out to a 2-0 lead in the first hour of the game. After making wholesale changes, (namely subbing Robben, Duff, and Cole onto the pitch) Chelski rouse themselves enough for Didier Drogba to muscle a ball past Pepe Reina, but not enough to win the match. The game ends 2-1, and Mourinho bursts out in an explosive tirade to the giggles of the attending journalists. Bafflingly denying that his tactics were in any way to blame for the defeat, he proceeded to heap culpability on his players, the officials, and basically everyone besides himself and possibly the Flying Spaghetti Monster.
Leaving the Portuguese manager behind in a cloud of his own fumes, Liverpool were off to yet another Cup Final, this time against West Ham. Another London team, and one that featured 40 year-old Teddy Sheringham in the line-up.
As the Red Machine and their passionate faithful marched to the Millennium Stadium in Cardiff, my flatmate Jeff and I trooped off to our mate Jim’s father’s place, where the big widescreen television and the pay-per-view satellite deal awaited. And a number of cats, who I’m sure were astonished to see a pack of noisy red-clad individuals invade their domain. That astonishment probably turned to feline pity as they watched our collective jaws drop into our laps after the kick-off.
Despite extraordinary Liverpool possession and pressure, West Ham score a goal against the run of play when “that man” Jamie Carragher turned the ball into his own net past a despairing Pepe Reina. And then they scored a second through the guile of striker Dean Ashton who slipped into the box and tuck a sloppy rebound past Reina. We were stunned. Luckily, our despair didn’t last long as Djibril Cissé managed to claw Liverpool back into the game on a gorgeous Steven Gerrard diagonal ball and make the score 2-1 before the half ended.
So half-time duly arrived, but the tension and drama didn’t. Teeth were clenched, and perspiration beaded on brows as we concentrated and tried to will the team to come back and win. The half-time show had some entertaining highlights from the previous rounds of the competition, featuring some inspiring Liverpool goals. But we were still a goal down. The stadium in Cardiff was rocking out, though. West Ham fans were in full voice, and thanks to some stupid bastards that robbed a Royal Mail van, outnumbered the Kopites on the day. The loudest fans in the country were not to be outdone by a bunch of claret and blue cockneys, and soon the anthem of Anfield was booming into the Welsh afternoon sunshine.
As play resumed, the cheeky cockney fans began chanting “Steven RETARD” at inspirational Liverpool skipper Stevie Gerrard. Now perhaps they’d been collectively living on the moon. In a cave. Under a rock. But what they obviously hadn’t done was see the miracles that Stevie had made manifest against Olympiakos last season. Or in Istanbul in last year’s European Cup Final. Or against Total Network Solutions. Or against Luton Town.
And on 54 minutes, with the team starting to wilt after dominating the game for long stretches, but being unable to make West Ham pay, and with players starting to limp around with cramp, Stevie once again announced to the world that he is one of the best players ever to pull on a Liverpool jersey. With the jeers of the rhyming cockneys stinging his ears red, Stevie trailed the play into the box and unleashed an unstoppable piledriver of a shot past 6’7” Shaka Hislop. He wheeled away and ran past the screaming adulation of the Red faithful toward the West Ham fans, tongue extended and right arm flapping spastically against his chest. Cometh the hour, cometh the man. And all thanks to a few poorly timed crowd chants. Which were silenced rather definitively.
At a time in the game when Liverpool should have placed themselves firmly in the driving seat, West Ham began to gain the upper hand. With Liverpool players exhausted and suffering from the accumulated aches and cramps of a 62 game season, the less-spent legs of West Ham began to make some forward progress through midfield. On one of these forays, Paul Konchesky hoofs a high, lobbing cross into the box from the left wing. It curls, it drifts, and eventually drops. Right into the far corner of Pepe Reina’s net. 3-2 for West Ham, and soon there are only 20 minutes remaining in full-time.
All eyes are now firmly fixed on Fritz Kropfreiter’s lovely television as teeth are clenched, nails are bitten, and nervous tics around various orbital sockets begin to manifest.
