Tag Archives: Premier League

United Flashback: Wembley 1992 as Leeds Put Four Past Liverpool – by Rob Atkinson

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Leeds United – Wembley Winners

For all the rival claims of the FA Cup and (don’t laugh) the variously-sponsored League Cup, there’s little doubt about the Wembley occasion it’s hardest to reach, the honour it’s toughest to compete for.  Yes, ladies and gentlemen, I give you the FA Community Shield, or the Charity Shield as it used to be known in less politically-correct times.  This is not an event you get to be part of merely by winning a few games at home against the likes of Orient and Norwich, with maybe a semi-final against Aston Villa to spice it up.  It’s not a trophy you can win simply by the luck of the draw.  This is an event for winners, although League runners-up sometimes get a look-in if one club has been greedy enough to win the “Double”.  The Charity Shield is billed as the clash between reigning Champions and FA Cup-holders and as such it has the stardust of success and glory sprinkled all over it.

The Battle of Wembley '74

The Battle of Wembley ’74

Some will demur, saying it’s just a pre-season friendly.  Well, it does take place pre-season – but a friendly?  Before we look at this 1992 meeting of old foes Leeds and Liverpool, let’s cast our minds back to 1974 when the two sides met in the very first Wembley Charity Shield.  Kevin Keegan and Billy Bremner sent off, Giles displaying the art of the left hook on the ref’s blind side to dislodge Keegan’s perm – and all manner of malicious goings-on besides as Cup-holders Liverpool edged out Champions Leeds on penalties after a 1-1 draw for which “combative” is a hopelessly inadequate description.  Ray Clemence conning David Harvey over the ‘keepers taking the last two penalties, then grinning broadly as he reneged on the deal.  The violence and then the discarded shirts of the guilty as they walked off, dismissed by the schoolmasterly Bob Matthewson, a ref who towered over the pocket battleships in the opposing midfields.  The fuss and bother afterward as the FA decided examples should be made, long bans handed out.  A “friendly” it most definitely was not.

This 1992 match though was played out in a much lighter and more entertaining vein.  There was an air of conspiratorial glee around the old ground; Liverpool had administered the fatal blow to Man U’s title challenge at the end of the previous season with a 2-0 victory, the faithful of the Anfield Kop taunting their misery-stricken rivals with chants of “Leeds, Leeds, Leeds” as the last hopes of Man U and media alike drained away.  The real Reds then went on to Wembley and routinely won the Cup against Leeds’ old Nemesis Sunderland, so that this “Traditional Curtain Raiser to the Season” had about it a faintly gloating atmosphere – mutual congratulation was in the breeze as we all celebrated the discomfiture of the Mancunian and Mackem scum.

The game itself was a crazy mixture of potent attacking and Keystone Kops defending which foreshadowed the season both clubs were to experience, but which was avidly lapped up by both Kops at either end of Wembley.  Leeds opened the scoring when Rodney Wallace scampered into acres of space on the left before squaring for one Eric Cantona to finish confidently past Grobbelaar in the Liverpool goal.  That was on 25 minutes, but only ten more were to elapse before Liverpool were level.  A deep cross from Ronnie Rosenthal found Ian Rush with enough far-post space to plant a header past John Lukic.  This was at the Leeds fans’ end, and I remember at the time thinking that Liverpool would now go on to win, but what a cracking day we were having anyway.  But shortly before half-time, Leeds were ahead again, Tony Dorigo sending a deflected free kick beyond Brucie into the left hand corner of the net.

The second half saw the game continuing to see-saw as both sides went for it.  Liverpool contrived a second equaliser when Dean Saunders fastened on to a loose ball and powered it past Lukic in the blink of an eye.  Again that feeling of slight resignation and again Leeds blew it away, regaining the lead after 75 minutes when Cantona headed a cross ball down for Wallace to tap back to him.  Cantona looked up and calmly directed the ball wide of Grobbelaar for 3-2.  The joy among the Leeds fans at this cherry on the icing of last year’s title triumph raised itself to a still higher level when the match seemed to have been decided 4 minutes from the end.  Wallace chased a ball out wide which, instead of trickling out of play, bounced off the corner flag and gave the live-wire Rodney an ideal chance to put in a telling cross.  And there was Cantona again, lurking at the far post as Grobbelaar flapped ineffectively for the ball, watching it all the way and planting a header into the empty net.  4-2 up against Liverpool at Wembley!  Eleven months before the birth of my daughter, this was probably just about up there with the Title decider at Bramall Lane for the most joyous events of my life to that point, and for a few delirious moments I didn’t rightly know where or who I was.

