Weary World Cup Woes - and New Season Blues?

FIFA World Cup 2026:
various fixtures and dates, June-July

AND

Isthmian Premier League:
Enfield Town vs. Whitehawk.
Saturday 29th August 2026, 3pm kick-off

From The Sublime... to The Ridiculous?
A summer's worth of (already all but forgotten) sporting memories and meanderings.

Have you missed me? [See previous post, below this one - from 24/8/2025]
And, more importantly, have you been missing your football. 

Too many well-worn phrases and over-used clichés about the swift passing of the summer, the close-season, life in general, and the ludicrous spiral of EPL transfer budget inflation, etc. populated the run-up to the new football season. In what passes for sports "journalism", these days. Do they herald a Brave New World and a repeat of Leicester's "miracle" title win by somebody unexpected; or, perhaps likelier, merely more of the same. A procession of the Top Six or so clubs. Maybe even just The Top Two? I won't open by repeating any such phrases here, since you've surely read pretty much all of them, ad nauseam, already. 

I can't promise that a few hackneyed expressions, metaphors, poems and song lyrics won't creep in below. If so, excuse me. I'll blame being a little rusty on having spent more than a year out of the proverbial "ring". I've been left abandoned, wandering the boundless and bare desert, where the lone and level sands stretch far away. The Pharaoh only ever promised you an "Occasional" blog, incidentally. And no Rose Garden. But enough of the teasing preamble. Let's get going.

Have YOU been along to watch YOUR team play yet, this fine new football season? And no, I don’t mean on TV. You know that doesn’t count, right?! For some, the early season fixtures are difficult to accommodate in a busy diary. Perhaps due to family holidays, weddings, etc. For others (e.g. ex-pats and the infirm) the chance to attend a game in person arrives rarely. And takes on mythic proportions and importance, when it does so. Rather like The Holy Grail. Perhaps there have also been more distractions than usual, in a summer when football hardly seems to have taken a break at all. Thanks to Gianni Python’s ever-expanding Flying Circus. Did you, like me, run a 104-match marathon, ending in agony and frustration, hitting The Wall? 

Argentina's Enzo Fernández (right) "welcomes" England's Elliot Anderson to the game, early in their semi-final clash. Memorably, no card was flourished by way of punishment. And thus the MLS referee, inexplicably placed in charge by FIFA, entered a whole (Brave New) 90-minute World of pain. As did we all.

Despite no longer being away on his travels, nor being an infirm ex-pat, The Fabulous Football Pharaoh still passed on his first chance to watch Fulham play this season, last Thursday, in the Carabao Cup. For rather more prosaic reasons. Such a game might be considered merely a meaningless distraction in a tin-pot tournament, say in the eyes of fans whose clubs exit early (deliberately?). Or, by contrast, one of the sport’s few remaining fine traditions, that’s well worth maintaining - according to fans of sides who progress to the latter stages. I’ll hold fire on my own “Judgment of Paris” until the result of FFC’s game in the next round is in. It's scheduled to be against a struggling Championship side, who play at the quaintly-named (and suddenly over-sized?) ‘London Stadium’.  Bless!

For the record, a much-changed Fulham XI comfortably despatched tier 3 opposition on Thursday. I chose to reserve my energies for a non-football-related early start, the following day. Going to see England take on a deeply sub-par Pakistan side, on Day 2 of the Lords test match. Luckily, there was barely a rain interruption of note. Although other interruptions were expected - and encountered. For the uninitiated, there is a (dull) running gag about how The Bicentenary Bar's name reflects  the cumulative age of this happy few, this Band of Brothers...

The Pharaoh (centre) with fellow Lords irregulars; college buddies Jez (l) & James (r). Root-ing for England.

Anyway, back to the football. The following photo shows Carabao siblings. Twins, in fact. Like Schwarzenegger and De Vito: The Sessegnons. Ryan, left, who plays as left wingback for Fulham; while Steven (also formerly of Fulham) plays as, errmm, left wingback for Wimbledon. Did I mention they’re near-identical twins? Sadly for Steven, there could be only one winner, on the night. Next up, 'Ammers away!

Despite passing up his first Craven Cottage visit opportunity of the season (it's OK, I'll get along there soon!) The Pharaoh HAS now (finally) managed to catch newly-relegated Enfield Town F.C. in the flesh. In one of their early-season games. Although it was still only August, this was already to be the Towners 3^rd home fixture, and their 5^th in total, so far. It was an unplanned and impromptu visit to Donkey Lane. Nudged by a forecast of windy, rainy conditions and weak opposition; which I suspected might result in a storm of goals. I am thus able to bring you details of all that action soon.

It would seem remiss, however, in this year of a World Cup summer, NOT to regale you first with tales of my mammoth, marathon, 5-week road-trip to and through sunny California. Cordially invited by a generous host, my L.A.-based, former college buddy, Peter, I decided (at my ripe old age) that I should probably grab the chance, while I still could. And before his long-suffering wife, Jenna, had the chance (and the foresight) to withdraw my invitation. There was always the lurking, residual possibility that the U.S. Immigration Force would consider me a threat to Homeland Security. Or something.

The pharaoh, suitably attired and relaxed, beer close at hand, reminding you what tournament was taking place this summer, across Canada, Mexico, and the U.S. of A.

This was a trip that had been several long years in the planning. It would eventually include a short trip north, to visit funky San Francisco and Napa Valley's vineyards. But first, it would focus on whatever World Cup games Gianni Infantino and the ticket touts/scalpers had left (relatively) affordable for us mere mortals. I will skip most of the varied cultural trip details, fascinating though they are, to focus on the football. It was, after all, The Pharaoh's quadrennial opportunity to guide you around some of the sport's Global "Ziggurat", rather than our usual, English domestic, football "Pyramid" domain.

Peter and his very close, local, even longer-standing buddy, George, had been confident all along that they'd be able to access plenty of match tickets, via a local draw / allocation. In the end, they received absolutely none, of course. LOL! Somewhat similar to my own London Olympics allocation experience of 2012.

The Pharaoh (left) with host, Peter, on our boys' trip North. Suitably refreshed,
at Napa Valley's beautiful and exclusive "Sleeping Lady" Brion vineyard.

I was also UNlucky enough to find that the seeded tournament draw had meant England’s games would be confined to the East of the U.S.A. – plus Mexico City. Scotland’s matches would be similarly distant. And the USA’s host status instead saw them seeded in the group that would be centred on the West Coast venues.