The next twenty minutes were agony. Literally. Liverpool players were falling to the ground in fits of cramp, and Djibril Cissé pulled his hamstring, but couldn’t come off the pitch, since all the substitutions had already been used to replace the injured Harry Kewell and Xabi Alonso, and the exhausted Peter Crouch with Jan Kromkamp, Didi Hamann, and Fernando Morientes. Even West Ham, who played almost 20 games less on the season, were becoming undone by the relentless pace of the game, with leading team scorer Marlon Harewood suffering a similar leg cramp to Cissé’s and began limping about in torment as the two teams exchanged sweeping thrusts, turns and ripostes.
As the game entered the final minutes, like two punch-drunk boxers desperately flinging their limbs, Liverpool and West Ham fans roared, making the cavernous Millennium Stadium tremble. Hammers fans were in full voice in anticipation of claiming one of the most storied and prestigious trophies in the game and doing so in only their first year after promotion. Liverpool fans were thunderous in their support because… well, Liverpool fans are always thunderous in their support. Their cheers act as the team’s twelfth man on the pitch, urging and exhorting one last great effort from the lads. Pain is temporary, but triumph rings through the halls of eternity. Songs were sung. Prayers were uttered to the heavens, but at the turn of 90 minutes, the scoreline still read West Ham 3 – 2 Liverpool FC.
But then, as has happened so often before, against Olympiakos, AC Milan, and Luton Town, the tired and aching limbs of the skipper were enough to allow him to take the hopes and dreams of millions of Liverpool supporters upon his broad shoulders, and bear all that weight.
With Djib unable to run, let alone kick a ball, and with the stamina of his wingers flagging, Stevie G. once more proved his quality by storming onto a ball 35 yards away from goal and absolutely unleashing a stinging, venomous strike that flashed past everyone in the box and past the outstretched fingers of a lunging Shaka Hislop into the bottom left corner of the net. A brilliant strike surely destined for the highlight reels viewed and reviewed by future generations.
For now, though, Stevie’s miracle strike did not mean a win. It meant that the game would continue even LONGER. An almost tragic disaster for those players already collapsing as the anaerobic respiration in their muscle tissues started to build up more and more calcium, and they couldn’t flex, move, or exert in the way that they wanted.
The break before extra time was like watching an episode of M*A*S*H*. The sidelines were an enormous triage unit, as trainers and physios ran about frantically trying to massage life back into muscles that wouldn’t function, and flexibility back into tendons that would no longer stretch.
It was a limping, gasping Liverpool team that returned to take the pitch, but urged ever onward by the sonic power of the harmonic support from the stands, they pushed themselves onward. West Ham too looked drained and bereft of ideas.
And so it proved. 30 minutes of probing, but ultimately defensive football was providing a stalemate that led all knowledgeable viewers and spectators to believe that the match was heading to penalty kicks. But wait…
At the very death of extra time, a ball is sent arrowing into the Liverpool 18-yard box, and seemed to be ready to just do what Paul Konchesky’s earlier ball had done, and cleverly sneak in at the far post past Pepe Reina. Not this time. The Spaniard with the now legendary reflexes managed to leap on his off-foot, and just barely get his fingertips to the ball at full stretch, and consequently make the ball rebound off the side post.
Cue Drama: The keeper has thrown himself full-length to his left, and everyone else’s eyes and feet have been following the ball. The ball rebounds off the inside of the post and flies across the goal to an open Marlon Harewood, who now has an open net at which to shoot. This, one suspects, should be game over.
But it isn’t. Harewood was so wracked with cramp and strain that he could do no more than vaguely direct the ball toward the space between the left post and the corner flag before wincing in agony and limping away.
We went off to penalties knowing a couple of things. Pepe Reina devours penalties in exactly the same way that bunnies don’t eat Trixtm breakfast cereal. That is to say, he is renowned in Spain for being a ridiculously talented keeper at stopping penalties. And unlike AC Milan’s Brazilian keeper Dida, who has a penchant for illegally cheating forward from his line before the ball is struck for a penalty, Reina is renowned for beating penalty-shooters through some sort of anticipatory sixth-sense.
