Thoughts on Rodgers

This Summer sees the return to action of two David Brents; while Ricky Gervais resumes his role as the amicably awful office manager from The Office in the one-off Life on the Road, the spiritual personification of Brentology Brendan Rodgers returns to football management with my club, Celtic. His time in the Premier League with Swansea and Liverpool was a proverbial rollercoaster, which established a managerial legacy of impressive pragmatism and fluid, attacking football, but will be perennially marred by Liverpool’s title charge literally slipping out his grasp through, arguably, complete misfortune. The baggage of perceived narcissism and ludicrously inane soundbites also sullies what is an objectively strong resume. Conversely, his occasional lapses into caricature belies his sincerity and directness, a refreshing anecdote to the decaffeinated corporatism of modern football discourse. While his enigmatic character certainly promises off-field entertainment and drama in Scottish football next season – corroborated of course by the re-emergence of our city rivals from their murky, lower-league tomb – his on-field record is intractably the basis of such inspired optimism in the Celtic support.

Let’s be unequivocally clear; the signing of Rodgers as manager exhibits not only a remarkable coup for Celtic and Scottish football, but a laudable and bluntly necessary statement of intent from the Celtic board following a year of manifest disappointment, universal dissatisfaction, and the genuine fear of regression. While rumours circulate that the sly jibes from Rangers executives following our dismal Scottish Cup semi-final defeat was the principal stimulant for contacting Rodgers, the context is largely irrelevant. He’s here, that’s what matters; regardless of the insipid and uninformed analysis vomited up by deluded Talksport anglocentrists and 5 Live Neanderthals. Paralleled with the “Moneyball” lite appointment of Ronny Deila two years ago, Rodgers represents a marquee victory, an achievement reflected in the reportedly substantial surge in season ticket sales. Half an hour after Rodgers’s appointment was confirmed my dad messaged me affirming that he’d decided to renew, an apt synecdoche of thousands of disillusioned fans suddenly enlightened. We needed a spark, badly, and boy did we get one. Celtic fans are enormously excited about hiring such a high-profile figure, and the natural publicity his stature brings to the club. While the reputed £15 million transfer budget remains intangible, Rodgers’s singular signing whiffs of an unexpectedly dogged ambition, on a scale not seen in at least a decade, since the likes of Bellamy and Juninho were brought in for O’Neill’s final season. Incidentally, surely Rodgers symbolises the most ubiquitous figure to come to Scottish football since O’Neill himself?

Ignoring that estranged bugbear at the back of my mind that his tenure could prove disastrous, I spend much of my free (and work) time theorising how Rodgers’s team will shape up. There’s a fantastic, in-depth exploration of our potential structure on TicTactic, which I’ve linked to below[1], which suggests validly that Rodgers will implement his archetypal 4-3-3 formation. His quintessential style invokes hard-working wingers, overlapping full-backs and a dynamic midfield trio who flit from attack to defence instantaneously. A consolidation of Deila’s pressing, intensively direct game with a more sophisticated possession aesthetic will allow laborious ballplayers like McGregor – whose recent move to a deep-lying central midfield role is fruitfully redolent of Samaras’s switch from striker to winger under Lennon – and Armstrong (assuming both Biton and Johansen leave) to thrive, while Tierney and Janko effortlessly eschew the required full-back vitality. In my opinion, supposing 4-3-3 is our adopted preliminary tactic, the real position of concern is left-wing. Mackay-Steven isn’t good enough, and while I’d love to see Christie start regularly it would evidently be a case of shoehorning. A left winger, a target-man alternative to Griffiths, and some defensive backup should ideally be our transfer priorities; that along with rigorous trimming of our hideously bloated squad. With Rodgers’s record of progressing younger players delicately but meaningfully, perhaps I’m most excited about what he can do with the likes of Christie, Tierney, Janko, Roberts, and our schoolbus-load of academy promise. These are players with great potential; and while a few grew demonstrably under Deila, a few chronically stagnated, so Rodgers’s relationship with these youngsters will be a particularly interesting narrative to follow.

