tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11843253192296238152024-03-03T15:28:15.633-08:00The Quiet FanThis blog consists of entirely original content to back my next book, The Quiet Fan (how did you guess?), which will be published in 2018 by Unbound. Click the image below to pre-order a paperback or e-book copy. Ian Plenderleithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08512357220650578961noreply@blogger.comBlogger25125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1184325319229623815.post-26245535781244568112020-09-25T04:45:00.000-07:002020-09-25T04:45:19.374-07:00My first kiss always reminds me of... Lincoln City v Scunthorpe United<p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWI4NmIF6dW_Uzgk_UHLFA370g_mGocU1QeQOmpXzkQ747s38Ud1qO2kjABRN7VDH9k_9kZWxmKK0f4HkCvuPHOhbVKjRhyphenhyphenrYbaM3ssEmCy6AckPnzC9EaZPZ4hMZpOYJXZ4feT5uRmHk/s640/chapter3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="400" data-original-width="640" height="250" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWI4NmIF6dW_Uzgk_UHLFA370g_mGocU1QeQOmpXzkQ747s38Ud1qO2kjABRN7VDH9k_9kZWxmKK0f4HkCvuPHOhbVKjRhyphenhyphenrYbaM3ssEmCy6AckPnzC9EaZPZ4hMZpOYJXZ4feT5uRmHk/w400-h250/chapter3.jpg" width="400" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><br />You'll all be intrigued to know that 40 years ago this weekend I was snogged for the very first time, on a Saturday night in a Lincolnshire village, drunk on illegally procured neat Martini swigged direct from the bottle, bathed in the nearest beck to keep it cool. Much more importantly, that afternoon I'd watched Lincoln City draw 2-2 with Scunthorpe United. Here's how chapter three of <i>The Quiet Fan</i>, <b>Kissing: </b></span><b><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">Lincoln City v Scunthorpe United, League Division Four, Saturday 27</span><sup style="font-family: arial;">th</sup></b><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;"><b>September, 1980, kick-off 3PM</b>,</span><i style="font-family: arial;"> </i><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">begins:</span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><span lang="EN-GB"> </span>"This date marks the first time I officially copped off with a girl. It was official because it was seen and talked about by lots of people. It was in the full public glare of the disco lights at Tealby Village Hall, and so was recorded in the verbal annals of Lincolnshire snogging incidents, dated autumn, 1980. I can’t remember much because I was drunk, but I know that it didn’t feel right because the girl I was copping off with had dumped one of my best mates, Neil, the day before. And he was staying at my house that weekend. Only hours earlier we had been watching Lincoln v Scunthorpe together..."</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"> </span></span></p><span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">As you'll certainly be wanting to know more, here's <a href="https://unbound.com/books/the-quiet-fan/" target="_blank">a link to buy the e-book directly from the publisher, Unbound</a>. The paperback's out of print, but if you're old school and still use words like 'snogging', you can get a paperback through <a href="https://www.amazon.co.uk/Quiet-Fan-Ian-Plenderleith/dp/1912618427/ref=pd_rhf_gw_p_img_2?_encoding=UTF8&psc=1&refRID=2B8Z0X4678JKD8QZ8B6P" target="_blank">amazon dealers</a> at something above cover price. </span></span>Ian Plenderleithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08512357220650578961noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1184325319229623815.post-87372599643649247012019-04-08T05:09:00.000-07:002019-04-08T05:10:56.702-07:0017 years ago today - Chapter 12 of The Quiet Fan<br />
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">Seventeen years ago today on Monday April 8th, 2002, I went to watch Boston United play Stevenage Borough (as they were known back then) in the fifth tier of English football. The game ended 0-0 and I can not remember a single thing that happened on the actual field of play. Yet I recalled the evening well enough for the game to become the backbone to Chapter 12 of <i>The Quiet Fan</i>, <b><u>'Reconciliation'</u></b>. It was the first game that my long since divorced parents, myself and my sister had been to watch together as a family in a quarter of a century.</span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqsNeVY8g11u5ufiDqnRRyT3GugsmyvVTyKKYHjhiM5K6SIKx6wDA5iFjuiY9hqBNTP67ry50K5sIVkuze6AVCLQ3MHJt2wkznUaujjqfKsEV2utC-2ySj6snmBIyYwA8_NPf3sKiC4b4/s1600/tqf+Ch.12.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="458" data-original-width="640" height="229" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqsNeVY8g11u5ufiDqnRRyT3GugsmyvVTyKKYHjhiM5K6SIKx6wDA5iFjuiY9hqBNTP67ry50K5sIVkuze6AVCLQ3MHJt2wkznUaujjqfKsEV2utC-2ySj6snmBIyYwA8_NPf3sKiC4b4/s320/tqf+Ch.12.jpg" width="320" /></a><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">That Monday afternoon my dad had come round like a moping </span><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">teenager to just sort of hang out at his ex-wife’s, and said he had no </span><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">plans for the evening. And so we thought we should do something </span><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">together, which wasn’t something that had ever gone well. In the </span><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">1970s this meant trips to stately homes (I would always throw up, usually </span><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">in the car because I was too afraid to admit I was feeling ill), Sunday </span><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">walks in the Wolds (my sister in a perma-huff, walking either 100 </span><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">yards ahead or behind), a day in Skegness but with none of the fun </span><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">(I wasn’t allowed to waste money in the arcades), or weekends with </span><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">relatives or family friends my parents would complain about all the </span><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">way home. Whatever the trip, my sister and I always, always wanted </span><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">to stay at home.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">I </span><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">proposed Boston United v. Stevenage Borough. Boston was a </span><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">club that had</span><br />
<a name='more'></a><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;"> been striving for Football League membership since the </span><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">1970s, when they won the Northern Premier League a number of </span><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">times, but their league applications had always been rejected by the </span><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">stitch-up that was re-election. Now they were on the verge of automatic </span><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">promotion to the fourth division. ‘It should be quite exciting,’ </span><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">I reckoned out loud to a reluctant gang of three. There were only six </span><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">games left until the end of the season, and they were just ahead of their </span><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">nearest competitors, Dagenham and Redbridge. </span><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">My dad gave a doubtful smile, my sister didn’t say anything, and </span><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">my mum said, ‘You must be kidding.’ Someone suggested the cinema, </span><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">but there was nothing on that all four of us wanted to watch. Going </span><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">out for a meal on Monday night didn’t seem right either. After all, </span><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">we’d just spent the entire weekend sitting around and stuffing ourselves </span><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">at a wedding. There was a short silence. I could feel Boston </span><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">United v. Stevenage Borough hanging ripe from a low branch, just </span><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">waiting to be plucked. What else was there to do? My mum looked </span><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">at me, laughed and caved in. ‘Alright, let’s go to the football,’ she said, </span><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">and immediately I set about laying out the timetable we’d need to get </span><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">down there, park, find a fish and chip shop, and settle down with the </span><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">match programme in a decent seat.</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXIGD4HUgX-JwcyfhFuqpmF_HuLU8s3eOZALEKU2SUPtaqyzxvHzslQo1Y6zCaH1VioOl8KX07VFCg_6pRUtvbc4ALuiZusSDA5WoWQ_0esj83PG5ngsrMM3YaYgdXRT2wCs13v1Vcgio/s1600/Boston+v+Stevenage+prog.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="713" data-original-width="499" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXIGD4HUgX-JwcyfhFuqpmF_HuLU8s3eOZALEKU2SUPtaqyzxvHzslQo1Y6zCaH1VioOl8KX07VFCg_6pRUtvbc4ALuiZusSDA5WoWQ_0esj83PG5ngsrMM3YaYgdXRT2wCs13v1Vcgio/s320/Boston+v+Stevenage+prog.jpeg" width="223" /></a><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">It wasn’t just that we were going to a game, the four of us. There </span><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">could hardly have been any occasions at all since 1979 when we were </span><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">sitting in the same room together, alone, as that original family unit </span><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">of four. And yet, despite a bitter 10-year battle over maintenance </span><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">and other money matters, including court appearances, court summons, </span><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">never-ending mutual recriminations, hurt and slander, sneaking </span><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">lawyers, threats and sleepless nights, here were my mum and dad </span><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">chatting away, drinking afternoon tea and eating cake, and I was </span><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">probably reading the paper, and my sister was probably waiting for </span><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">something bad to happen, but the worst that ever happened now </span><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">between my mum and dad was the occasionally bitchy, back-stabbing </span><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">comment under the guise of a humorous remark. And for years, </span><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">at least until my mum lost a ton of weight, my dad would confide </span><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">in me, after seeing my mum, that she was looking older and had put </span><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">on weight. And then my mum would confide in me that my dad was </span><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">looking older and had put on weight. Perhaps ‘confide’ is the wrong </span><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">word, given that I would delightedly tell one parent that the other had </span><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">said exactly the same thing (neither thought this at all amusing).</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">My mum and my sister had had so many fights down the years that </span><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">this book would need a separate appendix to list them all. One way </span><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">or another, we’d all had our moments, like in any family, although </span><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">in some families it’s possible that the rifts we had experienced would </span><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">have been well beyond repair. Family members, though, however </span><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">much they are thrown together and forced into each other’s company </span><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">and compelled to make an effort to get along despite a million differences </span><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">of opinion, have an amazing capacity to heal. Arguments that </span><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">in friendship would have simply meant a permanent severing of all </span><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">contact are, within a family, somehow either forgotten or forgiven, </span><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">or both. Apart from the extremely dysfunctional cases (rather than the </span><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">averagely dysfunctional cases that most families are, like ours), families </span><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">can correct themselves. Once you get used to the idea that, short of </span><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">changing your identity and moving to El Salvador, you cannot swap </span><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">or drop your family, you learn to love it, albeit in a qualified way. </span><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">Families are a need more than a want. Your family will exasperate </span><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">you, baffle you and drive you to tears, but it’s painful as hell to imagine </span><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">what it would be like if they suddenly weren’t there. Oh, go on – </span><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">say it. Just like your football team.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b>Buy the paperback <a href="https://shop.wsc.co.uk/the-quiet-fan.html" target="_blank">here</a> for £9.99 or the digital edition <a href="https://www.amazon.co.uk/Quiet-Fan-Ian-Plenderleith-ebook/dp/B07GSF1VYR/ref=sr_1_1?keywords=ian+plenderleith&qid=1554724512&s=digital-text&sr=1-1-catcorr" target="_blank">here</a> for just £3.20.</b></span></div>
Ian Plenderleithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08512357220650578961noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1184325319229623815.post-73204215942011297392019-02-21T06:56:00.000-08:002019-02-21T07:06:05.425-08:00Football Stories: From fictitious reality to 'real' fiction<br />
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<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;"><i><b>I delivered the following paper at TU Dortmund University on July 13, 2018, as part of a two-day conference on the theme of 'Writing Football'<o:p></o:p></b></i></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">Nick Hornby once said in an interview words to the effect of, "Who needs football fiction when the game throws up so many of its own stories?" But that's like asking, "Who needs novels and movies when so much happens anyway in real life?" Sometimes a true story can be more effective when removed from the context of actual names and real events. <i>Based on </i>real events, but not enslaved by them. In this paper I want to look at three different ways that football narratives are presented through writing, and to argue that the most dynamic and engaging form of football writing is one that has yet to be properly exploited or appreciated - adult football fiction.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><b style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><i><span lang="EN-GB">What we get, 1: True Stories morphing into Unreal Fiction</span></i></b><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">. As Hornby remarked, every game throws up degrees of sporting drama. When the purely sporting side of football is converted into fiction, it quickly tends towards a banal recreation of events that are much more exciting in reality - in that sense, his initial quote is fair enough. These narratives focus on football's most obvious stories - goals, trophies, comebacks, mavericks, and so on. They are, however, inherently meaningless. Re-produced for fiction, they become regurgitated cliché. Decades of boys' comics and lame feature films re-tread a variation on the same story line - the sensational last-minute winner in the cup final scored by the (anti-)hero. The team of misfits, deviants and layabouts beaten into shape by an unlikely coach - ultra-hard but ultimately human - overcoming multiple obstacles, also to score a sensational last-minute winner in the cup final.</span></span><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;"> </span></div>
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<a href="https://www.blogger.com/blogger.g?blogID=1184325319229623815" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSWiagXthGOoyETx_dQhfjwJAOPlWoL4JFPOHXzTw-xpl0I4XeHkbARZCx30UNMsN1DNGEyR9CW8JkeCC-m7TSC5NBm9pxR2248PXhtMToU953PtyVOdvE3xNkate7HvdpnfSWDrAByew/s1600/royoftherovers.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="332" data-original-width="545" height="194" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSWiagXthGOoyETx_dQhfjwJAOPlWoL4JFPOHXzTw-xpl0I4XeHkbARZCx30UNMsN1DNGEyR9CW8JkeCC-m7TSC5NBm9pxR2248PXhtMToU953PtyVOdvE3xNkate7HvdpnfSWDrAByew/s320/royoftherovers.jpg" width="320" /></a><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"></span></span><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">This is football's escapist equivalent of romantic literature, full of the good, the evil and the triumph of the best and most deserving, but not necessarily reflecting the way that the majority of people experience the game or what it means to them. The truly exceptional real-life experiences that eventually make football rewarding for the patient, long-suffering fan or player are translated into the expected, trite normality in the realm of juvenile fiction. That is, the last-minute winner you may experience as a</span><br />
<a name='more'></a><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;"> fan only once every five years, you will experience every week if you read 'Roy of the Rovers'.</span><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;"> </span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;"> These same plots are often insultingly aimed at adults in the form of feature movies, with the centric commercial imperative being that a film where the hero loses will not sell. 'Escape To Victory' (1981), 'Mean Machine '(2001), 'Kicking and Screaming' (2004), 'Goal' (First of the Fifa trilogy - 2005) all head towards that last-minute winner with varying degrees of watchability. Even the best football movie ever made, 'Bend It Like Beckham', sets up a dramatic final match with the heroine arriving late etc.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b><i><span lang="EN-GB">What we get, 2: Fictitious Reality</span></i></b><span lang="EN-GB">. This covers the player autobiographies and history books that are pepped up to boost sales under commercial pressure. To give you an idea of how much money is at stake here, my first editor at a publishing house commissioned football books and once told me that Niall Quinn - an interesting character but not the greatest player in the game's history - was touting his memoirs around (or, most likely, his agent was) for £130,000, and this was around 2001. "How can publishers pay so much cash for such crap?" I wanted to know. The reality was that the book would likely sell enough copies in Ireland and to Arsenal, Manchester City and Sunderland fans to make the cash advance justified. I had no such fan base. It didn't necessarily matter what was inside the book, the name on the cover would see it into Christmas stockings. Published in 2002 as Quinn retired, its selling point focused on the 2002 World Cup and Roy Keane walking out on the Irish squad, and Keane was big news at the time. His name might have sold as many copies as the name of Quinn.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;"> Publishers pay a big advance to a player and his agent and they naturally want dirt, exclusives and controversy in return for their investment. But it's not just that the past is distorted and exaggerated to sex up the text. The players themselves may not really remember incidents as they actually happened. We all tell edited anecdotes of things that have happened to us, and we will modify, curtail or embellish them depending on our audience. Footballers are no different.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6HzRpUUw0VZ7RbVn1DxHzFTH72de_1aE3-4416jKWdFJAIe66G3HVMF7aexSJK3kHbzHDGzpwsypXwRbvPcOU3cz2q4bz2-JmGbcjx7_cBa9FbHT-JoGchMI0jp8AICkz8GUYoBYVOsk/s1600/cosmos.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6HzRpUUw0VZ7RbVn1DxHzFTH72de_1aE3-4416jKWdFJAIe66G3HVMF7aexSJK3kHbzHDGzpwsypXwRbvPcOU3cz2q4bz2-JmGbcjx7_cBa9FbHT-JoGchMI0jp8AICkz8GUYoBYVOsk/s320/cosmos.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-size: small;">"That movie was full of shit.<br /> It's all bullshit." Bob Iarusci </span></i></td></tr>
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I interviewed one particular player for my last book about the North American Soccer League of the 70s and 80s, <i><a href="https://www.amazon.co.uk/Rock-Roll-Soccer-American-League/dp/1906850852/ref=pd_rhf_gw_p_img_6?_encoding=UTF8&psc=1&refRID=NH3X5VA81RFC9J64F31X" target="_blank">Rock n Roll Soccer</a></i>. He told me the following story: "Before the game, the trainer Gabo Gavric said, ‘B*********, you will pick up Pelé on corners and free kicks’ and I thought, ‘My God.’ Pelé was coming to the end of his career, but I’d played against him three times before for Chelsea against Santos and he was unbelievable. I didn’t know if it was an honour or if it was because they didn’t like me and wanted to show me up. So they gave a free kick against us, or maybe it was a corner, and this ball floated over, and I did what all players do, I was trying to get hold of his shorts and a part of his body I can’t mention, but he still rose above me and headed a goal. I think we went in one or two down at half-time, and Gabro and Milan Mandaric are standing in the corner. Gabro comes over and pokes me in the chest and says, ‘Goddamit B*********, I told you to mark Pelé and he’s already scored against you. I’m taking you off Pelé…’ And for a split second I thought thank Christ for that. Then he said, ‘Now you have to mark Beckenbauer'." It's a neat story, but it doesn’t correspond to the facts – SJ lost 3-0 at the Meadowlands, the only time the two teams met that season. Pelé didn’t score, because he didn’t play – he was out injured, while Beckenbauer came out of the game at half-time.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;"> I was told some other good stories that research proved to be false. And a number of former New York Cosmos players complained that a documentary film about their team, <i>Once In A Lifetime</i>, was, to quote one player, "bullshit". They were happy that my book was not focusing on the obvious sex and glamour angle of Pelé and Franz Beckenbauer hanging out in Manhattan with Andy Warhol and Mick Jagger, but trying to tell the actual story of the team, which was interesting enough in itself. But then again, I wasn't there, so who knows how accurate my narrative - based on the seemingly sincere testimonies of a number of lesser-known New York Cosmos players - really was?<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitw0Rxr_Oarqeo_5bxiOSxn1rDuuQdIC-TizNugLG8_C6h0rj4f40C93kLq4bkJ6fVanhz95tX9t8mMWgxYDdezYjOderCHyqeE3AKQXdomgMCfv9Czh4FCDq_Ry3DzSazNt6w_eShvIY/s1600/zlatan.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="450" data-original-width="300" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitw0Rxr_Oarqeo_5bxiOSxn1rDuuQdIC-TizNugLG8_C6h0rj4f40C93kLq4bkJ6fVanhz95tX9t8mMWgxYDdezYjOderCHyqeE3AKQXdomgMCfv9Czh4FCDq_Ry3DzSazNt6w_eShvIY/s320/zlatan.jpg" width="213" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-size: small;">"I started to find <br />this literary illusion<br /> of Zlatan Ibrahimovic..."</span></i></td></tr>
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David Lagercrantz, the ghost-writer of Zlatan Ibrahimovic's <i>I Am Zlatan </i>autobiography, admitted in 2015 to the Hay Literary Festival in Wales that he made the whole thing up. You can argue that's what made the book so successful, but it's more than a little disingenuous to sell it as an autobiography. Here's how Lagercrantz tried to justify his version of someone else's life:<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<i><span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">"I started to read ghost-written football books and I must say I’ve never read such boring books in my whole life. I said to myself, ‘I can’t do it.’ Then – I shouldn’t really admit it – I decided to write it as a novel. I didn’t really quote him. I started to find this literary illusion of Zlatan Ibrahimovic and then I got into writing it. The first thing he [Ibrahimovic] said [after he read it] was: “What the f--- is this? I never said this!’ But after a while I think he understood what I was trying to do. Nowadays he thinks it’s really his story."<o:p></o:p></span></span></i></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;"> How many other ghost-written player autobiographies serve merely to mythologise their subject? How many players thoroughly read back what their author has penned and care enough to tell him or her that half of it's nonsense? It's just a product designed to shift a few thousand copies before Christmas. With the exception of some players who, especially in recent years, have commendably opened up about their addictions and struggles with depression, the genre 'footballer's autobiography' is a literary graveyard. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b><i><span lang="EN-GB">What we need: Realist Fiction</span></i></b><span lang="EN-GB">. So if football's historic reality veers - through distorted memories and commercial pressures - towards the fictional, this leaves realistic fiction as an alternative to explore and exploit the game's narrative richness. That is, the novels, films and plays that use football <i>as a base </i>are the best medium to analyse crucial issues affecting either the game or the human condition. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;"> Let's take some examples. A number of writers early on in the game’s history were pre-occupied with the nature of the crowd and the effect of a mere game on the soul of man:<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<b><span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">Arnold Bennett: ‘Callear’s Goal’ (1909)<o:p></o:p></span></span></b></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;"> Bennett’s short story about how an ambitious young politician exploits football to help his mayoral campaign describes two professional football clubs in “the five Towns” (what is nowadays Stoke-on-Trent, and back then was an amalgamation of six towns known as The Potteries), one in the first division (Knype), and the other (Bursley) “only in the second”. The first division club was <i>“struggling along fairly well, but the Bursley club had come to the end of its resources. The great football public had practically deserted it. The explanation, of course, was that Bursley had been losing too many matches. The great football public simply sulked. It did not kick a man that was down; it merely ignored him, well knowing that the man could not get up without help. It cared nothing whatever for fidelity, municipal patriotism, fair play, the chances of war, or dividends on capital. If it could see victories it would pay sixpence, but it would not pay sixpence to assist at defeats.”</i><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">From <b>‘The Matador of the Five Towns’ (1912)</b><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;"> In this short story the (southern) narrator attends a game for the first time, a relegation battle between Knype Town and Manchester Rovers. <i>"The host of the fifteen thousand [crowd] might have just had their lives saved, or their children snatched from destruction and their wives from dishonour; they might have been preserved from bankruptcy, starvation, prison, torture; they might have been rewarding with their impassioned worship a band of national heroes. But it was not so. All that had happened was that the ball had rolled into the net of the Manchester Rovers’ goal. Knype had drawn level."</i><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;"> In both these extracts, Bennett draws parallels between the apparently exaggerated importance of football and its relation to the real world. In 1909 he had already nailed the fickle nature of the football crowd. In 1912 he recognised that the way people reacted to a mere game was completely out of proportion to its importance, when considered rationally in contrast to bankruptcy, starvation, prison, torture. Already, football literature was intuiting that this was something more than a game.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">From <b>Henri de Montherlant’s ‘Football Lessons in the Park’ (1934)</b><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;"> A 25-year-old First World War veteran talks to a 15-year-old junior player after watching him play and reflects philosophically on the game, life and war in a series of magnificent monologues. For example, when he cites Aristotle on the sportsman’s need to take into account an accepting spirit:<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<i><span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;"> “Through an hour and a half’s play, what else have I done if not accept? Accept with a free and masculine heart, that’s to say accept with regret and approval. […] I resigned myself that the wind should blow when it was against us, and drop when it would have been with us. […] I resigned myself to effort and fatigue which I knew to be useless, like chasing a man faster than myself, for the sole moral satisfaction of having tried as hard as I could. I resigned myself to Beyssac scoring a goal, being shaken by the hand, earning the smiles of the ladies and having his name on the stadium scoreboard, when it was I and I alone whose switch of play let him score. I resigned myself to ten occasions when the referee forgot to use his eyes, or used them wrongly, to our disadvantage, and I said nothing.”<o:p></o:p></span></span></i></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;"> In this passage, the speaker is drawing stoical life lessons from what he's experienced out on the field. Chasing a man faster than himself "for the sole satisfaction of having tried as hard as I could". There's his story - he didn't participate in the game because he thought he was good enough, for his "effort and fatigue" he "knew to be useless". He did it for the very sake of the participation. To say he was there, to say that he tried. You could imagine an old man on his death bed saying the same thing about life.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">From <b>JB Priestley’s ‘Watching Bruddersford’ (1928 - </b>from his novel 'The Good Companions')<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;"> How can 35,000 working men afford to pay a shilling to watch Bruddersford United (likely a pseudonym for Priestley's native Bradford, or maybe for Huddersfield Town) when so many of them can not strictly afford to? <i>“To say that these men paid their shillings to watch 22 hirelings kick a ball is merely to say that a violin is wood and catgut, that Hamlet is so much paper and ink. For a shilling the Bruddersford United AFC offered you Conflict and Art…”</i><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;"> There's not much more to say to that - an early recognition 90 years ago that football is a combination of conflict and art. I can't think of anyone who's used only three words to describe the game better since.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;"> <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">For literary football fiction, take this early passage from <b>Brian Glanville’s</b>1963 novel <b>‘The Rise of Gerry Logan’</b>, where the narrator – a reporter called Brian Glanville – describes how he first picks up on the hero Logan’s discontent with his current club, the fictitious Jarrow City: <i>“A month later, I was to be told, told as one was told so many things, in the Great Terminus Hotel, hard by King’s Cross Station. In its stuffy, over-heated corridors, its prosaic meals, its cosy obsolescence, the Great Terminus always seemed to me a home from home for cautious clubs from the North, unwilling to commit themselves by venturing farther into the glittering treachery of the metropolis. Here, the very whistling and shunting of the trains assured them that escape was near at hand.”</i><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;"> This feels like a real description within a fictional setting. Any reader would have known that Glanville in real life was a football journalist who's been to The Great Terminus several times, and it's obviously made an impression on him. Did clubs consciously choose that hotel so that they could escape quickly back north from London? Probably not, but Glanville's fictitious description seems to hold a certain truth - that is quality football writing.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<b><span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">Robin Jenkins, ‘The Thistle and the Grail’ (1954)<o:p></o:p></span></span></b></div>