The other thing we know is that Liverpool did something very similar last season. A game that ended with three goals to each competing team, Liverpool having come from behind, going scoreless through extra time, consequently won with penalties.
So how did the game end?
At this point, it’s predictable.
West Ham’s top scorer can’t move his legs. Liverpool’s keeper saves penalties for fun. Simple.
Ordinarily in a sports report such as this, one expects that the hard-working and industrious minnows would get some praise as the valiant underdogs. This is my perfunctory effort.
The Hammers’ fans were in full voice, and deserve recognition for their efforts and their passion. The young members of this newly-promoted side played with verve and creativity, and the West Ham veterans were as canny and astute as could be expected. But when the final whistle went for penalties, their game was over. Shaka Hislop had no chance against Stevie’s men, and their squad had no chance against Pepe’s greatest strength.
West Ham elect to go first. Bobby Zamora strikes one to his left with some power, but Pepe Reina is equal to the task, and leaps artfully across to save it. 0-0.
Didi Hamann, who generally takes the same sort of shot, only more powerfully, opts on his opportunity to blast it to his right instead. Hislop guessed wrong and found himself stranded. 1-0 for Liverpool.
The oldest player in the game, tetragenarian Teddy Sheringham, stepped up to the spot next for West Ham. The old battler, who had won the FA Cup with Manchester United seven years previously, arrows a skilful shot into the bottom right corner, just beyond Reina’s reach. 1-1.
In a surprise move, the next shooter for Liverpool is centre-back Sami Hÿypia. Unfortunately for both him and the team, he is so knackered and seized with cramp that his shot is a tame, crawling effort that Shaka Hislop is able to comfortably reach down and parry. 1-1.
Next up for West Ham is the scorer of their third goal, Paul Konchesky. The left winger tries to be tricky and smash a shot into the centre of the net, anticipating that the keeper will leap out of the way. Reina does in fact guess to his left, but is able to stab a trailing leg backwards to stop the shot. 1-1.
And then the game as a contest was ended. If it wasn’t already considered concluded before, the powerful figure of Stevie Gerrard striding toward the penalty spot with a predatorial gleam in his eyes cemented it. Where Sami’s shot was weak and slow, Stevie’s laser-guided missile of a shot nearly burst the netting. Hislop despairingly left stranded as Liverpool took the lead for the first time in the game. 2-1 Liverpool.
Anton Ferdinand was the next shooter for West Ham, and Rio’s younger brother tried to sell a fake direction, but Reina wasn’t buying any of it. Ferdinand showed right, and then shot left. Reina acrobatically reached it and pushed it aside. 2-1 Liverpool.
Next up was Liverpool’s John-Arne Riise. The game was now on the line, as one more Liverpool goal would eliminate the Hammers and make LFC the Football Association Challenge Cup Winners for only the seventh time in their history. The piledriver left foot of Jar-Jar made no mistake and cracked an absolute thunderbolt past the flailing Hislop. 3-1 Liverpool, and game over.
Back on Edmonton’s verdant West End, the celebrations were almost loud as the ones in Cardiff, where the rising of a Red Dawn in the West had illuminated the Millennium Stadium once more. Now that the New Wembley is approaching completion, it means that Liverpool have won the FA Cup in the first Final to be held in Cardiff in 2001, and now they’ve won the last Final to be contested there. Anfield South, indeed. And some scant regard for the opposition at the other end of the East Lancs Road, who only managed the League Cup this season. And three days later, Arsenal continued the time-honoured tradition of a London-based club never winning Europe’s biggest prize when Barçalona thumped them out of the European Champions’ Cup at the Stade de France in Paris. Liverpool finished the season with 82 points, the highest tally they’ve ever registered in the Premiership. Unfortunately, not good enough to overhaul Manchester United for second place, and automatic qualification for the European Champions’ League next year, but a definite improvement in terms of standings and prestige.