Time to tell you of my travels across the golden West. I arrived at LAX on one of your new-fangled aeroplanes, on 10th June (my camels looked so tired, it was hardly worth my while to ask them to carry me and my opulent entourage). And I stayed/survived in California until 13^th July. That timing allowed me to take in two (hideously expensive!) World Cup matches, live, at L.A.’s spectacular So-Fi stadium. Plus pretty much all the tournament's other fixtures, live on T.V. – in the “correct” time zone. No staying up until 4am for me! Oh, and a baseball game. Which would NOT be my first ever. And many other cultural events and experiences, including the USA's Semiquincentennial - the 250th anniversary of the Declaration of Independence. 

Peter was in the process of completing a significant expansion to the family home. Work gangs, dust and confusion populated the grounds and patio, plus large parts of the house, at times. It'll be an (even MORE) amazing home, when everything is (eventually) completed.

The two matches we got to see “live”, as neutrals, were: Iran versus New Zealand, in the Group stage; plus Canada versus South Africa, the first Group of 32 knock-out game. Details of which will follow, eventually.

Ticket costs for these (lesser?) games were still c. $500 and c. $600 respectively. Although, to be fair, they were far from being the cheapest (“Nose-Bleed”) seats in the house. I baulked at such costs, to be sure. And mostly only went along to these TWO games because my host saw them as Once-in-a-Lifetime Opportunities. Twice! You can judge the excellent stadium sightlines for yourself, in the images shared below.

The US$ vs. GB£ exchange rate during my trip, incidentally, (and for the analysts amongst us) was c. 4:3 – or 1.33 dollars to the pound. Which made £ST costs relatively easy to calculate. The last time I’d been in So-Cal was 18 years earlier; when the exchange rate had been running at more than TWO dollars to the pound. Then, I’d been able to flash the cash like a dying man. Less so, this time around.

LA's spectacular and futuristic So-Fi stadium, under glowering skies.

Just don't ask about the exorbitant car parking charges and political graft.

A lot of pre-tournament chatter had been about the egregious cost of match tickets, transport, etc. Of how "real fans" were being priced out of the game/tournament by a FIFA cash-grab. And that was largely true, of course. Yet a lot of Real Fans just sucked it up and shelled out huge funds on acquiring tickets. 

There was even a story (apocryphal, I hope!) of one Scotland fan selling his house to fund his trip – and to help drink Heathrow and Boston dry. So one could argue that the fund-raising side of FIFA had pitched the pricing formula “optimally”. In truth, we were lucky to spend so “little” on our seats.

California has some deep pockets. And large pockets of ex-pats from many of the world’s nations. So there was high demand for EVERY game to an extent that surprised the hell out of me. U.S. fans seemed prepared to shell out ANY amount of money to watch the host side. Treating every game as though it had the entertainment value and prestige of The Super Bowl, contrary to all empirical evidence.

Even the NZ game, for instance, was over-subscribed. Largely because so many “Persians” wanted to attend the match. Schizophrenically(?) hoping to both demonstrate against the country’s ruling regime AND support their players. They massively outnumbered the Kiwi fans present. We got something of a last-minute “steal”, as the bottom (comparatively) finally fell out of that over-inflated market. But that late purchase probably contributed to our local "difficulties" in gaining entry to the stadium. While the atmosphere at the game was officially “odd”, to say the least.

We finally got into the stadium late. Long story, but largely as a result of FIFA’s complex and poorly conceived, labyrinthine re-selling process. All (financial) roads lead to Geneva! Despite FIFA's portal not embedding smoothly and well with established resale sites (Stub Hub, etc.). All transfers had to be controlled by FIFA. But they couldn’t seem to handle the volume or complexity of trades, with accuracy.

Peter was convinced we’d already missed several goals, by the time we took our seats. In fact, we’d only missed the opening goal, scored by New Zealand. The Iranian fans, however, reached loud, high-pitched, and excited (errmm) Fever Pitch, pretty much every time their side had the ball. So it had seemed like the scoreline might have been 5-0, by the time we got in and took our seats. It ended up being a surprisingly entertaining 2-2 draw, played out between two poor sides. Neither of whom seemed likely to trouble the tournament's later stages. Not least with all the additional (political) local obstacles placed in the way of the Iranians participation.

An interior match view from So-Fi's (relatively) medium-priced seats.

Draught Beer inside the stadium, incidentally, cost the equivalent of a down-payment on a small, terraced house in Teesside (at c. £18 per pint). After which shocking realisation, and steep ascent to my seat, I needed defibrillation. Although I guess FIFA were working on the basis that, if you’d happily(?) paid upwards of $1,000 for a seat, you might be expected to pay just about ANYTHING for a beer, once you realised how far away from the pitch your seat was. Nobody seemed to be stopping the street traders from selling their food and drinks outside the stadium, however, as I hear was reported elsewhere. But people were mostly more intent on just getting into the stadium and to their seats, ASAP. I didn't explore the cost of food inside the stadium. We’d wisely filled our boots at Woody’s famous smoked rib house, in the mean streets of Inglewood. A district I probably wouldn’t venture anywhere near at night.

 
Different days - same shi(r)t!
Above Left: "Slap-up" local pre-match nosh, at no-frills Woody's smoke house. HIGHLY recommended.
Just don't ask how I avoided getting any sauce or debris on my pristine shirt.
Above Right: a typical patio "watch party"; rooting for England again. With beastly cold "Pines" West Coast IPA,
served from Peter's kegerator. Enjoyed here with Jeff and George. 

Those £18 ($24) pints of beer: good for preventing nose-bleeds - which was just as well!

Later in the tournament, Canada and S. Korea did us a favour. How? By failing to the top their respective tournament Groups (with Korea, in fact, unexpectedly exiting at the first group stage). Meaning that they were displaced from their seeded locations. Leaving many pre-tournament ticket purchasers with seats for the wrong games, in the wrong cities. Oh, the vagaries of World Cup tournament draws.

Our $600 tickets had been selling at more than TWICE that price, just the day before the game. But Peter's Nerves of Steel helped us pick up a relative bargain. As, eventually, enough S. Korea fans decided to cut their losses and ditch their tickets. Rather than watch what was, for them, a meaningless game. Presumably to an internal sound track of 'It Should Have Been Me', by Yvonne Fair. TBH, I still baulked at the cost; but "whad-are-ya-gonna-do?".

Again, the crowd and atmosphere was officially “ODD” (see above). As we found ourselves amidst a melange of fans from almost ALL over the world. Though mostly from S. Korea, Mexico, U.S.A., Canada and South Africa – in declining order of numbers present. There was little on the pitch for any nation to celebrate, alas.

ARE YOU READY? Pre-match razz-a-matazz, U.S. showbiz-style;
visible from Mars. "Couldn't you get flags and Jumbotrons any bigger?"