Besides his football, Rodgers – although principally a Sheffield Wednesday fan – comes from a devoutly Celtic family, and has a resolute respect for some of our most beloved club legends; his reverential, touching comments about Tommy Burns probably the most palpable. Dissimilar from the traditional and contentious “Celtic men” who so ardently divide the support – men who are undoubtedly fans of the club, but men overshadowed by their lack of managerial credibility and the pervasive musk of ultimate self-interest – in that he never played for the club or explicitly affiliated himself with us previously beyond his backstory. In amalgamating his fundamentally Celtic heritage with his pedigree for attacking football and developing homegrown players, he symbolises the hypothetically ideal Celtic manager. Above all else he understands the significance of managing Celtic. This is a club with an inherent politics and communalism to it – with an ideological identity that extends far beyond football – that it is utterly imperative our manager integrates with. Rodgers seems to not only appreciate this, but revel in it.

When Rodgers was presented to a Parkhead crowd of over 10,000 last Monday, he was met with an animated roar; not only of enthusiasm and buoyancy, but of immutable contentment, like a kid on Christmas morning opening every present he demanded from Santa. We’ve got what we wanted, and it feels bloody good. He may be David Brent, but he’s our David Bren

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[1] http://www.tictactic.co.uk/brendan-rodgers-hold-your-head-up-high/

Deila's Lions

He's back.

It’s been a while since I’ve written anything constructive about Celtic. In fact, it was the last time Celtic crashed ignominiously out of Europe thanks to our royal thumping from Juventus in 2013. It’s two years later, and Celtic have comprehensively transformed. Out of our starting eleven Brown, Izaguirre, and Matthews, are all that remain from the squad we justifiably venerated for gliding through the media’s favourite idiom, THE CHAMPIONS LEAGUE GROUP OF DEATH. Our transfer policy has, this January excepted, seemingly altered, favouring the economically prudent if frustratingly unambitious preference for loan-with-option-to-buy deals to the Moneyball risk of buying young rough diamonds. Obviously, the most dramatic change has been in our manager, and consequently our footballing values. The decision to hire Ronny Deila was understandably hailed at the time as an extension of that Moneyball strategy; he was mostly unknown and, to employ the deplorable rhetorical position of Premier League championers, untested in a truly high pressure environment. Yet, similarly to our successful Moneyball players like Forster, Hooper, van Dijk and Ki, a superficial flurry of research revealed indications of possible greatness. His unprecedented win of the Norwegian league with the provincial side Stromgodset in 2013, which a Norwegian journalist compared to Kilmarnock winning the SPFL, attested to his ability in smashing through the glass ceilings which the purely financial hegemony of modern football so determinedly keeps unbroken. His infamy for developing young players to achieve well beyond their potential, and from plying out the best out of truthfully average players, endeared also. Above all else he explicitly, on and off the field, proclaimed his thirst for attacking football. Passing football, pressing football, running football, goals football. He, without realising it, had articulated the Celtic way. On paper, we were a perfect match.

However, Ronny’s Celtic career started… poorly, shall we say. We were inconsistent domestically, allowing Hamilton to top the table; we were inundated with hapless, PL-reject loan signings who’ve made as much of an impact at Celtic Park as a shoehorn; and we humiliatingly tumbled out of the CL qualifiers… twice. It appeared that the players weren’t willingly buying into Ronny’s system, or lacked the fitness and skill to do so, and that the board were so uncertain of Ronny’s tenure that they didn’t spend a penny until the final day of the transfer window. The media, propelled by a few best-remained-nameless ex-players, and some groups of Celtic fans, were calling for his head after two months. It looked like Ronny was more Mo Bangura than Victor Wanyama. But, even then, at the risk of sounding a self-righteous, I-told-you-so, I-always-believed, twat, I saw signs of something beautiful. Every third of fourth game, it just clicked, and we were breathtaking. A fully fit Craig Gordon and Stefan Johansen, the eponymous Deila player, held together a team that was gradually learning, especially in the Europa League group stages. The indications of real progress began in Winter. Over December and January we were visibly fitter, more confident, and more organised, and were winning dependably. This is now a Celtic team with the fortitude and self-belief to win every match they play. The board were evidently as impressed by these developments as the fanbase were, and this January saw Commons sign a new contract, two fantastic – and cheap – acquisitions from Dundee United in Armstrong and Mackay-Steven (being young, hard-working, level-headed, domestic players they represented the archetypal Deila signing) and not a single (decent) player was sold. The transfer window was a corroboration of the optimism which surrounded the club. It seemed the board were finally backing Deila’s vision for New Celtic. And then last night happened.