Now that the football season is over for another year, I can turn my attention back to women. Starting next entry.
Until then, good night England and the colonies.
Cheers,
-mARKUS
07 March 2006
Number Fourteen
Greetings, gentle readers.
For far too long have I been absent from this site, and I extend humble apologies to those who have been expecting greater production of me in my absence. I'm sure that no one is suffering from my irregular dispensation of cornball witticisms and spurious conclusions, but just maybe there are some of you out there who have noticed that the scenery on this page has grown stale and stagnant. And I've only counted down to fifteenth place of my Pulchritudinous Premiership yet. And so, in the grand tradition of such great institutions as The Academy Awards, I'll leave all the really interesting stuff until the end.
In the interim, whilst building tension and suspense, I can blither on a bit about Liverpool FC. The Red Machine is playing at home in Fortress Anfield against a team that, only a few years ago in Portugal, was called "Malfica" because of their perpetual underachievement against the context of a glorious past. Thank heavens that Liverpool has thus far been somewhat exempt from such ignominy. But yes, Sport Lisboa e Benfica is a Lisbon institution. I should know. I've been to the Estadio da Luz. I've walked through the club trophy museum. I even came within inches of being hit by João Pinto as he scorched out of the club parking lot in his flash BMW. Does anyone else remember the pint-sized attacker with the slight frame and the perpetual pleas for fouls from the ref? Didn't think so.
My friend Tony described Benfica as being like the Montréal Canadiens in the NHL. They have all the old records in the Portuguese footy annals, and they're usually near the top or thereabouts. The club that preceded the foundation of the Superliga, and represents the glory of tradition and history. The club where Eusebio made his name en route to becoming the European Player of the Year. The club that tried (and failed) to stand athwart a rampant George Best, Denis Law, and Bobby Charlton as Manchester United became the first English club to become European Champions at Wembley in 1968.
I've got nothing against Benfica. I'd rather support my local Portuguese team, Beira Mar, but that's of little consequence here. What's important is that Benfica will face off against Liverpool on Merseyside in about 12 hours from the time of writing, and it is my most fervent wish that the Eagles from Lisboa be so flattened by the roar of the Kop that they spontaneously moult.
Benfica enters the game with a narrow one-goal advantage gleaned from a rather fortuitous end-of-match play from the first leg of this, the Round of 16 in the European Champions Cup.
Liverpool – the five-time and returning champions of the competition must score at least one goal to stay alive and make it through to the Quarter-Finals, where Barçalona, Juventus, and Villaréal already await, having disposed of Chelski, Werder Bremen, and Glasgow Rangers, respectively.
Quick summary:
—There are now only two English teams left, with the fall of Manchester United to Benfica in the group phase, and now with Chelski/Sibneft FC losing in their big grudge match with Barça. That means that Liverpool have to play to win, and Arsenal can scrape past Réal Madrid with a draw, provided Réal don't score too many away goals. That's half the English teams out, and since no team from London has ever made the final of the European Cup before, I don't think Arsenal will be the first to do so. That means that Anglophiles world-wide should once again rally to the banner of the Red Scouse.
—Last season's champions of Scotland and England are now left floundering in the wake as the UEFA Champions' League steams onward. Although Glasgow have done the best of any Scottish team since the changover from Champions' Cup to Champions' League, the fact remains that being number one domestically is certainly no guarantor of success in Europe.
—Speaking of which, since Liverpool didn't finish in the top four in England last year and were only allowed to defend their trophy by means of three tortuous qualifying rounds to all of the happy backwaters of Europe, Liverpool have now played the most games this season of any of the teams remaining in the Champions' League. Which means that fatigue could yet play a factor.
—So bottom line, Liverpool have been resting a bit, they get to play at home in front of the legendary Kop, their squad is deep and eligible, and there is now a Clough-esque spine to the team of local boys: Jamie Carragher the pillar of strength at the back, Stevie Gerrard the dynamo of industry in midfield, and Robbie Fowler the God of Anfield up front. Three Scousers who have been with the team from the age of 11. Sure, God took a bit of a sabbatical for a bit, but he's back, and the scything blade of our attack is all the sharper for it.