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<i><span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">“Saturday was a fine day for football match and funeral. The sun shone in a pale, beneficient sky; grass sparkled and mud became firm earth again; boots bound in new white laces could swiftly in exhilaration pursue the ball, while shoes could step from the side of the grave undefiled by blobs of clay. </span></span></i><i><span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">Five attended the funeral in the nearby cemetery; over seven hundred journeyed to the match in Carrick; and the seven hundred included one of the five.”</span></span></i></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;"><i> </i>What a stunning juxtaposition of life and death! Five go to the funeral of a 12-year-old girl, 700 go to the game, including the father of the girl who's arranged the funeral time for noon especially so that he can get to the match at 3. There's no sense of moral condemnation for the man. It's more like there's a tacit understanding for his action. Life goes on. Who would not choose a life-affirming football match over a funeral?</span></div>
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<b><span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">Diego Trelles Paz, ‘Football and Plague’ (2014)<o:p></o:p></span></span></b></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">The narrative jumps between the radio commentary of the deciding game in the Peruvian championship between Sporting Cristal and La U (Universitario de Deportes), and the viewpoint of a failed pro, now a junkie and involved with a bunch of hoodlums in a plot to assassinate the editor of a right-wing newspaper. They are listening to the commentary on their way to the assassination, and as much pre-occupied with the game as they are with their task.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;"> So in my view, the most successful writing about football, in literary terms, focuses somewhere just beyond the game. Where football is an integral part of the world, but not in itself the whole focus. Where football is important, but not of sole importance - it cannot be taken without its social, political or personal context. It views universal truths through a fictitious veil, and presents football as a sounding board for thoughts, ideas and imaginative narratives.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<a href="https://www.blogger.com/blogger.g?blogID=1184325319229623815" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"></a><span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;"> There's an economic aspect to all this that's worth mentioning. As I was (un)lucky enough not to be writing Niall Quinn's autobiography, <a href="https://www.amazon.co.uk/Whom-Ball-Rolls-Ian-Plenderleith/dp/0752842579/ref=asap_bc?ie=UTF8" target="_blank">my own football short stories</a> (current amazon ranking: 1,467,405) had the luxury of being focused on the following themes: a mascot suffering an existential crisis inside the guise of a toucan; a team of fourth division journeyman facing the temptation of £25k per man to throw a game that was technically meaningless to them; a player haunted by missing a stunningly easy chance in the last minute of the FA Cup Final; an amateur player in his 30s who still lives with his mum, but wakes up on the morning of his first ever cup final to find that she's died in the night; and political activists at a left-wing conference discussing the coming revolution, but distracted by an England World Cup qualifier.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;"> I was paid £5,000 for my book of football fiction (a sum I would never be offered nowadays for a similar work - those were comparatively heady times for authors) by the publisher who'd been offered (but didn't take) Niall Quinn's memoirs for £130k. Meanwhile, 17 years later, I still owe my publisher half of that meagre advance against royalties, and the editor who commissioned it was never allowed to commission fiction again. It's wise not to overlook the role of simple capitalist mathematics when we examine why thoughtful, probing or politically oriented football fiction has been a relatively quiet-to-absent medium over the past century. Unlike last-minute goals from 40 yards and sensationalised life stories of the stars, it simply won't sell.</span></div>
Ian Plenderleithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08512357220650578961noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1184325319229623815.post-22477113834262042322019-01-07T12:51:00.002-08:002019-02-21T06:58:07.954-08:00"A Memoir of Sorts": The Quiet Fan - review<div style="box-sizing: border-box; margin-bottom: 10px;">
<a href="https://www.blogger.com/blogger.g?blogID=1184325319229623815" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"></a><strong style="box-sizing: border-box;"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">My gratitude to @ArloMBloom for the following review of <i>The Quiet Fan</i>, which first appeared late last year on the <a href="http://socceramerica.com/" target="_blank">Soccer America</a> website.</span></strong></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;"><strong style="box-sizing: border-box;">Ian Plenderleith</strong>’s <a href="https://www.amazon.co.uk/Quiet-Fan-Ian-Plenderleith/dp/1912618427/ref=pd_rhf_gw_p_img_1?_encoding=UTF8&psc=1&refRID=ZWWD1KBYE5RF9P3DF173" style="box-sizing: border-box; color: black; font-weight: 800; text-decoration: none;" target="_blank"><span style="box-sizing: border-box; color: blue;"><i>The Quiet Fan</i></span></a> is an ode to the fans whose hearts always have room for their teams but do not match the popular image in which they’ve been portrayed.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;"><em style="box-sizing: border-box;">"Football fans may be more interested in the fate of their teams than is perhaps healthy, and they may spend too much time and money on their interest (but then what’s a hobby for?). Some of them may, for a short while, take defeat far more seriously than is rational. These are all parts of being a normal football fan. ... For the most part we are not, as commonly portrayed, obsessives."</em><br style="box-sizing: border-box;" />Plenderleith skillfully maneuvers a dozen themes – Cursing, Tears, Kissing, Violence, Despair, Hope, Change, Love, Death, Birth, Reconciliation, Success – all linked to soccer games, in this memoir of sorts.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">Laced throughout are sometimes delightful, sometimes sad stories from his life in and around soccer. What is most enjoyable is how much Plenderleith speaks to you, the reader. His voice isn’t condescending, he’s not afraid to break the fourth wall, often cracking jokes at his own expense, giving his audience the life lessons soccer may teach.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">Plenderleith attaches a distinct human experience to specific games of his</span></div>
<a name='more'></a><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;"> beloved teams: first Lincoln City FC, the team of his childhood, which spent much of the 1970s bouncing around the third and fourth divisions.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">He describes himself as a shy boy when he first started attending soccer games. “They called me ‘taciturn,’ which was a word I didn’t understand.” But that changed in the soccer stadium.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">At age 7, he yelled: “Come on Lincoln, you useless twats!” during a Lincoln match against Exeter City.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;"><i>“These words caused a shocked quiet to spread across the main St. Andrews Stand at Sincil Bank in January 1973 for the home tie with Exeter. Not because Lincoln fans were prudish about bad language back then, but because the words came from a mouthy seven-year-old boy. I had not yet become the quiet fan. …</i></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;"><i>“I can also recall that as the words came out of my tender, unsoaped gob, my dad sort of jerked, which made me sit back down and think that something wasn’t quite right. Years later, he told me that he was trying to stop himself from laughing. I can also recall that an uncanny silence settled upon the fans around us. Either they were disgusted at my dad’s moral laxity and were perhaps waiting for him to wallop me one, or they were laughing up their sleeves as well.”</i></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">In “Love and Birmingham,” Plenderleith references Nick Hornby’s <i>Fever Pitch</i>. Though Hornby starts the memoir off by saying that he falls in love with football like he falls in love with women, Plenderleith disagrees: “Human beings who do not give or receive enough love will be unhappy and will suffer. Human beings who do not get enough football will not, really.” Such is Plenderleath’s writing style: poignant humor combined with a realist’s conviction. He imagines what it would be like if a fan's relationship with a club was indeed like with another human:<em style="box-sizing: border-box;"></em></span></div>
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<em style="box-sizing: border-box;"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;"><strong style="box-sizing: border-box;">Dear Torquay United FC</strong>,</span></em></div>
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<em style="box-sizing: border-box;"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">I’ve been thinking for a while now that things aren’t right between us. Every week I show up at the appointed place and time, just like you tell me to. You always turn up, but you’re not always there -- lately you’ve seemed kind of absent. I keep to my side of the deal, doing what you asked by putting in time, money and rousing terrace chants for 90 minutes, but there’s no response. Last Saturday, for example, you lost 0–3 to Braintree, and then left the pitch without even waving goodbye.</span></em></div>
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<em style="box-sizing: border-box;"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">Even a goalless away draw would, at this stage, offer me some hope that things are maybe working, that we have a future. And though my friends are calling me a fool for continuing to believe in you ...</span></em></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">Studying abroad brought him to Arminia Bielefeld of the German second division. He followed D.C. United when he moved to the USA's capital. His Scottish roots link him to that national team. A Celtic-Aberdeen clash in the 1984 Scottish Cup final is couple with "Despair." Birmingham City-Crystal Palace in 1987 is linked with love.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">Plenderleith, who now lives in Frankfurt and writes a column for <span style="box-sizing: border-box; color: blue;"><a href="https://www.socceramerica.com/publications/author/25/ian-plenderleith/" style="box-sizing: border-box; color: black; font-weight: 800; text-decoration: none;" target="_blank"><span style="box-sizing: border-box; color: blue;"><i>Soccer America</i></span></a></span>, is also a player, referee and coach. His previous books include <span style="box-sizing: border-box; color: blue;"><span style="box-sizing: border-box; color: blue; font-weight: 800; text-decoration: none;"><a href="https://www.amazon.co.uk/Rock-Roll-Soccer-American-League/dp/1906850852/ref=asap_bc?ie=UTF8" style="box-sizing: border-box; color: black; font-weight: 800; text-decoration: none;" target="_blank"><i>Rock 'n' Roll Soccer: The Short Life and Fast Times of the North American Soccer League</i></a> </span></span><span style="box-sizing: border-box; color: blue;"><span style="box-sizing: border-box; color: black;">and</span> </span><span style="box-sizing: border-box; color: blue;"><a href="https://www.amazon.co.uk/Whom-Ball-Rolls-Ian-Plenderleith/dp/0752842579/ref=asap_bc?ie=UTF8" style="box-sizing: border-box; color: black; font-weight: 800; text-decoration: none;" target="_blank"><span style="box-sizing: border-box; color: blue;"><i>For Whom the Ball Rolls</i></span></a></span><a href="https://amzn.to/2rBwm8t" style="box-sizing: border-box; color: black; font-weight: 800; text-decoration: none;" target="_blank"><span style="box-sizing: border-box; color: blue;"></span></a>. In Germany, he played in a league with with no nets, no sidelines, and most importantly, no referees. "With no referees around, it’s remarkable what you can find out about yourself and the world around you. ...</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;"><i>“I think it would be a fantastic psychological experiment to stage an important professional match without referees. Would it end up in a 22-man brawl, or would the players, like the kickers of the Wilde Liga, learn to adapt to their new circumstances and reach sensible consensus decisions in a split second?”</i></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;"><span style="box-sizing: border-box; color: blue;"><a href="https://www.amazon.co.uk/Quiet-Fan-Ian-Plenderleith/dp/1912618427/ref=pd_rhf_gw_p_img_1?_encoding=UTF8&psc=1&refRID=ZWWD1KBYE5RF9P3DF173" style="box-sizing: border-box; color: black; font-weight: 800; text-decoration: none;" target="_blank"><span style="box-sizing: border-box; color: blue;"><i>The Quiet Fan</i></span></a></span> meanders across deep, human emotions in all of its chapters for people in different stages of life. Plenderleith doesn’t pretend to have the answers; he offers his own experiences and lets the reader make of them what they will</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">He intersperses nuggets of knowledge throughout the humorous passages of the book, rooting it in all of the places, people, food, pints and languages he's experienced as a fan of the global game.</span></div>
Ian Plenderleithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08512357220650578961noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1184325319229623815.post-72612345263427683172018-09-13T01:52:00.001-07:002019-01-07T12:52:33.658-08:00Selling out in public<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfB9vS2HWhq0q5uPt12_qmR3MWTV9MKY79oFmkTlAq-id7Yil8IxLCINLKm7vckvK1nEx2cMCoG3Lu1jxFKVfYft_vbpEXE5S9pj_Y30YgRDA9Q41TZfYMbmVH7YOZJ5EH8gIrrzH4o6Q/s1600/TQF+poster.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="470" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfB9vS2HWhq0q5uPt12_qmR3MWTV9MKY79oFmkTlAq-id7Yil8IxLCINLKm7vckvK1nEx2cMCoG3Lu1jxFKVfYft_vbpEXE5S9pj_Y30YgRDA9Q41TZfYMbmVH7YOZJ5EH8gIrrzH4o6Q/s320/TQF+poster.jpg" width="235" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: small;"><i>A not strictly accurate<br /> book description tailored<br /> to a specific public.</i></span></td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;"><i><span lang="EN-GB"><a href="https://shop.wsc.co.uk/the-quiet-fan.html" target="_blank">The Quiet Fan</a> </span></i><span lang="EN-GB">is my third book, but the first where I've had the chance to sell copies directly to the public. It's a bit like hosting a party, where the only questions that plague your mind are, "What if no one comes?" and, "What if people <i>do</i> come and then have a shit time?" Except when selling a book in a public place you worry, "What if no one buys it?" And then, "What if people buy it, but then hate it?" <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">At least when you sell someone a book they are unlikely to stand there reading it while drinking heavily and then, within a few paragraphs, announce, "This is shit! I want my money back." At the moment where they hand you their cash you are so grateful that all you can think is, "Please, please let this be something they like." I have to counter an instinctive temptation to hand it over for free, while apologising in case it might not be their thing.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: small;"><i>'Quiet Fan' strictly limited edition<br />postcard by @Urban_Country</i></span></td></tr>
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<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">Last Saturday, while manning my book stand in the Fan Zone at Lincoln City FC prior to their home defeat to Crawley Town, I also handed out freebies. I had a few leftover sets of crowd-funding postcards depicting scenes from the book by illustrator @Urban_Country (<i>WSC</i> illustrator and <i><a href="https://www.theneweuropean.co.uk/top-stories/buy-your-limited-edition-signed-premium-print-of-this-week-s-brilliant-tim-bradford-front-page-1-4939400" target="_blank">New European</a></i> cartoonist Tim Bradford); a few old Lincoln City replica shirts; and the original match programmes from some of the games that are referenced in the book. No one expected giveaways, and almost all opted immediately to take the postcards, because they look pretty cool. And who doesn't love getting Stuff for Nothing, like stickers, key rings, pens, t-shirts and fridge magnets? [Begins to imagine 'Quiet Fan' merchandising empire.]<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">One fan, though, was immediately attracted to my old Lincoln home shirt from the 1995-96 season. "How much is that?" he wanted to know. "It's free if you buy the</span></span><br />
<a name='more'></a><span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;"> book," I replied. How much was the book? Ten pounds. "I used to have that shirt, but I lost it," he said, quickly reaching for his wallet before I changed my mind or upped the price. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: small;">Not my favourite LCFC<br />shirt, but somebody loves it.</span></i></td></tr>
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<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">I handed over the shirt. I asked him if he wanted me to sign the book? "The what? Oh yeah, sure." I duly autographed his copy (I always feel that signing books is de-facing them), and off he went, only to walk past the stand again five minutes later and announce, "You've made my day!" I laughed and told him not to forget to read <i>The Quiet Fan</i>. He promised that he would (read it, or maybe he was promising to forget...).<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">Later, a woman came up to tell me that she had already received her copy, and that she was really enjoying it. This is the moment where, as a largely unknown writer, you want to jump over the table and embrace a stranger. She was the first person who wasn't my agent or an editor at the publisher to give me positive feedback. An objective neutral. Even if I hear from no other reader or reviewer, I'll feel that the entire endeavour has been worthwhile - I wrote something, and it spoke to somebody.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">I can't remember if I gave this reader a free set of postcards or if I was too busy basking in the praise about what a great party this was. I really hope that I did. Anything to reinforce the message, 'Please stay. Please keep on reading.' </span></span></div>
Ian Plenderleithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08512357220650578961noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1184325319229623815.post-39210253303502439252018-08-01T01:49:00.001-07:002019-01-07T01:54:26.801-08:00How I tried, and failed, to boycott the World Cup<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">Having watched almost every kick of the previous 11 World Cups, my family and friends were sceptical about my ability to boycott the 2018 competition (see <a href="http://quietfan.blogspot.com/2017/06/calling-on-fans-to-boycott-next-two.html" target="_blank">polemics <i>passim</i></a>). Having ignored the qualifiers over the preceding two years, though, I was more optimistic. Wrapped only in abstract but righteous armour, I sat out the first round of group games at <b>Russia 2018</b> with barely a glance at the screen. Soon after that, I left Germany for a French hamlet in Burgundy where - thanks to the generosity of friends - I stayed alone in a farm house with thick stone walls, uneven floors, and neither a TV nor an internet connection.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: small;"><i>2002: the innocent age of pre-HD television</i></span></td></tr>
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<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">The night before I left, though, my wife and youngest daughter were watching <b>Croatia v Argentina</b> while I packed, and their yelps and yells were impossible to ignore. I thought back to when I was watching <b>Senegal v France</b>, the opening game of the 2002 World Cup. I had loudly exclaimed throughout that astonishing match, but at one point found the whole family - wife and two daughters, then aged 6 and 3 - standing next to me and asking, "Jesus, is this what it's going to be like for the next four weeks?"<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">We've come a long way. They shout, emote and cuss now too, and they claim to have learnt it from the best. Now here I was, 16 years later, wishing that they would keep the noise down. I was wishing even more that I could sit beside them on the</span></span><br />
<a name='more'></a><span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;"> sofa and cheer along as the goals flew in to the Argentine net. Who doesn't want to spring aboard the bandwagon when a small nation's whupping a former world champion? I may have even inadvertently seen the replay of <b>Luka Modric</b>'s goal on the pretence of urgently needing to adjust a cushion on the couch.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">It was a curt aberration. The next morning my wife waved me off. "I'll miss you, and I miss watching the games with you," she said. I now agreed that this was the hardest part of this stupid fucking self-imposed boycott - it's not really the football you miss, it's the act of communal watching. Out in Gallic rural exile, though, and with my phone company informing me that I'd already maxed out my monthly data, things would be easier.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: small;"><i>Untainted by Putin - chilling <br />where Fifa's sun don't shine</i></span></td></tr>
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<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">At first, they were. The weather was beautiful, and the obvious positives of being offline for two and a half weeks can not be overstated. Sometimes, though, despite my data being "throttled" (as my phone company put it), messages and results sporadically leaked through. The (German) in-laws were especially active during their nation's infamous failure, and I offered wise and empathetic counselling as a <b>Scotland</b> fan whose team had never progressed beyond the group stage. The result? My youngest daughter deleted me from the extended family's WhatsApp group.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">I was still sanguine as the group stages came to an end, and I merely observed the scores of the Last 16 stage as they came in, even if I did - when my throttled data stream allowed - perhaps read some quite detailed match reports. On the day of the quarter-finals, though, one of the neighbours came around to discuss a water issue. We'd chatted a few times and she knew about my boycott. She asked me how it was going, and I said I was holding out well, that I'd still not watched a single second (unless you want to count that Modric goal, but it <i>was </i>only the replay). "Very good," she said. "And you haven't even turned on the radio?"<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">The radio? Yes, there was an old radio in the kitchen. It had genuinely never occurred to me to turn it on during the past two weeks. "Of course not," I said, truthfully at that point, and waved her off. And then, a few hours later when <b>France</b> were playing <b>Uruguay</b>, I turned it on and located the live commentary. My French isn't great, but I soon worked out that it was "deux à zéro" for Les Bleus. In a defence more brittle than Panama's, I can only say that I've always loved listening to football on the radio way more than watching it on television. I didn't switch off until the final whistle.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">That night, I tuned in again for <b>Belgium v Brazil</b>, telling myself that listening to games was somehow not the same as watching them. My boycott was merely a visual one. The chauvinistic French station, however, wasn't broadcasting any games that didn't involve its own nation. I fiddled with the dial. And somewhere out of the white noise from distant London, with dubious but at times lucid reception, emerged an excitable English-language commentary via Talksport. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">I should confess that, after two weeks on my own, I was beginning to crave contact with the outside world. Picking up the signal was not exactly the lost explorer making contact with base camp after six months surviving on roast squirrel and blackberry juice. But for someone who'd vowed to not pay attention to the tournament at all, I was disproportionately happy. And although I couldn't pick up <b>England v Sweden</b> (the signal only came through as dusk approached), I tuned in just as eagerly the next night for <b>Croatia v Russia</b>, all the way through extra-time and penalty kicks.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">Normally by this stage of a major tournament I'm burnt out through over-exposure. This time, starved of the first 60 games, the semi-final line-ups seemed especially intriguing. No Germany, Brazil, Italy or Argentina. And, by the time they were played, I would be back home again, ahead of my younger sister-in-law's 50th birthday on the Sunday of the final. A weekend of celebration was planned, and viewing the final was factored in. It would be rude to sit in a separate room.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: small;">"Apparently some bloke no one's heard <br />of is boycotting the whole thing!"</span></i></td></tr>