He's just so captivatingly handsome.

Okay let’s get the negatives out the way first. All three goals were defensive calamities and I experienced agonising flashbacks to Deila’s September/October Celtic. They were mistakes uncharacteristic of our current form, and it felt momentarily like we had regressed after such monumental improvement. It was just typical that arguable POTY Craig Gordon was at fault for two of them. But these things happen, and Gordon’s honesty about it, and the fans’ response in singing his name, was inspiring.

Now, to the good stuff. Relative to most, I’m green as hell to supporting Celtic. Being twenty, my oldest memory of experiencing fanhood was my wearing a 02/03 era away kit with Larsson on the back. But this is the most confident, self-assured, and offensive, Celtic side I’ve seen. After our excellent first goal, (what composure from Matthews) we played some scintillating football. We outplayed Inter, who relied, admittedly rather effectively, on the pace of Shaqiri and Palacio on the counter. Medel and Guarin couldn’t handle the tenacity of Brown or the languid poise of Biton in the middle of the park, and our attacking midfielders ran their back four absolutely ragged. How exciting is it to see young Scottish talent casually take on Italian and Argentinian internationals, and absolutely rinse them? The second half was even better, if even more exasperating. We pounded them, having chance after tormenting chance, but yet we remained unflappable. Under pressure we kept the ball, passed it back to Denayer/van Dijk/Gordon and simply started again. No longer did we hoof it and hope, we were buoyant enough to remain calm and play our natural game. And it obviously paid off, with that wonderful equaliser from Guidetti, and that possibly even better pass from still 18 Liam Henderson. What swagger from Ronny to bring Henderson on by the way. Six months ago we would have completely capitulated against that Inter team after going 2-0 down. There’s no question in my mind about that. That ninety minutes was the perfect microcosm to convey our progress. And all this without mentioning how incredible a game it was for football’s sake. The neutral would love it, though I was too stressed and exhausted to take much notice. But do you know what my favourite part of last night was? We started five Scottish players, who all played their heart out for a jersey that, GMS aside, does not purvey any childhood emotional attachment. That’s the direction I want my Celtic to go. It doesn’t matter if they’re Celtic fans, but if we have homegrown Scots who buy into our manager’s ideals and our club’s ethics, then I’m in heaven.

Deila has, in just six months, transposed a dysfunctional group of ragtag mercenaries, timid youngsters, and vexing Lennon favourites, into lions. As Derek Rae commented after Guidetti’s goal, this side evoked the passion and desire of the last side to beat Inter in European competitions. Can’t quite remember their name. If he’s done all that in six months, regardless of what happens next week in Milan, I can’t bloody wait to see what we’re like come the Champions League qualifiers in July.

This One'll Come Down To Who Wants It More Clive

A phrase I hear constantly when watching football is the concept of “wanting it”. A tense 0-0 battle can be won in the final ten minutes by “who wants it more”, while a slight quiver in the eyes of a penalty taker can betray the fact that “he doesn’t want it!”. Even the pundits, those paid to explain the mysteries of the game to us via technical and tactical reasoning, are susceptible to the allure of “want”. Just look at what Neil Lennon had to say after Chile’s 2-0 gut-punching of Spain.

"It is already an amazing story with Chile. The way they press the game I thought they would run out of steam against Spain, but they didn't. They overwhelmed Spain with desire and commitment. They have real quality players as well.”

The notion of superiority through ability is nothing more than a casual afterthought. Sure, Chile have talented footballers “as well”, but the reason they qualified ahead of Spain was because they just bloody wanted it more. It’s the only answer.