— My call: Liverpool 4 - 0 Benfica. (Fowler 2, Morientes, Gerrard) And of course, the time on one of the goals has to be (Fowler 90') because that would truly welcome him home.
And so on to the actually interesting stuff. After all that maundering, let's get to the brass tacks. Or the Poll Tax. Or something which will cause unrest, at any rate.
Last season, the Number Fourteen Spot was held by this lovely lady:
Wendy Mesley
Whereas a lot of female television personalities are vacuous and anodyne eye candy, Wendy Mesley has always stood out as an example of a fantastic mind that just coincidentally doesn't make you want to use "Cajun-BBQ-Style" Visine on your eyes to clear out any negative after-images. She's forthright, direct, honest, competent and, of course, devastatingly intelligent. Her work on "Marketplace," for CBC is a phenomenal example of integrity, perseverance and professionalism.
Her work on "The National," though mostly in a temporary capacity, demonstrated her ability to handle an anchorperson's job capably and with a significant amount of charisma.
Why isn't she still in fourteenth place, I hear the voices cry, she sounds great.
She was even diagnosed with cancer 14 months ago, and has not lost the sparkle in her eye, the mischievous corner of her mouth, or her nimble wit. She's a strong and independent woman with courage and tenacity, and I admire her immensely. As to where she has gone... I suppose that will have to wait for the blog entry that follows the one immediately after this one, chronologically.
Meanwhile, her position in the table has been usurped by none other than:
Miranda Otto
Granted, I never heard of her prior to the " Lord of the Rings" trilogy directed by Peter Jackson, but she did a very lasting impact on me.
Since then, I found I did remember something about watching "The Nostradamus Kid," I saw "Flight of the Phoenix," and she still seems to be the most compelling reason to see the most recent remake/re-adaptation of "War of the Worlds."
Odd, actually, that Miranda should still feature this highly on the table, considering the amount of snide scorn and derision I tend to heap upon women folk who swoon at the thought of Orlando Bloom, and who watch the trilogy glassy-eyed whenever Legolas appears on the screen. To me, Miranda's most compelling scene in the film was opposite Brad Dourif as Gríma Wormtongue. The way in which she radiated despair and torment was almost palpable. Her performance was just as compelling as Cate Blanchett's portrayal of Galadriel wasn't. Do I watch the scene repeatedly? No. I'm not that much of a masochist to want to experience that sort of depth of feeling on a regular basis. Perhaps if I was in a mood to take my own life, and was searching for something to give me greater clarity, I might consider setting the DVD player on "repeat." But not now. Point being, that while a lot of women slobber of Orlando Bloom, I'm quite content to appreciate the masterwork of a thespian. I know Picasso was a genius. I don't need to gaze longingly at "The Old Guitarist" interminably to confirm that. Miranda Otto is quite possibly one of the most underappreciated and talented actors/actresses of her generation. She may have abandoned medicine to pursue acting, but I measure that as a small sacrifice to a greater contribution to humanity than merely healing hurts and mending wounds. She gave me an insight into the human condition through Tolkien's familiar window, and I shall neither forget her nor ignore her.
Right. It's been enough of my prattling for the nonce. I'm for bed, and some rest prior to tomorrow's match. Cheerio everyone. Good night, England, and the colonies...
-mARKUS
¥Justice for the 96¥
For far too long have I been absent from this site, and I extend humble apologies to those who have been expecting greater production of me in my absence. I'm sure that no one is suffering from my irregular dispensation of cornball witticisms and spurious conclusions, but just maybe there are some of you out there who have noticed that the scenery on this page has grown stale and stagnant. And I've only counted down to fifteenth place of my Pulchritudinous Premiership yet. And so, in the grand tradition of such great institutions as The Academy Awards, I'll leave all the really interesting stuff until the end.
