As it’s Saturday, I’ll confine myself to:-

1. Highlighting the story that, in the UK, a man was arrested for barking back at two dogs who were annoying him. The judge eventually threw out the case but you can understand why the Daily Telegraph suggested the police were also barking,

2. Recommending you check out the 26.4 entry of Iberian Notes for one of those driving stories one reads rather too often in Spain, and

3. Giving you my latest 3-year on compilation - on FOOTBALL . . .

2003/4

The papers today feature David Beckham getting his gong yesterday at the Palace. The way they report it, he has joined the British nobility and is now only a hop, skip and kick away from the knighthood he so richly deserves for scoring one goal this week and making another, ensuring that Real Madrid went through to the next round of the Champions’ League.

Spain has at least two daily, national newspapers dedicated entirely to sport. Well, I say ‘sport’ but most of their pages are devoted to football [soccer], with the also-ran sports getting a brief look-in towards the back. These papers provide tremendous analysis of football matches in particular, including no-holds-barred ratings of each player’s performance. Reading these recently, I have noticed two words cropping up regularly, usually in articles about which mega-star Real Madrid are going to try to poach next, after Beckham. The first is crack but as a noun, not an adjective. So ‘un crack’ is a star player. The other word is galactico, which speaks for itself and seems to mean much the same thing. Or possibly mega-star.

The other word which jumps out from these reports is ‘Mister’. This is what trainers [or coaches] appear to be called in Spain, especially by the players. So, really it is ‘Meester’. I suspect the Spanish think it is equivalent to Sir, as in Manchester United’s Sir Alex Ferguson.

Has there ever been a soccer match with worse statistics than the UEFA final of Wednesday night between Oporto and Monaco? First half: A solitary shot at goal. Score 1-0, to Oporto. Second half: A total of 2 more shots at goal by Oporto. Final score 3-0. The cost of season tickets to Chelsea must be plummeting, if the Oporto coach really is on his way there.

At least the rain is appropriate for the gloom that has settled on the country after Spain’s early elimination from the European Cup. [A soccer tournament, for my American reader]. Yesterday’s papers were vicious in their condemnation of a team that was, once again, only a bridesmaid. ‘A Hell of Cowards’ read one headline. Others were less complimentary.

The much vilified Spanish football coach has said that he is staying on as he ‘has the support of the football world’. If the [somewhat adverse] opinion polls published today are anything to go by, this would seem to mean merely the President of the Football Association, the man who appointed him. And who extended his contract for two years before the European Cup competition. Since both gentlemen are Basques, this has given the regionally-obsessed Spanish plenty of scope for conspiracy theories. And fury.

Well, the Spanish football coach has decided that he is not as popular as he thought and tendered his resignation, just as he was about to be lynched.

But the England coach looks safe, despite a defeat brought about - a few of us think - by misguided strategy and tactics. The English fans clearly don’t feel as humiliated as the Spanish. But neither group can possibly feel as bad as the Germans, whose coach fell on his sword rather more quickly than his Spanish counterpart, after their defeat by the Czech Republic’s B team. I would have liked to give you the Spanish word for schadenfreude but there is nothing in my dictionary. Interesting that the Germans invented the concept.

Watching the tense late stages of the England match on Thursday evening, my elder daughter and I shared the irreligious hope that my younger [and rather more Catholic] daughter was praying sufficiently hard for victory. If so, she was convincingly out-prayed by Louis Figo. Today’s El Mundo reports that he responded to his substitution by nipping straight along to the ground’s shrine to the Virgin of Fatima to put in a few impassioned pleas for a Portuguese victory. Down on the Catholic farm, it seems, some animals are more equal than others.

Final word on that bloody match….. Very near the end, I suggested that a free kick on the edge of the Portuguese penalty area demanded a ‘Johnny Wilkinson moment’ from David Beckham. It did come, of course. But only when he took the first penalty.