In order to predict the outcomes of some future World Cup fixtures, and to more fully understand the power of wanting it, I’ve compiled a short list of those who have shown the most desire so far.

“Wanting It” Top 3 – Group Stages

3. Colombia

They’ve easily been the most dominant team of the group stages, but veteran World Cup watchers will know that this doesn’t necessarily translate into success in the knockout phase. The South Americans only get onto number three in my list because it’s all looking a little too easy; they’re walking the dangerous line between “wanting it” and “having it”. The latter is what Liam Gallagher tells the audience to do before launching into ‘Roll With It’, and although jumping around for him leads to a short feeling of elation and invincibility, you’re far more likely to catch a stray elbow in the mush for your hubris. 

2. Georgios Samaras

Although the increased levels of “wanting it” in Brazil have resulted a boatload of intense, full-blooded encounters, they’ve also signalled the sad demise of quality goal celebrations. Promising sprints to the corner flag have devolved into ugly orgies of substitutes and coaches, everybody desperate to get involved. I think only Colombia and Ghana have danced so far, a tragically low number. Kudos, therefore, to Samaras, for extending his “want” beyond the scoring of a goal itself and keeping one eye upon the aftermath. Watch the celebration of his nerveless penalty against Greece – the man times his kneeslide to utter perfection. He scores, sprints, slides, and glares at the camera for JUST the right amount of time before the inevitable wave of subs and teammates crash into him. Beautiful.

1. Arjen Robben

Arjen Robben really, really wants to win this World Cup. You can tell because he’s forgotten how to play football like a human. He doesn’t care about mortal pursuits like tactics or fatigue or momentum. When he’s ready to take over the game he does, simply by getting the ball and running with a frightening, robotic directness, as if programmed to do so in Louis Van Gaal’s secret Amsterdam lair. He’s like watching a training montage of the Russian from Rocky IV, only with less mercy for his opponents. Also – and this might just be me – but he seems to have also lost the ability to turn at anything other than right angles. The old Robben would forever be cutting inside, pointlessly jinking this way and that, eventually losing the ball to one of the many defenders rushing to close him down. Robben 2.0 slashes into the box at precisely 90 degrees before squaring for a teammate to tap in, or swivelling mercilessly again towards goal like Agent Smith dodging a hail of bullets. The Dutchman has so far terrified and astounded me in equal measure, and I wouldn’t be surprised to see his team lift the trophy come the 13^th of July. They just want it more.

England Squad Lookalikes

England may be out of the World Cup, something I am personally devastated by of course, but I thought their squad was ripe for the pickings in terms of analysis. No, not through heatmaps or passing stats, I was thinking more along the lines of how they all look, tenuously, like silly stuff. So here’s the entire England squad, deconstructed for your pleasure.

(WARNING: some of these may be considered slightly offensive/inappropriate/cruel. Sorry)

Joe Hart: Okay, confession time, this one isn’t mine, but I thought there was no way whatsoever I could top it, and to be honest it just deserves more publicity*. Looks like he was really good at ‘fingering the hottest girl in the year above’ at school.

Fraser Forster: Looks like a casting director’s wet dream for the part of Lenny in a community play adaptation of Of Mice and Men.

Ben Foster: Looks like a soft-eyed orang-utan who looks after himself quite well.

Glen Johnson: Looks like a guy at work you’d get on well with for a few months, but then on a night out he’d reveal that he actually really, really likes My Little Pony.

Leighton Baines: Looks like he wouldn’t shut up about the enlightening Foster The People interview in the latest NME.

Luke Shaw: Looks like if he was a winger he’d be called the baby-faced assassin. But he isn’t. So he isn’t.

Gary Cahill: Looks like an electrician who’d spend more time pontificating on whether he wanted his coffee black than actually fixing your main fuse.

Phil Jagielka: Looks like he’d passionately quote the Communist manifesto while handing over eighty quid for cuff-links.

Phil Jones: Looks like the ‘joke’ one of a group of lads; you know, the one that’s only involved because he’s always up for buying a round and is a perpetual subject for mockery but will just laugh along. Most likely to be seen alone at half two in a club having a drunken existential crisis.