In the interim, whilst building tension and suspense, I can blither on a bit about Liverpool FC. The Red Machine is playing at home in Fortress Anfield against a team that, only a few years ago in Portugal, was called "Malfica" because of their perpetual underachievement against the context of a glorious past. Thank heavens that Liverpool has thus far been somewhat exempt from such ignominy. But yes, Sport Lisboa e Benfica is a Lisbon institution. I should know. I've been to the Estadio da Luz. I've walked through the club trophy museum. I even came within inches of being hit by João Pinto as he scorched out of the club parking lot in his flash BMW. Does anyone else remember the pint-sized attacker with the slight frame and the perpetual pleas for fouls from the ref? Didn't think so.
My friend Tony described Benfica as being like the Montréal Canadiens in the NHL. They have all the old records in the Portuguese footy annals, and they're usually near the top or thereabouts. The club that preceded the foundation of the Superliga, and represents the glory of tradition and history. The club where Eusebio made his name en route to becoming the European Player of the Year. The club that tried (and failed) to stand athwart a rampant George Best, Denis Law, and Bobby Charlton as Manchester United became the first English club to become European Champions at Wembley in 1968.
I've got nothing against Benfica. I'd rather support my local Portuguese team, Beira Mar, but that's of little consequence here. What's important is that Benfica will face off against Liverpool on Merseyside in about 12 hours from the time of writing, and it is my most fervent wish that the Eagles from Lisboa be so flattened by the roar of the Kop that they spontaneously moult.
Benfica enters the game with a narrow one-goal advantage gleaned from a rather fortuitous end-of-match play from the first leg of this, the Round of 16 in the European Champions Cup.
Liverpool – the five-time and returning champions of the competition must score at least one goal to stay alive and make it through to the Quarter-Finals, where Barçalona, Juventus, and Villaréal already await, having disposed of Chelski, Werder Bremen, and Glasgow Rangers, respectively.
Quick summary:
—There are now only two English teams left, with the fall of Manchester United to Benfica in the group phase, and now with Chelski/Sibneft FC losing in their big grudge match with Barça. That means that Liverpool have to play to win, and Arsenal can scrape past Réal Madrid with a draw, provided Réal don't score too many away goals. That's half the English teams out, and since no team from London has ever made the final of the European Cup before, I don't think Arsenal will be the first to do so. That means that Anglophiles world-wide should once again rally to the banner of the Red Scouse.
—Last season's champions of Scotland and England are now left floundering in the wake as the UEFA Champions' League steams onward. Although Glasgow have done the best of any Scottish team since the changover from Champions' Cup to Champions' League, the fact remains that being number one domestically is certainly no guarantor of success in Europe.
—Speaking of which, since Liverpool didn't finish in the top four in England last year and were only allowed to defend their trophy by means of three tortuous qualifying rounds to all of the happy backwaters of Europe, Liverpool have now played the most games this season of any of the teams remaining in the Champions' League. Which means that fatigue could yet play a factor.
—So bottom line, Liverpool have been resting a bit, they get to play at home in front of the legendary Kop, their squad is deep and eligible, and there is now a Clough-esque spine to the team of local boys: Jamie Carragher the pillar of strength at the back, Stevie Gerrard the dynamo of industry in midfield, and Robbie Fowler the God of Anfield up front. Three Scousers who have been with the team from the age of 11. Sure, God took a bit of a sabbatical for a bit, but he's back, and the scything blade of our attack is all the sharper for it.
— My call: Liverpool 4 - 0 Benfica. (Fowler 2, Morientes, Gerrard) And of course, the time on one of the goals has to be (Fowler 90') because that would truly welcome him home.
And so on to the actually interesting stuff. After all that maundering, let's get to the brass tacks. Or the Poll Tax. Or something which will cause unrest, at any rate.
Last season, the Number Fourteen Spot was held by this lovely lady:
Wendy Mesley
Whereas a lot of female television personalities are vacuous and anodyne eye candy, Wendy Mesley has always stood out as an example of a fantastic mind that just coincidentally doesn't make you want to use "Cajun-BBQ-Style" Visine on your eyes to clear out any negative after-images. She's forthright, direct, honest, competent and, of course, devastatingly intelligent. Her work on "Marketplace," for CBC is a phenomenal example of integrity, perseverance and professionalism.Her work on "The National," though mostly in a temporary capacity, demonstrated her ability to handle an anchorperson's job capably and with a significant amount of charisma.
