Did
you get much reading done over the summer then? Personally, I was pleased to
revisit a couple of well-thumbed tomes from my bibliophilic past that burst
forth from the shelves while I essayed a bout of late spring cleaning that
consisted mainly of moving carpeted dust from the bookshelves to the
mote-choked, rarefied air in the study. Kurt Vonnegut’s satirical treasury of
fantastical speculative short fiction, Welcome
to the Monkey House was one, while Peter Handke’s taut, passionless account
of a disturbing murder, The Goalie's
Anxiety at the Penalty Kick (I have to admit my German isn’t anywhere near
adequate enough to read Die Angst des
Tormanns beim Elfmeter in the original) was the other. Rather surprisingly
I found both works apposite to any convincing analysis of the start of the
2018/2019 Premier League.
As
you’d imagine, my attitude towards the highest echelons of the domestic game
remains as scornfully contemptuous as ever, but my residual love for Newcastle
United means I must, however painfully, take notice of the public relations and
sporting fiasco that is Rafa Benitez’s farewell stadium tour whereby, once a
week or so, he sends out a team of half decent players he has brainwashed into
believing they are useless, to choke the life out of any game, regardless of
opposition or location, only to fall to a late, calamitous error, having spent
the previous 90 minutes with the handbrake on, scared to cross the halfway
line. Of course, such heroic failure enables the master media manipulator to
perpetuate the same old screed of hokum in each and every press conference that
“we must try but sometimes it is hard, or not possible, to compete,” while the
fans grumble impotently about the indifferent, wilfully obstinate owner before
handing him the thick end of £700 for a season ticket and £65 for the
division’s most expensive replica shirt. Compared to this reality, Vonnegut’s
dystopian vision of America in the near future is positively pastoral.
Harrison Bergeron is the stand out story
from Welcome to the Monkey House,
though I must admit the science fiction elements that seemed so apparent when I
first read it about 30 years ago, have been relocated somewhere on the
continuum between the plausible and the actual during the intervening period. Frankly,
this isn’t a good thing. The story’s set in 2081, when laws dictate that all
citizens are fully equal, and nobody is allowed to be smarter, better-looking,
or more physically able than anyone else. Diana Moon Glampers, The Handicapper
General, and her agents enforce the equality laws, forcing citizens to wear
"handicaps" consisting of masks for those who are too beautiful, loud
radios that disrupt thoughts inside the ears of intelligent people, and heavy
weights for the strong or athletic. Our eponymous hero Harrison Bergeron, an
intelligent and athletic teenager, is taken away from his parents by the
government. However Harrison, who is
seven feet tall and supremely strong, despite being burdened by three hundred
pounds of handicaps, escapes his captors and storms the state-run TV studio, to
start a rebellion against the incompetence of uniformity. He declares himself
Emperor and rips off all his handicaps. At
this point, Diana Moon Glampers enters the studio and kills Harrison with a
ten-gauge double-barrelled shotgun. The television screen goes dark.
Vonnegut,
the irascible old nihilist, was initially figured to be poking fun at the loony
left concept of to each according to
their needs, but he wasn’t. Wreathed in the fug of 80 untipped Camels a day, Kurt was as ever standing
up for the odd and eccentric misfits at the margins of our society, who get
ground underfoot by the jackboot of compulsory conformity. It’s a resonating
image and a hell of an important point to make, especially in the here and now.
To me, the story also seems a useful analogy for the Premier League’s bizarre
and contrary decision to voluntarily close the transfer window before the
season started, despite the fact no other European countries joined in with
this supposedly principled stance. We’ve made ourselves equal, by limiting our
clubs’ potential for progress and possibly success.
Now
you may just remember there was a World Cup this summer, which went on until
mid-July, meaning the 2017/2018 season ended after the 2018/2019 one had
already started. The real impact of this, other than preventing teams playing
friendlies before July 1st, was that the intensive period of
transfer business was squashed into a couple of weeks, like a late booked
all-inclusive to Falaraki or some such, resulting in the kind of collective
madness that spread like a raging bacterial infection through the guts of the
Premier League. There can be no other explanation for deals such as Richarlison
being flogged for £50m, which really could be the 21st Century Steve
Daley moment. I’m delighted to say Newcastle United maintained a dignified
distance from all this avaricious brouhaha, opting instead to sign the kind of
landfill loan signings your average fan wouldn’t recognise if they were begging
outside Sports Direct on
Northumberland Street.
Meanwhile,
The Goalie's Anxiety at the Penalty Kick
documents the journey of Josef Bloch as he slowly transitions from a
professional goalkeeper to a peripatetic madman. After being sent off for angrily
reacting to the award of a penalty kick, Bloch, as you do, leaves the ground
and takes a bus to the pictures. When
the film, a Western, is over, he stands in a dark alley opposite, waiting for
the cashier to leave. He follows her onto a bus. She appears not to notice him,
but when they both get off at the same stop, she allows him to accompany her home
where they then have sex. That night, while she sleeps, Bloch inexplicably chokes
her to death.
Later,
Bloch boards a bus and embarks on a long journey through the countryside. He
rides until arriving at the bus terminus, then finds a room at a hotel. The
next morning, Bloch takes a newspaper and finds that the mysterious murder of a
female cinema cashier is front page news. A cop car drives by, and Bloch
becomes visibly worried.
He
heads to the local football club and watches a game. Bloch reflects on how hard
it is to focus on anything but the ball during a game, and how strange it is to
see a goalie running around without the ball involved. A penalty is awarded,
and Bloch contemplates the anxiety which runs through a goalie's head before
the kick is taken. In this instance, the player gently lobs the penalty
straight into the keeper’s hands. The match continues. Bloch watches in
silence. The book ends.