The result didn't match the pre-game build-up. A poor 1-0 win, ground out by a marginally superior Canada side, against a surprisingly lack-lustre S. Africa team. The latter seemed strangely intent on playing for a 0-0 draw, Extra-Time, and penalties. Something they were singularly incapable of doing, anyway. Although they did rather spoil the spectacle and the experience for most of the c. 72,000 present, on their self-imposed exit route, out of the tournament.

Half-time razz-a-matazz, as the LA Rams cheerleaders prepare to put on a show.
The Pharaoh kindly ensured you would enjoy a front row eye-full view - naturally.

The South Africans will have made few friends, with their unapologetic time-wasting and refusal to come out of their own half any more than was strictly necessary. They belatedly realised that this WOULD be necessary, only after going behind to a marginally better side, late on. The tail-end of the game was vastly superior, as a result. If only S. Africa had played like that for NINETY minutes (instead of just the last x19) they might well have progressed to the next stage. Poor tactics and game management, and a wasted opportunity. Although I guess it must have seemed to them like a wise approach, on paper, before the game.

The Pharaoh (right) with Peter, again; my buddy of over 40 years standing.
As you can see, we WERE still standing. "Literally!"

I found myself watching many of the televised games in the company of a wide variety of new friends. I saw the tournament’s first match (Mexico vs. S. Africa) for instance, on a large outdoor screen on Peter’s unfinished patio, with an excitable Mexican commentary. Sitting alongside the Mexican work gangs who had downed tools for the duration. I was something of a curiosity to them, in my Fulham FC shirt (c. 2002 vintage – see above, think Steed Malbranque, Brian McBride, Andy Cole, Lee Clark, Luís Boa Morte, et al). Until I made the obvious connection for them with Mexico’s #9 and penalty King, Raul Jimenez. Who’s been playing at The Cottage for the past couple of seasons. After which I became an honorary Mexican, regardless of my loud and shame-faced insistence that I “No hablo Español!”

A corporate al fresco watch party: France vs. Senegal, hosted at Redondo Beach's California Surf Club.
The Pharaoh (left, dressed for an INDOOR watch party, LOL!) graciously hosted by Mark (front, taking the
selfie) & Bank of America. With George (blue hat) and Irena - all of us sated, amidst the food and drink debris.

Sadly, I didn’t watch the England-Mexico game with my new Latin friends, due to the early evening kick-off timing. They'd long since packed up and headed home for The Big One, by then. We had good, friendly chats about the match afterwards, though. It having been one of the most exciting of the tournament, etc. A Walking Football buddy had contacted me during my trip, encouraging me to join him in Mexico City's Azteca stadium. But I’d already blown my budget to smithereens, by that point. Rob S. assures me he had a blast in the rain, as he partied with the locals and waited for the storm-delayed kick-off.

I wore my England shirt (see above, c. 2006 vintage – think Lampard and Gerrard, and that infamous not-a-goal) for the first of the live games I attended. And for many of the televised games (again, see above) - plus the baseball match. As well as in the street, bars, stores, and on the beach. It broke the “ice” and drew nothing but positive reactions. Some locals even realised and observed that I was on "the wrong coast". When teams other than England were playing, I'd wear one of a wide range of club shirts to watch the other nations. Including my old “Mark Kirby”, Enfield Town F.C. fat man special (no offence!).

MLB action: Required viewing, surely, to ensure full cultural immersion.
BUT Anaheim hosted Baltimore in a dour home defeat, to open the series.

After the Q-F stage, I reluctantly flew home. To confidently prepare myself for a France-England final. But you don’t want to hear the gory details of what happened next – do you?  Again? (See opening image - Ouch!) Water under the bridge, Old Boy! Don't risk reopening old wounds, and all that!

One final brief aside does arise, however. As I contemplate the presence of The Democratic Republic of the Congo in the finals. For the first time in decades! And faring no better than last time. DR Congo (or Doctor Congo, as I now call them - 🎝“You put de lime in de coconut and mix it all up…”🎝) is a country where I once spent a few happy (if sometimes unexpectedly and uncomfortably "exciting") months, when I wore a younger man’s clothes - and worked on a world famous beer brand.

The Young Pharaoh, "In Country", during Italia '90.

... and ready to come on at half-time?

It was called Zaire, then. I went there (and to nearby Rwanda and Burundi) working on recent product launch projects, during the Italia ’90 World Cup finals. Watching most of the games on TV, and extensively playing table football with a Dutch buddy (a whole other long story, all of its own) in bars and drinking dens across central Africa. I believe I was the only man in the whole region wearing an England shirt. And certainly the only one cartwheeling around a hotel bar, when Platt scored his late, over-the-shoulder, volleyed winner, against the colonial Mother country. But I digress. Again! Albeit nostalgically (and somewhat selectively) this time. Let's get back to a more recent Here and Now.

On Saturday, those expected windy, rainy conditions produced a flurry of goals against lowly visitors, Whitehawk . Starting as early as the 3^rd minute. Those who enjoy the fine details might like to know that the away side wore red (not white) and there were no hawks present / visible. Whitehawk have been based in East Brighton Park, on the edge of Kemptown, since their formation in 1945, at the end of WW2. The naming of their “Enclosed Ground” home carries its own long story – for another time. They would need to dig out their tin hats once more, against the barrage of an offensive onslaught, on the road, at one of the Isthmian Premier League’s more fancied sides.

Match day team sheet: for your inner Statto / Nerd.
Notice that nobody is sporting the unfashionable #13 shirt. The cowards!

A decent attendance of 604 included a larger smattering than usual of Newcastle United shirts. Why? Because the crowd was boosted by 2x coach loads of Newcastle fans, who had stopped off en route to White Hart Lane for the evening’s EPL fixture against Spurs. They had been specifically invited to attend. Cannily offered free entry, in return for spending their Toon Pounds in the club’s Butler’s Bar. It was widely agreed that this was better hospitality than their usual fare: two  hours spent unfruitfully sequestered in a motorway service station. Rumour has it they were provided with a police escort for their onward journey – and a translator.

Some of our very welcome, if slightly bemused, Geordie visitors enjoying refreshments with the locals
at Enfield Town's art deco-styled and revenue-generating (ahem!) "Café" [Bleu].

There was pressure and press from Billy Holland's home side, from the very start. Before long, some nice teamwork and interplay on the Enfield left paid off, resulting in a ball reaching Sam Youngs, just outside the 6-yard box. His first touch set the ball up for a volley, from c. 8 yards out. It was deflected into the ground by the flailing defender and looped high up over the stranded, back-pedalling GK. 1-0, and the first goal of many, we hoped. After which the visiting GK’s behaviour became erratic and frequently “what I call” unsportsman-like. Deliberately running into opposition players with the ball out of play, and various other shenanigans, did NOT endear him greatly to the vocal home fans behind his goal. Who duly spent the match cheerily reminding him that the deteriorating scoreline was “all his fault”. How we larrffed!