Let’s hear it for Greece. They managed 2 shots at the goal in the European Cup final against Portugal and won 1-0. This was even worse than the team [Oporto?] which won the Champions’ League 3-0 after achieving a miserly three shots at the goal. One [apposite] cartoon in today’s El Mundo showed the Greek captain raising the trophy whilst a football below him committed hari-kiri. You can’t, in all fairness, deny credit to the Greeks for the scalps they took en route but what a dire state European soccer must be in for them to emerge as winners. They racked up only 7 goals in 6 matches and came away with more yellow cards than any other team. Let’s hope they fade away as quickly as they rose to prominence.

The local press here often print syndicated reports on national and international matters. Today they re-printed a ‘perfect European team’ I had already seen in the national press. Only they got it the wrong way round, suggesting that Andy Cole is Europe’s best right back. Which may come as a surprise to him as he has never been near the right side of the pitch.

Among many others, Ashley Cole has written to advise me it was him – and not Andy Cole – who’d been included in the Best European soccer team as Left/Right Back. Sorry, Ashley. As Andrew has pointed out, Andy Cole was left back in the UK.

Two days ago David Beckham was trumpeting that he suspected everyone thought he was too stupid to think up the deliberate-second-yellow-card-strategy. Well, David, if we didn’t think so before, we certainly do now, given that – quite predictably - the entire football world has dumped on you and you’ve been forced to make a grovelling apology. Asked today on Spanish TV about the possibility of Beckham deliberately provoking a second card, Zinedine Zidane said that he didn’t believe he could have done such a thing. And then blushed to his roots when the reporters told him that he had already admitted to it. “And I thought he was a nice guy”, he muttered. So, two idiots in the Real Madrid team, then.

I went to a football match in La Coruña tonight, to see Liverpool play Deportivo. Although I went with Andrew, who is a Liverpool supporter, I wore my blue and white Everton scarf. This was to both annoy Andrew and to show solidarity with Deportivo, who sport the same colours. Treading our way carefully through the happy band of Liverpool fans near the ground, it wasn’t long before I was given my first friendly Scouser greeting. “Hey, you fucking twat” were, I think, the exact words. Oh, how I miss the Liverpool wit and repartee of my youth.

Late night note: After the truly appalling performance of the England soccer team in Madrid tonight, I am consoled by the fact that I only have to wait another 6 years to take out Spanish nationality. That said, despite the woeful inadequacy of their witless and skill-deficient opponents, Spain only managed to score one goal. But this might just be because most of them had had their ankles broken in the first half.

And here’s something I never thought I would say – Thank God my team, Everton, got shut of Wayne Rooney before he self-destructs. When they say that he has his brains in his feet, they really mean it. Though ‘toes’ might be even more accurate.

2005

It would be fair to say that not all British footballers in Spain give the impression of having had a lobotomy. In particular, there’s Michael Robinson, who played for Liverpool in the 80s and now presides over the leading soccer commentary programme. He’s also one of the star puppets on Spain’s version of Spitting Image, which is quite an achievement.

On a more parochial level, today’s EU referendum ‘success’ has been completely overshadowed by the local football team’s first victory in over 20 matches this season. From the celebrations, you’d have thought they’d just won the European cup.

The advertisements during the football matches televised by our local channel have reached such a level of intrusion that it’s now a moot point as to whether the ads are being shown during a football match or a football match is being shown during the ads.

If you play football for, say, an English or Italian team, it’s your surname that goes on the team sheet. And also on the back of your shirt. If you play for a Spanish team, you seem to have a great deal of latitude as to what goes on each of these. And they are not always the same. So it was that the team sheet for Real Madrid last night included surnames [Beckham, Graveson], forenames [ Raúl, Ronaldo] and both of these [Roberto Carlos, Raúl Bravo]. And for the shirts on their backs the situation was similar, though not identical – Beckham, Raúl and R Carlos, for example. I don’t really know what this signifies, though it may say something about the anarchistic tendencies that form part of the Spanish character. And which find their most eloquent expression amongst the gypsies, whom – ironically - the Spanish detest.