When
I first read Handke’s book in second year at university, it completely and
utterly baffled me and three and a bit decades later it doesn’t make a great
deal more sense. Though, as Thibaut Courtois points out, standing between those
metal posts can be one hell of a stressful experience, especially when you’ve
got a multi-million quid transfer to Real Madrid to orchestrate. I’m sure David
De Gea can empathise as well, even if this transfer window was the first one in
the entire history of professional football he wasn’t linked with a move to the
Bernabeu. In fact, ruinously expensive goalkeepers are the latest go-to bling
accessory for football clubs, freshly minted and newly ennobled by the latest
TV deal, designed to make everyone in top flight as rich as Croesus and twice
as happy as Midas.
So
who are wearing the gloves round here? Well, apparently Jurgen Klopp is a
massive fan of The Lemonheads and Elvis Costello, which explains why he shelled
out £70m on a new keeper whose aim is true. Already it’s clear that Alisson’s
starting to happen, though it is a shame about Karius, shipped out to Besiktas
after a couple of little episodes in the Champions’ League final. Spurs don’t
sign players, as we know, so the retention of the proven or indeed overproof
talents of World Cup winner Hugo Lloris is a breathalyser of fresh air; best
check what’s in his drinks bottle though.
Meanwhile
Chelsea, whose manager Maurizio Sarri has followed Felipe Scolari’s lead by
dressing like he drinks in Wetherspoons at 10.00 on a Tuesday morning, have
signed a keeper from Athletic Club for £72 called Kepa, which is a little
easier to pronounce than Arrizabalaga I’ll admit. Watford change their manager
as often as most people change their socks, though the fabulously entertaining
antics of Heurelho Gomes between the sticks has had them giggling in the aisles
at Vicarage road for half a decade now. He’s even been made vice-captain,
though it looks like Javi Gracia is taking things seriously now, by signing the
imposing, matinee-idol figure of the statuesque Ben Foster. Unbelievably, he’s
35 now. Who knows where the time goes?
Man
City have finally managed to rid themselves of Joe Hart. After a couple of less
than stellar years at Torino and West Ham, who decided Łukasz Fabiański,
relegated with Swansea last season, would make a better bet, Hart’s made the
move to Burnley. He may be head and shoulders (geddit?) below the injured duo
of Tom Heaton and Nick Pope, but he’s probably a step up from Adam Legzdins and
Anders Lindegaard, who also make up the Clarets’ 5-pronged keeping options.
City are happy with Ederson, who gained plaudits for being able to lace the
ball 80 yards down field to Aguero against Huddersfield, when the real story
was Jonas Lössl having a nervous breakdown in nets and conceding half a dozen
soft ones as The Terriers had their pants taken down. Not nice to watch.
Bournemouth
still have the unhinged clericofascist headbanger Artur Boruc on the books, locked
up in Dean Court’s attic, but stalking the playing squad like Mr Rochester’s
insane first wife in Jane Eyre.
Thankfully that awfully nice Young Mr Howe plays the considerably more
competent Asomir Begovic instead. Leicester still have Kasper Schmeichel (he’s
32 in November you realise?), but they’ve also shelled out £12.5m on someone
called Danny Ward who has apparently been on Liverpool’s books for about six
years. Never heard of him. I’ve heard of Jordan Pickford and the podgy,
shortarsed Mackem with more than a passing resemblance to disgraced Sheffield
MP Jared O’Mara, is now the bee’s knees, apparently, after an adequate world
cup. Oh whoopee; for £30m Everton would expect someone who could catch the ball
as a bare minimum.
Elsewhere,
Arsenal have installed flaxen haired Unai Emery as boss, spending £22m on Bernd
Leno as a welcome present, though Petr Cech still gets to be first choice. Down
Selhurst way, they respect a loyal custodian; John Jackson was the only keeper
the Glaziers had during my boyhood. Julian Speroni finally beat his appearance
record last season and, at 39, is happy to be third choice behind Wayne
Hennessey and Vicente Guaita, who’s just arrived from Getafe on a free. Fulham
no longer have Jim Stannard dropping the ball between his legs or punching it
into the net; instead Marcus Bettinelli is first choice. As you’ll no doubt
have gathered, he’s an England Under 21 international, but more importantly his
old man is the Cottagers’ keeper coach. Bettinelli displaced David Button who
is Brighton’s back up for Matt Ryan. Thankfully Chris Hughton saw sense and
jettisoned terrible Tim Krul, the Dutch flapper from Tyneside, as third choice.
However, he’s brought in Jason Steele who did so well last season at….
Sunderland!!
Southampton
have Alex McCarthy as first choice, but Angus (son of Bryan) Gunn has arrived
to give back up. Fraser Foster’s still there mind. He doesn’t seem to play
anymore. Newly promoted Wolves and Cardiff have differing stories to tell. At
Molineux, Portuguese international Rui Patrício is supported by reliable John
Ruddy, while in the principality Neil Etheridge, 59 times a Filipino
international, is the one making waves and saving pens, while Alex Smithies
looks on from the bench. Finally,
Newcastle United have the impressive Slovak Martin Dubravka for league duty,
with the agile but nervous Karl Darlow for the two cup games Ashley allows the
Magpies to play each year. Perhaps the squad can use up those spare Carabo
midweeks and FA Cup Saturdays by getting a few books read themselves…
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