Why isn't she still in fourteenth place, I hear the voices cry, she sounds great.
She was even diagnosed with cancer 14 months ago, and has not lost the sparkle in her eye, the mischievous corner of her mouth, or her nimble wit. She's a strong and independent woman with courage and tenacity, and I admire her immensely. As to where she has gone... I suppose that will have to wait for the blog entry that follows the one immediately after this one, chronologically.
Meanwhile, her position in the table has been usurped by none other than:
Miranda Otto
Granted, I never heard of her prior to the " Lord of the Rings" trilogy directed by Peter Jackson, but she did a very lasting impact on me.Since then, I found I did remember something about watching "The Nostradamus Kid," I saw "Flight of the Phoenix," and she still seems to be the most compelling reason to see the most recent remake/re-adaptation of "War of the Worlds."
Odd, actually, that Miranda should still feature this highly on the table, considering the amount of snide scorn and derision I tend to heap upon women folk who swoon at the thought of Orlando Bloom, and who watch the trilogy glassy-eyed whenever Legolas appears on the screen. To me, Miranda's most compelling scene in the film was opposite Brad Dourif as Gríma Wormtongue. The way in which she radiated despair and torment was almost palpable. Her performance was just as compelling as Cate Blanchett's portrayal of Galadriel wasn't. Do I watch the scene repeatedly? No. I'm not that much of a masochist to want to experience that sort of depth of feeling on a regular basis. Perhaps if I was in a mood to take my own life, and was searching for something to give me greater clarity, I might consider setting the DVD player on "repeat." But not now. Point being, that while a lot of women slobber of Orlando Bloom, I'm quite content to appreciate the masterwork of a thespian. I know Picasso was a genius. I don't need to gaze longingly at "The Old Guitarist" interminably to confirm that. Miranda Otto is quite possibly one of the most underappreciated and talented actors/actresses of her generation. She may have abandoned medicine to pursue acting, but I measure that as a small sacrifice to a greater contribution to humanity than merely healing hurts and mending wounds. She gave me an insight into the human condition through Tolkien's familiar window, and I shall neither forget her nor ignore her.
Right. It's been enough of my prattling for the nonce. I'm for bed, and some rest prior to tomorrow's match. Cheerio everyone. Good night, England, and the colonies...
-mARKUS
¥Justice for the 96¥
06 February 2006
The Second Coming of GOD
Greetings, gentle readers.
So the weekend has drawn to a close and what do we find? What we find is this: the forces of goodness and light have been thrown into disarray. Not only have Liverpool’s last three league matches yielded a measly single point out of a potential nine, but two of those games have been lost to “big” teams, meaning that looking at the standings now, Liverpool trail Man Ure by six points and Chelski by a whopping twenty-one points. We still have two games in hand, but we’re going to be playing those over the next two weeks, as, in typical marathon-style, we play Charlton away at the Valley Ground on Wednesday, 8 February, then Wigan away at the JJB the following Saturday, before playing Arsenal at Anfield on Tuesday. And then to cap off an exhausting week, we play Manchester United in the 5th Round FA Cup tie that everyone wants to watch. Things look bleak.
