Articles of Faith (16 page)

I’m going to two Premiership football matches today, like I’m Tord Grip or something, flitting about making shrewd judgements and stroking my Scandinavian chin. I’ve never attempted such a feat before, many have said it can’t be done, but at 12.45pm I shall be at the Bridge (I’m not paying for a ticket and am therefore not contributing to Avram’s dopey war chest – in the TV in my brain I always see a pirate’s treasure chest when that idiom is used, bulging with rubies and doubloons, though that’d be a fat lot of good in any proper war. On the same dubious basis I refused to buy my friend Les who lives in Los Angeles a Spurs top, even though he’d cherish it and be deeply moved, I just couldn’t bear the idea of the revenue ending up in Michael Dawson’s trousers.

‘There is no decanter, no boomerang-shaped aerial or dividing screen between you and the driver’

Furthermore making any kind of purchase in Lillywhites sports store in central London, where I planned to coerce my friend Nik into conducting the filthy transaction as my emissary, is like trying to score smack in the Kremlin, it was like they didn’t want to sell me anything. If we’re going to surrender our souls to consumerism we should at least end up with a product. I’m aware this is still in parenthesis and has gone on for too long and that you’ll have forgotten the main thrust of the article, don’t worry, we’ll be back into the primary narrative in a trice) watching the title-deciding clash between Manchester United and Chelsea then I’ll be bounding on to a ‘limo-bike’ and darting off to Upton Park to watch the Hammers take on the Toon.

That may well sound hectic and I imagine it will be, also the term ‘limo-bike’ may conjure up rather a glamorous contraption in your neuron-box. Well know you this: a ‘limo-bike’ is a misleading piece of marketing language to inaccurately describe a motorcycle taxi service.

A less disingenuous name would be a ‘motorbike’ because that’s what it is. There is no decanter of sherry, no boomerang-shaped television aerial or dividing screen between you and the driver, in fact you are forced to cling to his waist like one of Fonzie’s girlfriends. Also his helmet is wired to your own allowing him to make a one-man radio show broadcast directly into your head, usually covering hot topics like immigration and gays. It’s like developing schizophrenia and discovering your louder persona is actually Richard Littlejohn.

I don’t usually attend matches as a neutral, for me if West Ham aren’t playing I’d sooner watch it on the telly, confidently, in my pants. But Chelsea vs United at this stage of the season will be a spectacle. The last match I went to which I wasn’t emotionally involved with was Celtic vs Rangers last season and it was thrilling. The distance and detachment afforded by the removal of loyalty and commitment improved my ability to discern and comment. I became aware of strategy and the use of space.

At Upton Park I’m transported back to my childhood and I witness the fixture from a cradle of emotional turmoil. West Ham’s presence disrupts my critical faculties. If I was watching a pornographic film and suddenly my mother appeared on screen, tipsy in a ghastly negligee I would no longer be able to enjoy the film. I’d be too concerned by the presence of my mum. ‘Christ’ I’d think, ‘she never mentioned this to me. I won’t say anything – she doesn’t like me to watch blue movies.’ It’s a bit like that.

The match at the Boleyn is of little real significance to either side who are both assured mid-table mediocrity this season but for the fans it’ll be important. As far as we’re concerned our mum’s dignity is at stake out there.

I shall spare a thought for dear Frank Lampard who lost his mum this week. Frank is a player who has been unduly harangued internationally and domestically despite being a great midfielder and, by all accounts, a lovely bloke. As Avram Grant pointed out some things are more important than football, like mums.

During the last seven days I have watched more football and had more football-related encounters than at any other time this season. I went to Stamford Bridge for Saturday’s visit from Manchester United where I met Ray Wilkins and Chopper Harris and mistakenly attempted to chat up Joe Cole’s girlfriend (I didn’t recognise her – she’s really pretty and when she revealed her identity I had to try and re-package the preceding flirting as harmless chivalry) then on to Upton Park for the Newcastle match.

As I arrived I saw Freddie Ljungberg being tipped into an ambulance, then during the match, for which I was 30 minutes late, I was seated next to the CEO’s phenomenal girlfriend – just in time to witness Newcastle’s two equalising goals and, most extraordinarily of all, afterwards I was whisked off to meet the legendary Paolo Di Canio. All this and it was Champions League semi-final week, not to mention my childhood hero West Ham striker Tony Cottee’s flattering insistence that I introduce his forthcoming greatest goals DVD.