Enfield Town players (in white) celebrate that all-important, early opening goal.

Just a few minutes later, a ball was won “robustly” by Town’s #15, Declan Rydings, from an overly ambitious, marauding Whitehawk defender. Two swift passes forward allowed Avgoustidis to run into space and collect the ball c. 22 yards out, outpacing the central defender. He rounded the advancing GK (who dived at him, feet first - recklessly?!) leaving the latter flat on his backside. It looked for all the world like Rydings had done too much, when he jinked back inside, past the recovering right-back. But his curling, rising, right-footed effort across the goal found the top right-hand corner of the net. 2-0, with only 9 minutes gone. Home fans were licking their collective lips. This was what we’d come for!

Klevis Muca; never allowed to settle. Neither by Town's front line, nor their fans.

Despite that deficit, Whitehawk failed to heed the warning signs. In the 30^th minute, their GK and wing-backs initiated some intricate passing along the edge of their area, trying to play the ball out around Enfield’s high press. Bad idea!  A poor first touch put the left-back under pressure and his resulting attempted back-pass to the GK was as under-powered as his grey matter. A toe-in Enfield challenge pushed the ball towards Luke May-Parrott, who won a one-on-one challenge with the GK (who, had he come out more bravely, at full stretch, might have claimed the ball) rounding him for a two-yard left-footed tap in. 3-0 already! And it was starting to look clear why the visitors had only secured one point so far, from a possible twelve. They’d also picked up a couple of early yellow cards, for persistent bad (“agricultural”) fouling, within the first 25 minutes. This cooled their early enthusiasm further.

Spiritedly, however, Whitehawk didn't crumble immediately. They were, in fact, next to score. Winning a contested ball deep in Town territory, they completed a swift, sweeping move down the right, at the second attempt, as Seokjae Lee got on the end of a driven, low cross. In acres of space, untroubled by any suggestion of “marking”, he beat the over-exposed Dylan Thompson at his near post. 3-1 after 32 minutes. Game on? Not exactly.

We then entered a more stale-matey phase of play. With Town happy to absorb some pressure, while still looking threatening whenever they had the ball. It was a state of affairs that lasted through the hour mark, with plenty of profligate finishing, mostly from the home side.

The pantomime villain of the piece, however, continued in his role, to perfection. Routinely heckled from behind his goal, in the 64^th minute Whitehawk’s Klevis Muca mis-hit a routine, sweeper-keeper clearance from c. 25 yards out. Directing it into the chest of the onrushing May-Parrott. The rebound resulting from May-Parrott’s continued high press had enough momentum on it to beat the scrambling, retreating keeper across his own line. Muca ended up red-faced, tangled up at the foot of his own goal net, and signalling a need for the physio. Presumably to massage his ego and cover his blushes. Since he was soon enough back up on his feet to try and prevent the 4-1 scoreline from deteriorating any further.

Something he was, alas for Whitehawk, singularly unable to do. After several more missed chances from the hosts, May-Parrott slathered his own personal icing onto the cake by completing a hat-trick in the 88^th minute. Out-muscling and out-pacing his centre back to latch onto a perfectly-weighted through ball. 5-1, with pretty much just stoppage time to go. There would be no further scoring. Enfield (the scoring-est side in the league; and with the best GD) would find themselves sitting pretty in second, behind unbeaten Carshalton Athletic, after the season’s five games. Only ONE side will claim automatic promotion, at the end of this campaign. So strong early form could turn out to be all-important.

One final action shot beautifully summarises the day: as explained below...

Klevis Muca trudges disconsolately back towards his net to retrieve the ball yet again. Much to the amusement of Enfield's well-entertained home supporters. It was "All His Fault", remember! With not a single defender in the frame. Meanwhile, Town's players celebrate in front of their adoring fans - again! TBH, I could have flooded this report with photos of Town's players celebrating each of their many goals. But what would be gained by that? And this example does feature a bit of tasty floodlight "porn". Adding electric atmosphere to the occasion, as a gloomy late afternoon sets in on North London. Ahead of Tottenham's gloomy late kick-off against Newcastle. Those Geordies must have enjoyed their Big Day Out.

Brief match highlights are available on YouTube, here

Post Script
1) Just two days later, on Bank Holiday Monday, ETFC would add a tasty 1-4 away win, at mid-table Wingate & Finchley. Meanwhile Carshalton suffered a surprise 3-2 reverse at early strugglers, Three Bridges. Resulting in the thing of beauty that is the current league table – see below.

Click here for more league details

After six games (which might not sound like much, but it's already 14% of the season completed!) Enfield Town have now risen to the top of the table. Albeit, on Goal Difference. BUT can we remain the division's crème de la crème, now we've entered a dreaded "break in league action". To allow time and space for The Football Association Challenge Cup (you might known it as the FA Cup) 1st Round Qualifying. Towners will be hoping for a win, of course. But MORE importantly, also that it doesn't disturb our Chi, or our feng shui; rock the boat; erode our league momentum - or your cliché of preference. 

Town play away, at Frenford F.C. of Ilford, on Saturday. At stake, a potential revenue-raising run in the oldest national football competition in the world. The hosts are a significantly more junior club, but will hope to make the most of their home advantage. Although it would have been a new ground for me, I can't get along to this local tie, because...

2) I should also announce that I do plan to finally break my new season Fulham F.C. duck, this coming weekend, against Crystal Palace. Thanks to a generous season ticket lend by friend and irregular match buddy, Graham. An Old Skool gent of the very first order! Who presumably, as mentioned above, has found this early season fixture difficult to accommodate in his busy diary. Palace fan and Walking Football buddy, John B, will be joining me (in "the wrong end"). With both sides much-changed from last season, and struggling for goals and points, the result is not an easy one to call. Fingers crossed...

And so, for now, I bid you a Pharaonic Farewell, with a few added hieroglyphs. From somewhere near the bottom of English Football's pyramid!

All photos (except those of The Sessegnons and Fernández with Anderson) are provided courtesy of Peter and The Pharaoh.
Which could easily become the title of a great new children's picture book.

"It was the best of times, it was the worst of times ...

... it was the age of wisdom, it was the age of foolishness, it was the epoch of belief, it was the epoch of incredulity, it was the season of Light, it was the season of Darkness". It HAD BEEN the autumn of hope ... but now it was the spring of despair.