Not only have the results of recent note been rather less than encouraging, but the game against Chelski caused even more problems. Pépé Reina, the stalwart goalkeeper who has been providing
On the positive side, Rafa Benitez and the new Boot Room Boys have pulled off the transfer miracle of the season, signing God himself to a six-month contract on a free transfer. That’s right. The Toxteth Terror has come home. More than four years after his sad departure for
For those of you who aren’t aware of Robbie Fowler’s god-like status, I’ll endeavour to re-post my original angst-ridden dirge when I heard the Gérard Houllier had sold the legend himself off. And to
In any event, I shall be watching the Charlton game with baited breath, and awaiting the true Second Coming of God as Robbie lashes down his holy wrath upon Charlton Pathetic. I’ll dredge up my older article and post that later, and I’ll have to get back on track with my top 20. After all, the Premiership is past the half-way point, and I haven’t even reached #14 on the list yet. I shall return, and hopefully bring news of wondrous things and amazing exploits. Good night
-mARKUS
04 February 2006
More Ghastly Poetry
So I had to write some senryu poetry to help out a friend of mine, and I came up with this wee guy:
through kaleidoscope
of eyelashes blurred with tears
rainbows in your smile
After thinking about it, I started to think that "Japanese Poetic Forms" has an equivalent aesthetic value to "Nazi Gourmet Cuisine" or "Mongol Embroidery." So I came up with this little slap to the Nipponese death merchants that raped Nanking, marched thousands to death in Bata'an, and flouted the Geneva Convention for the Treatment of Prisoners of War...
terror in Nanking
cherry blossoms and carnage
stained with Bushido
Not that I'm some sort of racist or anything, but I'm tired of the Germans getting all the bad rap historically. Everyone forgets Stalin murdering the kulaks and starving the Ukrainians. Chairman Mao's casualties of the Cultural Revolution are quietly ignored as a footnote in a record book of ChiCom indiscretions. Pol Pot's auto-genocide is quietly harrumphed by such weasels as Noam Chomsky. Incidents of ethnic cleansing in Kosovo, Rwanda, etc. have become as pedestrian as each release of a Kevin Costner movie.
But no, every time a politician has to open his yap and try and appeal to some sort of culturally ingrained horror and revulsion, it's always about the Germans. Moammar Qadafi is the most evil man since Hitler. Saddam Hussein is the most evil man since Hitler. Manuel Noriega is the most evil man since Hitler.
I reckon that it's time that the blame for all of the world's suffering and tragedy gets spread around a bit. I'm just starting with the Nipponese, since their tradition of ruthless exploitation has essentially begun anew following the reconstruction period of 1946-50. They still treat other Asians as second-class human beings, and other Asian nations are just slop-troughs filled with natural resources for their ravenous zaibatsus to devour. So two fingers up 'em from me.
Cheers,
-mARKUS
¥Justice for the 96¥
through kaleidoscope
of eyelashes blurred with tears
rainbows in your smile
After thinking about it, I started to think that "Japanese Poetic Forms" has an equivalent aesthetic value to "Nazi Gourmet Cuisine" or "Mongol Embroidery." So I came up with this little slap to the Nipponese death merchants that raped Nanking, marched thousands to death in Bata'an, and flouted the Geneva Convention for the Treatment of Prisoners of War...
terror in Nanking
cherry blossoms and carnage
stained with Bushido
Not that I'm some sort of racist or anything, but I'm tired of the Germans getting all the bad rap historically. Everyone forgets Stalin murdering the kulaks and starving the Ukrainians. Chairman Mao's casualties of the Cultural Revolution are quietly ignored as a footnote in a record book of ChiCom indiscretions. Pol Pot's auto-genocide is quietly harrumphed by such weasels as Noam Chomsky. Incidents of ethnic cleansing in Kosovo, Rwanda, etc. have become as pedestrian as each release of a Kevin Costner movie.
But no, every time a politician has to open his yap and try and appeal to some sort of culturally ingrained horror and revulsion, it's always about the Germans. Moammar Qadafi is the most evil man since Hitler. Saddam Hussein is the most evil man since Hitler. Manuel Noriega is the most evil man since Hitler.
I reckon that it's time that the blame for all of the world's suffering and tragedy gets spread around a bit. I'm just starting with the Nipponese, since their tradition of ruthless exploitation has essentially begun anew following the reconstruction period of 1946-50. They still treat other Asians as second-class human beings, and other Asian nations are just slop-troughs filled with natural resources for their ravenous zaibatsus to devour. So two fingers up 'em from me.
Cheers,
-mARKUS
¥Justice for the 96¥
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