‘Forever on the precipice of declarations and tears he converses how he played, with captivating intensity’

Any of these events would be sufficient to fill a column thrice this size and taken together they form a gleaming itinerary of unthinkable intrigue and glamour but even cursory examination will reveal that the inescapable embarrassment that accompanies me through life was present at every turn, like a seagull following Eric Cantona anticipating a tasty morsel of bizarre imagery.

Firstly, Saturday’s matches. It was the intention to attend both games on opposite sides of London by promptly leaving Chelsea at the whistle,
leaping on to a motorbike taxi – like an assassin – and zipping to east London in time for three o’clock. These motorbike taxis did not show up, instead I travelled to the games in a…taxi.

On Fulham Road once disgorged I walked incognito among the Chelsea fans, thinking myself so smart – ‘I’m like Henry V, amidst his troops or Luke Skywalker when he dressed as a Stormtrooper, these blue berks have no idea that I, a Hammer, as fiercely opposed to their posh, Osgood doctrine as it’s possible to be, am ghosting imperceptibly in their ranks.’

‘I’LL PICK YOU UP AT ONE THIRTY, RUSSELL!’ bellowed the driver.

The blue flag anthem stammered into silence, the shuffling battalion ceased marching, a police horse exhaled and eyes turned. ‘It’s Russell Brand’ spat the chief of the Headhunters. I steeled myself for the onslaught. ‘I’ll go down fighting’ I pledged. ‘You can take my life but you’ll never take my freedom,’ I screamed as one by one polite adolescents posed at my side for harmless photos.

I saw a beautiful woman sashaying through the throng – my chance for escape; I darted after her regurgitating clichés till she elegantly revealed she was betrothed to England’s most naturally gifted player, Joe Cole. Once in the executive lounge I navigated the Wilkins encounter flawlessly – except for badgering him to give me inside information on the Avram Grant situation, he agreed that the problem was succeeding ‘the most charismatic man in sport, let alone football’.

Travelling by car meant that it was necessary to leave this scintillating match at half-time – listening to the radio en route I learned of two goals and several enthralling incidents at the Bridge and two home goals at Upton Park. Of course I was in my seat in time to see Obafemi Martins score for the Geordies then moments later Geremi drew them level, confirming my status as a jinxed talisman. My companion for the second half was the heartbreakingly attractive girlfriend of a West Ham executive who I chatted to innocuously whilst the fans behind us hollered ‘Oi, focus on the game’ and ‘Brand! Put her down.’

At full-time I was approached by a club official who informed me that Di Canio was present and had asked to meet me. Through the vestibules and corridors I sweated and fretted the anxious journey that would lead to an audience with an icon. In the flesh, though flesh seems inaccurate as he is all sinew, muscle and passion, Di Canio is a force. Forever on the precipice of declarations and tears he converses how he played with captivating intensity and awesome commitment. He spoke of West Ham with such love and respect that I quite forgot myself.

At one point I touched his shoulder with my hand and it was as if it were connected to the Earth’s core, such was the throb of innate potency. He referred to me and West Ham as ‘You’, e.g. ‘You are a great club, you deserve the best’ and when he looked into my eyes it was as touching and as visceral as his volley against Chelsea or when he caught the ball to allow Everton keeper Paul Gerrard to receive treatment rather than score. The feelings were all too powerful.

‘He’s so passionate,’ I thought, I wanted to join in, ‘I’m going to say something passionate.’ After the umpteenth agonisingly sincere handshake I blurted ‘I want to thank you for all you gave to this club.’ I nearly wept. ‘No. Thank you,’ retorted Paolo, far more at ease with this manner of discourse. When he departed I reflected with some relief that no one who saw me watching Di Canio leave the room could ever seriously think I’d be interested in their girlfriend, my heart belongs to Di Canio.

It’s the last day of term. School’s out. It’s the final day,
la finale grande
as they say in Euro Disneyland Paris. We think it’s all over – it nearly bloody well is. ‘Can we bring in toys and forego uniforms?’ – ‘No, that doesn’t really apply here.’