The English Premier League
Sunday 12th May, 2019, 3:00 pm kick-off - Craven Cottage
Fulham vs. Newcastle United
Referee: Kevin Friend
Attendance: 24,979

In fact, it had probably been "the age of (Norman) Wisdom", for those old enough to remember one of Marylebone's finest physical comedians. What better way to end the English Premier League season than in style, down on the river in The Chairman's Club, with a full-house attendance at Craven Cottage, watching some physical comedy of our own? In hindsight, watching paint or cement drying might have been more entertaining, but that's hardly the point ... is it? Many sincere thanks go to old buddies John Pritchard and Graham ("Plumber to the Stars") Morrissey, for their generous contribution towards getting two generations of the Harney family off the streets, at least for an afternoon. Great to sit near the half-way line with my (not much) older brother, Kevin. It was he, after all, who had started me on my roller-coaster Fulham ride, nearly 43 years ago. And now I would be watching them be formally relegated ... yet again.

Child's play? It's back to nursery school for Fulham's suck-a-thumb stars.

"IF AT FIRST YOU DON'T SUCCEED, TRY, TRY AGAIN". It's a phrase most of us probably first heard at school. And when it comes to managerial appointments, it's advice that's been keenly adopted by Fulham FC's board, this year. First utterance of the phrase is ascribed to Robert the Bruce, king of Scotland, supposedly inspired by the dogged determination of a spider, constantly rebuilding its web, in the Bruce's cave hide-out. He is meant to have used this catchy, home-spun spider analogy to motivate his army, ahead of their narrow victory over the English at Bannockburn, in 1314. Just like Mel Gibson's famous Scottish Referendum documentary, "Braveheart", the ascription of this phrase to The Bruce is, no doubt, 100% sound and historically accurate.

Its first written usage, however, has been more authoritatively traced to the 'Teacher's Manual', written by American educator Thomas H. Palmer - and to the novel for younger readers 'The Children of the New Forest', by Frederick Maryat (the latter lived and was schooled in Enfield for a while, y'know - as was John Keats). An updated version of its central idea was later popularised by US military leader Colin Powell: "There are no secrets to success. It is the result of preparation, hard work and learning from failure." ("The Leadership Secrets of Colin Powell", 2003 by Oren Harari - although I'm not sure just how much of a Leadership "Secret" that little gem was, tbh).

Why should we care about all this? Because if the central principle of these adages is true, then Fulham FC should emerge back up through the EPL's trapdoor with no trouble at all, in very short order, even stronger than ever ... given the vast amount of failure they have delivered recently - and given all of the learnings that surely must, therefore, have been gained by one and all. An associated adage (this one ascribed to Quentin Crisp, c.1968) is, however, that "If at first you don’t succeed, failure may be your style." Fulham fans the world over (both of them) will surely be hoping that this is NOT the case.

How can one reflect meaningfully on such an unrewarding season as Fulham have just experienced? You certainly have no time to lick your self-inflicted wounds. In the crazy, money-go-round world of contemporary professional football, you must rebuild and be ready for pre-season training in just a few short weeks' time. You could also do worse than simply following the advice of  Jerome Kern and Dorothy Fields, from 1936:

"Will you remember the famous men

Who had to fall to rise again?

So take a deep breath,

Pick yourself up,

Dust yourself off,

Start all over again.

I'll get some self assurance

If your endurance is great.

I'll learn by easy stages,

If you're courageous..."

We will all learn the truth - and soon enough! Meanwhile, in this article The Telegraph gave some thought and time recently to the status and ambitions of the EPL's purgatorial/'yo-yo' clubs. "... there are Fulham fans who may feel some degree of relief that they have been put out of their misery. The Cottagers were the great entertainers of last season’s Championship, but there is no room for fun at the bottom end of the PL".

"Hello, my name's Calum": a group of complete strangers introduce themselves to each other, ahead of the day's on-pitch action.

There's a pet theory for pretty much every single person who cares to offer an opinion on their club's current malaise, and why should I prove any different? I blame poor boardroom management. A lot of the Premier League 'windfall' money was spent enthusiastically, expensively assembling a new squad of untested players without first giving established players a meaningful chance at proving their own capabilities in the top flight. Given that they'd been good enough to gain promotion, frankly, how much worse could those twelve good men and true have fared than their replacements? Anyone reviewing the team sheet below against the list of those on show in the Wembley play-off final, will find only 3 starters in common, with a 4th from that earlier sunny day warming the subs bench (US international and Bolton Wanderers escapee, Tim Ream) - and signally failing to get off it.

What seems most likely to succeed next term, IMHO, is a re-familiarisation with the previous season's three-man midfield. A triumvirate which took the club on an unexpected (and, indeed, unprecedented) club-record 23-game unbeaten run, in the second tier. They say that what's needed to escape the Championship, is players with Championship experience. So, presumably, we need look no further, then. The guys who were in large part responsible for that success (along with January loan signing Mitrovic and the teenaged Sessegnon) were Tom Cairney, Kevin McDonald and Stefan Johansen. Not only are all three still 'on the books' at the club, but Captain Cairney has just penned a 5-year extension to his contract. He is the man around whom next season's Championship title challenge will surely be built - by newly appointed permanent Head Coach, Scott Parker.

To be fair to the many nay-sayers, Cairney has been only a shadow of his former self, this season, in part through injury. While we've seen precious little of the other two. Edged out of the side by highly-paid and widely-trumpeted, supposed "marquee" signings, who, broadly speaking, simply failed to 'turn up'. Surplus to requirements, Johansen has been out on loan at West Brom since January, after making just 12 league appearances for the whites. In a case of that bizarre, mirror-imaging which football so often provides, Johansen has recently been in the midst of his loan club's efforts to make it back into the Premier League. Their route back ended after extra-time and penalties, in their play-off game second leg against Aston Villa. That's the same opponent whom Johansen helped Fulham to edge past in last season's Championship Wembley play-off final, remember. This year, success for him would have meant painfully(?) replacing his 'parent' club in the top flight. Although it seems, ultimately, his heart wasn't quite in that particular fight. Meanwhile, Kevin McDonald has managed only a cameo role of 13 appearances - with no option for a loan spell of his own. All three are internationals, with Premier League AND Championship experience and should start next season's challenge relatively 'fresh'. None of them was too much fancied, after the influx of what SHOULD have been £100mn plus of top-class, pure pedigree, footballing talent. Hmmmmmm ...

In its review of the EPL year (tellingly entitled "flops of the season") The Guardian called out one of those over-priced Cottage summer signings, Jean-Michael Seri, for particular opprobrium: "Fulham must feel short-changed".

Fulham players prepare to sign off in style from the Premier League, with a final day goal-fest. That aim probably didn't work out quite as they'd intended. They're shown practising their devastating scoring techniques in front of the famous "Johnny Haynes" Stevenage Road stand and The Cottage, in end-of-season sunshine. There was even a touch of floodlight 'porn', for those who like such things. That was about as good as it got, for non-Geordies.