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<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">And so I caved. Expecting a barrage of abuse, I announced to the WhatsApp group (I'd been reinstated) that the boycott was over just in time for the semis. I'd tried to make my point, and I was sick of hearing myself justify it. I resented the malevolent gnomes <b>Putin </b>and <b>Infantino</b> spoiling my quadrennial pleasure due to their crimes and corruption. Why should they get to see all the games while I didn't? Plus, I added, I needed to cheer on Croatia against England (though in fact I didn't really care who won either way).<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">Feeble reasoning, and we all knew it. "Pseudo-martyr!" my older sister-in-law scoffed. My daughter, not content with having banished me to the WhatsApp wilderness, mercilessly mocked and savaged my selling out. Beyond the family, though, judgments were generally kinder. Most people were surprised that I'd made it so far, or had even bothered at all.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">Indeed, what was the point? The games happened, the whole world watched, and Putin's not been removed from power. Russia is still supporting <b>Assad</b>, illegally occupying the <b>Crimea</b>, suppressing opposition and <b>LGBTQ rights</b>, and imprisoning or murdering dissenters and journalists. In that sense, my passive protest at little personal cost or sacrifice made no difference. When I read one morning that 22.4 million people in the UK had watched the previous night's England game, it only served to magnify my sense of impotence, and a feeling that all I'd done was bore people to tears with my posturing.</span></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">Krestovsky Stadium in St. Petersburg - thanks <br />to $1 billion from the Russian tax-payer.</span> </span></i></td></tr>
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<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">The handful of articles and papers I wrote or presented before the tournament did promote some discussion about the issue, both online and, so to speak, down the pub. However, I had neither the time, the money nor the motivation to follow through and build that up into any kind of lobby or political movement. A lot of Russia's human rights issues and abuses were discussed during the World Cup anyway, as far as I could gather, so in a way the tournament - massive waste of the Russian people's money that it was in the usual rush to meet Fifa's excessive stadium construction demands - did more than I ever could to raise awareness of state power, lies, murder and malfeasance.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">One piffling discovery as a fan, though. Ignoring the group phase of a major tournament really whets your appetite for the knockout stages. Yay. </span><span style="font-family: "cambria";"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b><i><a href="https://www.amazon.co.uk/Quiet-Fan-Ian-Plenderleith/dp/1912618427/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1546854623&sr=8-1&keywords=%22Ian+Plenderleith%22" target="_blank">The Quiet Fan</a></i></b>, out August 23rd (Unbound).</span></span></div>
Ian Plenderleithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08512357220650578961noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1184325319229623815.post-54969728215775815812018-05-02T00:48:00.002-07:002019-01-07T01:55:22.619-08:00China - Super League, super fans<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">How did I imagine Chinese football fans? The truth is that I expected them to be passive. I have no idea why. I'd never been to China in my life, let alone a Chinese football match. Maybe because it's a nascent league perceived as being desperate to establish itself after starting 100 years too late. Possibly, I thought (though not with much depth), the fans wouldn't really know how to support their team. You know, because they don't have a century of tradition behind them, and all that bollocks.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: small;"><i>United in blue - Shanghai <br />Shenhua fans (pic: TQF)</i></span></td></tr>
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<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">European football's default position on any league beyond its ken is that it must be second-rate. Our perception of the <b>Chinese Super League</b> has largely been as follows: its owners are just chucking huge money after aging stars, in the manner of <b>Major League Soccer</b> since the Beckham Rule, and the <b><a href="http://www.rocknrollsoccer.com/" target="_blank">North American Soccer League</a></b> of the 1970s. Japan and Australia have been down that route too. We condescendingly wave a knowing goodbye to star players who fly East to bow out for one last pay-off in a sub-standard league. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">Lazy narratives are borne of a lack of curiosity. Both apathy and a lack of interest almost caused me to stay away from Shanghai Shenhua against Hebei at the tail-end of March. Yet if I'm in a new</span></span><br />
<a name='more'></a><span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;"> </span></span><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">city and there's a game on, the event becomes like a bug bite in the middle of my back. I hope it goes away so I can avoid having to twist around to scratch it, but in the end I have no choice. As a football writer, I have to go. Sorry, love - it's work (otherwise known in my family as 'work').</span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">In the US, the soccer community loves nothing more than a journalist dropping in from Europe (usually England), watching one MLS game, then jetting off home to gleefully hack out a hatchet job essentially saying, 'Ha ha, the Yanks can't do football! And they call it soccer!' I was aware of this when going to the CSL as a casual visitor. I was determined that, if I spent the evening bored among disinterested fans, then I would not write a single word. No one would even know I'd been there. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">After the game, I met up with my all-female party, ensconced in a mah-jong game next door to the stadium. After I'd been sitting there for half an hour, one of them finally looked up and said, "Oh, how was the football?"<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: small;"><i>"Glory, Glory." With no added vitriol (pic: TQF)</i></span></td></tr>
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<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">Where to start? When I came out of the ground, the lovely 33,000 Hongkou Stadium where Germany lifted the 2007 Women's World Cup, I was almost bouncing with the desire to tell them all about it. Then, watching them immersed in mah-jong, I curbed my urge to evangelise, reminding myself that none of them gave a fuck about what I'd just seen. So my answer was, "Yes, it was good. Great game. Lots of goals. Excellent atmosphere..."<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">"Great. Do you mind if we play another round?"<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">So, of course it was correct not to tell a barely interested audience what was really on my mind. That Chinese fans, judging by what I'd just seen, know better than any in the world how to follow their team. That they had just restored my faith in football. Nay, the human race!<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">"Really?" you're asking now. Really. Honestly. The evening was a blueprint for devotional support:<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">1. Noisy reception for the emerging players. Both ends packed out, as were several side sections, and almost every fan was wearing the home team's blue.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">2. During the first half, not much went right for Shanghai. Former Colombian international <b>Giovanni Moreno</b> waved his arms a lot in frustration at his team-mates. Former Newcastle and Inter striker <b>Obafemi Martins</b> made one thrilling run down the left wing, but two players swung at and missed his cross, right in front of goal. The home fans threw up their hands, there was a massive "Ooh!" around the ground, then everyone looked at each other and smiled. So close. But no boos. No one screamed at the players who'd screwed up.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">3. Just after half-time, Hebei took the lead. No one swore at the defence, the goalkeeper or the referee. Martins equalised and, after the initial jubilation, pretty much all 21,000 fans (aside from the few hundred away followers) sang as one in celebration with only the briefest of prompts from the tannoy. Hebei promptly took the lead again, but the Shanghai fans ignored that incidental setback and kept on singing.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">4. Martins ended up scoring a hat-trick as the home team won 4-2. There were goals, noise and joy in abundance. Moreno, who has been playing in Shanghai for six years, was superb, despite throwing a moody every time something went wrong. The fans backed their team the way that any fan should back their team - absent of the hate, vitriolic hostility, and the apparently pre-written entitlement to success that currently disfigures so much of European support at the highest level.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgngMtW5hs-n-96pEpzMX9VOmOxnlcZywvF8aKBwpH7Y9vr7rwcUYbz93VT3QT29Hy_aUdcrNIbx6pvFxpQ_zon_8SIy4l3oEVLAbwlvoTHsByZ-5XlTBI_W6clJVEyD2A2mmHYA02OFVg/s1600/Shenhua8.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1204" data-original-width="1600" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgngMtW5hs-n-96pEpzMX9VOmOxnlcZywvF8aKBwpH7Y9vr7rwcUYbz93VT3QT29Hy_aUdcrNIbx6pvFxpQ_zon_8SIy4l3oEVLAbwlvoTHsByZ-5XlTBI_W6clJVEyD2A2mmHYA02OFVg/s320/Shenhua8.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: small;"><i>Tuesday night Kashima <br />clash in the AFC (pic: TQF)</i></span></td></tr>
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<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">I enjoyed it so much that four days later I went back for the <b>Asian Champions League</b> group game against <b>Kashima Antlers</b>. The bloke next to me stood up throughout the game and bellowed witticisms that had the fans around me laughing like drains. I wished that my understanding of Mandarin encompassed more than the word for 'thank you'. Final score: 2-2. Shanghai were out, but it was another cracking night of intensive, attacking football. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">"What's the standard like compared with European football?" That was the question I hated most in the US when discussing MLS with visitors. It's neither measurable nor relevant. "What are the fans like compared with European fans?" That one I can answer. At their collective best on the night in question, the Shanghai Shenhua supporters illustrated a simple sporting truth: footballers are there to be cheered, and football's there to be enjoyed. </span><span style="font-family: "cambria";"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b style="font-style: italic;">The Quiet Fan </b>was published by <b>Unbound</b> in autumn 2018<b> </b>and is available <a href="https://www.amazon.co.uk/Quiet-Fan-Ian-Plenderleith/dp/1912618427/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1546854623&sr=8-1&keywords=%22Ian+Plenderleith%22">here</a>. </span></span></div>
Ian Plenderleithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08512357220650578961noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1184325319229623815.post-44367955638164217692018-03-28T00:55:00.000-07:002018-03-28T01:05:10.241-07:00Boycott the World Cup properly, not diplomatically<div class="MsoNormal">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmILV7k5DPeSGTG67DQxxudc7s5W0YXApZo7whC485L5TFkBtbO0A5-KiIJbBxhBk-bI8OMqAfF_XUcNXixe32O-aZvvzSgaJo2faOMEokmcjFKgQYc6ePqPXRhkegM77lvXtSMqVUQyI/s1600/SZBoykott.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="544" data-original-width="640" height="272" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmILV7k5DPeSGTG67DQxxudc7s5W0YXApZo7whC485L5TFkBtbO0A5-KiIJbBxhBk-bI8OMqAfF_XUcNXixe32O-aZvvzSgaJo2faOMEokmcjFKgQYc6ePqPXRhkegM77lvXtSMqVUQyI/s320/SZBoykott.jpg" width="320" /></a><span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">The attempted assassination by assailants
unknown on the Skripal family in Salisbury, England, has prompted the kind of
decisive political action that the Russian annexation of the Crimea, the
country's mass-murderous involvement in bombing Syrian rebels, the suppression
of domestic dissent and gay rights, and its state-sanctioned blanket cheating
at the Sochi 2014 Winter Olympics was unable to provoke. Yes, some countries
will be boycotting the 2018 World Cup.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">Not an actual boycott, though - just a
symbolic one. Rather than withdrawing their teams, countries are apologetically
deciding to keep their official delegations at home. So, politicians on a free
jaunt to watch some football are sacrificing themselves. The retreating refugees
of eastern Ghouta will surely be impressed. And just imagine the hurt of the
Russians when they see that the Icelandic</span><br />
<a name='more'></a><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;"> foreign minister hasn't taken up his
seat for the team's opening game against Argentina on June 16th.</span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZbIisoqWlq-IByH1CvlbTQ8gblDWi8V8QbgiU26gpZES8zt7RIYzmjwED64NxdKFVZyOCv-K6AeigHN3RPbe8I3_HfafH93jPK-YPYqbBDLeMOrNP32PLCsQYXk-NHJGE6hk91OmOy28/s1600/cat.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="860" data-original-width="682" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZbIisoqWlq-IByH1CvlbTQ8gblDWi8V8QbgiU26gpZES8zt7RIYzmjwED64NxdKFVZyOCv-K6AeigHN3RPbe8I3_HfafH93jPK-YPYqbBDLeMOrNP32PLCsQYXk-NHJGE6hk91OmOy28/s320/cat.jpg" width="253" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><i>Cagey B - Russia 2018's cutie cat mascot</i><br /><i> who'll be keeping a watchful eye</i><br /><i> on fans - for security reasons, of course! </i><br /><i>(<b>Illustration</b> - @Urban_Country)</i></span></td></tr>
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<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">A short piece in the sports section of
today's <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Süddeutsche Zeitung</i>, however,
finally broaches the previously uncharted idea of making a boycott worthwhile.
"Completely excluding [team] boycotts is not only strategically
unwise," writes Johannes Aumüller. "It also grants a blank cheque to
all authoritarian states - where sport so frequently stages its big events - to
continue doing whatever they want."<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">Football, he argues, is theoretically an
innocent pastime, but it's long since been seized by politics. While German FA
president Reinhard Grindel may have recently stated that tournaments are no
place for posing politicians, the reality is that states like Russia exploit
mass events to project a positive image of themselves, externally as well as
internally.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">A diplomatic boycott is all well and good,
he continues, but a team boycott would be clearly more effective. If the teams
from all the EU countries boycotted the event, it would be "devalued as a
sporting spectacle, and a major goal of Russia's autocracy would be obsolete -
to stage-manage this four-and-a-half week summer event as Vladimir Putin's
propaganda show." <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxlJSOviJoPf5-KG5o0RtKT6LUVrOq0euMKqxyiHEuJPBRSA6iujhJNNIfIlSk87fvqTL1tz7NY67UgBp24x-TdWm72ZXU8Dn09mdlboK1lfA7rjsMR2U3_-NAoz1_-eTnjToLfXj4gh8/s1600/wolf.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="725" data-original-width="595" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxlJSOviJoPf5-KG5o0RtKT6LUVrOq0euMKqxyiHEuJPBRSA6iujhJNNIfIlSk87fvqTL1tz7NY67UgBp24x-TdWm72ZXU8Dn09mdlboK1lfA7rjsMR2U3_-NAoz1_-eTnjToLfXj4gh8/s320/wolf.jpg" width="262" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: x-small;"><i>Olly G, Russia 2018's cuddly wolverine<br /> mascot (<b>Illustration</b>: @Urban_Country)</i></span></td></tr>
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<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">The idea of a team boycott, concludes
Aumüller, should not be taboo. Instead, it should be very much on the table. At
Sochi 2014, sport openly schmoozed with Putin, then just days after the event
was over his country illegally occupied the Crimea. Sport supposedly built
international bridges, as the cliché goes, but the Russian President quickly
destroyed them shortly after waving the world off at the airport.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">I've already stated that</span><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"> </span><a href="http://quietfan.blogspot.de/2017/06/calling-on-fans-to-boycott-next-two.html" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;" target="_blank">as a fan I won't be watching a single minute of the 2018 World Cup</a><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">.</span></span><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;"> I fully support the </span><i style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">Süddeutsche Zeitung</span></i><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">'s position that a
sporting boycott of the event should, at the very least, be up for discussion
instead of being dismissed with a glib, "Well, </span><i style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">that </span></i><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">won't happen." Why shouldn't it? How important does
football think it is that the sport can ignore its hosts' serial breaches of
human rights merely in the interests of playing previously scheduled games?</span></div>
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<i style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></i></div>
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<i style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">Check out Russia 2018's super-cute mascots in full <a href="http://worldcuphumanrights.blogspot.de/2016/10/russia-unveils-mascot-finalists-for.html" target="_blank">here at the World Cup Human Rights blog</a>.</span></i></div>
Ian Plenderleithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08512357220650578961noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1184325319229623815.post-43190144317260281732018-03-06T06:28:00.000-08:002019-05-21T11:36:43.772-07:00The Quiet Fan - another explanation<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiorXTFhG_aDxWeOGC3DJpDldnkxwTUlwjEl1d8KKgEU6n170bzQNAGmCo5_FoRpLsf_94oJ0wrzXY1gMaTFuDij3-w_bpulhQqCWyqsg8ZGSOjzXNGjd8PNn8qn-wFkAi-SOzcfKPqoyk/s1600/sinclairC5.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1001" data-original-width="1600" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiorXTFhG_aDxWeOGC3DJpDldnkxwTUlwjEl1d8KKgEU6n170bzQNAGmCo5_FoRpLsf_94oJ0wrzXY1gMaTFuDij3-w_bpulhQqCWyqsg8ZGSOjzXNGjd8PNn8qn-wFkAi-SOzcfKPqoyk/s320/sinclairC5.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: small;"><i>Faster than the speed of publishing <br />- Clive and his... vehicle.</i></span></td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">As <i>The Quiet Fan</i>'s publication date approaches with all the speed and reliability of a <b>Sinclair C5</b>, I'm once again having to face up to the question, "Soooo, what's the book about?" Ask any author this question and you're splitting them internally in two. One half of them is in panic, thinking, "I do not want to answer that question because I don't even really know how." And the other half is also in panic, thinking, "I have to answer this question. Because this is something I suppose that I really ought to know, having actually written it."</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">It's complicated, of course. No writer wants to look so superficial that they can sum up their book in one pithy sentence that will lure in a potential reader. That's the domain, we elevated scribes suppose, of trash literature and its easily satisfied readership. "A duke falls in love with a milk-maid while on his way to rescue the last existing copy of the Magna Carta from the power-mad, totalitarian Monocrats</span><br />
<a name='more'></a><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;"> of </span><span style="font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">Brussels." It's the print equivalent of the Hollywood elevator pitch. It's also what every publisher would love you to deliver, mainly because then you've done their work and they can go for an early lunch.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">It's been a long process, but the more people ask me, "What's <i>The Quiet Fan</i> about?" the better I can answer the question. This week Mike Woitalla of <b><i>Soccer America</i></b> posed it in the course of a longer interview, and I felt like the answer I gave has topped all the ones I gave last year. <a href="https://www.socceramerica.com/publications/article/76968/german-vs-us-soccer-comparisons-from-ian-plende.html" target="_blank">Here's the whole interview</a>, but here's the relevant quote:</span><br />
<br />
<div style="box-sizing: border-box; font-family: "Open Sans", sans-serif; margin-bottom: 10px;">
<span style="box-sizing: border-box; color: red;"><strong style="box-sizing: border-box;"><span style="font-size: large;">SA: Tell us about your new book, "The Quiet Fan," and what inspired it?</span></strong></span></div>
<div style="box-sizing: border-box; font-family: "Open Sans", sans-serif; margin-bottom: 10px;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><i>I aimed to correct the stereotypical view of the North American Soccer League as a failed league full of aging superstars in </i><a href="https://www.amazon.co.uk/Rock-Roll-Soccer-American-League/dp/1906850852/ref=tmm_pap_title_0?_encoding=UTF8&qid=&sr=" target="_blank"><b>Rock n Roll Soccer</b></a><i>, and in </i><b><a href="https://www.amazon.co.uk/Quiet-Fan-Ian-Plenderleith/dp/1912618427/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1546854623&sr=8-1&keywords=%22Ian+Plenderleith%22">The Quiet Fan</a> </b><i>I want to banish the idea that all soccer fans must be passionate fanatics, the media-assigned "obsessives." </i><span style="box-sizing: border-box; font-style: italic;">To me passion is an over-rated and often spurious concept when it comes to sport</span><i>. This idea that fans care about nothing in the whole world besides their team is not the way I experience soccer, and I think that applies to millions of other fans -- it's a fake concept that's come with the hype and mendacious marketing of the Premier League age.</i></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "open sans" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><i>To me, the joy of soccer, and sport in general, is its bookmark appeal -- its place as a solid, stable gauge of continuity in your life journey. So I take 12 games from throughout my life and go on a lively autobiographical trip connecting each of these games to an important time or sensation. Death, for example, is paired up with Lincoln City vs. Plymouth Argyle in 1979. Despair comes with Celtic vs. Aberdeen in the 1984 Scottish Cup final, a game I should never have been at. Love is coupled with Birmingham City vs. Crystal Palace in 1987. And so on. Despite the "big" themes, though, the book aims to primarily entertain. I try not to take myself or soccer too seriously -- not just in the book, but every day.</i></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "open sans" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: "open sans" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><i>The Quiet Fan</i> was published by <b>Unbound</b> in autumn 2018 and is <a href="https://www.amazon.co.uk/Quiet-Fan-Ian-Plenderleith/dp/1912618427/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1546854623&sr=8-1&keywords=%22Ian+Plenderleith%22"><b>here</b></a>.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "open sans" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhk-YIFDOqPEf1tCTiqXqcyq0sW95E5ZVvTFF1ilNDUFyH7BtI4UErAb-4IgxOhwSutRlHQIVuLXmgIkY2nZk2-S5ur_PhuxE6vP4SLs8yG9MSuP_SRfw9zL5pZerEEDU55lEk4_iN1to/s1600/plenderleith-books.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="423" data-original-width="600" height="280" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhk-YIFDOqPEf1tCTiqXqcyq0sW95E5ZVvTFF1ilNDUFyH7BtI4UErAb-4IgxOhwSutRlHQIVuLXmgIkY2nZk2-S5ur_PhuxE6vP4SLs8yG9MSuP_SRfw9zL5pZerEEDU55lEk4_iN1to/s400/plenderleith-books.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
<span style="font-family: "open sans" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span>Ian Plenderleithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08512357220650578961noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1184325319229623815.post-71499036172832956682017-12-18T02:27:00.002-08:002023-02-21T09:05:25.872-08:00Should I go to the game or the anti-Trump demo?<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">Last Saturday I was cycling to the
Bundesliga game between Eintracht Frankfurt and Schalke 04 when I passed close
to a crowd demonstrating against the decision of US President Trump to
recognise Jerusalem as the capital of Israel. I could hear someone with a
megaphone calling to the protesters, who responded to each prompt with a chant
about a free Palestine.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDT1ouxYaGWD0UXlSVyBpYdXoGKA8oPVd9ph6sslI3rocmcY4QaSMI3iAEiCqCjpzB7IcffuCBcnyr8OCtqx_yHr2J8g0mwHs5ybbbNY5ciGjWKT3h2kunnCo6O_4Q73VToBXWLdO4DD0/s1600/palestine.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="320" data-original-width="605" height="169" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDT1ouxYaGWD0UXlSVyBpYdXoGKA8oPVd9ph6sslI3rocmcY4QaSMI3iAEiCqCjpzB7IcffuCBcnyr8OCtqx_yHr2J8g0mwHs5ybbbNY5ciGjWKT3h2kunnCo6O_4Q73VToBXWLdO4DD0/s320/palestine.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: small;"><i>Or: 'Demos not football'?</i></span></td></tr>
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<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">I hadn't been aware that the demonstration
was taking place. It would have been easy for me to get off my bike, lock it
up, and go to join the demo instead of pedalling on to the football. But I
didn't. I didn't even hesitate, even as I was arguing with myself that this was
certainly what I <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">ought </i>to be doing.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">Let us imagine a (plausible) worst case
scenario - that the US decision has catastrophic consequences for the situation
in Israel, the Occupied Territories and the wider Middle East region. There is
a devastating war involving all the mass consequences that accompany </span></span><br />
<a name='more'></a><span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">armed
conflict - death, maiming, depression, new and deeper hatred, destruction, starvation,
lasting economic deprivation, and migration of the innocent towards
comparatively wealthy but hostile countries, many of whom will have supplied
the arms and the policies that fuelled the misery right from the very start.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">Let us also imagine that in 100 years historians
are studying the roots of the conflict. They look at archive material and
determine that the starting point for the war was the decision of US President
Trump to unilaterally recognise Jerusalem as the capital of Israel. They wonder
what kind of resistance there was in the west. They might write, "There
were demonstrations in some cities against the US decision. On Saturday December
16th, 2017, in the western German city of Frankfurt am Main, for example, around
1000 people demonstrated peacefully against the US while marching through the
town centre."<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">Only 1000, the historians might think. What
was everyone else doing on that day? If they looked in the same newspaper, they
would also discover that while the demonstration was taking place, over 50,000
people went to watch a football game. "For every individual protesting
against a decision that was to lead to the most catastrophic conflict for a
generation, 50 went to watch a game of football." Not to mention how many
were out Christmas shopping.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">Two days later, that probably doesn't seem
strange to any of us. It could, though, strike future analysts as absurdly
myopic. What on earth were we thinking?<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">I can't speak for the 50,599 other fans in
the stadium (and I'm well aware that there are good reasons to stay way from
this kind of demo in Germany - an earlier protest in Berlin was marred by
anti-Jewish chants and mindless flag-burning), but here's what I was thinking:<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">"I've been <a href="http://quietfan.blogspot.de/2017/06/calling-on-fans-to-boycott-next-two.html" target="_blank">calling on fans to boycott the next two World Cups on political grounds</a>, and yet here I am going to watch
a game of football when I could be joining a protest against one of the
dumbest, most short-sighted, potentially most disastrous political moves of the
past decade. Yet I'm still going to the football. It's what I set out to do,
and there are not many things that would stop me from going to the football
once I'm on my way." (I can't think of any, other than me getting run over.)