Chris Smalling: Looks like he’d quite happily spend half an hour reciting to you (and concomitantly laughing along to) his favourite Two and a Half Men jokes.

Jack Wilshere: Looks like a minor, expendable cockney gangster from a mediocre Guy Ritchie flick.

James Milner: Looks like an alcoholic gorilla. He probably lives with Ben Foster’s orang-utan, but is considerably the slovenlier of the two.

Jordan Henderson: Looks like he’d go on a lads’ holiday to Malia where he’d mouth off to a menacing Serbian about his shit vest, and is consequently stabbed.

Steven Gerrard: Looks like he’d be really proud of his position as deputy manager of the butchers’ section at an ASDA in Norfolk.

Frank Lampard: Looks like your fun, loveable uncle who you then find out was in prison for a decade on your fourteenth birthday.

Ross Barkley: Looks like he’s more than capable of writing a totally legible, and surprisingly thought-provoking, thesis entirely in abbreviated text-speak.

Adam Lallana: Looks like he’d prefer to go canal boating in Wales rather than ‘tanning in Spain or sightseeing in Vienna’ (he’d spit condescendingly). He’d then get furious when you asked him why.

Raheem Sterling: Looks like the protagonist’s wacky best friend in an eighties Brooklyn-set sitcom.

Alex Oxlade-Chamberlain: Looks like he gives absolutely world-class bromance hugs.

Wayne Rooney: Looks like the dead baby from Trainspotting.

Daniel Sturridge: Looks like a guy you’d cross at uni and immediately judge as being a dick, before progressively realising he’s one of the nicest guys you’ll ever meet.

Danny Welbeck: Looks like he was the kid in school with ADD who relentlessly tried to convince you he was really smart but just didn’t try.

Rickie Lambert: Looks like he’s worked previously in a beetroot factory. Hold on…

*http://www.vice.com/en_uk/read/joe-hart-and-the-career-yips 

Kieran

Watching Brazil-Croatia with Football Muggles

On Thursday, thanks to a packed post-exam schedule clashing with All Of The Football, I found myself watching the opening match of Brazil 2014 with a group of World Cup muggles. I don’t want to patronise or offend - not everybody in there was a football novice. A sizeable handful supported club teams of their own, and I was pleasantly startled when nobody asked the offside rule. However, the general mood was one of setting aside apathy for a special occasion, something I’m guilty of before every Ashes series or Six Nations. Muggles, therefore, is probably the best term for the majority I was with - those somehow immune to the intoxicating magic of football, able to happily exist without the life-support of Gary Lineker and Jeff Stelling. I found myself the most knowledgeable football fan in the bar. It was an unfamiliar and terrifying situation.

The first difference I noticed was how bloody positive everybody seemed. Watching football with fellow fans is an exercise in cynicism and cruelty – (see Gerrard, Steven, Liverpool 0-2 Chelsea, 27/04/2014). Not on Thursday. Everybody wanted Croatia to do well because they were the underdog and had nice strips, not because a Brazilian defeat would have been absolutely delicious. When Marcelo bundled in that own goal, the place exploded with genuine joy for the Croatians (“look at their little faces!”), while I was left to cackle alone at Neymar’s petulant scowl. It was a lonely moment.

Speaking of Neymar, he was a figure who regularly caught the muggle eye - even those who had never heard of him. Here’s a quick rundown of the most mentioned players:

Neymar – The villain of the piece. Stupid hair.

Stipe Pletikosa – Affectionately nicknamed “Grasshopper” because he wore green and jumped around a lot. Garnered a lot of sympathy, enough to even excuse his poor penalty save.

Daniel Pranjic – Didn’t actually play, but was shown warming up before kick off. I pointed out that he looked like a friend’s boyfriend. Very positive response.

Hulk – “Woah, he’s big”. Nobody believed me when I insisted that he was actually called Hulk.

Marcelo/David Luiz – Interchangeable afro men.