Ah, the lunacy of the season’s climax, the excitement, the suspense, the drama – is there anything quite like it? No.
The Apprentice
? Well, yes, maybe. This season it’s more enthralling than usual as there is much to be decided, either Manchester United or Chelsea could be crowned champions this weekend and two from Bolton, Fulham, Reading and Birmingham could be relegated – though Bolton would be remarkably unlucky and, as at the top, their demotion would be due to ‘goal difference’.

Perhaps it’s this elevation of minutiae, goals conceded and scored potentially deciding the future of fans and players and managers that has produced this giggly mist of climactic hysteria that appears to be affecting everyone from super-agent Pini Zahavi to Manchester City owner Thaksin Shinawatra.

‘I’ve never been one for the ol’ prejudice, thinking it a pointless restriction on potential sexual partners’

Shinawatra has sacked Sven-Goran Eriksson, more beloved to the people of Manchester than Noel Gallagher or LS Lowry, on the flimsy basis that City didn’t qualify for the Champions League. The Champions League only has a limited number of places; these barmy (human-rights abusing?) magnates from around the globe are at some stage going to have to acknowledge that fact. Unless it becomes simply a league in
which any team can participate, with mixed gender sides that have scarcely played before or even met, there will always be some tycoons who finish the season empty-handed.

My mates who are City fans are right browned off about Sven’s sacking; in fact it’s taken this for them to register even a smithereen of disdain for Thaksin. ‘He may be an abuser of human rights you know,’ I’d say. ‘Who cares? We’ve got Elano,’ came the reply. ‘Here, he’s sacked Sven…’ ‘What?!?!?!?! Someone call Geneva – you can’t treat people like that.’

Zahavi has piped up on the topic of human rights claiming that the antipathy towards his client Avram Grant could be rooted in antisemitism. Hmm, I hope not, I always thought it was because he had replaced the world’s most twinkly, sparkly, arseachingly attractive Rat-Pack refugee José Mourinho. I don’t think his religion is a factor, personally when I learned of his Holocaust day pilgrimage and the murder of some of his
family at the hands of the Nazis it made me like him more but then I’ve never been one for the ol’ prejudice, thinking it a pointless restriction on potential sexual partners.

Not that Avram Grant was ever in my sights as a lover nor am I suggesting that he’d have me – he seems very happy with his wife, who, as we all know, drinks wee-wee, a boon for any marriage. Mourinho on the other hand? Why, I’d follow him across the globe as diligently as Didier Drogba for just a whiff off his neck. Drogba incidentally takes second place in my ill-advised Russell Brand Glasshouses Award for Rubbish Haircuts, behind Arsenal’s Emmanuel Adebayor who wins because his shift from corn rows to box top as well as looking less cool coincided with a dip in form and almost total cessation in scoring whereas Drogba’s ‘do’ just looks daft. I know, I know – that’s why it’s called the Glasshouses Award.

Will Chelsea’s fans take to Grant even if he completes an unlikely double? Will they sing his name? Alan Curbishley doesn’t get his name sung at Upton Park – he too replaced a manager who was popular with fans, Alan Pardew, who, by no stretch of the most elastic and LSD-doused imaginations, is a match for José Mourinho.

It can’t be much fun not to feel loved by your crowd. Now hang on to your hats because I’m about to drop a name so heavy you might piddle yourself with envy – here goes…Jimmy Tarbuck once said to me: ‘They like ya kid, and that goes a long way.’ He cited the example of the lovely Bob Monkhouse who he said was a brilliant comic and a lovely man but who didn’t have the same rapport with an audience as Eric Morecambe or Tommy Cooper. He went to great lengths to point out that Monkhouse was great and delightful but needed to work to get an audience onside.

I suppose this is Grant’s dilemma but then Sven was no Sammy Davis Jr and the Eastland’s faithful are holding a march to protest his departure, because he got results. In 48 hours it’ll all be over, heroes will rise and fall but the game goes on. Adulation, to a point, can be earned but for some it’ll be gifted – look at Kevin Keegan, while we still can.