And I doubt there were many on the anti-Trump demo who'd woken up on Saturday
and said, "I'm going to forfeit my tickets for Eintracht-Schalke in favour
of marching instead." <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghRpG5-ycDDIU0FKzEMRWi4AXMpnLKehysLggj15Kw7-miHH7_D2c9fs49BELQn5i43SrxeNFs2np1dfCJsdnp5sItzk7QlM7CMCcB4LK5w6VSlsWJnnJGCNyge6-2eliMmgNJxejEbwA/s1600/waldstadion.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="424" data-original-width="640" height="212" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghRpG5-ycDDIU0FKzEMRWi4AXMpnLKehysLggj15Kw7-miHH7_D2c9fs49BELQn5i43SrxeNFs2np1dfCJsdnp5sItzk7QlM7CMCcB4LK5w6VSlsWJnnJGCNyge6-2eliMmgNJxejEbwA/s320/waldstadion.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: small;">A little bit of politics at Eintracht Frankfurt</span></i></td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;"><span lang="EN-GB">Inside the stadium the Frankfurt fans held
up a banner saying 'F</span><span lang="DE" style="mso-ansi-language: DE;">ür Immer
Waldstadion'. </span><span lang="EN-GB">All Frankfurt supporters call their
ground the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Waldstadion </i>(Stadium in
the Wood), eschewing the official <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Kommerzbank
Arena </i>that's been around for the past decade or so. It's a dogged little protest
against the ongoing commercialisation of the game, and as political as it gets inside
the ground on this afternoon. The banner disappears before kick-off, its point
having been made.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;"><span lang="EN-GB">Whether I was on the demonstration or in
the stadium will have made no difference to either the Israel-Palestine dispute
(precarious, hopeless, intractable), or the outcome of the game (2-2). Both events
are just part of a long cycle of futile struggle and wasted effort with
predictable consequences: in the Middle East - a locked-in dispute teetering on escalation with no
solution in sight; in the Bundesliga - another title for FC Bayern M</span><span lang="DE" style="mso-ansi-language: DE;">ü</span><span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">nchen. In that respect, my conscience is only lightly smudged, because as an individual not directly involved, I'm not pompous enough to suppose that my moral decisions
make any difference either way.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">The historian looking
into all this 100 years down the line, however, may justifiably come to a quite
different conclusion. What on earth were we thinking?<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;"><i>The contradiction of
going to a football match against a background of cataclysmic international
events is approached in more detail in Chapter Ten of <b>The Quiet Fan</b>, <b style="font-style: italic;">'Death:
Leyton Orient v Wrexham'</b>, when I look back on a Saturday I spent watching a
fourth division playoff game while pro-democracy Chinese students were being
murdered by the state in Tiananmen Square. (Don't worry, it's not quite as depressing
as it sounds.)</i></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><i style="font-family: "open sans", sans-serif;"><br /></i></span>
<span style="font-size: large;"><i style="font-family: "open sans", sans-serif;">The Quiet Fan</i><span style="font-family: "open sans" , sans-serif;"> was published by </span><b style="font-family: "open sans", sans-serif;">Unbound</b><span style="font-family: "open sans" , sans-serif;"> in autumn 2018 and is available <a href="https://www.amazon.co.uk/Quiet-Fan-Ian-Plenderleith/dp/1912618427/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1546854623&sr=8-1&keywords=%22Ian+Plenderleith%22">here</a></span><span style="font-family: "open sans" , sans-serif;">.</span></span></div>
Ian Plenderleithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08512357220650578961noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1184325319229623815.post-70010952286992745282017-11-08T08:25:00.001-08:002019-01-07T01:57:44.200-08:00At the Champions League - with the Kardashians!<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">There would be no game without the fans, we are often told by football's guardians of insight. They are the most important people in the stadium. A new generation of fans is taking this truth to extremes. They are starting to think that they are the <i>only</i> people in the stadium.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEih_bYn0AFrORs5s65GZFRewWQZuScutBTbcnMPBXwsXNn_dCj-DIXKBxuyexeHyjdaHb6P0k8exiC7uwpU9Zvbyo0fl46x8yBnFHbTwQyAJrKYNHRJP1X-9ZP9chQTFwclKISowIy3HHY/s1600/Stadio+Olimpico.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1555" data-original-width="1600" height="311" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEih_bYn0AFrORs5s65GZFRewWQZuScutBTbcnMPBXwsXNn_dCj-DIXKBxuyexeHyjdaHb6P0k8exiC7uwpU9Zvbyo0fl46x8yBnFHbTwQyAJrKYNHRJP1X-9ZP9chQTFwclKISowIy3HHY/s320/Stadio+Olimpico.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: small;"><i>Football from around the time </i><br /><i>Rangers used to do well in Europe</i><br /><i>(actually a mosaic at the Stadio Olimpico).</i></span></td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">Last week I went to watch a Champions League group game for the first time since I saw <b>Paul Gascoigne</b> and <b>Rangers</b> humbly succumb 3-0 to the <b>Grasshoppers</b> of Zürich in the autumn of 1996. I had a letter printed in the Swiss daily <i>Tages-Anzeiger</i> complaining that the club had increased ticket prices seven-fold from what they charged for Swiss League games. It failed to trigger the popular revolution that I'd hoped for. And anyway, I was part of the problem too - I'd bought two of the jacked-up stubs for the privilege of seeing another highly tipped Scottish failure.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">At games back then no one except the official photographers had a camera. It was around one year later in that very same ground when, for the first time, I was sitting next to someone who took a call on their mobile phone. I was incredulous that technology was heedlessly devouring my world view. For Christ's sake, you sociopathic </span><br />
<a name='more'></a><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">abomination, NO ONE COMES TO FOOTBALL TO TALK ON A PHONE.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0RmmmdoyXoEDvV7_v7X4Llhg9H2HeCmCNg4-djUI6uahN-ODKnUUx7bxEqIPl02GxcZl-Q_hfpZFUHe45Rykyjpa2yS26gnmLt_jWQZgWdagoYIHkYz5PsbnkQ9VOXHo2n5FNhDzUo_Y/s1600/Stadio+Olimpico+2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="796" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0RmmmdoyXoEDvV7_v7X4Llhg9H2HeCmCNg4-djUI6uahN-ODKnUUx7bxEqIPl02GxcZl-Q_hfpZFUHe45Rykyjpa2yS26gnmLt_jWQZgWdagoYIHkYz5PsbnkQ9VOXHo2n5FNhDzUo_Y/s320/Stadio+Olimpico+2.jpg" width="159" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: small;"><i>No place for fascism<br />in football (except in Italy<br /> - Stadio Olimpico again)</i></span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">So, fast forward 20 years to <b>Roma v Chelsea</b> last Tuesday in the Stadio <strike>Mussolini </strike>Olimpico. We've now come out the other side - no one talks on their phone in the stadium any more. That era's had its 15 years of inanity. "Yeah, I'm at the game, it's 1-0. Oh, you're watching it on telly? I'll wave, maybe you'll see me hur hur. You've got to go? Why? Oh, you're watching the game." Now fans are less externally focused. They are taking pictures, mainly of themselves, and reams of crowd footage. The couple in front of us are relentless archivists throughout the night, and the bloke only stops in the second half when his battery dies. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">They're nothing compared with what's to come, though. Around 15 minutes after the game has started (and long after Stephan el Shaarawy's mesh-frazzling opening goal for Roma after 38 seconds), three young women in their early to mid-20s come looking for their seats. "Look, the Kardashians have arrived," remarks Mrs QF. These perfume-counter clones try to throw out the couple in the seats in front of us, but they're in the wrong section. It takes them another five minutes of wandering up and down the steps looking baffled before they match the numbers on their tickets with the numbers on their seats. Good job, Kim!</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">Hardly have they settled down than they become quickly restless. Why are we here again? Not sure. Let's take some pictures so that we at least remember afterwards that we were here at all! They record images of each other - in singles, in pairs, and then all together, alternating all three phones.</span><br />
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<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhH0kZmswjf0EAmPRx__VUuiA8Q0W1kZUKC1YoG3sjx99hzcirlxgUM6K9ySrmlOEvV2Xy7YD-CkiD8AxmWSaZr9KDRLiErxGk9Z8oL9LYvIF3LqL4UgVxHzWe3JNcKywcnw4QVrSz7p3E/s1600/selfies+at+Roma.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1285" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhH0kZmswjf0EAmPRx__VUuiA8Q0W1kZUKC1YoG3sjx99hzcirlxgUM6K9ySrmlOEvV2Xy7YD-CkiD8AxmWSaZr9KDRLiErxGk9Z8oL9LYvIF3LqL4UgVxHzWe3JNcKywcnw4QVrSz7p3E/s320/selfies+at+Roma.jpg" width="256" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: small;">Generation Kardashian in <br />action at Roma-Chelsea</span></i></td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">No half-time cup of tea for these prodigious posers. Now they go down to the front to get the pitch in the background. Multiple shots. As entertainment goes, it's certainly more captivating than watching the sprinklers on the field. This trio work together a lot more efficiently than Chelsea's central midfield, and their smiles are wider than the gap between Antonio Rüdiger and César Azpilicueta for Roma's second goal. But the minute the latest series is in the can, the smile disappears quicker than Cesc Fabregas when the going gets tough - the subject dashes to the snapper to check out the quality of the picture, then shakes her head in genuine horror. OMG, I look terrible! Take it again! </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">For the interval's full 15 minutes they're diligently at work, then as the teams kick-off for the second half they resume someone else's seats. When those people return, they move to three new spots. When those people return they go back to their original seats (they remembered!) and take some more pictures. Then the next time I look (because whenever the ball's out of play, I can't help myself - it's like when you drive past a 10-car pile-up and the ambulance is still on the scene) they're gone. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">Clearly these were the worst offenders, but they were by no means the only ones. A bloke gets me to take a picture of him watching the game, but with his back to the camera so that I can record his Totti replica shirt. A purely natural pose. And this at a game where you really need no distractions at all. Whatever your views on the immorality of the Champions League, the football itself is depressingly impressive. Unless you're watching Chelsea ha ha ha (though in truth they also looked very good going forward in the first half).</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">This doesn't cause me to froth and gesticulate like a man (running) out of time. We're all wearily resigned to the selfie-obsession of our age. I even took one of myself before the game to send to my boys' U15 team back in Frankfurt (they weren't impressed - I'd have had to be posing arm in arm with the actual Totti for that). And just like with the Grasshopper-Rangers game, I am equally complicit in all this. I forked out an entrance fee that would have made your Granddad roar out loud and tell you how many season tickets you could have bought at that price for Barnsley back in the 50s.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">And in truth, Mrs QF and I had a great night. It was an excellent game, and we got to laugh our asses off. In weird ways, modern football can be brilliant too. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;"><i style="font-family: "open sans", sans-serif;">The Quiet Fan</i><span style="font-family: "open sans" , sans-serif;"> was published by </span><b style="font-family: "open sans", sans-serif;">Unbound</b><span style="font-family: "open sans" , sans-serif;"> in autumn 2018 and is <a href="https://www.amazon.co.uk/Quiet-Fan-Ian-Plenderleith/dp/1912618427/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1546854623&sr=8-1&keywords=%22Ian+Plenderleith%22">here</a>.</span></span>Ian Plenderleithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08512357220650578961noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1184325319229623815.post-16573747027721956112017-09-29T01:39:00.000-07:002019-01-07T01:58:05.318-08:00Why I don't like Derby Day<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">Lincoln City and Grimsby Town will contest
a Lincolnshire derby at Blundell Park in the Football League tomorrow
afternoon. The word 'derby' is supposed to trigger something bigger in the
football fan's emotional spectrum. There are extra match-day abstractions heaped
on to all the usual clichés about just how important these three points are. 'Rivalry',
'bragging rights' and even 'hatred' are thrown in to the conversational
build-up, as sure as turkeys will have their throats coldly slit sometime in
the early weeks of December.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxrtCJplCQAsuwhgwT-q2mJY24Je4u4VqVXlSB9VDl-9o90PtDPSOe1jKrWfBpu01NtNZHc9JAQN8U91fBoj9Rcw9pv0ErQCgzsiLx05_YSrewvRugYb86qo2H_-CE6ueFwoMo9Zcjauw/s1600/lincsderby3.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="713" data-original-width="498" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxrtCJplCQAsuwhgwT-q2mJY24Je4u4VqVXlSB9VDl-9o90PtDPSOe1jKrWfBpu01NtNZHc9JAQN8U91fBoj9Rcw9pv0ErQCgzsiLx05_YSrewvRugYb86qo2H_-CE6ueFwoMo9Zcjauw/s320/lincsderby3.jpeg" width="223" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: small;">Derby day - time to unearth <br />your statutory hatred</span></i></td></tr>
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<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">I can't help but feel we're being sold an
artificial product when derby time rolls around. Of course the clubs hype it up
to sell tickets, the media churn out hackneyed headlines to lure in more readers,
and the League itself wouldn't dream of interfering to brake the Derby Day Express,
because marketing and publicity are far more important nowadays than, say, the
possibility of a clean, open game of football. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">Yet cranking up the pre-derby rhetoric does
the fixture no favours. All that furious noise puts sporting pressure on the
teams, and the games will often be scrappy, hurried encounters. Players new
to the area will be told "how much this game means" to the locals. They
may convince themselves of the match's super-added importance in the interests
of self-motivation. And then the two sides tear into each other and it's beyond
anyone to even control the bloody ball.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">As a Lincoln City fan, I have to confess
that I don't hate Grimsby Town. I don't even dislike them. I grew up almost exactly
half way </span></span><br />
<a name='more'></a><span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">between the two, and most of the kids I went to school with supported
Grimsby, who during that era were usually in a higher division. Sometimes I went
with them, although I didn't much care whether Grimsby won or lost, and I'd squeak
out a stunted cheer during the announcement of the half-time scores if Lincoln
were ahead. Sometimes they came with me to Lincoln and did the same thing. We
were just mates, going to games together.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiaA2gKX7-kfCDH3z2juUDmVjpSAA0GHHiDLLdClcTE3Gwo0IwvIknrivs2WvJaJyEjwa0yXndEjMwhbKWHdmv2UXK_RyJ4Mda-kwOBy3dyQ0QOl7UQ5O52RwVLfb65B9em7hsePZBF1zM/s1600/lincsderby2.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="495" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiaA2gKX7-kfCDH3z2juUDmVjpSAA0GHHiDLLdClcTE3Gwo0IwvIknrivs2WvJaJyEjwa0yXndEjMwhbKWHdmv2UXK_RyJ4Mda-kwOBy3dyQ0QOl7UQ5O52RwVLfb65B9em7hsePZBF1zM/s320/lincsderby2.jpeg" width="264" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: small;"><i>Two towns separated <br />by 36 miles of the A46</i></span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">How different are people from Grimsby
compared with people from Lincoln? I ask, because I don't know the answer. Assuming
you could make a generalised case for one group being different to the other
(say, "Grimsby people prefer the coast. Lincoln people prefer the
countryside"), would that difference make either group in some way better
than the other? We all know the answer to that already.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">Even as I write, there could be a group of
people who follow the team in red and white stripes plotting to meet a group of
people who follow the team in black and white stripes, and they may end up kicking
the shit out of each other. Because... the Lincolnshire Wolds divide us. Because
the Humber's wider than the Witham. Because both have a territorial claim on North
Willingham. Because red is not black, and vice versa. Just, because.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">You could say that I'm taking all the fun
out of derby day, but for me there's very little enjoyment there to start with.
We've let the game become over-loaded with a phoney significance. I feel compelled
to watch through my fingers. I want Carlisle, Luton and Barnet back - just
normal games without the added packaging (though still for exactly the same
number of points).<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">Derby day's a big deal, but for reasons no
one can really explain. We're all playing along with an imposed, fallacious idea
that we are better, stronger people than our human counterparts just 30 miles across the county. Spurious hatred's become a habit, with sporadic but almost
inevitable small-minded violence thrown in.
I'm not buying it, though. I don't have the energy. Never did, and I suspect there may be others who feel the same way.</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">Derby Day. Because it's not really about
the football, let's just get it over and done with.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;"><i style="font-family: "open sans", sans-serif;">The Quiet Fan</i><span style="font-family: "open sans" , sans-serif;"> was published by </span><b style="font-family: "open sans", sans-serif;">Unbound</b><span style="font-family: "open sans" , sans-serif;"> in autumn 2018 and is available <a href="https://www.amazon.co.uk/Quiet-Fan-Ian-Plenderleith/dp/1912618427/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1546854623&sr=8-1&keywords=%22Ian+Plenderleith%22">here</a></span><span style="font-family: "open sans" , sans-serif;">.</span></span><br />
<br /></div>
Ian Plenderleithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08512357220650578961noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1184325319229623815.post-43467740691497313922017-09-21T02:10:00.001-07:002019-05-21T11:40:09.252-07:00My night as a corporate fan - a stunning exposé of free beer and shady deals <div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">I have never been a corporate fan, but in
the interests of balanced reporting I generously accepted an offer to accompany a friend who is. His firm holds six VIP tickets for every FC Cologne home game, and last night they played my local team, Eintracht Frankfurt. It's the kind of gritty, undercover
work that we football bloggers are occasionally forced into when exploring the
seedy under-belly of sport's darker side. My only problem would be resisting
the lucrative job offers that would no doubt come my way via a shady half-time
handshake. I was determined not to become 'one of us'.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
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<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxjORGQxj04YKC8nPdeYyLstOMRuUIIbvT7Cs1hXESCMo76O-lwbJDVe0NdzYAkR_MQplWVxJTkKK_PNBio1RqrFOBXyNYSwYSJufRgNd3yeRLw-FFAF4oX6a9OGo7k59GmUDAuCQMgsA/s1600/corporate2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1451" data-original-width="1600" height="290" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxjORGQxj04YKC8nPdeYyLstOMRuUIIbvT7Cs1hXESCMo76O-lwbJDVe0NdzYAkR_MQplWVxJTkKK_PNBio1RqrFOBXyNYSwYSJufRgNd3yeRLw-FFAF4oX6a9OGo7k59GmUDAuCQMgsA/s320/corporate2.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: small;"><i>Far from the 'wild horde' at <br />FC Köln's Müngersdorfer Stadium</i></span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;"><span lang="EN-GB">First, let me tell you about my friend,
'John' (his real name). We met when we were both proper journalists several
years ago before our profession died and he crossed to a more generous
paymaster to work in something called 'communications' (and I crossed into a
cash-free zone called 'freelancing'). His job, however, is not to communicate, but to
obfuscate. That's why his firm's web site proclaims that it "provides
solutions to </span><span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">propel our customers
from start to finish to unlock new insights". Understand?<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">John has three
colleagues along on the corporate tab who are all FC Cologne fans. John himself
claims to be a Bayern Munich supporter for some tenuous reason I can't recall,
although he's from Chicago and lives near Frankfurt. Let's just </span></span><br />
<a name='more'></a><span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">say he's a
truly global customer in </span></span><span style="font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">the football entertainment industry. Tonight, though,
he chooses to back Eintracht, which is bad news for the Cologne fans - John is
their boss and, being a vocal North American from a culture of deeply embedded
but chronically inane trash talk, heartlessly deepens their pain in following a
side that is bottom of the Bundesliga and impotent to lift itself out of a
crisis in form and confidence.</span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">Approaching Cologne's
magnificent <b>Müngersdorfer Stadium</b>, I of course feel like a complete fraud. A
little like when I have a media pass. The other fans are behaving like fans
(drinking, singing, laughing cynically), and I'm feeling like something much
more detached (a freeloading interloper). I have a special entrance, with a
special wrist-band, and lots of smiling young hostesses making me feel extra
special just for walking up with my VIP ticket. Are they really so pleased to
see a balding, bandy-legged, middle-aged man with hearing aids enter the hospitality
section? Of course they are - because I'm special!<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiw8yV9mdWncTD0DBdomcsi9JBoOuUz6b6oIX9W9cmhkbDjbykM3wUPlaInr-hmiwmYHz9MNH1fD1JDrdGqBMsqMS9dORxNxWdn5uvehUuF5RuaOlrB6wHmPkcfr3N_dmn5ZP9OB4CuV80/s1600/corporate1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1054" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiw8yV9mdWncTD0DBdomcsi9JBoOuUz6b6oIX9W9cmhkbDjbykM3wUPlaInr-hmiwmYHz9MNH1fD1JDrdGqBMsqMS9dORxNxWdn5uvehUuF5RuaOlrB6wHmPkcfr3N_dmn5ZP9OB4CuV80/s320/corporate1.jpg" width="210" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: small;"><i>Free. All night long.</i></span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">I'm not going to
complain, though. Once I find our table, I just sit down and waitresses bring
me beer after beer. Admittedly it's Kölsch, so you can drink about 15 glasses
and still safely operate a lathe. "What's having sex by the river got in
common with Kölsch?" John asks me. "They're both fucking close to
water." But it would be rude to quibble when it's flowing free, along
with a menu that includes various cuts of pork and chicken, and - probably not available elsewhere in the ground - sushi.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">We are by no means
alone back here - there are dozens of companies represented by hundreds,
possibly thousands, of fans. There's no rarefied atmosphere of exclusivity, no
suits whispering about turnover, yields and profit warnings. It's more like a
really long and busy beer cellar where everyone's on the lam. Bar the odd
Eintracht shirt, they're all Cologne supporters with the same concern as the fans
outside - where the hell are the goals going to come from now that Anthony
Modeste's gone to China? <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">I consider asking John
if his company could provide FC Cologne with a solution to unlock new insights,
but I get distracted by a plate of Currywurst and another round of Kölsch. I
could easily get used to this. After all, I'm old enough now that I can stop
pretending to care about standing on the open terrace for 90 minutes. Then
everyone at the table stands up and I remember - we're here to watch a game. We
shuffle to our seats, which are padded, and more comfortable than anything I've
ever placed my skinny arse on within the four walls of a football stadium.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgiJYEZv2ig0GGiuQhj7O8-rXb8B6kmwHyqAas_p00aQnHQh6RLt4f5TVYwCGcurwz5NEm3E4EdHge67KVboZiPEhS7ZWHBUMTEUUrjibEw99gOHm-gCAR4ci7VcTrauyc3r3iATKq69NQ/s1600/corporate3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1001" data-original-width="1600" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgiJYEZv2ig0GGiuQhj7O8-rXb8B6kmwHyqAas_p00aQnHQh6RLt4f5TVYwCGcurwz5NEm3E4EdHge67KVboZiPEhS7ZWHBUMTEUUrjibEw99gOHm-gCAR4ci7VcTrauyc3r3iATKq69NQ/s320/corporate3.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: small;"><i>What the non-corporate fans<br />got up to at Cologne station<br /> on the Amsterdam-Frankfurt ICE.</i></span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">The less said about
the game the better - Frankfurt are dreadful, but Cologne are much, much worse.
Frankfurt win 1-0 thanks to a dubious first-half penalty, while Cologne's
evening is summed up by a corner they eke out three minutes from time, and which
the hopeless Konstantin Rausch slices right into the home support. John stands
up and, as he has been doing for most of the night, leeringly taunts his melancholy
co-workers.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;"><span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">I decide to try and do
some business after all. "I'll have John taken care of for €20,000,"
I offer to his colleagues after the final whistle. We shake on it immediately, no negotiations required. The
deal is done, and now I just need my secretary to draw up the documents and
have them sent over in the morning to be signed. We head back up to the restaurant level.
Unlike the bar on the concourse, this one's open for another two hours.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">I would like to take this opportunity to state that I am available for all future assignments
investigating the habits and lifestyle of the corporate fan.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;"><i style="font-family: "open sans", sans-serif;">The Quiet Fan</i><span style="font-family: "open sans" , sans-serif;"> was published by </span><b style="font-family: "open sans", sans-serif;">Unbound</b><span style="font-family: "open sans" , sans-serif;"> in autumn 2018 and is available <a href="https://www.amazon.co.uk/Quiet-Fan-Ian-Plenderleith/dp/1912618427/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1546854623&sr=8-1&keywords=%22Ian+Plenderleith%22">here</a>.</span></span></div>
Ian Plenderleithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08512357220650578961noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1184325319229623815.post-67974525798208808962017-09-12T03:03:00.002-07:002019-01-07T01:58:57.237-08:00"Watch the news!" When rogue players express interesting views<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">Reading interviews with active footballers is
like beach-combing with a blindfold on. The chances of stumbling on something
worthwhile among the miles of sand and seaweed are as high as a player saying
something interesting under the watchful auspices of their agents and club
press officers. Very occasionally, though, you might come across a pearl, or at least a nice colourful cowrie.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_c_f9k_vY_p_1fWAfnVTomJz9mhB5zLksnmhs2g2J-uaqEAhHwRiTnXjRUGQekCWpzFitHMyzaN_yIbmzMQLB9hLEBrUjAyj_Xo2GbXWegek5H696p2MEO_5ynwHmx4qn1XkVQj26bQU/s1600/Wagner.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1100" data-original-width="800" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_c_f9k_vY_p_1fWAfnVTomJz9mhB5zLksnmhs2g2J-uaqEAhHwRiTnXjRUGQekCWpzFitHMyzaN_yIbmzMQLB9hLEBrUjAyj_Xo2GbXWegek5H696p2MEO_5ynwHmx4qn1XkVQj26bQU/s320/Wagner.jpg" width="232" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: small;">"If someone says football's the<br /> only thing in my life, I<br />think that's stupid."</span></i></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">It's especially pleasing to hear from players who can look beyond the game. In the latest issue of German
monthly <b><i><a href="http://www.11freunde.de/" target="_blank">11 Freunde</a></i></b>, the Hoffenheim striker <b>Sandro Wagner</b> talks about football's place in society. Wagner, who made his German international debut this past
summer at the age of 29, is a feisty, physical player who, to say the least, has
made himself unpopular down the years with opposing fans thanks to his robust style.