Well let's at last get on with talk about this final (for the next 15 months, at least) EPL match-day, shall we? After all the usual, choreographed, pre-match paraphernalia, hype and nonsense - the portentous music, flag-waving, loud team selection announcements, etc. - at "Fortress Fulham", our entire season was very quickly summarised and paraphrased in the first meaningful attack of this game, against what was a fairly ordinary-looking "Toon" side, and by its first shot on target. My own season of following The Cottagers was summed up by my developing a massive blister on my left foot, resulting from the long walk along the river, from Hammersmith tube station. It was surely a sign from the gods, or the Bow Bells: "Turn again, Harn-ington! ..."

As the BBC's "Match of the Day" commentator, Mark Scott, rightly observed: "... No-one's picking up Jonjo Shelvey." Initially invisible to all of the men in white, apparently, Mawson did pick him up eventually. He covered all of 12 yards to do so, but only AFTER the Newcastle man had received the ball deep, unmarked at a corner, taken a controlling touch, advanced into the apex of Fulham's penalty area and unleashed a dipping, driven volley - over and wide of the flailing home 'keeper, Rico. Typically "Fulham-ish", it was the first goal Shelvey had scored in over a year - but it was far from being the first one Fulham had conceded in that time. It was further proof, if any were still needed, that the personnel in this Fulham side and effective zonal marking do NOT mix well. I hope Scotty was taking copious notes.

Scott Parker (bottom right) belatedly tries to squeeze out of frame, as Fulham fruitlessly take the early initiative, against their guests.

Summer signing Rico was at fault for the second goal (it followed just 90 seconds later) if not entirely for the first. He spilled the rebound from a routine low save onto a veritable plate and into the path of Pérez, for a far easier finish than the first. The score was 0-2 within the first 12 minutes, and there was to be no way back for Fulham, or their embattled (and embittered?) fans. 

"Local Hero" ... no, the one on the left.

You can read a match report here. After all, there's little point in my re-writing all the rest of the gory details. What I will tell you, though, is that I mis-spent the half-time break talking bubble perms, club goal-scoring records and some of the defects of these current manifestations of Fulham Football Club and its playing squad, with a former man-in-white who's 'in the know' - Gordon "Ivor" Davies (see above and below). Not only did Gordon insist on having his photo taken with his new favourite Walking Footballer, he even made a point of signing his page in my programme (see below). How we could have done with a few of his 159 league and cup club goals in this match. FIVE of them, to be precise. Final score: Fulham 0 - 4 Newcastle United ... ouch - but at least the early summer sun was shining down gloriously on London's oldest professional football club!

With "very best wishes" from me to you, too; even if it has mostly tended to seem like "the worst of times", recently, in SW6. Your Fabulous Football Pharaoh is finally signing off until next season. Or, perhaps, at least until I can summon the energy to bring you some close-season thoughts on other recent games my regal, omnipotent and immortal entourage has attended, at Craven Cottage and Donkey Lane.

"Till I die" might be a bit extreme, but this 2-minute video of Fulham Folklore, featuring another fairly famous Welshman (Keith Allen) should be worth a look, for true fans of The Beautiful Game. ⚽

That Familial London Derby - and yet another 'must-win' match

The English Premier League
Sunday 20th January, 2019, 4:00 pm kick-off - Craven Cottage

My son Callum intimated to me, back in November, that he'd like to watch his team (Spurs) play my team (Fulham) at Craven Cottage, this season. So I duly bought ludicrously over-priced tickets (at seventy-five of your English pounds each - it's an "A-game", y'know!) as part of his (and my) Christmas present. Another perfectly good game originally scheduled for a regular Saturday 3 pm slot, slightly spoiled by the overridingly complicit commercialism of the Premier League's servile re-scheduling of matches for TV. I still thought we could make a day of it, however, by having a relaxed Sunday lunch together, taking a stroll around South-West Central London, and visiting a gallery or museum before finally making our way to the game. It sounded like a nice idea to have some quality father-and-son time together, doing blokey stuff. At the time of initial planning, I had not reckoned on picking up a nasty and aggressive virus, over Christmas - and still being rather run-down, as a result, for dealing with a demanding Dad day. This is another negative aspect of the planning required, for fans actually attending our modern game, in the flesh. Long gone, those days of deciding last-minute, on the day, whether or not to go along to watch your 'boys'; simply handing over your shillings at the turnstiles, with everybody else.

Cal is a former student of History and Law. So a trip to a museum coupled with this fixture was especially resonant for him. As a historian, I hoped he would particularly appreciate spending some research time at the historic Craven Cottage stadium (home to London’s oldest professional club) with a fine view from our "Riverside" seats of England’s oldest surviving football league stand (the Johnny Haynes stand, opposite ours, on the Stevenage Road). The current Riverside Stand is expected to become “History” soon, itself. It is scheduled for redevelopment at the end of this season. Assuming the club's board don't wince and baulk at the proposed cost, in the face of a potential return whence we came, to The Championship. Whichever way the stand redevelopment plans go, the situation seemed to suggest that Callum could be amongst the last Spurs fans ever to sit in it, to watch his team play. Does it get any better than that, historically speaking?

Our classic (but expensive) view of footballing history ... possibly in more ways than one, come the end of this season.

We started with a Sunday steak lunch on Sloane Square, with a sunny, postprandial stroll to the venue for our cultural dessert: the National Army Museum. After which we also took on an 'amuse-bouche', in the shape of The Phene (Cal's choice: a posho's pub, as featured heavily in the low-brow TV show, "Made in Chelsea" ... Hugh Grant was NOT in the building). We then disdained the District Line and took a lift to the Fulham ground with Mohammed, from Mogadishu. He is an uber-Uber driver who, now, comes highly recommended. This last cheat saved us a good chunk of time and allowed us to soak up some 15 minutes of pre-match atmosphere inside the stadium, before the main event got going, under early evening floodlights.

Later, that old devil moon (see photo, below) would turn itself into a super-sized blood orange, under the influence of a total solar eclipse. Giving the 24/7 rolling news media an uncontroversial item with which to briefly sate their appetite for frenzied, repetitive and uninformative "news" coverage. For now, though, they would have to squeeze as much mileage as possible from the potential permutations of London's latest Premier League derby match. The questions for Fulham fans were: could our team eclipse (see what I did, there?) its pre-match billing and carry their A-game into play against 3rd-placed Spurs? And did they even have an A-game? It has been hard to tell, in recent months. Although the inflated face-value price of our tickets claimed that they indeed did, on paper at least.

Despite him not being renowned for his love of Fulham FC, Callum's and my journey brought to mind some historical, hundred year-old words, from anglophile Yankee wordsmith T.S. Eliot:

"Let us go then, you and I,
When the evening is spread out against the sky ...
Let us go and make our visit."