Spaniards take their football very seriously and the national newspapers run commentaries of a quality which puts their British counterparts to shame. Right now, they are laying into Real Madrid and showing no mercy whatsoever. The consensus is that last week’s defeat to Turin in the Champions’ League, followed by the weekend’s loss to a journeyman team in the Spanish League, mark the end of an era. One rather gets the impression that few of the writers would think it inappropriate for most of the Galacticos to be hung, drawn and quartered. If so, I guess we would then see their pictures on the front page, rather than in the Sports pages at the back.

I see that – in the latest case involving the Beckhams’ home life – a UK judge has decided that ‘public interest’ means ‘whatever the tabloid-buying public are interested in reading’. It may, then, be some consolation to Mr B. to know that, after a difficult patch, he’s now seen as having returned to his footballing best. He puts it down to more rigorous training under the fourth Real Madrid manager in two years. And I guess this is why he’s no longer talking of the paparazzi hounding him out of Spain.

A British soccer player – Jonathan Woodgate – joined Real Madrid 18 months ago and, thanks to an injury, has been on the sidelines ever since. He played his first match last night and belatedly repaid his enormous fee by scoring an own goal in the 2^nd minute and being sent off in the 66^th. This, I fancy, says everything you need to know about the current state of British football.

A pleasant surprise this morning – a comment from a Liverpool supporter. I had no idea any of them could write. But, to be honest, he only said what I’d decided not to add to my dismissal of British football yesterday, viz. that when your team has lost 7 of its last 8 games you’re entitled to be a tad disillusioned. And then there’s the recent woeful performances of the England team. Which rather makes my point because – unlike both Liverpool and Everton – it comprises only national players. Liverpool, of course, is essentially a Spanish team. So I do rejoice in its successes. These days at least. Oh, and by the way, if I’d had been a lifelong supporter of Liverpool, they’d have been in the Second Division when I was a tot. Which Everton never have.

You might think it bad enough for Wayne Rooney to indulge in fights with opposing players during competitive football matches. But today’s papers carry pictures of fisticuffs between two members of the Spanish squad training for tomorrow’s World Cup game. Mind you, one of them was a Catalan. Probably got into an argument about constitutional reform.

The children of Spanish football referees are being taunted in schools after questionable [or at least questioned] decisions by their fathers. Probably not what the Bible meant when it spoke of sins of the parents being visited on the children.

I see David Beckham has got himself sent off again, this time for sarcastically applauding [a la Wayne Rooney] the referee’s decision to give him a yellow card. And these are the captain and star player of the English team, respectively. Strangely, I was going to write yesterday that the reason why football coaches are so stupid must be because they used to be professional footballers. So we can surely look forward to one or both of these idiots managing the English team in about 10 years’ time. Or at least a major Premiership team.

The President of Barcelona Football Club has not only permitted but encouraged displays of Catalunian nationalism at their ground. My friend Andrew has suggested the national football authority takes this to its logical conclusion and expels them from the Spanish league. They could then play against . . . well, their reserve team.

Can I be the only person in the world who thinks the attention paid by the tabloidised British media to George Best’s last days was out of all proportion to what he contributed to the world? He was, after all, a fool who ultimately drank himself to death. But perhaps this is enough to give him iconic status in a country plagued with binge drinking among its youth. Here is Spain, El Mundo had a beautifully written obituary which said all that needed to be said and still maintained a sense of perspective.

I did once bump into George Best at London airport, when we were both waiting for the same flight to Manchester. Not only were we born in the same year, but we were of similar height and weight. This allowed me to convince myself that, if I hadn’t had to play rugby at school, I’d have been a top flight footballer. So perhaps he wasn’t all bad, even in his final years.

Of a Sunday night at this time of year, it’s impossible to get anything on Spanish radio other than continuous pop music or football commentaries. The latter are delivered with varying degrees of Latin emotion but the best/worst is a gravel-throated chap who, at times, sounds rather like a chicken in the latter stages of strangulation. Even more bizarrely, he and his colleagues regularly break off from their commentary to parrot [or even sing!] the praises of some product or other. At times like this, I’m just amazed at what the live-and-let-live Spanish will tolerate.