He fouls a lot, and he gets fouled a lot.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">I like him, though. Last season when he
played for Hoffenheim at Eintracht Frankfurt he took a nasty, deliberate elbow
to the face from Frankfurt's captain <b>David Abraham</b>, which went unseen and
unpunished by the referees. Wagner got up, played on, and after the game made
no fuss about it at all. In the <i>11 Freunde</i> interview he says that Abraham
apologised for the incident even as the game was still being played, and for
him that was the end of the matter.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">What I really like in the interview, though,
is when he answers the question, "Do fans take football too
seriously?" Wagner replies, "I see it like a lot of fans do - I love
football, it's the greatest sport in the world. But many go over the top. If
someone says to me, football's the only thing in my life, then I think that's
stupid. To someone like that I</span></span><br />
<a name='more'></a><span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;"> can only say, turn on the news. Then you can see
what's really important."<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">It's rare to hear this kind of perspective
in player interviews. Wagner talks about football's "unbelievable power"
to effect good, citing the 2006 World Cup as an example. "But at the
moment," he says, "the climate's too negative. Football reflects
society. And I feel that social co-operation has to some extent become brutalised.
The stadium offers a platform for a lot of people to let out their rage. To
vent their frustration. Too many clubs have just stood and watched that for too
long. Especially with the Ultras. I think the Ultras have too much power."<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">The forward is by no means opposed to
the Ultras because "for fan culture and atmosphere they are crucial, and
the majority of Ultras are fine. But we can't let it get like in Italy where a
few violent fans mean that no more families come to watch the games. Or like in
England, where you can only watch games sitting down." <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYnmaq5MMLo9X35wWPsF22l0ANs7RTa1d_ZPzg8JKDMjcrMo12pfWS6vIxTprPetgFdZ0aCeeBj9aA8qtFaA79gDlSk-Bm0e_yAOFt1rdetmXD3Ww6QWySCXvNzieE09oeeGAGdvgGMDc/s1600/spiegel.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="186" data-original-width="140" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYnmaq5MMLo9X35wWPsF22l0ANs7RTa1d_ZPzg8JKDMjcrMo12pfWS6vIxTprPetgFdZ0aCeeBj9aA8qtFaA79gDlSk-Bm0e_yAOFt1rdetmXD3Ww6QWySCXvNzieE09oeeGAGdvgGMDc/s1600/spiegel.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">Meanwhile, Bayern Munich's goal factory
<b>Robert Lewandowski</b> has gone rogue in the latest issue of <b><i><a href="http://www.spiegel.de/" target="_blank">Der Spiegel</a></i></b> in an unauthorised
interview that criticises his club for not spending enough cash on big money
transfers, and in which he admits that he held back in games on the club's summer Asian
tour because it didn't fit in with his pre-season preparation. Plus, from a
marketing point of view, he reckons the tours are a waste of time. The
Bundesliga would be much better off focusing on big name signings and having
four or five teams compete for the title, instead of the current one (Bayern
Munich).<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">"If you have more top games," he
tells the weekly magazine, "you have more show, more razzmatazz, and you
can increase TV coverage to the world beyond. Fans want to see the big
showdowns, the stars of the league, the battles for the championship. That
would make the Bundesliga more interesting outside of Germany." Those
lines could have been taken from the business template for the 1970s <b><a href="http://www.rocknrollsoccer.com/" target="_blank">North American Soccer League</a></b>, not to mention the economic blueprint that drives
modern sport.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">Indeed, although Lewandowski believes that
the game itself will always remain the most important thing, "the time
around the 90 minutes will in future probably be more like a Hollywood film.
That's something we can no longer prevent." In an honest assessment that
caused some discomfort to Bayern's CEO <b>Karl-Heinz Rummenigge</b>, the player states that "football is pure capitalism, everyone involved wants to
make money. That's not to condemn it, that's just the way that our whole
western society functions. Still, the FAs have to find rules to stop the market
completely over-flowing. When it's only ever the same top four or five teams
winning all the titles because they have all the top players, then maybe the
interest among average fans will ebb."<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">When the agents, clubs and media talk about
football players as role models, they have in mind the following. They should
never say or do anything interesting off the field. They should represent,
market and sell the image of their clubs and the image of themselves. They
should pose for photo-opps giving to politically neutral charities. When they
express opinions, they threaten the brand, like American football's quarterback
<b>Colin Kaepernick</b>, who's been effectively side-lined at the peak of his career by
the NFL merely for exercising his democratic right not to stand up for the US
national anthem.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZw3VCdMvTY0SFpns7_niUs1pVUdq04Mg1_XW_Wcs1ZLOzEcEtt2FcXZA8WaC73yTPdP9GGxUd9Wl-sfCI_B52UobPK2ucK5NIQ1t0j8Y6Rmg70SOhiWFaJCQmKZw3sYw04G2GSN6I_5A/s1600/kicker.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="180" data-original-width="137" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZw3VCdMvTY0SFpns7_niUs1pVUdq04Mg1_XW_Wcs1ZLOzEcEtt2FcXZA8WaC73yTPdP9GGxUd9Wl-sfCI_B52UobPK2ucK5NIQ1t0j8Y6Rmg70SOhiWFaJCQmKZw3sYw04G2GSN6I_5A/s1600/kicker.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: small;">Müller: unaffected</span></i></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">So you get a player like Lewandowski's
Bayern colleague <b>Thomas Müller</b> telling <b><a href="http://www.kicker.de/" target="_blank"><i>kicker</i></a> </b>magazine this week that the world outside of his privileged personal
environment has "clearly become more crazy. At the moment there are
extreme things going on, but I try not to let myself get too affected by that."
<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;"><span lang="EN-GB">M</span><span lang="DE" style="mso-ansi-language: DE;">ü</span></span><span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">ller's no fool - "If I
fall down dead tomorrow then there will be a funeral, and then on Friday there
will still be eleven players on the field," he says - but he, his fellow
players, and all of us fans too need to take Sandro Wagner's advice to turn on the
news. When hurricanes, plague and missiles come, the games stop. You can't say,
"I only live for football" when there's no football left to live for.</span></span><i style="font-family: '"trebuchet ms"', sans-serif;">'</i><br />
<i style="font-family: '"trebuchet ms"', sans-serif;"><br /></i>
<i style="font-family: '"trebuchet ms"', sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><i style="font-family: "open sans", sans-serif;">The Quiet Fan</i><span style="font-family: "open sans" , sans-serif; font-style: normal;"> was published by </span><b style="font-family: "open sans", sans-serif; font-style: normal;">Unbound</b><span style="font-family: "open sans" , sans-serif; font-style: normal;"> in autumn 2018 and is available <a href="https://www.amazon.co.uk/Quiet-Fan-Ian-Plenderleith/dp/1912618427/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1546854623&sr=8-1&keywords=%22Ian+Plenderleith%22">here</a></span><span style="font-family: "open sans" , sans-serif; font-style: normal;">.</span></span></i></div>
Ian Plenderleithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08512357220650578961noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1184325319229623815.post-54503336213418238692017-08-25T01:27:00.003-07:002019-05-21T11:44:04.624-07:00Who are "the fans"? None of us, all of us<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b><u>Why I Wrote <i>The Quiet Fan</i></u></b><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">As a book title, <i><a href="https://www.amazon.co.uk/Quiet-Fan-Ian-Plenderleith/dp/1912618427/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1546854623&sr=8-1&keywords=%22Ian+Plenderleith%22" target="_blank">The Quiet Fan</a></i> is meant to
be more than slightly tongue in cheek. Sometimes I'm quiet when I watch a game
(through shyness, fear, boredom or indifference), and sometimes I'm as noisy as
hell (thrilled, annoyed, or I just feel like shouting out loud). I haven't
written this book to point out the virtues of being quiet. In fact, it's the
opposite. The quiet fan is the unrepresented fan - and that's pretty much all
of us. I've had it with the idle pigeonholing of fans as violent morons (70s/80s),
or dupes willing to do anything and buy anything for the sake of their team
(90s and beyond).<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEioHZAaiZ5AOq4vesl2MDPbgyCBXGc_WA3FBRRbBjQfyKs-WPVSZ7f3StAsy2bhCPK18BncrdVHf9djSSIb_UzAvqhlQfu2eqAeAhxjuN-285hf5oxqFnnoqWYgRRg-LL_WFDDCVsGnJ0A/s1600/FeverPitch.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="497" data-original-width="320" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEioHZAaiZ5AOq4vesl2MDPbgyCBXGc_WA3FBRRbBjQfyKs-WPVSZ7f3StAsy2bhCPK18BncrdVHf9djSSIb_UzAvqhlQfu2eqAeAhxjuN-285hf5oxqFnnoqWYgRRg-LL_WFDDCVsGnJ0A/s200/FeverPitch.jpg" width="128" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: small;">"A Fan's Life."<br />One fan's life.</span></i></td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span lang="EN-GB">Fever
Pitch </span></i><span lang="EN-GB">was a good enough work, but it was only one
fan's experience. One of the book's consequences (not Nick Hornby's fault) was the
media's abandonment of its previous fan stereotype, the drunken hooligan (see
<b>Hillsborough</b> and everything that came before). In itself, this wasn't a bad thing.
It was published shortly after Paul Gascoigne's tears at <i>Italia 90</i>, and an
emerging fan culture that had actually started to enjoy being in the stadium. </span></span><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">The downside was that the apparent hooligan
was replaced by the apparent fanatic - the obsessive, the so-called <i>real</i></span><i style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> </i><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">fan. The only true and proper fans
were season ticket holders who cared about their team to the exclusion of all
else in life. This fan <i>lived for</i></span><i style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> </i><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">something
now called 'footie' and had no family (or at least none they paid attention to),
and no life to speak of outside of the game. Emotionally inadequate misfits to
be pitied and patronised, yet moulded and manipulated into becoming the Sky
era's "passionate" customer core.</span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">I dislike being told when I have to be
passionate, or that I have to be passionate at all. I dislike being told that I
would do <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">anything </i>for my team. No I
wouldn't, and neither would most of the fans I've ever met. We don't always get
angry when our</span></span><br />
<a name='more'></a><span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;"> team loses, we don't always look </span></span><span style="font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">for someone to blame - a
player, a manager, the referee, the club's owner. That's just the furious twat
who phones up the local radio station after every loss to vent, or who spewed out
a tweet without engaging his brain. These fans don't speak for me, they just
speak loud enough for the media to exploit them and generate clicks and
listeners through manufactured controversy. If this fan was next to me in the pub,
I would move away. Spitting, ranty, red-faced bloke - you're not supposed to
get mad at your hobby. Especially not at one whose overwhelming characteristic
is chronic imperfection.</span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfdEMlfv7ZR_Sma2UgSVvQIbUIh0uBS6wE4vByp5Q5spo3jlnFkIKPZwswj91DMcmq2FTFR0pkONz_u6IRRERjbTw3d4Udb6P3z8MZMs4thdSopWLrp4JZGxnqHzqLeoNDPNeZnjagFh8/s1600/angryfan.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="330" data-original-width="600" height="176" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfdEMlfv7ZR_Sma2UgSVvQIbUIh0uBS6wE4vByp5Q5spo3jlnFkIKPZwswj91DMcmq2FTFR0pkONz_u6IRRERjbTw3d4Udb6P3z8MZMs4thdSopWLrp4JZGxnqHzqLeoNDPNeZnjagFh8/s320/angryfan.png" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: small;"><i>The camera's happy - it's <br />found a "passionate" fan.</i></span></td></tr>
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<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">There are as many fan types as there are
fans. There are hundreds of different ways of following your team, or teams - many
fans have more than one, and it's not a crime. Some have no team at all, they
just follow the game. Some of them are way more committed than others, which is
a choice. Some have phases of fanaticism, followed by complete withdrawal. Because
a fan doesn't want to or can't afford three replica shirts every season doesn't
mean that his or her experience of football is any less legitimate. The time,
effort, cost and emotional investment of travelling to two dozen away games a
year may not be within everybody's reach, or on their list of desires. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">Armchair fans, plastic fans, casual fans, fair-weather
fans, corporate fans - they're all watching, to some extent, and they should
all be spared our tedious judgment. As Billy Bragg once almost sang, "I've
watched passes/With supporters of all classes." We won't turn you away.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">Take any single fan's opinion about any
given player on their team - there will be 20,000 fans and 20,000 points of
view, probably more. Take a crowd of 50,000 in a stadium and, after the game,
you will maybe find at least 50,000 readings of those 90 minutes. Ask fans
about clubs, leagues, rules, seasons - same mixture of considered wisdom,
well-informed fact, subjective flam, studied indifference and wild, speculative
bollocks.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">Most important of all, ask 500,000 fans
what football <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">means </i>to them - you
will get half a million different answers. So, dear media, with your gurgling pre-match
sales pitch about "the most passionate fans in the world", your hyperbolic
assumptions about what it means to be a supporter - please shut up, you have no
clue because you are selling the game, not watching it. It's not just a
highlight reel of colours, noise and tax-dodging billionaires dribbling round
five men in <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">La Liga </i>to an ecstatic
capacity crowd whose team always wins anyway.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">When you pick fans to talk to, you seem
determined to make them come across as mono-minded idiots. Yet fan identity is
as fluid as the seven days of the week. Every day I wake up and feel
differently about football. As you're obsessed with easy lists, here's a seven-step
prose poem to hammer home this simple truth:<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b>Sunday</b>'s fan is full of lingering
resentment about the missed chances and dropped points of Saturday afternoon.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b>Monday</b>'s fan is full of stoical gloom that
their team will ever again climb higher than mid-table.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b>Tuesday</b>'s fan is full of hope that
tonight's away game at Gillingham could be the turning point of the season. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b>Wednesday</b>'s fan is full of despair that
their team went down 3-0 at Gillingham without a fight.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b>Thursday</b>'s fan has vowed to give up
watching football for good, because there are more important things in life,
like climate change and the resurgence of the far right. </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b>Friday</b>'s fan can't
help but look at Saturday's fixture list. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b>Saturday</b>'s fan is nurturing expectations so
low that the scrappy 1-0 win against the league leader comes as a beautiful,
life-affirming surprise. <br style="mso-special-character: line-break;" />
<!--[if !supportLineBreakNewLine]--><br style="mso-special-character: line-break;" />
<!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">Next week will be a different seven days
again. Maybe on Saturday night the fan will fall in love with another human
being and not even think about football for the next five years. It's allowed.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">In <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Fever
Pitch</i>, Hornby describes how he stopped really caring about football for a
few years in his teens when "suddenly life was all drink and soft drugs
and European literature and Van Morrison". It's allowed. Some Saturdays I
can't even be arsed to go to the home game just down the road, even though I've
nothing better to do. On other occasions, I've sacrificed valuable time and
cash on an ill-advised away trip to a crap town to watch what I was sure would
be a crap game, and because we came back from 2-0 down to win 3-2 I'm still
talking about it 30 years later. (Stop me if you've heard that one before.)<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgoc1oHdsiy-6NChsKm3SVaab8YYd5pFn0DeQ3ejpnWcGH0fqi54OJ5q7_iPKT4cNtUWHv06-lmGcWW_ZgRHMtkTs40yfsSlYwvNGxEc_Xo5zwVdYBpFNxy8qTJIoS7tYfQQj0u1jLX2u4/s1600/angryfans.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="720" data-original-width="1280" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgoc1oHdsiy-6NChsKm3SVaab8YYd5pFn0DeQ3ejpnWcGH0fqi54OJ5q7_iPKT4cNtUWHv06-lmGcWW_ZgRHMtkTs40yfsSlYwvNGxEc_Xo5zwVdYBpFNxy8qTJIoS7tYfQQj0u1jLX2u4/s320/angryfans.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: small;">Really angry? Or just<br /> hawking for web traffic?</span></i></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">So I'm a quiet fan one day if I choose to
be, chuntering to myself, thinking about other stuff, ignoring the fan in the next
seat who loudly turns to me for affirmation that our goalkeeper is worse than fallible.
Leave him alone, he's not going to come to your work place on Monday and start
complaining about you knocking off five minutes early for a coffee break. Some
days I'm a noisy bastard, screaming at that same goalkeeper to come off his
line, for Christ's sake. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Jesus, did you
see that?</i> I yell to the fan next to me, but they're looking away, they don't
want to know me, I'm a frenetic loon. It's their right, because there are no
rules about how to follow football. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">Football's this wonderful gift that most of us are lucky enough to enjoy as a constant background when life is normal, when we're not at
war, when we're not stranded on the beach at Dunkirk, when buildings and people
are not being bombed or blown up. It covers all human states and emotions, not
just commerce and anger. It's our game, everybody's game. Own it. And own the
way you watch it.</span></span><br />
<i style="font-family: '"trebuchet ms"', sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></i>
<i style="font-family: '"trebuchet ms"', sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><i style="font-family: "open sans", sans-serif;">The Quiet Fan</i><span style="font-family: "open sans" , sans-serif; font-style: normal;"> was published by </span><b style="font-family: "open sans", sans-serif; font-style: normal;">Unbound</b><span style="font-family: "open sans" , sans-serif; font-style: normal;"> in autumn 2018 and is available <a href="https://www.amazon.co.uk/Quiet-Fan-Ian-Plenderleith/dp/1912618427/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1546854623&sr=8-1&keywords=%22Ian+Plenderleith%22">here</a></span><span style="font-family: "open sans" , sans-serif; font-style: normal;">.</span></span></i><br />
<div>
<br /></div>
</div>
Ian Plenderleithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08512357220650578961noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1184325319229623815.post-25213038457754227122017-08-22T00:45:00.000-07:002019-01-07T02:00:09.030-08:00Disturbing Fans No. 3: The Rabid Lincoln Skinhead<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">In early 1980s England, skinheads often meant bad news. Not that I want
to generalize, but if you bumped into (or even looked at) a shaven-headed Herbert
wearing combat gear and Dr. Martens boots half way up his shins, there was a
good chance you’d either be on the end of a violent attack, or some unsophisticated
views about racial integration in Thatcher’s Britain. And then a violent attack. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<br /></div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIA08ZmeOz0NxmsV5FLdtEYiZXU5Bz_QFIFmdSCWZ_HUandCBNQPam2XPd-E8FdhYh891DRqOvVINHbJkFDf8J9MXDWXZat446gkrHSbChfQ2Qb4PKTWCLmFKvPuFzfHFH-lt_2rbAHo0/s1600/skinhead2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="469" data-original-width="601" height="249" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIA08ZmeOz0NxmsV5FLdtEYiZXU5Bz_QFIFmdSCWZ_HUandCBNQPam2XPd-E8FdhYh891DRqOvVINHbJkFDf8J9MXDWXZat446gkrHSbChfQ2Qb4PKTWCLmFKvPuFzfHFH-lt_2rbAHo0/s320/skinhead2.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: small;"><i>So, lads, what did you make of the first half?</i></span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">While a number of skinheads were left-leaning followers of the punk and
Ska-revival scenes, there was also a significant sub-culture of violent neo-fascists.
There were one or two opposition cells like <b>Red Action</b> who actively took the
fight back out to the Nazi-loving skins. Good for them, but I have to confess I
wasn't part of that. Any group accepting me as a member would have been called
something like Pale Tortoise, and we'd have quaked under a solid, hard shell
until all the action - red or otherwise - had moved on.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">One evening at Sincil Bank in 1982, though, I did get to observe the
<b>Rabid Lincoln Skinhead</b>. City were playing Sheffield United, whose huge
travelling support had taken up the entire side terrace, meaning that the home
fans were squeezed in at the Railway End behind the goal. I was on my own,
standing beside two blokes who were suddenly approached by ‘Danny’, a skinhead
of their acquaintance.</span><br />
<a name='more'></a><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;"> Maybe someone they’d once known at school.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">Danny was so worked up I thought he was going to shoot up in the air
like a rocket and out into the night sky, his pointy shaven head penetrating
space until he landed on the Planet of the Twats. No such luck. Danny was
excited because he had just seen someone among the away fans who wasn't white. In
fact it seemed to be the most exciting thing he'd ever seen in his life.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<br /></div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinsbUAH4zmhzL6WEN_yPbsu9_fHtRtKCfW4aYEBUqX5MLH9yCVeJedu8dz2tqQNaxpk72JVMnxbuC50pB3eIz6-XLMIhhfwaSW3LYSeG6FUO10qUr4EXxdeCVG8GFGEFnm3K8we9SNRAs/s1600/skinhead1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="395" data-original-width="570" height="221" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinsbUAH4zmhzL6WEN_yPbsu9_fHtRtKCfW4aYEBUqX5MLH9yCVeJedu8dz2tqQNaxpk72JVMnxbuC50pB3eIz6-XLMIhhfwaSW3LYSeG6FUO10qUr4EXxdeCVG8GFGEFnm3K8we9SNRAs/s320/skinhead1.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: small;"><i>No, please don't.</i></span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">Ethnic minorities were uncommon in Lincoln in the 1980s, but not so in
Sheffield. For Danny, seeing a single black man among several thousand
Sheffield United fans was perhaps confirmation of all the propagandist fears
that the local chapter of his nutjob far-right party had been feeding him. White
Britain’s being overrun by outsiders who externally look a bit different. They’re
even in our football stadiums, supporting their team. Bloody hell, next thing
we know they'll be fully integrated members of society and the England team too.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">There was a delight to his gibbering too. As though he’d been looking
for months, maybe years, for confirmation of a perceived threat, but had as yet
been unable to find a single shred of evidence. A cheap psychologist could have
speculated that, among all the profane epitaphs Danny was using to describe the
notable visitor, there was at least the hint of a homoerotic frisson. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">You also wondered if Danny had not noticed that a prolific black
striker, <b>Tony Cunningham</b>, had been playing for Lincoln over the past three
years and had just been sold to Barnsley. Maybe he'd been too busy gawping for
signs of non-whiteness among the opposition fans instead of paying attention to
what was actually happening on the pitch. A sort of primitive predecessor of
the corporate fan.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">Danny danced away again because he wanted to go back and have another
look at his new found human object of curiosity. Plus, you could tell he was a
bit miffed that his two old mates were not in the least bit excited at his
stunning anthropological discovery. “See ya!” he chirped without a backward
glance. “Yeah, see ya, Danny,” muttered one of the men with a grim chuckle,
adding unnecessarily, “But not if we see you first.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">While I'm as prone to nostalgia as the next fan, there's one thing about
English football grounds in the 1980s I don't miss at all - psychotic, Nazi
bastards with absolutely no interest in the game.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;"><i style="font-family: "open sans", sans-serif;">The Quiet Fan</i><span style="font-family: "open sans" , sans-serif;"> was published by </span><b style="font-family: "open sans", sans-serif;">Unbound</b><span style="font-family: "open sans" , sans-serif;"> in autumn 2018 and is available <a href="https://www.amazon.co.uk/Quiet-Fan-Ian-Plenderleith/dp/1912618427/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1546854623&sr=8-1&keywords=%22Ian+Plenderleith%22">here</a>.</span></span><br />
<br /></div>
Ian Plenderleithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08512357220650578961noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1184325319229623815.post-65824619195768212462017-08-15T01:21:00.001-07:002019-01-07T02:00:35.809-08:00"I scored for Milan!" The Primo Levi short story that foresaw Virtual Reality<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">Virtual reality headsets are nothing new,
at least not in the human imagination. Back in the 1960s, Auschwitz survivor
Primo Levi - one of the 20th century's most important writers - published 'Retirement
Package,' a short story that foresaw the use of a helmet connected to a machine
called a Total Recorder (or Torec). This allowed humans to live inside any pre-recorded
event and experience the sensation of, say, scoring a goal for AC Milan.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfEKxutjXUnlF32utKnMsigcUtLUa68a7WCCJYB95KTGK7394h4FFpCKzJ1UcQkRnts_Wbapc3aNbABA_r3NAb_jtim0U7NmsisRaPv5XfuC_TP2eTQeVTeXZ2R2qkvg1DfXmoo8t5Oa0/s1600/virtual+reality.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="500" data-original-width="500" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfEKxutjXUnlF32utKnMsigcUtLUa68a7WCCJYB95KTGK7394h4FFpCKzJ1UcQkRnts_Wbapc3aNbABA_r3NAb_jtim0U7NmsisRaPv5XfuC_TP2eTQeVTeXZ2R2qkvg1DfXmoo8t5Oa0/s320/virtual+reality.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: small;">"Yay! I scored for AC Milan!"</span></i></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">The narrator is being shown the Torec and
its tapes by a friend, Simpson, who has just received the machine as a
'retirement gift' from his company, NATCA, where he's been a long-serving
salesman. The Torec is not yet on the market and Simpson is just the company's willing
guinea pig, but using his sales skills he persuades the sceptical narrator, who
is not a football fan, to put on the helmet and place himself in the shoes of a Milan player called Rasmussen.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">The narrator complies and describes "an
intense odour of overturned earth. I was sweating and my ankle hurt slightly."