Sanity had barely returned when, way down at the other end, Gordon Strachan scored what must be the comedy own-goal of all time, executing a singularly ungraceful backward stagger as he tried to clear from the goal-line but succeeded only in trickling the ball over it.  Some cheered, some laughed; nobody was downcast except perhaps wee Gordon himself who looked distinctly pissed-off.  Leeds had won though, the occasion had lived up to and beyond expectations for me and my happy band and we waited joyously to watch the lifting of silverware at Wembley.

Before that happened, another display of respect and gratitude as the defeated Liverpool players trooped off into the tunnel at the United end of the ground.  The jubilant Leeds fans as a body stood to applaud their old enemies, the chants of “Liverpool, Liverpool, Liverpool” drawing reciprocal if shattered applause from the bemused players in red, honour satisfied, tributes paid.  Then the Leeds players going up the thirty-nine steps to hoist the Shield high, and cheers echoing anew from our throat-sore and ecstatic hordes.  Leeds United: Champions of England – the Last Champions – Charity Shield winners and the only team ever to score four against Liverpool in all of the Anfield giants’ numerous Wembley appearances.  Vivid memories of a truly wonderful day.

4-6-0 The Way to Go for Strikerless Hammers at Hapless Spurs – by Rob Atkinson

Anyone who believes that playing without a recognised number 9 leaves you short of attacking options should have been at White Hart Lane on Sunday to see West Ham, having gone into combat sans spearhead, blag three points from a Tottenham side utterly unable to cope with such a departure from orthodoxy: four at the back, a stifling six in midfield and an echoing void in attack for the once-upon-a-time “Academy of Football”.

West Ham manager “Fat” Sam Allardyce was understandably ebullient after this smash and grab raid against one of the Premier League’s more fancied sides. Said the walrus-faced tactician extraordinaire: “I thought, if Jose Mourinho does it against Man U then so can I”.

Whatever Allardyce lacks in the Special One’s charisma and top-rank winning ability he may well, on this evidence, make up for in good old-fashioned luck. Both of the Hammers’ two opening goals came from pinball deflections and rebounds falling in the visitors’ favour. The breaks they got adequately justified the undoubted gamble Fat Sam had taken, and anyway, something fortuitous was always going to be needed to improve on a blank scoring record for the ‘Appy ‘Ammers on the road this season.

Having ridden their luck in the first half, and then capitally gained on two strokes of fortune in the second, London journeymen West Ham finally sealed matters against the cockney aristocrats with an individual goal of real quality. Ravel Morrison did just as he liked on his way through the Spurs defence before his subtly-dinked finish over the despairing efforts of home keeper Lloris put the earlier, flukier goals from Reid and Vaz Te distinctly in the shade.

For Spurs, it was a sobering demonstration that they have proved themselves unable to deal with party tricks such as the Hammers pulled on Sunday, and that they need to wise up fast. As it turned out, they lost valuable ground by failing to adapt to Fat Sam’s shock formation of packed midfield and zilch up front. Spurs couldn’t create anything, having been denied space in the middle of the park and they were undone by the Hammers’ runners from wide – and by their fruitful relationship with Lady Luck. Spurs will rightly see this as an opportunity thrown away and will worry accordingly about what better teams than West Ham – and there are plenty of those – might do to them.

For the Hammers though, it’s party time. 3-0 wins at old enemies Spurs are as rare as a Millwall defeat without a riot, and they have much to celebrate going into an international break. Whether they can pull off such a stunt again must be open to doubt; the rest of the Premier League will have taken note of Spurs naïveté.

But maybe Fat Sam has other dodges up his sleeves. If he does – then West Ham’s mission to secure another Premier League season in what is nosebleed territory for them, may yet succeed. Stranger things have happened.

The Tipster: Dark clouds continue to hang over Manchester City and Manchester United ahead of tomorrow’s Champions League jaunts

I see the point – but I feel given the result in the recent derby clash between the two Manc clubs, it’s the reds who have more to worry about than the blues.

Proud Dad Suárez Bites Back at the Double as Liverpool Resume Premier Challenge – by Rob Atkinson

Suárez dedicates goal to new baby son Benja

Suárez dedicates goal to new baby son Benja

The footballer so many love to hate, nasty Suárez, “racist” Suárez, mad-dog Suárez, call him what you like (and the sanctimonious tendency among football fans need no undue persuasion) showed a soft and squishy side to his nature after his comeback goal on Sunday, the first of a brace which helped resurgent Liverpool dispatch rock-bottom Sunderland.  After tapping the ball into the Wearsiders’ net to make the score 2-0 to the Reds, Luis Suárez raised his Liverpool top to reveal an undershirt with the legend “Welcome Benja” inscribed thereon; a warm “Hello, son” to his new baby boy, born last Thursday.