I see George Best has now been deified to the point of resurrection. Sky News told us this morning that he – not just his body – had been flown to Northern Ireland for what amounts to a state funeral in Stormont Castle. I know Northern Ireland has had little to smile about for the last 40 years but what on earth would they do for someone really significant to the course of human history? And I don’t deny he was a brilliant footballer, albeit for far fewer years than should have been the case.

The Spanish obsession with regional identity took another step forward this week, with the playing of several football matches between Autonomous Communities and international teams. Galicia, for example, played Uruguay. And won. This is impressive but, if you translate it into UK terms and envisage, say, Cornwall playing Austria, it just sounds daft. And I certainly couldn’t see Cornwall winning. Maybe, though, a baseball match between Texas and Japan wouldn’t be too ridiculous. Or Bavaria against Iceland. On second thoughts . . .

2006

For some reason, the English football team is referred to here as Los pross, as in this example - La preocupante baja de Rooney había mutado la ilusión y esperanza de los ingleses de cara a este Mundial en una sensación de pesimismo y derrotismo que realmente no se correspondían con el potencial de los pross. Google has been no help to me in establishing the origin of this nickname so, if anyone knows, I’d appreciate the explanation. Incidentally, after the game against Paraguay, this sympathetic Spanish comment now looks rather misplaced.

What a joy to see Spain playing such superb football last night. And reminding Sven Eriksson of the secrets of the game – playing people in their right positions, keeping possession, going forward, and stopping your goalkeeper hoofing the ball up to the single flimsy lighthouse which constitutes your entire attack. Spain is going through a golden period with individual sports stars such as Nadal and Alonso at the moment but what the country really needs - to counter its centrifugal pull - is a successful team, composed of players from all over the country. So, all strength to their elbows, even if it means beating England in the final. As of now, of course, this is the remotest of prospects.

Another depressing performance from the England football team tonight. I don’t know when they play Ecuador but I’m pretty sure I’ll have something more enjoyable to do. I’m arranging for someone to come round and stick red hot needles in me.

Talking of the World Cup, after watching Portugal the other night, I was left wondering - not for the first time – whether ‘Figo’ is Portuguese for ‘Fall down’. Shame to see such a wonderful player sunk so low. And so frequently.

Here’s a few comments from the Spanish press after England’s two-sided performance last night. Not to mention their two even-worse earlier performances:-

Robinson [the goalkeeper] has good reflexes and sometimes stops the impossible shots. The trouble is, he can’t deal with the possibles.

The members of the England team play as if they’d just met yesterday

It is a badly composed team. The coach fields too many specialists and seems to have little knowledge of his players

England certainly have dynamite but don’t use it.

The team lacks a goalkeeper; the midfield is undefined, some players are operating out of their normal positions and the coach just hasn’t got things right. A disjointed team.

I couldn’t agree more. And for this abject failure to forge a great team from some of the best players we’ve ever had Eriksson has been paid 6 million euros a year! No wonder the manager of the Swedish team described this as obscene. Thank God he couldn’t keep it in his trousers and will be departing the scene 4 years before the end of his contract. Too late for this competition, though.

I certainly won’t be watching against Ecuador; it would be too painful to see us go out against such opposition. If England win, I’ll review my position – at least for the first half of the next match – as it’s conceivable we could play well against Argentina or Holland but still go out with honour. Meanwhile, I’m just grateful my real team is Spain. And that my piano teacher is Argentinean.

The English performance against Uruguay got the Spanish press it deserved:- A tedious and anodyne display . . . Without rhythm and utterly lacking in football skills . . . England have continued to progress in the competition without showing any sign of why they’re considered one of the teams likely to succeed . . . Following the script of their manager, Lampard, Gerrard, Cole and Beckham have forgotten about creativity and mired themselves in mediocrity . . . The only good news is that Rooney showed signs of why he’s considered a quality player. Thank-God I didn’t watch the match. Except that I did.

Well, I never thought I’d ever say this but “Allez, les Bleus!”. What a wonderful performance from Zidane, Henry et al. And, if I have to chose between the Frogs and the Huns, I guess it must be the older enemy. Especially after watching a program on the Somme battles last night.