He also feels "nimble and ready, like a loaded spring". Running with
the ball, he passes to a team-mate on his right and, amid "the rising roar
of the </span></span><br />
<a name='more'></a><span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">crowd", receives a return pass and scores "with precision,
effortlessly" past the advancing goalkeeper.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">"I felt a wave of joy course through
my veins, and a little later the bitter after-taste of adrenalin in my mouth,"
the narrator goes on, admitting to Simpson that it was thrilling to feel his
body "so young and compliant, a sensation I lost decades ago". And
scoring the goal was great too because "you don't think about anything
else, you are totally focused on one point, like a bullet". At the same
time, under the brief identity of the player, he was distracted for a second by
the thought of a date later that night with "a tall brunette named
Claudia".<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiO2CwrPAy6MGyjl-c_iFd4Plbf8qXUMVqoa-_jlLR2VVtkAnW83FUb-qQUz5T22M2jthOf6XxWyWku3lR1mUqWlMKza3OQYkQ09xwry72zYpUdabtwJIUHall4RAii_hY5v1tA9yNJaT8/s1600/clough.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="1041" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiO2CwrPAy6MGyjl-c_iFd4Plbf8qXUMVqoa-_jlLR2VVtkAnW83FUb-qQUz5T22M2jthOf6XxWyWku3lR1mUqWlMKza3OQYkQ09xwry72zYpUdabtwJIUHall4RAii_hY5v1tA9yNJaT8/s320/clough.jpg" width="222" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: small;">Even me scoring against Real<br />in the European Cup final?</span></i></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">This re-created fantasy world is, for most
fans, the material of our nocturnal dreams. Down the years I've scored hundreds
of important goals in my sleep. The most recent was a long distance shot to
secure the European Cup for Nottingham Forest against Real Madrid in a 3-1
victory some time during the 1980s. After scoring, I leapt into the arms of the
late Brian Clough. Almost every football fan is prey to similar flights of
ethereal glory.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">Dreams, though, are random, fleeting and deftly
extinguished by the anti-climax of waking up and not being a hero after all.
With virtual reality you can choose when to switch in and out. And although
technology has not yet advanced to the state where - as in Levi's story - you
can smell the grass and feel several decades younger, you'd be rash to bet
against the future by ruling it out.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">Which begs the question: if we could just
put on a headset and experience what it's like to be Lionel Messi, as many
times a day as we wanted, how would we resist? Who would not want to know what
it's like to dribble past five players and score the winner for Barcelona
against Real at the Camp Nou? And how many children might give up playing
sport, or aspiring to become the next Messi, because they can already boast the
full experience without even leaving the house? <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXlRa2FB8AoNr09zmGKKpeMjMXplkRfTF_hNZs4a5xhFg-sFtHIxT549NTgsXTsW8T2fBdyL4xDiWB_X9ZzqFKG4qAJ5GLRA0Ah8bx3C6zeUdhYKT-EC3jFr3P6Euz3cG3o-m4vsrUDEM/s1600/PrimoLevi.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="279" data-original-width="460" height="194" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXlRa2FB8AoNr09zmGKKpeMjMXplkRfTF_hNZs4a5xhFg-sFtHIxT549NTgsXTsW8T2fBdyL4xDiWB_X9ZzqFKG4qAJ5GLRA0Ah8bx3C6zeUdhYKT-EC3jFr3P6Euz3cG3o-m4vsrUDEM/s320/PrimoLevi.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: small;"><i>Visionary author and Auschwitz<br /> survivor Primo Levi</i></span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">The Torec tapes in Levi's story go far beyond
just scoring a goal. The narrator gets to experience a bar fight, and being an
eagle with super-powerful eyesight that swoops to kill a hare. There are sex
tapes with Italian fashion models. His friend Simpson is elated at all the
possibilities, but in the long run it doesn't end well. "He sacrificed
everything: the bees, his job, his sleep, wife, books." When he's no
longer experiencing virtual reality "he is oppressed by a boredom as vast
as the sea and as weighty as the world, so all he can do is play another
one." His use increases from two hours a day to five, then to 10 and more.
"In six months he has aged 20 years."<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">The story is as prescient as EM Forster's
<a href="http://manybooks.net/titles/forstereother07machine_stops.html" target="_blank">'The Machine Stops'</a>, which managed to predict the internet in 1909. Even before
succumbing to the helmet, Levi's narrator tells his friend that the device will
"discourage all initiative, in fact, all human activity; it will be the
last big step following mass entertainment and mass communication". He
describes how his son is drawn to their new television "like a moth to a
flame".</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">That seems slightly alarmist, and steeped
in a one-sided and negative view of cultural evolution - televisions did not
zombify the human race. On the other hand, there are some indications of a new
generation facing communication difficulties when separated from their
hand-held devices, and of crippling, trans-generational dependencies on addictive
computer games. I can no longer walk or cycle down the street without having to
shout "Look up!" to endless people heading right towards me while
staring down at their phones.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">Still, I've never forgotten Levi's story
since I first read it 25 years ago. Because I'd really, really love to put on a
headset and feel and smell the sensation of scoring a magnificent goal in a packed
stadium. Just once, I promise.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b style="font-family: '"georgia"', '"times new roman"', serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></b>
<b style="font-family: '"georgia"', '"times new roman"', serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"></span></b><br />
<b style="font-family: '"georgia"', '"times new roman"', serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><i style="font-family: "open sans", sans-serif; font-weight: normal;">The Quiet Fan</i><span style="font-family: "open sans" , sans-serif; font-weight: normal;"> was published by </span><b style="font-family: "open sans", sans-serif;">Unbound</b><span style="font-family: "open sans" , sans-serif; font-weight: normal;"> in autumn 2018 and is available <a href="https://www.amazon.co.uk/Quiet-Fan-Ian-Plenderleith/dp/1912618427/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1546854623&sr=8-1&keywords=%22Ian+Plenderleith%22">here</a>.</span></span></b><br />
<br /></div>
Ian Plenderleithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08512357220650578961noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1184325319229623815.post-10597094285206333132017-08-08T00:56:00.000-07:002019-01-07T02:01:11.694-08:00Letting go of Leeds - seven years in the League Cup hinterland<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span lang="EN-GB">Lincoln
City </span></b><span lang="EN-GB">returned to the Football League last Saturday,
and tonight (Tuesday) they return to the League Cup. It's almost seven years to
the day since their last appearance in this competition, a night I remember well
because I flew in specially from Germany to watch it. We were away to cuddly <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Leeds United</b>, a team supported by
several members of my extended family. We'd decided to all go and watch the
match together. A night of Family Fun.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKXe2y-qCDJzH2k2vyOuq0zJmyf7e9z3MLsqWfTBPi8ynF5tNJFMeTm8TjfwUWZVV75Y2Es8mTQYzvfrylr2TVVm9X4bwA_ViZb0RjaHW-kav0i6WwDuxhgsvRZXe-LJTN979RQL4ouOY/s1600/Leeds+v+Imps+prog.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="947" data-original-width="671" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKXe2y-qCDJzH2k2vyOuq0zJmyf7e9z3MLsqWfTBPi8ynF5tNJFMeTm8TjfwUWZVV75Y2Es8mTQYzvfrylr2TVVm9X4bwA_ViZb0RjaHW-kav0i6WwDuxhgsvRZXe-LJTN979RQL4ouOY/s320/Leeds+v+Imps+prog.jpeg" width="226" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: small;">Finally time for the Leeds v<br /> Lincoln Family Championship</span></i></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">Leeds are the sort of club you're supposed
to hate, but hate's an over-used and extremely unhelpful word when it comes to
football. I once wrote a contribution to a regular <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">When Saturday Comes </i>feature called <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Viva Hate</b> about my feelings towards <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Walsall FC</b>, because one of their players had attacked me outside a
night club in Birmingham. But it was a disingenuous piece of writing. The
incident had been funny and farcical, not traumatic, and it didn't really make
me hate Walsall. How can you <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">hate</i>
Walsall? It's like trying to hate a cardboard box.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">If life's too short to hate Walsall, then it's
also too short to hate Leeds. Especially when it's you and your dad (Lincoln)
outnumbered by nine other sisters, aunts, cousins and nephews (Leeds). And
especially when you're the only Lincoln fans in the home stand. You're not
going to stand up and start shouting, "You've been dirty bastards since
the</span></span><br />
<a name='more'></a><span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;"> 70s and you're dirty bastards now!" no matter what you're thinking. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">The 70s are a case in point. That was
supposedly the era of Peak Hate in English football, yet back then people generally
wanted English club sides in Europe to do well. My Mum, Dad and I watched Leeds
being cheated out of the 1975 European Cup against <b>Bayern Munich</b> by some highly
dubious refereeing, and we all were genuinely upset at the injustice. I don't really
think Don Revie's team was much dirtier than any other side back then, they
were just formidable and very tough to beat. Unless you'd managed to bribe the
ref.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtBqExZ1tHrLlsGvDle4HQRddH5bjiwTauazCHqcymjiuV7a0_QH_JIuAxpRjEO9fzNpa-sPljsAciwa_C8-eT2Th6ho_sKtxFrCDI1iLKMiGs_7gEwu0zqPMmuHrc7r2Pt2ntP0M6igY/s1600/Leeds+v+Imps+ticket.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="268" data-original-width="595" height="144" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtBqExZ1tHrLlsGvDle4HQRddH5bjiwTauazCHqcymjiuV7a0_QH_JIuAxpRjEO9fzNpa-sPljsAciwa_C8-eT2Th6ho_sKtxFrCDI1iLKMiGs_7gEwu0zqPMmuHrc7r2Pt2ntP0M6igY/s320/Leeds+v+Imps+ticket.jpeg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: small;"><i>Hell is Elland Road in the League Cup</i></span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">Sitting in my very cramped Elland Road seat
surrounded by people who wanted my team to lose, though, filled me with doubts
about the wisdom of having asked for a flight to Manchester from Dresden -
where I was visiting my in-laws - as a birthday present. The ticket was a budget
buy and included a five-hour layover in Düsseldorf, both ways. And then the
game started and Lincoln were 2-0 down after seven minutes.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">You might think Leeds fans wouldn't get
over-excited about going 2-0 up against a club the size of Lincoln, but you'd
be wrong. Maybe it just seemed loud because I was sitting there quietly, trying
to make myself very small. The most raucous fans in the stand seemed to be my nine
family members, who were cheering - at least so it seemed to me - with even
more volume and verve than the rest of the home crowd. I didn't even get a
patronising pat of consolation on the back, because they were too busy standing
up to hail the heroics of the mighty United. Bastards. Not to mention, what
lousy hosts.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">Yet this was exactly what I'd deserved.
Lincoln had not played Leeds during my lifetime, and when the draw was made I absolutely
wanted to be there in case we pulled off an upset. And then I wanted to stick
it to my relatives. To crow and gloat. Not just tonight, but in the long term
too, because we likely wouldn't be playing Leeds again in the foreseeable
future. So Lincoln would be perpetual champions of my imaginary, two-team
Lincoln-Leeds League. I wouldn't stop going on about it for years, because I'm
like that.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">And now, we were 2-0 down after seven
minutes. The worst thing was how easy it had been. When a lower league team
plays a storied opponent who were once a bribe away from winning the European
Cup, you want to see them put up a fight at the very least, but there was no Bremner-like
resistance in Chris Sutton's team, no one tackling with the amoral conviction of a Norman Hunter. A third
goal followed about half way through the first half (it was also heartily
cheered - for Christ's sake, people, calm down, you're 3-0 up against 11 traffic
cones), and that was it. Leeds treated the rest of the game as a pre-season
walkover. <b>Final score: 4-0</b>. Let's go for a curry.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6lkU4KwDd3niH1hVD7DT7i7fp-PLVlM_O-OAtUCk-D6Y0HGxquoBMEbOHtG83wQKV9k2QXIgOs2uw2wcRHOTeJp5q7I8NdyOLbSte5m_mIacodWzmw3C0dgeXGAb7IbNCFxj6y81eTwI/s1600/Leeds+v+Imps+mascot.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="183" data-original-width="141" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6lkU4KwDd3niH1hVD7DT7i7fp-PLVlM_O-OAtUCk-D6Y0HGxquoBMEbOHtG83wQKV9k2QXIgOs2uw2wcRHOTeJp5q7I8NdyOLbSte5m_mIacodWzmw3C0dgeXGAb7IbNCFxj6y81eTwI/s1600/Leeds+v+Imps+mascot.jpeg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: small;">Young Dylan - wise<br /> beyond his years</span></i></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">Lincoln brought their own mascot,
8-year-old Dylan Williams. In the match programme he cannily predicted a 3-0
win for Leeds. If only I'd been as realistic as this young lad, I could have
stayed in Dresden and saved myself a lot of money, misery, and half a life-time
of waiting around at Düsseldorf airport. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">In the curry house, though, no one
mentioned the game. Either they were being nice to me and my Dad because we'd
suffered enough for one night, or to them the game was done and forgotten
already. Lincoln had been so bad that it wasn't even worthwhile gloating. No
love or hate, just indifference - the most humiliating emotion of all.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">It took my family less than half an hour to
move on from that game, but it's taken me seven years. The Rotherham tie
tonight can't come soon enough. Finally, that drubbing at Leeds will no longer
be the last game we played in the League Cup.<o:p></o:p></span></span><br />
<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span></span>
<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;"><i style="font-family: "open sans", sans-serif;">The Quiet Fan</i><span style="font-family: "open sans" , sans-serif;"> was published by </span><b style="font-family: "open sans", sans-serif;">Unbound</b><span style="font-family: "open sans" , sans-serif;"> in autumn 2018 and is available <a href="https://www.amazon.co.uk/Quiet-Fan-Ian-Plenderleith/dp/1912618427/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1546854623&sr=8-1&keywords=%22Ian+Plenderleith%22">here</a></span><span style="font-family: "open sans" , sans-serif;">.</span></span></span></div>
Ian Plenderleithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08512357220650578961noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1184325319229623815.post-40507163456655399962017-07-25T00:49:00.001-07:002019-01-07T02:01:39.676-08:00The art of watching football while on holiday<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">There used to be a three-stage process when
I wanted to watch a football match while on holiday with my family. <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Stage One</b>: mention as an obvious joke
the fact that FC Unpronounceable have a home game against The Totally Fucking
Unknowns in the Bob Fazackerly Clipboards League in the very week that we
happen to be renting a cottage in the neighbouring town. Laugh along as your
wife says something like, "What sad, desperate failure of a human being
would want to go and watch such an utterly shite, pointless sporting event like
that?"</span></span><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;"> </span></div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQwPh_cD2-YADHyGKWs4ibQFrIXTnxuWuvMuTmOHJC0uN2mf-1jzTsFCeMtaIzeK9cPJceaSoicPhEPJvn2V72856s-Xa_wdTbI2Et6g3H4mRsEwex08tnHinsateyJ5XSzxDN6JFk258/s1600/Levadia3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="474" data-original-width="1600" height="187" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQwPh_cD2-YADHyGKWs4ibQFrIXTnxuWuvMuTmOHJC0uN2mf-1jzTsFCeMtaIzeK9cPJceaSoicPhEPJvn2V72856s-Xa_wdTbI2Et6g3H4mRsEwex08tnHinsateyJ5XSzxDN6JFk258/s640/Levadia3.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: small;"><i>The high octane thrills of the Estonian League (Pic: TQF)</i></span></td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span lang="EN-GB">Stage
Two </span></b><span lang="EN-GB">(the crucial stage. The breaking point): mention
it again two days before the game with the vague outline of a plan. <i>Remember
that match I was talking about the other day? </i><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Yeah, I know, stupid waste of time, ha ha, but it happens to be on the
same night where we have nothing really planned, and it turns out that these
two teams have a bit of history. Two red cards in the corresponding fixture
last season. Could get tasty. Nice little stadium too. Might be able to get a
piece out of it for '<a href="http://www.wsc.co.uk/" target="_blank">When Saturday Comes'</a></i>. Then cower humbly as your wife
unleashes her disbelief. "You're seriously thinking about going to watch
this bollocks? <i>Seriously</i>?" Yes, quite seriously.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span lang="EN-GB">Stage
Three</span></b><span lang="EN-GB">: Permission was not exactly given during <i>Stage
Two</i>, but there's no stopping me now. It's time to forge the plan and execute it
with added details. "There's a lad playing for FC </span></span><br />
<a name='more'></a><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;"><span lang="EN-GB">Unpronounceable I once
saw running out for Partick Thistle reserves. It'll be interesting to see how he's
getting on all these years later in the Slovenian league." By this point,
the family's given up. Just shut up and go to your fucking game.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">The three stages are no longer necessary. It's
now taken for granted that I will find a crappy game to attend - somewhere,
somehow, no matter how deep we are into the summer, regardless of which obscure corner of the globe. It's already factored in to the holiday. And although there was
absolutely no need for me to see <b>Levadia Tallinn</b> against <b>Pärnu LM</b> (Estonia D1, 2015
- crowd: 50) or <b>FC Zell am See</b> versus a Forgotten Czech Division Three side
(Austria pre-season friendly, 2005), I very much appreciated the chance to
sneak in and observe how other towns watch their teams.</span></span><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;"> </span></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCR5Zo57Xwpfvs9aGcpc1BT76DF7CEl5xBJZXsuvNAdts1_YIjzSUKPsU5HurmUR4fFt9XpjlRI8DBwH4yugkV6jgMdowrqt749VXVM2BBBoVXR_fkwI7pixMOwm1Iy3YHGmy9ce4BZCM/s1600/Istra+Pula2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="525" data-original-width="1600" height="208" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCR5Zo57Xwpfvs9aGcpc1BT76DF7CEl5xBJZXsuvNAdts1_YIjzSUKPsU5HurmUR4fFt9XpjlRI8DBwH4yugkV6jgMdowrqt749VXVM2BBBoVXR_fkwI7pixMOwm1Iy3YHGmy9ce4BZCM/s640/Istra+Pula2.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: small;"><i>Istra Pula v Hajduk Split, August 2015. I was there (pic: TQF)</i></span></td></tr>
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<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">It's the ultimate Quiet Fan experience. You
have nothing at stake, and your already relaxed holiday mood allows you
absolute detachment. You smile condescendingly at the rage of the upset locals
as the referee soaks up a verbal manslaughtering in a language or a dialect you
don't understand. Although I understood enough when walking away from <b>Istra
Pula</b>'s unlikely 4-1 hammering of <b>Hajduk Split</b> a couple of years ago (Croatia,
D1) to know that the home fans were very, very surprised, and delighted too.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">This year we went to magnificent Iceland.
It didn't take me long to look away from the spectacular scenery and scan the
fixture list. In July it's the European competition qualifying rounds for all
of those inconveniently small nations that Uefa wants off its hands by August
at the latest. Just a 20-minute bus ride south of Reykjavik city centre I found
the ground of Icelandic champion <b>HF Hafnarfjördur</b>, who were entertaining
<b>Vikingur Gøta</b> of the Faroe Islands in the second qualifying round of the
Champions League. If I was still having to go through the ritual of Stage Two,
I could have exclaimed to my wife and daughters: potentially millions at stake!
In just a few weeks these teams could be playing Juventus or Real Madrid! (They
won't.)<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjWXsFRL2rgCp1XSbnQ9wY-qHJ04TtJNg01y4S1V2IbfiUNPo6PIcB4YOrxycr8N8KK8U0TJ9dt1KPGkK0ZkGBPRrvq4D5RLz3m5EE1ktfA0cSJwcpne1VSaZC1qahUDFtutgmdX_nJbY/s1600/CL8.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1004" data-original-width="1600" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjWXsFRL2rgCp1XSbnQ9wY-qHJ04TtJNg01y4S1V2IbfiUNPo6PIcB4YOrxycr8N8KK8U0TJ9dt1KPGkK0ZkGBPRrvq4D5RLz3m5EE1ktfA0cSJwcpne1VSaZC1qahUDFtutgmdX_nJbY/s320/CL8.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: small;"><i>Iceland in July - it must be Champions <br />League. Wahay! (pic: TQF)</i></span></td></tr>
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<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">Arriving way before the locals, who have a
habit of showing up five minutes before kick-off as though they know how not to
waste too much of their lives, I spotted a brace of noisy lads in sky blue
shirts shouting, "Vikingur!" Away fans from the Faroes, and I assumed
they would be the only two. But they weren't - there were around 150 of them by
kick-off, with a huge repertoire of songs, and in boisterous mood having
eliminated Trepca 89 of Kosovo the week before in the first round (as you'll
know). They probably came in the same plane as the players and officials, most
of whom they seemed to know personally judging by all the smiles and waving as the
team came off the field after the warm-up.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8kAU8xx4RzGtPj1a4sxK88BtandlbIiY8DXUdh_0Dd6fM-_ykYFJFepSHK2-mw97ZZJ2moY4d7KUqrU_k2a1QTzBt7cdakddW4AbfVqjOznW18epoYBWuY1GXx-ON6Sb-X6WTzy0fP-8/s1600/CL1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1213" data-original-width="1600" height="151" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8kAU8xx4RzGtPj1a4sxK88BtandlbIiY8DXUdh_0Dd6fM-_ykYFJFepSHK2-mw97ZZJ2moY4d7KUqrU_k2a1QTzBt7cdakddW4AbfVqjOznW18epoYBWuY1GXx-ON6Sb-X6WTzy0fP-8/s200/CL1.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">By this time I'd enjoyed one of the
cheapest cheeseburgers in Iceland (around €8), and got my ticket (around €16).
I also bought a coffee from the youth team fund-raising stall and checked out
the public chill-out lounge under the main stand - perhaps the only one in
Europe. Or maybe all Icelandic clubs have them. They seem to be a very chilled-out
nation overall, despite the receding glaciers. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;"><span lang="EN-GB">Those were my Unique Icelandic Fan Experiences.