We had gone and made our visit; our pilgrimage to the shrine of London's earliest professional football. As had Tottenham Hotspur; both their team and a larger number of their fans than was strictly allowed. They did so, however, without the preferred company of the likes of 'Arry Kane, Son Heung-min, and Moussa Sissoko. Despite this, some punters, whom I hoped were being overly-optimistic, were still predicting a 0-4 scoreline - and Fulham were 5-1 ON for a home win, with the bookies. Did they not know that we had signed Ryan Babel? Many of the visiting Spurs fans had found a way of infiltrating the Riverside Stand seats. Crowd segregation at Premier League football grounds is clearly NOT, in reality, as well managed as it might claim/seem to be, on paper. In the unlikely event of a 4-0 scoreline, could there possibly be some old school, North vs. South London argy-bargy on the cards?

Some choreographed pre-match waving of big flags: what's that all about?

In a pre-match interview with The Observer newspaper, former Liverpool winger Ryan Babel stated he believes he has unfinished business in the EPL and wants to help Fulham survive. The 32-year-old had joined Fulham just that week on a short-term deal, until the end of the season. He has revitalised his career with Besiktas recently and won back his place in the Netherlands national squad. He says he still has "a burning ambition to prove some people in this country wrong". Let's hope he can deliver on that threat / promise. The same article states that Babel’s only previous experience of a relegation dogfight came in 2016, when he scored four times in five starts to help Deportivo La Coruna avoid relegation. Which would be a great model to follow. If he could only repeat that feat in our cosy little corner of South-West London, then I'd be perfectly happy.

The usual pre-match pretence of Premier League friendship and fair play ... before reality, inevitably, bites!

Keeping the "literary" theme going, club captain Tom Cairney features in an interview and his own notes in (and on the cover of) the match day programme. If he were to play against Spurs, it said, he would be making his 150th club appearance, on his 28th birthday. So, naturally, he did ... NOT play. His dialled-in contribution to the programme, however, was built upon the shoulders of giant clichés. Including: "we had a word at half-time"; "we tried to play more football"; "a win in a game like this could turn our season around"; [Babel has] "given the boys a real lift ... someone with his pedigree"; "hopefully he can hit the ground running"; "it's the best league in the world". Bingo! That's the whole set, right there. A full card of cliché contributions.

You can read the detailed match reports and what passes for sports 'journalism' on the game elsewhere, along the lines of: "battling Fulham" and "heart-breaking defeat" (e.g. at the FFC website; or in BBC coverage). The true tale of the game though was, in essence, simple enough to read: one team NOT taking its chances and failing to concentrate on the task at hand for 90+ minutes. The same team too content to sit back and try to protect a ever-vulnerable one-goal lead. An air kick (Tim Ream); a failure to read the flight of the ball, or even to get off the ground, to intercept a threatening cross (Denis Odoi); and a failure to track back in the dying seconds (Joe Bryan) were all Spurs needed, in the end, to upset the apple cart, spring the locks and "get out of jail free". When Fulham had, in fact, had the chances (including a blatant, stonewall, shirt tug of a penalty on Mitrović) and should really have got themselves 2 goals ahead in the first half - and "out of sight". You see, the Fabulous Football Pharaoh can do hackneyed clichés with the best of them, as and when he feels the need.

Oh, the result? It was the best of times, it was the worst of times. The narrowest of 1-2 defeats for Fulham, having deservedly lead for a large chunk of the game. At least it meant there would be no North vs. South London argy-bargy, after all. With no third goal looking likely in the match, we had been slowly heading towards the exit just as Spurs broke down the left, in the 93rd minute. Excruciating - and an undeserved kick in the thingies after a highly commendable, stalwart, under-dog, rear-guard action. Two 'schoolboy' defensive errors = two goals for the opposition ... for the the second week running. It would seem that Fulham have just not acclimatised, still, to the increased threat level of PL strike forces. Even Spurs' relatively blunted one.

In his programme notes, Cairney had shared the view that "if we hadn't won [the Championship play-off final, against Villa] the whole team would have been broken up". There's still plenty of time and opportunity for that though, come the end of THIS season, Tom. Time to start learning lessons and turning the talk into action, eh lads?!

Photographic evidence that it really HAD been that close a game, for the most part.

With all best wishes from your Fabulous Football Pharaoh, until next time. Which may yet be prompted by fellow keen sports fan George Lewis's planned February UK work trip, from the USA. An opportunity and excuse, if ever there was one, for a surfeit of soccer action, beers, fine wines, cigars, malt whiskies and old 'war' stories. Bring it on, George!

“It's Been a Long, a Long Time Coming ...”

(hear Sam Cooke's - soulful rendition here, as you read on) ... that title, above, refers equally to both this latest cultural contribution from 'Enfield Towers' AND also the FA’s long-overdue experiment with VAR.

Welcome back, Sports Fans! Did you miss me? They say that a week is a long time in politics. So what would ‘they’ make of my 9-month football blog hiatus; and about my apparent sabbatical from the terraces? Those 9 months would be long enough to bring yet another unwanted, high-rise, low-rent teenage Enfield pregnancy to full term … So this next, long-overdue, pregnant post had better be a good one! I’ll let YOU decide on the truth (or otherwise) of that, in due course …

The Isthmian Premier League

The last time you heard from me on this page, Enfield Town were bound for last season’s Isthmian Premier League Play-Offs; and I was taking things easy, with my broken right foot ensconced in a rehabilitation boot [see previous post, below]. Well the boot is now long-gone (although it did bring a premature end to my season of reporting) and The Towners exited those keenly anticipated play-offs rather meekly, at the first stage, away to the mighty Dulwich Hamlet. Since when, their then-manager (Brad Quinton) has also exited; in his case, stage left, pursued by almost his entire squad of ETFC players. Yes, Braintree Town of the National League made Bradley (and, in turn, many of our regular starters) an offer they apparently couldn’t refuse: to have a go at the next level up in the football pyramid - Tier 6. Enter, in Quinton’s place, “the experienced Andy Leese … [along] with former Premier League star Darren Purse, as his assistant” – facing up to the unenviable task of rebuilding a Premier League squad, virtually from scratch.

  

"Leese and Purse": somewhat surprisingly, perhaps, they turn out NOT to be an Edinburgh-based body-snatching, ruffian double-act. Sports fans with good memories may recall Mr. Purse from his blue-remembered days in top flight English football (source: ETFC website)

It turns out that 9 months is precisely long enough to change the club management team (and an entire playing squad); and to start rebuilding one non-league football club’s form, momentum and reputation. During those 9 months, fear not, gentle fan, I have been attending plenty of Enfield Town games (from pre-season friendlies, to league action and FA Cup runs); but I just haven’t had the front to impose my recent scribblings on you, my loyal reader (nor to impose my reflections on a whole new batch of players and managing staff, without getting to grips with them, myself, first).