I found the first 90 minutes of the England match against Portugal as bad as anything that came before. So I saved myself the pain of watching the extra time and the penalty shootout. Before that - during the first 15 or 16 minutes of play in the second half before Rooney inevitably got himself sent off - I relieved the boredom by counting how often Figo fell over and how many times England gave away possession. This was 12, against 3 for Portugal. Hopeless. They truly deserved to go out, even if Portugal will only grace the semi-finals marginally more than England would have done. At least they play like a team and know what to do with the ball. Does anyone know what Walcott looks like?

What an abject failure the team has been, the responsibility for which I lay at the door of the priapic Swede. Or turnip or cabbage. For those who don’t share my view, this is an article that might persuade them. For those who do, it will surely interest them…..

By the way, the guy who wrote the Word Spellcheck program doesn’t know what ‘priapic’ means. Prick.

Finally, I hope my earlier comments please my French reader.

A couple of damning verdicts from the Spanish press about the English team:-

Like Brazil, England is a team de-natured by its trainer. Eriksson is one of those trainers who earn a great deal of money and lots of prestige by constructing a team which is weaker than its constituent members.*

Eriksson had one of the best teams England has ever had but hasn’t been able to get from it even a hint of recognisable football. We’re not talking about beauty here, merely a reliable style.

And here’s a comment from a writer in Prospect magazine which echoes my own, long-standing view:-

We have the BBC’s HDTV, red-button interactivity and live streaming of the matches on the net, and ITV’s computer graphics showing the number of shots on or off target. In general, the hardware has improved greatly. The software, however, has not. What we still have is the weary old format of a commentator or two, a studio presenter and ‘expert analysis’ by a dour mix of ex-pros and/or managers. Not, we note, Mourinho or Wenger, who don’t have the same sacred cows. Football TV coverage, with its tiresome cast of has-beens and also-rans, remains stuck in the past. Everyone cheers on ‘our’ boys, dodges tricky issues and goes for the lowbrow opinion. Why will no one break the mould for an audience who want something a bit different?

* This is just a guess at the meaning of a verb – jibarizar – which I can’t find in any dictionary or on line. Correct translation welcome from any Spanish reader.

Talking of the ‘jibarizado’ English football team. . . a Spanish commentator has written that Italy’s superb performance last night was an example of how to compete that Spain was light years away from. I would ask where on earth this leaves England but we’re talking at least different planets here. Possibly even galaxies.

I read that the Jamaican football authorities have offered Sven Eriksson 3 million pounds a year [about 4.5m euros] to coach their national team. Don’t they have English newspapers out there? Or read my blog? They deserve everything they won't get.

I noticed last night national TV has now adopted the practices of their cash-strapped regional inferiors and started to put banner adverts at the bottom of the screen even during the action of a football match. But the nadir was reached when in the 87^th minute, a [female] commentator was introduced to give us the deathless [and breathless] comment that “Only three minutes remain for Spain to equalise against Northern Ireland. And also for you to call or text the numbers on your screen to win 10,000 euros!”. Is there no end to the tolerance of Spanish viewers?

I see the French football authorities have demanded a replay of the World Cup final, on the grounds that the sending-off of Zidane was illegal because the 4^th official hadn’t seen the incident with his own eyes but only on the large screen in the ground. I assume they must be living on another planet from the rest of us. Though this is not a new accusation against the French, of course. But, if it does happen, will Zidane come out of retirement – yet again?

A couple of quotes of possible interest to those who, like me, felt the England football team’s performances couldn’t get any worse than last summer’s . . .

England's players may have thought their premature World Cup exit this summer was the lowest they could go, but that was before last night when they crashed down a few more levels with a performance of incoherence that was crowned by absurdity.

The abandonment of 3-5-2 had the effect of another door clanging shut on the England illusions that have become not so much contentious as pathetic. After the evidence of bankruptcy - moral and technical - against Macedonia at the weekend, the possibility that a system of play discarded by all the recognised powers of the game might somehow magically restore poise and conviction was always remote. But in practice, as the Croats surged into the game almost at will, it became something more than a long-shot tactical lunge. It became an escape from the reality of England's plight, and one conducted at a stuttering snail's pace.