I feel bound to mention that I am writing this article on a flight from New York to Los Angeles having just been on the Letterman show. I bring this up because there is currently turbulence and it might be my fault as I left this laptop turned on, ignoring the announcement: ‘All electrical items must be turned off,’ which I’ve always assumed to be a needless imposition of authority rather than an aviational necessity.

‘It may interfere with the instruments’ – yes, well, it may not interfere with the instruments; then I’d look rather foolish, groping around in those inexplicably lofty cupboards trying to switch it off – all nervous like a Nan or Dennis Bergkamp. Assuming you’re reading this all must be well; unless my laptop has been plucked from the wreckage along with the black box – ‘Are there any survivors?’ ‘Never mind that, there’s Russell Brand’s smoking computer – just pray he had time to save his
Guardian
column. Thank God – then all was not lost.’

‘Giggs’s record would not be more stupendously commendable if he’d won more wars than Churchill’

In that morbid spirit I shall make some teary predictions for the season’s climactic fixtures – bear in mind of course that when making predictions one must consider the possible negative influence of the prediction itself. For example, if I predict that West Ham will win the league next season this will infuriate the Gods, who will punish me by condemning West Ham to relegation, thus I must trick the Gods by predicting outcomes that would displease me. However the Gods are not stupid, they are, after all, omnipotent deities, so I can’t just predict the opposite of what I want – the Gods’ll see through that in an instant, so I’ll mix it up a bit.

First the FA Cup. I believe the Hammers were the last club outside the top flight to win this tournament (in 1980 against Arsenal) an honour I
would hate to see overturned by Cardiff, particularly as I recall with fury a visit to the Millennium Stadium where the home support taunted the Claret and Blue Army with an a capella version of the
Steptoe and Son
theme tune ‘Old Ned’ which was bizarrely sarcastic and demeaning and West Ham capitulated; I think out of a Harold Steptoe-style sense of inadequacy and the futility of trying to improve. Also Harry Redknapp leads Pompey and I love him and consider him to be the last representative of the ‘speak yer mind’-type English football managers. So…I predict Cardiff will win.

The Champions League final is interesting. It would be nice for Avram Grant to get some recognition or alternatively to see what means people would employ to continue to deny him credit in the face of such an awesome triumph – ‘The players won it themselves’ or ‘It was a fix’ or even ‘Abramovich released spores into the stadium whilst fertilising eggs his wife had lain under the pitch which rendered the United players impotent with maternal envy.’

Victory for the Red Devils would bring Fergie closer to his ultimate, recently revealed aim of surpassing the achievements of Liverpool. I think it was Roy Keane who let this info slip and it makes sense to me. I think Sir Alex is one of the greatest living Britons and to fulfil this objective he’d need at least two more seasons as United’s manager.

I enjoyed seeing Ryan Giggs equalling Bobby Charlton’s appearance record as it gave me a sense of living through history; Bobby Charlton is an evocative figure and his name is so laden with significance that Giggs’s record would not be more stupendously commendable if he’d won more wars than Churchill or been more serene than Ghandi. In this instance then, I predict United will win. Them Gods’ll ne’er unravel this code – it’d baffle Dan Brown with its complexity.

Finally the Championship play-offs. Hull City versus Bristol City. I’ve a very dear friend, Gareth, who supports Hull; I feel a deep fondness for folk who follow unglamorous clubs – West Ham, even when relegated, retain a sense of Cockney pizzazz, barra boy razzmatazz, but Hull? I am not speaking out of blind prejudice, I went there once to do a gig and I saw
three separate brawls in the street. These outbursts of unrest were not I assure you related to my performance nor the floods that at that time blighted the city. Locals informed me it was simply the high-spirited horseplay that accompanies every Friday night’s last-orders bell.

When my mates and I discuss football – we all follow Premier League clubs with rich histories, The Irons, United, Liverpool, even Spurs – Gareth must meekly proffer a titbit on Dean Windass or a trip to Palace. I’d love Hull to be next season’s Derby; the biggest win I ever saw was West Ham 7 Hull City 1. To which end I hope the Tigers overcome Bristol but predict the reverse. I must go, this turbulence is becoming unbearable and a sky marshal is threatening to have me interned. Even Nostradamus couldn’t’ve predicted that.