Interest inevitably waned after half time, and by the 90^th minute I was one of only a few left to watch Oscar toe-poke Brazil over the finish line. In fact, one of the evening’s biggest injustices was the lack of attention paid to the Chelsea maestro throughout. I don’t think I heard him mentioned by any of the muggles at all, despite turning in a Man of the Match performance. I’m sure that’s keeping him awake tonight.

It was an interesting, perception-changing evening. I left thinking that maybe the muggles are in some way better than us. They didn’t linger over the referee’s terrible performance; his decisions are set in stone now, so why consider them again? They happily turned away from promising counter-attacks to get served before me at the bar. They went to the toilet whenever they wanted, rather than sitting uncomfortably in case something happened in the 45+2^nd minute. And, most disturbingly of all, their emotions aren’t dictated by the actions of Glen Johnson.

A unique night for sure, but I’m ready to settle back into my rank as a moderately-knowledgeable football fan again. Brazil vs Croatia was certainly an experience, but I’d rather be one of the bitter, swearing, taunting, angry masses again. There wasn’t even a single chant.

Jack

Jack and Kieran: Predictions

In the first of our World Cup-centric blog posts, Jack and I provide our ten key predictions for this year's Rio Spectacular. 

(We made these predictions separately and any suspicious discrepancies or similarities between them are completely accidental, and to be completely honest, we don't appreciate your tone.)

Winner:
Jack: It’s a boringly safe answer but I can’t look further than Spain. Only four teams realistically have a shot: the reigning champions, the hosts, Germany, and Argentina. I fancy Casillas and Co. to recreate the Maracanazo of 1950 and break Brazilian hearts on their own turf.

Kieran: Brazil; simply can’t see past them. They’re excellent in every position (with the possible exception of Julio Cesar), and are supplemented by the benefit of an outrageous strength in depth for the very likely event that Neymar suffers ligament damage over a cynical challenge from a particularly savage blade of grass. They’re acclimatised to all that heat and shit; a concept some European countries find inexplicably inexplicable. Also they’ll have been severely intimidated by the government to win it in some vain attempt to unify A NATION DIVIDED. You know, A NATION DIVIDED because of the world cup’s crippling economic reverberations. Funny that.

Golden Boot:

Kieran: Exposing not so much my football hipster credentials as my pervasive romanticism, I think Rio 2014 will finally be Giuseppe Rossi’s time to shine. A genuinely fantastic player afflicted with a traumatic injury record, he has been declared fit, and therefore READY TO MAKE HIS MARK IN WORLD CUP HISTORY. I reckon he’ll score six, as Italy finish third having been knocked out by a CRUEL Koscielny scuffled tap-in in the 91^st minute of the semi. He just seems like such a nice guy. The kind you’d go to the Swan & Three to have a drink with, and then you’d laugh together about their overpriced ales. Memories.

Jack: Argentina have a weak group, excellent service from midfield, and are likely to go on a deep run in the tournament. It’s therefore hard to look past their three-pronged attack of Aguero, Higuain and Messi. I’ll go slightly out on a limb and pick the Napoli man. He bagged four goals in South Africa, while his strike partners have yet to properly show up in a World Cup.

Player of the Tournament:

Jack: Anybody who had the misfortune of sitting near me during the recent Champions League Final will now be aware of my man-crush on “The Holy One”, Angel di Maria. I back him to utterly dominate in Brazil, fending off competition from Marco Reus, Andres Iniesta, and Big Ricky Lambert.

Kieran: David Luiz. There I said it. I really, really rate him; especially when he’s partnered with the indomitably sturdy Thiago Silva. For me, these two players will be THE DIFFERENCE for Brazil. Thiago Silva will REDEFINE THE MEANING OF SOLID, but I think Luiz will be responsible for more than a few crucial blocks/tackles, and will CHIP IN with a TOWERING header in the quarters.

Surprise Package:

Kieran: ‘Yeh my surprise package is Belgium.’ ‘Yeh mine is as well!’ ‘Hey, mine too!’ No, sorry folks, that’s not how it works, no matter how incessantly Phil McNulty and other BBC Sport jabberwockies insist otherwise. They are a terrific young team, but it’s not quite their time methinks. I’m going to go for France, reaching the final. They look very, very good again. So yeh France.