The game itself was about National League standard. Tellingly, one of the best
players on the field was a former Lincoln City loanee, Steven Lennon, and he
wasn't that good either. He delivered the corner that a Hafnarfj</span><span lang="DE" style="mso-ansi-language: DE;">ö</span><span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">rdur defender headed in just after half-time. But Vikingur equalised
late with a penalty and it finished 1-1, which was probably two goals more than
the game deserved. Still, you had to be pleased for the enthusiastic travelling
fans.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjj2sQVlaGW3_GTw9hGWi_LfXICcu96Mvpf2KTMtFZXvVinjF0RYRoz6YhyphenhyphenxTuR9s9RM4w0qAptrimNXdVGffTNe6dcxLSAiQNIdZTQCfTz5samgpSS4f49c0C57WGC4X0OC50kea2XVLM/s1600/CL13.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1227" data-original-width="1600" height="245" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjj2sQVlaGW3_GTw9hGWi_LfXICcu96Mvpf2KTMtFZXvVinjF0RYRoz6YhyphenhyphenxTuR9s9RM4w0qAptrimNXdVGffTNe6dcxLSAiQNIdZTQCfTz5samgpSS4f49c0C57WGC4X0OC50kea2XVLM/s320/CL13.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: small;">Vikingur equalise and they are celebrating<br /> on the streets of Gøta (pic: TQF)</span></i></td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">Six nights later the
Icelanders won the second leg in the Faroes 2-0. I've no idea how many Hafnarfj<span lang="DE" style="mso-ansi-language: DE;">ördur </span>fans made the return trip. Not as many as will travel with them if they
make it to the group phase and are drawn against Real Madrid. Meanwhile, I get
to tell people about the time I went to a Champions League game in Iceland. As
thrilling a story, no doubt, as the time one August when I saw <b>St. Johnstone</b>
play <b>Rangers</b> in the Scottish League Cup group phase (1976), or<b> Inverness
Thistle</b> play <b>Hibs</b> in a pre-season tournament (1978), or <b>Benfica</b> in their old
concrete bowl (1990), or <b>Sparta Prague</b> for 50 pence during eastern Europe's early
capitalism phase (1993), or <b>Paris St Germain</b> against <b>Brescia</b> in a 0-0 draw. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">Yes, dear
grandchildren, I once saw Roberto Baggio play. No, not in the World Cup final.
Where, then? It was high summer in the French capital around the turn of the
millennium. In the Inter-Toto Cup. What the fuck was the Inter-Toto Cup,
Granddad? I can no longer really remember, lad. The most important thing is - I
was there. </span><o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;"><i style="font-family: "open sans", sans-serif;">The Quiet Fan</i><span style="font-family: "open sans" , sans-serif;"> was published by </span><b style="font-family: "open sans", sans-serif;">Unbound</b><span style="font-family: "open sans" , sans-serif;"> in autumn 2018 and is </span></span></span><span style="font-family: "open sans", sans-serif; font-size: large;">available </span><span style="font-family: "open sans", sans-serif; font-size: large;"><a href="https://www.amazon.co.uk/Quiet-Fan-Ian-Plenderleith/dp/1912618427/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1546854623&sr=8-1&keywords=%22Ian+Plenderleith%22" style="font-family: "open sans", sans-serif;">here</a>.</span></div>
Ian Plenderleithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08512357220650578961noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1184325319229623815.post-72890958975400922222017-07-06T03:45:00.000-07:002019-01-07T02:02:11.801-08:00The first thrill of Wembley - schoolboy internationals in the 1970s <table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSE5WI-3iWzRyEwI6oyuTRghikRKmDbVNf7iMCUjnJ7BRiTXsrdf6Sjd6zG_ZxfahY4ie3jHzbESl3TQhDCkA-Lo-KP7OnaFe-zLF-wMnh6enU9cT4Hbd_7GGOCe9Vy8aFTlD5skUmi2A/s1600/England+v+West+Germany+U15.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="682" data-original-width="448" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSE5WI-3iWzRyEwI6oyuTRghikRKmDbVNf7iMCUjnJ7BRiTXsrdf6Sjd6zG_ZxfahY4ie3jHzbESl3TQhDCkA-Lo-KP7OnaFe-zLF-wMnh6enU9cT4Hbd_7GGOCe9Vy8aFTlD5skUmi2A/s320/England+v+West+Germany+U15.jpeg" width="210" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: small;">Where is the Sunkist<br /> Trophy now?</span></i></td></tr>
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<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">"I hear you missed a penalty at
Wembley last night." That was PE teacher Mr. Baxter's snarky putdown of
schoolboy international Gary Hargreaves in an early episode of <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Grange_Hill" target="_blank">Grange Hill</a></i>, when Hargreaves had been
acting all cocky with his mates. This was a fine touch of Phil Redmond script-writing,
because nearly all young male viewers would have known that England schoolboys played midweek at
Wembley. The June international on a Saturday afternoon, meanwhile, was one of the few live games shown on TV in
the 1970s.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">Better still, our school organised an
annual outing to the game, including a visit to London Zoo in the morning. Our
own version of Mr Baxter growled at us before we left one year: "This will
be my 12th visit to the zoo, and frankly I'm sick of it. So if I catch anyone
misbehaving, don't expect me to be in the best of moods."<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">True, the zoo was just the warm-up act
ahead of visiting the national stadium, but it was a crucial part of the day's
ritual. If you go all the way from Lincolnshire to London for the day, you have
to do something else besides watching 90 minutes of football. But why the zoo <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">every </i>year? Perhaps it was considered
much easier to keep us </span></span><br />
<a name='more'></a><span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">enclosed with the animals than it was to let us explore
Hyde Park or Soho. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRzaxKPbcBzTG9gDnD0FKavh47wLqrrvQ1yzo3Ma0xZrzUc6TZ4MgQa9dMIOPEcfoMAkL6erBIGjkBXRoOMC9eO-0bj7frQQZDafypeMh58QPzdXlDkAyloQdEoHX5nyg2-MGIiTh1xK8/s1600/England+v+Scotland+U15+.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="677" data-original-width="444" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRzaxKPbcBzTG9gDnD0FKavh47wLqrrvQ1yzo3Ma0xZrzUc6TZ4MgQa9dMIOPEcfoMAkL6erBIGjkBXRoOMC9eO-0bj7frQQZDafypeMh58QPzdXlDkAyloQdEoHX5nyg2-MGIiTh1xK8/s320/England+v+Scotland+U15+.jpeg" width="209" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">There would also be hundreds of other
schoolboys wandering around the zoo in England attire that helped give the day
that sense of occasion. Before the game against Scotland in 1978 I was proudly/foolishly wearing my replica Scotland shirt, and found myself cornered by a bunch of lads in a dead
end behind the reptile house. But these were no hooligans, they were
respectable boys from the shires. They let me pass without the requisite
beating, while jeering about how England were going to thrash us (they were
right - Scotland lost 3-0).</span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">The first game I saw was two years earlier against
France, aged 10. Up to that point I'd mainly experienced fourth division football at
three grounds - Sincil Bank, Blundell Park and The Old Showground. I walked up
the steps in Wembley to our standing section and was almost blown backwards by
the dense noise and the sheer dimensions of the stadium that opened out in
front of me. I was awe-smacked for the rest of the afternoon. It seemed a
hundred times bigger than it did on telly, and about a thousand times bigger
than Sincil Bank.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNz0tU26cKEZ0qdbpMXGz4gPH_Diafzr2rVk_5IFLqJxe6uiYzJrogGwK_sahMUsbQEhcuIdwjIdbJEu-fjPQPbFFTmhXL366_e-Lc-mUwXITqEmwtxoamtcbXjfeF1zCtBQB_yK29QoA/s1600/England+v+West+Germany+U15+2.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="681" data-original-width="451" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNz0tU26cKEZ0qdbpMXGz4gPH_Diafzr2rVk_5IFLqJxe6uiYzJrogGwK_sahMUsbQEhcuIdwjIdbJEu-fjPQPbFFTmhXL366_e-Lc-mUwXITqEmwtxoamtcbXjfeF1zCtBQB_yK29QoA/s320/England+v+West+Germany+U15+2.jpeg" width="211" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: small;">No we fucking don't.</span></i></td></tr>
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<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">The schoolboy fans had one chant:
"England! England!" Most of our voices had yet to break, so it was
very high-pitched. England hammered France, and we thought we had already seen
tomorrow's stars. Yet when you look at the match programmes, you're struck by
how few of these players made it as professionals. From the France game in
1976, only <b>Clive Allen </b>went on to play for England - five times, without
scoring. <b>Andy Ritchie, Brendan Ormsby </b>and <b>Wayne Clarke</b> enjoyed solid club
careers. None of the French names are familiar.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">Against West Germany one year later, <b>Mark
Chamberlain</b> was the only future England international - he played eight games,
scoring once against Luxembourg in a 9-0 win. Otherwise, <b>Gary Mills</b> and the late
<b>Tommy Caton</b> went on to the big time. And from the side that beat Scotland in
1978, <b>Terry Gibson</b> and <b>Kevin Brock</b> are the sole half-familiar names. Although
the Scottish bench boasted <b>Paul McStay</b> (76 full caps) and<b> Maurice Malpas</b> (55).<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiP1u3ddMY5HmBIDk2NSsmMrfAd1s5bGq8_ehlQ9QgpKBuXLfQEppDXtqvNBhKRW5eKvY3wdGuU4hMrGjxY2ZEBEL7v791-Kf5FRgNaoLhOGT67pPGWhxrX_CAtiedXdGSO1ZleJcpXXNs/s1600/England+v+Scotland+U15+2.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="320" data-original-width="375" height="273" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiP1u3ddMY5HmBIDk2NSsmMrfAd1s5bGq8_ehlQ9QgpKBuXLfQEppDXtqvNBhKRW5eKvY3wdGuU4hMrGjxY2ZEBEL7v791-Kf5FRgNaoLhOGT67pPGWhxrX_CAtiedXdGSO1ZleJcpXXNs/s320/England+v+Scotland+U15+2.jpeg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: small;"><i>Exploiting schoolboys' dreams...</i></span></td></tr>
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<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">Of course that didn't matter to us schoolboys,
who all imagined that it could be us stepping out of the tunnel in a couple of
years time after the community singing led by Ed 'Stewpot' Stewart. Now there
was a famous name we could all now say we'd seen in the flesh. I could slip Ed
an envelope with my request for <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Junior
Choice </i>("Please, please, don't play Mike Reed's <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Ugly fucking Duckling </i>ever again").
<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">There were more celebrities at the Scotland
game, where the match programme helpfully provided the line-up for the 6-a-side
challenge between the Radio 1 DJs (in red) against the "TV Select"
(in blue). The latter included John Cleese, Dennis Waterman, Ricky Parfitt
("of Status Quo", in case you didn't know) and Rick Wakeman (we're
not told "of Yes", or what he was even doing in a TV Select side). Any
memories of this encounter escape me, but no doubt it was all treated as a bit
of a lark by Simon Bates, who was doing the "kick-by-kick commentary"
to entertain the rapscallions and their weary teachers. Maybe Cleese even
clipped Radio 1's Paul Gambaccini around the ear for having a Mediterranean
surname.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjK2nf7NjjY4-TUlBUa5_1COFg419qXtew5iReubHDnU2aS09GaiI7WiYk57DeT0MYcKEbWZQAeF4ea55bBN5LxmU6VuuXIoHmvz1jShjM2sLXWX5G2KX0qN7T3I9BXa71eYqHOAFfDCQ/s1600/England+v+France+U15.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="680" data-original-width="449" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjK2nf7NjjY4-TUlBUa5_1COFg419qXtew5iReubHDnU2aS09GaiI7WiYk57DeT0MYcKEbWZQAeF4ea55bBN5LxmU6VuuXIoHmvz1jShjM2sLXWX5G2KX0qN7T3I9BXa71eYqHOAFfDCQ/s320/England+v+France+U15.jpeg" width="211" /></a></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">Forty years later I feel a need to thank my schoolmasters for taking a precious Saturday out of their
weekend for what must have been a stressful 16 hours or so on a coach, in a
zoo, and at Wembley with squeaking, combustible, erratically behaving little
bastards. I doubt we said thank you at the time. And after the Scotland game, I
didn't go again. Either I'd too had enough of the zoo after three years, or the
trip was discontinued due to a surfeit of the usual illicit smoking, drinking and
general idiocy among minors.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">For that momentary first thrill, though,
I'll always be grateful, because I never experienced anything like it again.
Not the following two years, and not at any other major or minor stadium in the decades to
come, no matter how loud the crowd. It was the mighty force of pure, pre-adolescent
enthusiasm harnessed into one shrill rush of frenetic, skin-chilling atmosphere,
felt for the very first time. I was simply high from losing my big-crowd
virginity - a massive and special moment for a skinny wee oik from the
countryside. </span><o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span></span>
<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;"><i style="font-family: "open sans", sans-serif;">The Quiet Fan</i><span style="font-family: "open sans" , sans-serif;"> was published by </span><b style="font-family: "open sans", sans-serif;">Unbound</b><span style="font-family: "open sans" , sans-serif;"> in autumn 2018 and is </span></span></span><span style="font-family: "open sans", sans-serif; font-size: large;">available </span><span style="font-family: "open sans", sans-serif; font-size: large;"><a href="https://www.amazon.co.uk/Quiet-Fan-Ian-Plenderleith/dp/1912618427/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1546854623&sr=8-1&keywords=%22Ian+Plenderleith%22" style="font-family: "open sans", sans-serif;">here</a>.</span><br />
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Ian Plenderleithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08512357220650578961noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1184325319229623815.post-15033232023209906842017-06-27T03:33:00.002-07:002019-01-07T01:55:49.390-08:00Disturbing Fans No.2: Hamilton Accies’ Last Great Orator<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Last week I was browsing second hand book shops in Edinburgh when I came across a large hardback about Scottish football, published sometime in the 1980s. At the back end of the book was an obligatory, but short, section about the importance of fans. “Without the fans there’d be no game etc.” Alongside this dullard’s prose I found a picture of Ian ‘Fergie’ Russell, the man who inspired my short story ‘Furlington Welfare’s Last Great Orator’, published in <i style="font-size: 13px;"><a href="https://www.amazon.co.uk/Whom-Ball-Rolls-Ian-Plenderleith/dp/0752842579/ref=asap_bc?ie=UTF8" target="_blank"><span style="font-size: large;">For Whom the Ball Rolls</span></a></i>. </span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYnht6pWGs4cJR2pqDoi8q87-ojcS7Xx8Sw84E87t3C6d6Qpm-AjeiR8qJ1d9empgNJwAgG3O9j3PBayW5hZIN40T5IfxQ6iJl65P06M4SJ4Baq0swKpvCo04pQkPT-OzX4hbYQ8ErKPE/s1600/Fergy.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="458" data-original-width="292" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYnht6pWGs4cJR2pqDoi8q87-ojcS7Xx8Sw84E87t3C6d6Qpm-AjeiR8qJ1d9empgNJwAgG3O9j3PBayW5hZIN40T5IfxQ6iJl65P06M4SJ4Baq0swKpvCo04pQkPT-OzX4hbYQ8ErKPE/s320/Fergy.jpg" width="204" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: small;"><i>Literary inspiration - the <br />Late 'Fergie' of<br /> Hamilton Aacdemical </i></span></td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><span style="font-size: large;">During the early 1980s I went to a lot of games at Hamilton Academical,
because my dad lived close by at the time. They played mainly in the Scottish
second tier, and attracted around 1500 fans to their now demolished stadium,
Douglas Park (it's a Sainsbury's). There are very few specific games that I can remember seeing
there besides a mildly surprising 2-1 victory over Dundee in the Scottish
League Cup. Truth be told, the most entertaining performer at Douglas Park was
Fergie.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">A portly gent, then in his late 40s, Fergie wore a shabby, dark grey
suit and always had a red Accies scarf draped around his neck. His talent was
to bark out unceasing invective for the entire 90 minutes, regardless of score
and opponent. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Douglas Park was the standard, spartan Scottish lower league ground with
a stand and three sides of terracing. You could walk around the entire
terrace uninterrupted if you fancied a change of </span><br />
<a name='more'></a><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">view. Fergie fancied a
change of view all game long, depending upon the object of his scorn and anger.
<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;"></span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLo8BvCT78iSUrVqWBrw0TA-QDpGmswC9xFhhNuTPvK8fZjNbixL3-meKcBx9CxPsBQ-SGhOoM0ySoazUzn4R58S3hhJ1TnMn-TqO-AH91xMmUX_R8-DRQRiScCk6i6m9coXCfJ-Rn5IM/s1600/old+douglas+park.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="516" data-original-width="760" height="217" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLo8BvCT78iSUrVqWBrw0TA-QDpGmswC9xFhhNuTPvK8fZjNbixL3-meKcBx9CxPsBQ-SGhOoM0ySoazUzn4R58S3hhJ1TnMn-TqO-AH91xMmUX_R8-DRQRiScCk6i6m9coXCfJ-Rn5IM/s320/old+douglas+park.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: small;"><i>Old Douglas Park - Fergie's stage.</i></span> </td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">He didn’t discriminate. If the Accies were losing, he’d slate his own
players. If they were winning, he’d taunt the opposition. Either way, he always
had plenty of spare thoughts for the referee and his linesmen, all of whom were
chronically unfit to do their jobs, week after week. Most people ignored him,
presumably having heard him bellow on for years, but I loved it when he
wandered by our spot so that we could catch a blast of his
foul-mouthed but impressive performance.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">There was a story in one of the Accies' match programmes about an away game at Partick
Thistle, whose goalkeeper at the time was the much maligned Alan Rough. Fergie
stationed himself directly behind Rough’s goal and focused his rhetoric upon
the serially fallible net-minder. Bemused, the keeper made the mistake of
turning around and asking Fergie what his problem was. Encouraged by this
attention, the foaming fan spent the remainder of the game telling him exactly
what his problem was, and more. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">The Accies improved for a while in the late 80s and were promoted to the
Scottish Premier League. After a rare 1-0 victory at Rangers, Fergie was
offered a lift home on the team bus, and team officials even gave him a bottle
of whisky, thinking that their obstreperous follower would be in a benign mood
after such a historic result. No chance.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>He told the management and all its players exactly what he thought of
them: <i>Fuckin’ yoosless, the whole lot o’ ye!</i> According to his obituary in
the <i>Mirror</i> (Fergie died in 2009, aged 71), on the way back from a game at Forfar
he was thrown off the bus “outside a chip shop in Arbroath” for swearing at the
manager’s wife, the director’s wife and - it almost goes without saying - at all the players too.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">In the late 90s he was banned from the club for using foul language - perhaps because a thrusting young marketing executive decided that the club needed to attract a core family audience. “If the Accies were
doing better,” he reasoned, “I wouldn't have to swear.” He still went to away
games, despite a £100 fine from Glasgow Sheriff Court for causing a breach of
the peace. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipDb19vSObMDH8x7HUi3lVfBvhVPDIfXR4YCE-Ef3F87ivyecG7e4bMK-izbaeitnvb7MBuPukgRqC0A9dPVUHQ0YMcS-kghuCJXSttYHefT97G0GhYeJypFk2FUnp6rAuOQbPyfKpNmo/s1600/alf.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="364" data-original-width="568" height="205" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipDb19vSObMDH8x7HUi3lVfBvhVPDIfXR4YCE-Ef3F87ivyecG7e4bMK-izbaeitnvb7MBuPukgRqC0A9dPVUHQ0YMcS-kghuCJXSttYHefT97G0GhYeJypFk2FUnp6rAuOQbPyfKpNmo/s320/alf.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: small;">An introduction to Alf</span></i></td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">My fictitious re-creation of Fergie in the form of Alf Wangerman is an
English fan who follows non-league Furlington Welfare, and who aims his
vitriol solely at the referees. The club refuses to ban him on the grounds that
they need every paying fan they can get:<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">“Every week he [Alf] hated the referee from the moment the latter stepped
on to the Welfare’s scruffy turf at Lugdale Lane until around the time two long
hours later when he disappeared back into the refuge of his changing room,
Alf’s huge, prickly jaw bumping up and down and casting the last of his
colourful curses at the nape of the hapless official’s head.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Like Fergie, Alf ends up a victim of the courts and the modern game.