It’s a heart-warming tale, but nevertheless many will maintain the set of their lips in a thin, disapproving line.  Bad boy Luis has been a sinner many times since his entrance into English football, but it’s also the case that he’s provided many illuminating moments of skill amounting to genius.  The more tolerant in the football family might find it in their forgiving natures to concede that the balance is marginally on the credit side of the ledger.  Though his sins are like scarlet, or at least like a Liverpool red, yet shall they be as white as snow.  Or so the Good Book sort of says.

It was the striking partner of Suárez who came closest to “sinner” status at the Stadium of Light, the ball flying in for Liverpool’s opener, not as intended off Daniel Sturridge’s head, but rather off the top of his arm.  It was deemed an accidental contact, the goal stood and Liverpool were on their way to a victory that became less comfortable the longer the match went on.  Sturridge it was who provided the cross for the second goal, darting into a half yard of space near the goal-line to spear a low cross which Suárez, Johnny-on-the-spot, buried with ease.  Sunderland had contributed plenty of effort to the first half, playing a high pressing game, and the two incisions which saw them behind at the interval were perhaps slightly rough justice.

In the second half, Sunderland’s hard work continued and eventually earned them a glimmer of hope when ex-Black Cat Simon Mignolet in the Liverpool goal could only parry a stinging shot from outside the area. Emanuele Giaccherini snapped up the resulting rebound chance with glee and Sunderland were back in business.  The home side were reinvigorated by the breakthrough, as tends to be the case and a new purpose showed in their attacking play. Liverpool were pressed back for a spell and endured their most worrying period of the match, until a swift break saw Sturridge in space on the left, enabling him to pull the ball back from the byline for that man Suárez to apply a deadly finish and wrap the proceedings up at 3-1.

Of the main title contenders, it’s been a good weekend for Arsenal and Liverpool, not so good for Spurs and Chelsea and pretty disastrous for Manchester City.  Unbeaten Everton still lurk around unbeaten, threatening to gatecrash the elite pack.  It promises to be a tight race for the honours at the top of the Premier League – and Liverpool, with Suárez ebullient, seem determined to have a big say right to the end, just as in the old days.  For managerless Sunderland, rooted to the top-flight basement with just one solitary point to show for the season so far, the future looks a whole lot bleaker.

What’s Really Wrong at Man U: the Fear Has Gone – by Rob Atkinson

The Tyrant is Gone

The Tyrant is Gone

It’s difficult not to sympathise with the current plight of Man U.  Well, apparently it is for BSkyB, anyway.  Others seem to manage OK.  Gary Lineker, introducing Match of the Day, promised action featuring “all of the top four”. Then, smiling at the camera really quite maliciously, he added “And Man U as well.”  There appears to be an insidious tendency to poke fun at the wounded Champions, and it begs the question why.  As someone myself who never feels quite so alive, never quite so full of the sheer joy of living as when Man U are having their noses well and truly rubbed in it, I have an answer to offer.  The fear has gone.  It went with Ferguson, and people now feel happy to laugh at Man U.  All very petty, you might think – but this absence of fear might have far-reaching consequences for The Pride of Devon.

Steve Clarke, West Brom’s talented young(ish) manager, made for an interesting listen in post match interviews after his team’s 2-1 victory at the Theatre of Hollow Myths. Firstly, he demanded credit for his team’s marvellous display, based on self-belief and a determination to show little respect for reputations, rather than lazily blaming the under-par display of Man U.  He went on to say that he had spent four days talking to his team about the mind-set required to play away against Man U; advice on not sitting back, seizing the day, going for the throats of the opposition, showing no fear.  And West Brom responded to their manager’s mantra, tearing into a startled Man U from the off. Unlikely as it seems, and despite a late home flurry, this could have been one humbling home defeat for Man U.  The last time they lost at home in the league to West Brom it was a 3-5 reverse in 1978.  On this occasion, a 5-2 or 6-2 victory would not have flattered the away side.

The thing is, that advice may well have been given to teams visiting Salford before, but it has rarely produced such positive gains for those teams down the years.  I remember well the performance of third-tier Leeds United in the den of the Champions in January 2010 for the FA Cup 3rd Round.  My favourites took the field as if they owned it, backed by 9000 raucous away fans and proceeded to out-play, out-fight and out-manoeuvre a team stratospherically above their humble level, winning 1-0 and rather unlucky it wasn’t 3-0. Leeds showed self-belief, faith in their own ability to dictate play and absolutely no fear or respect whatsoever.  It was the kind of display seen far too seldom by teams facing Man U, who tended over many seasons to be beaten before their boots had touched the turf at the start of the game.  And it’s this ingrained fear, this subconscious feeling of being beaten before a ball is kicked that has exaggerated the achievements of a club who, until Ferguson embarked upon his reign of terror, could only dream of Title success.