Jack: I’m not sure if they qualify as a genuine dark horse – winning in 1998 and reaching the 2006 final - but nobody seems to be talking about France. I expect them to remind everyone of their quality after a shocking performance in South Africa. They have an admittedly ropey defence, but players like Benzema and Pogba should steer them through an unimposing group to the quarter finals at least. If pressed to pick a more legitimate underdog, I’ll go with the universally acknowledged answer in this situation: Croatia.

Biggest Flop:

Jack: Belgium. With apologies to Taha Abrar and my dad, who both picked the Red Devils for a semi final berth, I can see it all going pear shaped. The talent is unquestionably there, but so is an inflated sense of expectation. I reckon they’ll start slowly, scrape through their group in second place, and get blasted by Germany or Portugal in the second round.

Kieran: Croatia. An absolutely phenomenal midfield supported by some excellent finishers, undermined catastrophically by an ageing, painfully average defence. Will go out in the group stages methinks.

The Matty Adams Grottiest Goal Award:

Kieran: Since it’s too late, sadly, to actually call up Madams, let me establish the scene for you. It’s the second group stage game, between Greece and Japan. It’s a turgid 0-0 at the 64^th minute. Greek corner floated in to the back post. A Torosidis header back across goal. Gekas smashes his sliced effort from six yards out against the ground and it shudders the crossbar. It spins unflappably downwards an inch out. Japan’s keeper leaps on it but KARAGOUNIS PRODS IT HOME. THE 37 YEAR OLD HAS DONE IT. Karagounis then strips naked and leaps into the crowd never to return.

Jack: This is set to be an all-out war between Georgios Samaras and Edin Dzeko, but I fancy Fred to feed off Neymar’s scraps and stick an absolutely disgusting effort in the back of the net with his hipbone.

The Stu Drayton Horror Tackle Award:

Jack: I don’t think anybody would be surprised to see Cheik Tiote end the career of some poor Japanese journeyman, before jogging slowly back into position as though nothing happened.

Kieran: Jack Wilshere on de Sciglio five minutes after he comes on as a sub in the 58^th minute of England’s opening match. He is promptly sent off. He tweets three hours later apologising to his teammates, the fans who made the journey, and to all of England. The Daily Mail brand him A NATIONAL DISGRACE. The Times go for the timid, and incredibly tenuous, JACK YOUR BAGS WILSHERE; YOU’RE GOING HOME.

The Steve Evans Best Managerial Celebration Award

Kieran: When Netherlands sneak dubiously into the last 16 thanks to a decent if unspectacular Van Persie effort, Louis Van Gaal will tear open his suit Superman-style to reveal a ‘HE’S MINE FOREVER’ t-shirt with a smug if not wholly off-putting smirk.

Jack: I’ve never heard of him before, but Mexico’s Miguel Herrera looks like he’s capable of causing some serious dugout damage in the event of a late winner. (As a side note, if you haven’t seen Steve Evans’ touchline rampage in the Rotherham vs Leyton Orient playoff final, do have a quick search on Youtube. It’s breathtaking.)

The Roger Milla Award For African Country Most Likely To Make Their Continent Proud

Jack: Let’s not kid ourselves  – Ivory Coast are going to go the furthest of the tournament’s African nations. That’s not what we’re talking about here. We’re talking about highly significant goals completely undercut by choreographed celebrations. We’re talking about goalkeepers falling on their arse after dashing twenty yards out of the box to clear a harmless punt forward. We’re talking about fans with decent facepaint for once.  We’re talking about dancing at every opportunity. We’re talking about smiles on faces and really lighting up this World Cup, Clive. We’re talking about Ghana.

Kieran: Ghana had their fun last time round, and now it’s the Summer Of Cameroon. There’ll be awkwardly endearing dancing, wacky costumes, affable chants, rascalish fan interviews, and more BBC casual racism than you can appropriately handle.

Jozy vs. Shola

Kieran: Shola. Because I have to really don’t I. Jack left me no option.

Jack: Jozy.