There are too many grounds now where foul language is subject to zealous and
unnecessary control, which is a crying fucking shame. Football matches should
be where a young fan learns to swear with poetry and verve. Fergie may not have
been the type of bloke you invited round for afternoon tea, but his bitter-tongued ilk have long
been woefully absent in an age of sanitised glamour and cash-mining hype.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><i style="font-family: "open sans", sans-serif;">The Quiet Fan</i><span style="font-family: "open sans" , sans-serif;"> was published by </span><b style="font-family: "open sans", sans-serif;">Unbound</b><span style="font-family: "open sans" , sans-serif;"> in autumn 2018 and is <a href="https://www.amazon.co.uk/Quiet-Fan-Ian-Plenderleith/dp/1912618427/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1546854623&sr=8-1&keywords=%22Ian+Plenderleith%22">here</a>.</span></span></div>
Ian Plenderleithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08512357220650578961noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1184325319229623815.post-73136500924816305942017-06-20T03:41:00.001-07:002019-01-07T02:02:58.495-08:00Sunday papers, scrapbooks, and knowing that Brechin beat Forfar<div class="MsoNormal">
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4UFDIx-L0XIjUZ6A2kNnVsEyWSTBPBQ2r5OalK8jhlbzWRk22Rli4QhF9UJvJmQLa3Gc6rRkpd5UW1yIClOVTD7XHpSxgyBJswucxiLdKgugmsbggaVsYFy5oDW-RUQgJGarsRZoFJa8/s1600/scrap+book2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4UFDIx-L0XIjUZ6A2kNnVsEyWSTBPBQ2r5OalK8jhlbzWRk22Rli4QhF9UJvJmQLa3Gc6rRkpd5UW1yIClOVTD7XHpSxgyBJswucxiLdKgugmsbggaVsYFy5oDW-RUQgJGarsRZoFJa8/s320/scrap+book2.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: small;"><i>Scores, scorers, crowds and <br />tables = six-year-old's paradise</i></span></td></tr>
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<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">When I was six years old in the early 1970s
I provided the Sunday afternoon entertainment for the Cocking brothers, the
butcher’s sons who lived two doors up. Chris, the youngest, was my mate. We
played football together, but he preferred war games, which always ended with
his mum yelling at us for treading on her wallflowers while sidling up on the
enemy. His two older siblings, Steve and Ian, were already teenagers who had
nothing better to do on the Sabbath than pick up a copy of <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The People </i>and test me on the previous day’s football results.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">I
can’t remember how it started. I was probably about to confront a Lincolnshire-based
Nazi spy when I overheard one of the Cockings casually ask how Grimsby had got
on the day before. I would have turned my attention from Fritz the Enemy - making
an imaginary thick-accented plea for mercy - to chirp, “Lost 3-2 at Watford,
goals scored by Coyle and Lewis. Crowd: 5,669.” What else did I know, they must
have wondered? <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">And so I began to habitually turn up just as
they were finishing off their weekly roast. They’d kick off with the big games (easy)
and, in an atmosphere of increasing hilarity, make their way down through the
four divisions, and then into Scotland too. Their incredulous delight came from
the fact that I could remember every single score, from the Manchester derby to
Forfar’s 3-1 away win at Brechin City. I </span></span><br />
<a name='more'></a><span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">buzzed with pride that I never got one
wrong, while Chris stood impatiently at the dining room door with his arsenal
of plastic weapons.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOoyg2tDUynFKwzpqbxjAkQabhr4KE6l_EO9Yi7MOe0JyGBk4dV1sz933HitjOKIxN519XD04yoOo87siA2v5A3iX7YPWX6slLKLVf2rJ1Frqy6kNHcOsO_JSEnWursWy25p8TpDrA29M/s1600/scrap+book3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1295" data-original-width="1600" height="259" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOoyg2tDUynFKwzpqbxjAkQabhr4KE6l_EO9Yi7MOe0JyGBk4dV1sz933HitjOKIxN519XD04yoOo87siA2v5A3iX7YPWX6slLKLVf2rJ1Frqy6kNHcOsO_JSEnWursWy25p8TpDrA29M/s320/scrap+book3.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: small;"><i>Never forget: Ayr 1 Clyde 0</i></span></td></tr>
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<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">My own Sunday entertainment began much
earlier. Over-sleeping parents would leave out the correct money, and I was
charged with going out to buy the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Sunday
Times </i>and the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Sunday Express</i>. My
dad has always had the peculiar habit of only buying Tory papers so that “I
know what the bastards are thinking”. His other peculiar habit was (and still
is) that no one could read the papers until he’d read them cover to cover,
otherwise “we’d mess them up”. So I sat on the sofa and fidgeted until he’d got
up, had his breakfast, read his pristine print of the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Express</i>, and then finally tossed it my way (all messed up). <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">The <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Sunday Express </i>was still a
broadsheet in the 70s, so the only way for a little lad like me to read it was
to spread the thing out on the floor, and then I pretty much lay on top of it. I
doubt that I read many of the actual match reports - it was just the results
and tables I wanted. I meticulously trawled through the score lines, savouring the
salient details of each game until they had sunk in. Even if I’d heard the
scores the previous day on <i>Grandstand</i> or in the car on the way home from Sincil
Bank, that was no substitute for the mathematical beauty of an at-a-glance
overview of the entire day’s most important events and their final outcomes. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">In my future, Saturday nights would often see
disappointment outweighing romance, but there was always a consoling thought as
I dragged myself home alone – I’d be able to get up early, buy a Sunday paper,
and peruse the results in peace. I wouldn’t even have to wait for my old man to
finish swearing at the John Junor column. Later on, in my early 30s and living
in Zürich, I’d offer to take the baby for a Sunday morning walk so that my wife
could lie in. Very generous of me, and just by chance we always passed the one newspaper
stand that sold an expensive, flown-in copy of that day’s <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Observer</i>. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_rJna02zlsbflJqO8FAQcMlkPSknoWFlSLSB3ezeBlXIHoBhG4ZrSJaGHoHJbnNcol2SDXCbUepS4eCq0ej12jREE5LXjMFjfn5IGvdZixT9WFlWIDSVqaIEMjmFJWCM7okp6sXjZKUw/s1600/scrap+book7.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1202" data-original-width="1600" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_rJna02zlsbflJqO8FAQcMlkPSknoWFlSLSB3ezeBlXIHoBhG4ZrSJaGHoHJbnNcol2SDXCbUepS4eCq0ej12jREE5LXjMFjfn5IGvdZixT9WFlWIDSVqaIEMjmFJWCM7okp6sXjZKUw/s320/scrap+book7.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: small;"><i>Bad day for Jim McDonagh. Plus:<br /> Gillingham's "ploys and prods"</i></span></td></tr>
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<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">The instant accessibility of the digital age
and the abundance of non-Saturday kick-offs have long since killed off the
thrill of the Sunday sports pages. How fortunate, then, that I was so attached
to those <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Sunday Express </i>pages that I
began to cut them out and stick them in scrapbooks. Early efforts were shoddy
and later destroyed in embarrassment at my cack-handedness with scissors and
tape. My documentation of the 1974-75 season survives, however, and by this
point you won’t be surprised to hear that scanning its columns today affords me
the same kind of thrill that it did 42 years ago. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">My wife has half-jokingly threatened to divorce me for my hoarding habits,
but this is one tatty, fragile artefact that I would hold on to all the way
back to bachelorhood. I’m quite impressed at the diligence of the nine-year-old
me, and grateful for his explanatory note to my current self on March 22, 1975:
“Some weeks missed out because of space reasons” (though I’m not happy about it).
This week-by-week chronicle is by far the most satisfying way to re-live
Manchester United’s championship-winning season (albeit in the second division),
and Lincoln’s heartbreakingly close promotion campaign to the third, at the end
of which they missed out on going up “by a 400</span><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 20px;">th</span><span style="font-size: large;"> of a goal” (as my scrawled
annotation explains). <o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">By this time, my Sunday sessions with the Cocking brothers were over.
“This’ll get ‘im,” said Steve one afternoon. “Football Combination. Chelsea
versus Reading.” Without hesitation, I replied, “5-0 to Chelsea.” Steve
literally fell off his chair laughing. “Ah fookin’ give up,” he cried. “He even
knows the bloody reserves!” It was almost like he thought some games weren’t important
enough to remember.</span></span><br />
<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span></span>
<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;"><i style="font-family: "open sans", sans-serif;">The Quiet Fan</i><span style="font-family: "open sans" , sans-serif;"> was published by </span><b style="font-family: "open sans", sans-serif;">Unbound</b><span style="font-family: "open sans" , sans-serif;"> in autumn 2018 and is </span></span></span><span style="font-family: "open sans", sans-serif; font-size: large;">available</span><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "open sans", sans-serif;"> </span><a href="https://www.amazon.co.uk/Quiet-Fan-Ian-Plenderleith/dp/1912618427/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1546854623&sr=8-1&keywords=%22Ian+Plenderleith%22" style="font-family: "open sans", sans-serif;">here</a>.</span></div>
Ian Plenderleithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08512357220650578961noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1184325319229623815.post-41421344214501818542017-06-09T22:26:00.001-07:002019-01-07T02:03:26.520-08:00Calling on fans to boycott the next two World Cups<div class="MsoNormal">
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://www.amnesty.org.uk/files/styles/small_topic_image/s3fs/eric_cantona_dsc8688_love_football_topic.png?30PrPmJF84harNNTzXKXdUtSTENXd2rc&itok=Cnizi7NO" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="267" src="https://www.amnesty.org.uk/files/styles/small_topic_image/s3fs/eric_cantona_dsc8688_love_football_topic.png?30PrPmJF84harNNTzXKXdUtSTENXd2rc&itok=Cnizi7NO" style="-webkit-user-select: none; display: block; margin-top: auto;" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: small;">Eric Cantona shows us a sign</span></i></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">A few disparate but powerless voices have
been calling on fans to boycott the next two World Cups on the grounds that
both <a href="https://www.amnesty.org/en/countries/europe-and-central-asia/russian-federation/" target="_blank"><b>Russia</b></a> and <a href="https://www.amnesty.org/en/countries/middle-east-and-north-africa/qatar/" target="_blank"><b>Qatar</b></a> are serial violators of human rights. I am one of a very small
handful of people I know who is refusing to watch the current qualifiers, and
who will not watch a single World Cup game of any kind until the start of the
qualifying campaign for the 2026 event.</span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">Football’s authorities have always claimed,
predictably enough, that they can not be involved in “politics”, as though
human rights were a mere issue among others to be debated during electoral
campaigns. As though sport exists in a cultural vacuum, never to be politically exploited by
states wanting to present a phoney ceremonial
façade of peace and national stability to the world at large. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">Yet from Hitler’s 1936 Olympic propaganda
triumph, all the way to Brazil’s World Cup and the Rio Olympics 80 years later,
sporting</span></span><br />
<a name='more'></a><span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;"> mega-events have been subject to political parasites channelling
precious resources towards grand but frequently redundant arenas and facilities.
Vladimir Putin’s $50 billion 2014 Sochi Winter Olympics were a classic case of
corrupt over-spending on infrastructure <a href="https://www.washingtonpost.com/opinions/the-dark-side-of-sochi/2013/02/15/5427274c-751c-11e2-9889-60bfcbb02149_story.html?utm_term=.606061faef7a" target="_blank">built by exploited labour</a>, all for the
sake of show-casing model Mother Russia. Hardly had the last medal been draped
around a cheating host athlete’s neck when Putin annexed the Crimea and
instigated an undeclared war with the Ukraine.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">This week, however, Fifa ExCom member and President
of the German FA <b>Reinhard Grindel </b>has declared that politics may have something
to do with sport after all. After several Arab countries broke off diplomatic
relations with Qatar on the grounds that the state is a sponsor of terrorism,
Grindel wondered aloud if it would now really be possible to hold the 2022 World Cup in the Gulf state.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">Grindel has now provided a hint as to where
football’s moral boundary lies. It’s tolerable for Qatar to build stadiums on a
system of slave labour, and for several hundred of those workers to die. It’s
of no issue that Qatar is not a democracy. Football can also turn a blind eye
to the fact that homosexuality is illegal in Qatar, and that Israelis (also
part of the big happy Fifa family) are not permitted to enter the country. But
if Qatar is alleged to be financing movements that might lead to death on the
streets of Germany, then it’s time – all of a sudden – to moot the possibility
of a boycott.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">Such egregious hypocrisy is not surprising,
but that doesn’t make it any more acceptable, even if there’s part of me that
thinks, “Well, whatever it takes.” Fifa’s probably been looking to back out of
Qatar ever since Sepp Blatter opened the winning envelope with a brittle smile
back in late 2010. The smile that said, “I knew we were corrupt
sons-of-bitches, but Jesus Christ, I didn’t know we were <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">that </i>fucking corrupt sons-of-bitches.” So if Fifa now moved the
whole thing to a model democratic state - though it might take a while to find
one - we could all heave a sigh of relief and agree that Qatar only won the
damned thing to start with because it bribed all the right people (as
documented in Heidi Blake and Jonathan Calvert's brave and thorough book <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><a href="https://www.amazon.co.uk/Ugly-Game-Qatari-Plot-World/dp/147114934X/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1522223547&sr=8-1&keywords=heidi+blake" target="_blank">The Ugly Game: The Qatari Plot to Buy theWorld Cup</a></i>).<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">We fans, however, should hold ourselves to higher
standards. A lot of people have said to me, “I’m going to boycott Qatar, but I
will still watch Russia 2018.” Again, we are faced with a boundary of
apparently acceptable human rights violations. Since being awarded next year’s
event, the Russian state has continued to suppress and murder political
opposition, and clamped down on dissent. At least one of its stadiums is also being <a href="https://www.theguardian.com/football/2017/jun/04/like-prisoners-of-war-north-korean-labour-russia-world-cup-st-petersburg-stadium-zenit-arena" target="_blank">built under slave labour conditions by workers from North Korea</a>. It has
passed laws strongly discriminating against homosexuality. All the while, Fifa
continues to burnish its bunting with platitudes about <b>Fair Play For All</b>. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">We expect no better from self-protective functionaries
steeped in conservatism and the interests of their own bank balance, but we supporters should not forget the extent of our own mass power. Most of us may not have the time, will, skill and connections to stand
for office in our local FA, but as a mass we have a simple but effective tool –
we can stay away or switch off the TV, and we can say why we’re doing so. It’s
not that hard to do the right thing, especially at no personal cost or
sacrifice besides depriving ourselves of a month on the sofa staring at very
well-compensated sportsmen.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">I’m still surprised, though, at how even
politically minded friends respond to my intent to boycott with the word,
“Why?” It seems obvious to me, even if it sounds pompous to speak it out loud: human rights are more important than football. I
can’t think of a counter-argument for that. The only justification for watching
the finals in Russia and Qatar would be to say, “Frankly, I don’t care.” Or,
"Of course I care, but not enough to miss the football."<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">So I’m trying to sell it a different way.
Look at it as a month away from football, a game which increasingly thinks its
importance outranks all other human pursuits. While the world’s distracted watching endless negative matches, break the habit. There are still places to escape from the game, even during the
World Cup. For the first time in years, the prospect of a major tournament no
longer feels like a chore. I’m actually looking forward to it. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">Show some independence and flex your oppositional
muscles – it’s exactly what Fifa and Vladimir Putin rely on us not to do.</span></span><br />
<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span></span>
<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;"><i style="font-family: "open sans", sans-serif;">The Quiet Fan</i><span style="font-family: "open sans" , sans-serif;"> was published by </span><b style="font-family: "open sans", sans-serif;">Unbound</b><span style="font-family: "open sans" , sans-serif;"> in autumn 2018 and is </span></span></span><span style="font-family: "open sans", sans-serif; font-size: large;">available </span><a href="https://www.amazon.co.uk/Quiet-Fan-Ian-Plenderleith/dp/1912618427/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1546854623&sr=8-1&keywords=%22Ian+Plenderleith%22" style="font-family: "open sans", sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">here</span></a>.</div>
Ian Plenderleithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08512357220650578961noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1184325319229623815.post-74093451447887329312017-06-08T00:44:00.007-07:002019-01-07T02:03:46.233-08:00Disturbing Fans No. 1: The Bell Ringer From Hell<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;"><i>Just because I'm a quiet fan doesn't mean that I don't appreciate the
effort that other supporters put into their noise. The first in an occasional
series. </i><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7yCxXndR_chNexgBCUBIZ9oWvQazKLkErnb-Z3_GQMbYU5DYrQQFZXUzr4tkq1VBgfZLlPN3eX50VMHhESIxX7DfKhYSdo3nSwVEhS9-S-0qzZ_Nz6Laird8CZm9J1XviBlUnYQnHm4I/s1600/Disturbing+Fans+1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><span style="font-size: large;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1312" data-original-width="1600" height="262" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7yCxXndR_chNexgBCUBIZ9oWvQazKLkErnb-Z3_GQMbYU5DYrQQFZXUzr4tkq1VBgfZLlPN3eX50VMHhESIxX7DfKhYSdo3nSwVEhS9-S-0qzZ_Nz6Laird8CZm9J1XviBlUnYQnHm4I/s320/Disturbing+Fans+1.jpg" width="320" /></span></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: small;"><i>Schalke's bell-ringer from<br /> hell (pic: The Quiet Fan)</i></span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">In 2005 I took my father-in-law, Gerd, to his first game since 1947,
when as a teenager he’d seen Helmut Schön play in the small stadium opposite
his house. For my birthday he'd bought me two tickets to the German League Cup
Final at the newly renovated stadium in Leipzig, and begrudgingly agreed to come
along "if you can't find anyone else". As it happened, I couldn't,
and so we drove together from his home in Dresden to the outskirts of town and
took the specially laid-on shuttle tram to the freshly rebuilt World Cup
stadium.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">There was a reason my father-in-law hadn't been to a game for 57 years.
Although he likes to watch football on television, happily moaning from the
safety of his sofa, his view of humanity at large has been shaped by growing up
in 1930s Germany, and then fleeing Dresden from the post-war Soviet </span><br />
<a name='more'></a><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">occupants
after he was almost caught disseminating pro-democracy literature. In other
words, he's naturally suspicious when large crowds follow a single cause.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">The German League Cup was a briefly extant pre-season tournament
featuring the top six sides from the previous Bundesliga season. At the time,
the now defunct broadcaster </span><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">Premiere was offering </span><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">decent prize money, so the
clubs started to take it seriously. </span><b style="font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">Schalke 04</span></b><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;"> and </span><b style="font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">VfB Stuttgart</span></b><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;"> were the two
finalists, and although it was a Tuesday night in early August, a significant
number of fans from both clubs had made the long trip east.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">The attendance and atmosphere was boosted not just by curious locals,
but a hardcore of several thousand <b>Lokomotive Leipzig</b> fans - ascendants of the DDR
titans who reached the 1987 European Cup Winners' Cup final, but at that time
playing way down the German pyramid following post-communist insolvency. Their
followers were proudly determined to bait the Schalke core and stake a noisy
claim to territory that was once theirs.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">I ushered Gerd safely through the crowds to his seat, bought him a
sausage, and we read the slick tournament brochure trying hard to convince us
that coaches, players and fans really did care about this trophy. The row of
seats in front of us remained empty until a couple of minutes before kick-off. Although
we weren’t in the quietest section of the ground, we certainly weren’t mixed in
with any of the three fan factions. Until, that is, a man in his mid-50s,
wearing a German number 13 shirt and a small plastic blue pork pie hat, bustled
his way into the seat three down to our left and begin vigorously ringing a
tassled, hand-held bell while emitting a virtually incomprehensible, but
continuous, roar that made it fairly clear he was behind the lads from
Gelsenkirchen.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">The bloke who had the misfortune to be sitting in front of him looked
around, bemused, but perhaps hoped that the fan would soon burn out and calm
down. Gerd shook his head at what he clearly believed to be a victim of excessive
alcohol. The game began, and The Man With The Bell stood to his feet,
resoundingly clanging his toy every time a Schalke player touched the ball, all
the while keeping up a stentorian, guttural howl.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">This fascinating display lasted for five minutes until the bloke in
front had had enough and turned around, yelling at Bell Man that the ringing
was right in his ear. Bell Man completely ignored him, too besotted with
Schalke or too blotto on alcohol to care. A row of men behind me, who were
already bored and complaining that the game was fourth division level (they
were right), amused themselves by encouraging the ringer to hold the bell a
little lower, closer to the irritated fan's ear. Bell Man turned and grinned,
delighted to have his own fan club.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">In the tenth minute Schalke’s Kevin Kuryani scored, and Bell Man
celebrated accordingly. He stood and rang and roared for maybe another ten
minutes until the bloke in front of him lost it again, more or less telling him
that if he didn’t shut up he was going to belt him. Meanwhile the men behind me
jeered, “If you don’t like the noise, go to church, you idiot” (presumably not
a church with bells). <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">The Bell Man did move, however - to the seat directly in front of myself
and Gerd. “Neeeeeeeeeeiiiiiiiiin!” I heard my father-in-law groan, but compared
with the previous threat of violence this was not a protest that was going to
move our passionate friend.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And although
the mediocre game, which remained 1-0, did eventually subdue Bell Man’s fervour,
the ringing endured in tandem with my father-in-law’s shaking head right up
until the final whistle. For a man in his 70s, he made a remarkably quick exit
from the stadium.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">“Well, that was your first game since 1947,” I said on the drive home,
“And I’ve a feeling that it’s going to be your last as well.” Still in a kind
of speechless stupor, Gerd muttered something about “40,000 brain-softened
proletarians” and stared at the road ahead. In 2014, however, I did manage to
lure him to a Major League Soccer game in Washington DC. No cheap comments,
please - there are a number of vocal fan groups at <b>DC United </b>games. I made sure
we sat in an almost empty section on the exact opposite side of the stadium. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">"I quite enjoyed that," he said afterwards. Not quite as fervent
as the bell-ringer from hell, but as close as he's come to enthusiasm for
football in the 22 years I've known him. </span><span lang="EN-GB"><o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;"><i style="font-family: "open sans", sans-serif;">The Quiet Fan</i><span style="font-family: "open sans" , sans-serif;"> was published by </span><b style="font-family: "open sans", sans-serif;">Unbound</b><span style="font-family: "open sans" , sans-serif;"> in autumn 2018 and is </span></span><span style="font-family: "open sans", sans-serif; font-size: large;">available </span><a href="https://www.amazon.co.uk/Quiet-Fan-Ian-Plenderleith/dp/1912618427/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1546854623&sr=8-1&keywords=%22Ian+Plenderleith%22" style="font-family: "open sans", sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">here</span></a><span style="font-family: "open sans", sans-serif; font-size: large;">.</span></div>
Ian Plenderleithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08512357220650578961noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1184325319229623815.post-90125431047368141352017-06-07T07:20:00.000-07:002019-01-07T02:04:30.131-08:00The Quiet Fan - about the blog and the book <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwy3MBxKNHMvisVAWQjOt9GpDj25BAWVGlQNPROPBsDX72NIZZ70iuLACLdqywSXjhr-njoeTQv7TSadlmJUWHh6C7pgEzCcLcEyxx2m-oNAhWNJHGGZsg3yjmh62PV9HikmgiLjJEGqM/s1600/TQFcover.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1000" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwy3MBxKNHMvisVAWQjOt9GpDj25BAWVGlQNPROPBsDX72NIZZ70iuLACLdqywSXjhr-njoeTQv7TSadlmJUWHh6C7pgEzCcLcEyxx2m-oNAhWNJHGGZsg3yjmh62PV9HikmgiLjJEGqM/s200/TQFcover.jpg" width="125" /></a></div>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: medium;">This blog would not exist without the book <b><a href="https://www.amazon.co.uk/Quiet-Fan-Ian-Plenderleith/dp/1912618427/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1546854688&sr=8-1&keywords=%22Ian+Plenderleith%22" target="_blank">The Quiet Fan </a></b>- a football memoir that recounts the quirks of growing up in the 1970s and 80s as a fan of both Lincoln City (by geography) and Scotland (by blood). It also examines not only why football is so important to so many of us, but how we can watch and enjoy it in a more sane, less furious fashion.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">The book was published by <a href="https://unbound.com/" style="font-style: italic;" target="_blank">Unbound</a> in the autumn of 2018. If you like what you read here - the content is exclusive to this blog - then you will certainly like the book too. </span></span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4yuB2BhIWjXR8wkz3DCK66FPhyphenhyphenUfmFtgolO9UnTo1K0pl5JSPJ-mS8hTmUPfclG1l2VSTXS4ukSW70I1C5KyE179UG0Hu9oM1Z7aeDBqZ_kBTFKR25SWrbTzOO99VWpogGAiZkwtOTCk/s1600/forwhomtheballrolls.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: medium;"><img border="0" data-original-height="280" data-original-width="174" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4yuB2BhIWjXR8wkz3DCK66FPhyphenhyphenUfmFtgolO9UnTo1K0pl5JSPJ-mS8hTmUPfclG1l2VSTXS4ukSW70I1C5KyE179UG0Hu9oM1Z7aeDBqZ_kBTFKR25SWrbTzOO99VWpogGAiZkwtOTCk/s200/forwhomtheballrolls.jpg" width="124" /></span></a></div>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: medium;">Previous books: <a href="https://www.amazon.co.uk/For-Whom-The-Ball-Rolls/dp/0752842579" target="_blank"><b>For Whom the Ball Rolls</b></a> (Fiction - 12 football short stories, 10 miscellaneous)</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: medium;">"A fine read. Plenderleith creates a bittersweet world [where] football can bring joy, misery and bewilderment in the same story." <b><i>The Sunday Times</i></b></span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgyL7S8tJaGPP2TEEIXsATyGuoLQwhuy85M_DzPSHq9bh9LuCb5F5A1SEaP0pQxHpmz1VYHPrXF9oYR9qJQE6WGtiT8PobCmU9fyl0SKTzIyUCKMFhg5iw6L-UVmH528kmKVOkFrkp_Fzw/s1600/UK+cover+%2528final%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: medium;"><img border="0" data-original-height="499" data-original-width="320" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgyL7S8tJaGPP2TEEIXsATyGuoLQwhuy85M_DzPSHq9bh9LuCb5F5A1SEaP0pQxHpmz1VYHPrXF9oYR9qJQE6WGtiT8PobCmU9fyl0SKTzIyUCKMFhg5iw6L-UVmH528kmKVOkFrkp_Fzw/s200/UK+cover+%2528final%2529.jpg" width="128" /></span></a></div>
<a href="https://www.amazon.co.uk/Rock-Roll-Soccer-American-League/dp/1906850852/ref=sr_1_fkmr1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1496844441&sr=1-1-fkmr1&keywords=plenderleith+rock+roll+soccer" target="_blank"><b><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: medium;">Rock n Roll Soccer: The Short Life and Fast Times of the North American Soccer League</span></b></a><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: medium;">"A compendious but vividly entertaining history of the League." <i><b> Independent on Sunday</b></i> (Book of the Week)</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: medium;">"Written with a raffish exuberance worthy of its subject." <b><i>Times Literary Supplement</i></b></span><br />
<br />Ian Plenderleithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08512357220650578961noreply@blogger.com0