I’ve also been a little distracted by becoming involved in the early stages of a new community club, within the Enfield Town family of Football Clubs. As a new, Over-50’s Walking Football team has come into tentative being – under the guidance of coach Ram Ismail. This new outfit operates under the tag-line “Enfield Town FC - Football For All Abilities”; and anybody who has ever seen me play will know this to be a very apt descriptor.

An hour's "comeback" activity, on the London Borough of Enfield’s newest FIFA Approved 3G playing surface, not only unleashes my "Inner Pele". It also yields more than 2.5 miles of exercise, apparently – “a good walk ruined”, as Sir Winston Churchill (or Gary Oldman) might have said, in his Darkest Hour. I hope to start bringing  you exciting coverage of action from ETFC’s 1^st XI play-off run-in again, very soon; and perhaps also the occasional view from inside their new, Over-50’s walking side, too. What has really prompted me to finally put e-pen back to e-paper today, however, is a little matter from the more rarefied air at the top end of English football’s ‘pyramid’…

The English Premier League

Keen sports fans amongst us may already be aware that video assistant refereeing (the somewhat Star Wars™ -sounding “VAR”) made its debut in competitive English football last week. Although that was ‘only’ in an FA Cup 3^rd round match, between Brighton and Crystal Palace (on Monday 8th January, 2018). For the record, Brighton won the tie by 2 goals to 1 and advanced to take on mighty Middlesbrough at The Riverside, later this month. That first use of “VAR” was soon followed up by its deployment in two equally meaningless cup fixtures, the same week: namely, the EFL Cup semi-final first legs between Manchester City & Bristol City and between Chelsea & Arsenal.

The BBC reported that, so far, “the reaction from managers, players and fans appears broadly positive”; but, they hadn’t reckoned with The Guardian’s nay-saying Barney Ronay. In an effort to be predictably controversial-ist (as ever) Ronay seems to have taken his finger off the pulse of “The People” and taken up a 'questionable' stance. Although his column appeared in Saturday’s “Guardian”, I suspect he already had most of his copy prepared very soon after the final whistle at Stamford Bridge on the Thursday … if not before.

After launching a thinly-veiled attack on the supposedly self-serving, evil fraternity of referees, Ronay focuses his attention on other negatives (it’s a proper, low-key rant!). For him, VAR (the high-tech, evil spawn of Darth Vader) supposedly “diminishes the experience of watching in the stadium”. That shouldn’t bother him too much, though; after all, he is richly rewarded for his time spent in the media centres of our major sports stadia. And, anyway, what proportion of the total audience does he imagine is represented by the meagre crowds actually attending those stadia, for each televised fixture taking place in them? There may be sound reasons to question the value and principles of VAR; but a rare pause in a game, for reflection after a critical incident, is surely NOT one of them. If the audience for a televised game were, say, a mere million viewers, then the 11,464 souls who would fill AFC Bournemouth’s ludicrously-named “Vitality Stadium” to the rafters would represent barely more than 1% of the total audience. OK, so I may have gone to a deliberate extreme by quoting the gate at a ‘tiddler’ club; but even Old Trafford’s maximum crowd (the largest in the EPL) would account for little more than 7.5% of a one million audience. Bear in mind also, though, that the minimum global spectator-ship for a Red Devils' match would, surely, be many times that paltry million figure. The Surrey viewing stats alone might hit the million mark.

Corry Evans: deemed to have grown an extra, invisible hand in his midriff. No doubt Northern Ireland's fans would have been upset by the notion of waiting, in order to see this infamous injustice adjudicated via video technology.

[See Ronay's original effort in full, here: Referees: the emotional game]

Mr. Ronay misguidedly goes on to whine that “the number of actual injustices, as opposed to disagreements, is minuscule”. He may be right on this; but it’s a moot point. Since it is not the number of the apparent inequities but, rather, the scale of their impacts that tilts the balance of Lady Justice’s famous footballing scales - and undermines the probity of The Game. It was as I reached this point in my spluttering rejection of all things Ronay-esque, that it finally dawned on me that our Barney might have written his piece before Friday. For instance, before the announcement that Romanian FIFA World Cup™ referee, Ovidiu Hategan, had belatedly, publicly accepted what the rest of the world (or, at least, the world beyond Switzerland’s borders) had already known for the previous 2 months: that his decisive handball decision against Corry Evans, in Northern Ireland’s crucial play-off eliminator, was patently wrong ... incorrectly giving the Swiss the opportunity to score the only goal of a two-legged decider, from 'the spot’; and yielding them unjust access to the supposed glories(?) of Russia’s tarnished World Cup finals, next summer. It was a refereeing error so heinous that Corry Evans was later moved to apologise for his wife’s heartfelt (ahem!) “tribute” to the Romanian ref. The tabloid media described her emotional outburst as a “racist rant” when, to be fair, all she did was summarise the feelings of most of Northern Ireland’s football fan-base – and those of most neutral observers. He ‘apologise[d] unreservedly’ for her publicly calling Hategan a “Romanian gypsy count!” At least that’s a version of her words I can more safely reproduce here. Perhaps Mrs. Evans was thinking of C*unt Dracula? See more coverage of that infamous World Cup Faux Pas, here.

"Should Have Gone to Specsavers?" - the linesman's entirely unimpeded view of Doucouré's scoring style was apparently insufficient for him to award a handball, against ... his brother-in-law(?). There's clearly no way Southampton fans would have put up with a delay, while this "goal" was reassessed.

Ronay’s embarrassingly erroneous conclusions were also clearly drawn up ahead of Saturday’s games; following which, The Guardian’s witty headline summed up the nonsense of yet another massive, costly, refereeing howler, made without the assistance of VAR: “Abdoulaye Doucouré Hands Watford Controversial Draw” [see what they did, there? Check out The Guardian's full Watford-Southampton match report, here].

Is it in any way just vaguely possible that VAR might have cleared up either of these recent injustices? And many others, too? And, if so, in this era of football-as-big-business, shouldn't that clarification process perhaps finally be allowed to outweigh the perceived negative of slightly delayed personal enjoyment, for the prawn sandwich brigade who are actually in attendance; the less than 1% watching from their over-priced seats in our soul-less, named-for-a-sponsor, edge-of-town stadia?

Make YOUR views vociferously known - comment on this post and tell the world what YOU think. When it comes to VAR, are you Barney's "Bestie" -
or, like me, a Ronay Rejector?