Football success, they say – or even football dominance – is cyclical.  Nobody stays at the top forever, the best of dynasties crumble and fall eventually.  This will not be a welcome concept for the bulk of the Man U support, who have long journeys from the south to justify somehow, who have only attached themselves to the embodiment of success and who will protest loudly if the run of glory ends.  But they can always seek their glory elsewhere – many of them will.  It’s in the nature of the beast.  Man U fans tend to be slightly inadequate and in Freudian need of the reassurance that identification with perceived size and success provides for them.  So off they’ll go and support Chelsea or Spurs or someone – the travel costs will be greatly reduced, anyway.  But what of those left behind?  What of the legions of armchair fans?  What of poor David Moyes, looking more and more like a latter-day Wilf McGuinness?  What, even, of the legions in the Far East who will find the whole reason for their devotion to Man U has dissipated – if they stop winning.

Then we have to look at the consequences for merchandising, the awful possibility that there might be a Champions League qualification failure, the chilling realisation that there is still all that debt.  The debt would have been even higher if Moyes hadn’t been so singularly ineffective in the transfer window.  The potential for things to get worse for Man U seems endless – and endlessly amusing.

None of this seemed remotely likely whilst Ferguson’s brooding presence was there, haunting the nightmares of referees and officials, causing ulcers in the FA Boardroom as they invented ever more specious reasons for failing to file disrepute charges, terrifying the hacks of the gutter and quality press alike with threats of cutting them off from the media circus that is Man U.  All Ferguson wanted was his own way, all the time and he set about getting it via the longest continual process of widespread intimidation the game has known.  Aided by the favourable market conditions provided when Murdoch bought the game, Man U flourished by this tyrannical dynasty – and the results are there in the trophy room where thirteen plastic replicas of Thunderbird One attest to a total domination of the Plastic Premier League.  Only Castro in modern times has out-done Ferguson as a successful tyrant and dictator.

But now Ferguson has gone – at least for the time being.  He may yet, of course, reappear on a Busby-like comeback rescue mission if Moyes is sacked as a failure – shades of the early seventies.  For now though, the tyrant is rendered impotent to assist Man U as they flounder and the whole atmosphere of the top flight has changed.  Referees feel empowered to be fair instead of giving every bloody 50-50 decision to Man U.  Opposition managers feel their charges freed from that psychological monkey on the back.  Press hacks – despite Moyes’ pallid efforts to ape the Ferguson abrasive approach – are not fooled; they know that a crabby old lion has been succeeded by a querulous pup.

All of these factors have conspired to reduce the advantages enjoyed by Man U these many years since Ferguson headed south.  It’s always been a game of fine margins, and any reduction in advantage tends to have a disproportionate effect on performance.  This is what is happening to Man U – and it’s like a breath of fresh air.  Not everyone will be happy, not everyone will want to see the dominant force of the past two decades rendered impotent.  But for many – if only it can last – this new Fergie-less era could be the very best of times, after the very worst.

Moyes Fluffing His Fergie-Lite Lines as the Mask Drops – by Rob Atkinson

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It sounded odd at the time. Leading up to the start of his first season at the Theatre of Hollow Myths, David Moyes chose to abandon his previous upright, downright, straightforward no-nonsense Evertonian demeanour and go for a good old-fashioned Fergie whinge with the requisite helpings of paranoia and self-righteousness. “They’re conspiring against us,” he grizzled, bitterly. “Three tough games against title contenders in the first five league outings.  It’s no’ fair.”  It was straight out of the Taggart Manual, from Chapter One: “Build a Siege Mentality”.  The thing is, however tried and trusted the lines are, you need the right kind of actor to convey them. Now that the Old Ham had gone off, could the relatively green Moyes carry on with the same old act?  Was it even such a good idea to try?

Whatever the whys and wherefores, the gambit appears to have blown up in the fledgling Man U manager’s face.  Yesterday’s humbling against Mancunian giants City was not only a salutary lesson on the field.  It also raised serious questions about the new man’s deportment off it.  On the face of it, the Moyes Whinge, as it has come to be called, looks in retrospect like a timely warning.  Of the three fixtures he was complaining about, the Pride of Devon have lost both away matches, at Liverpool and City, and gained a somewhat lucky point in a dour home struggle against Chelsea.  But the fact is that the fixtures are simply that: fixtures.  There’s a clue in the name, and while Sky may tamper slightly for TV requirements, the basic framework for the season is carved in stone.  To complain about them at the time Moyes chose to complain, and in the terms, moreover, he chose to employ in making that complaint, showed more weakness than foresight, more lack of confidence in himself and his team than lack of faith in the authorities. What message was sent out by the manager to his troops as they prepared for combat? Would they have been inspired by their leader’s belief in them?  Or would they, instead, have had a subliminal fear implanted of facing three formidable teams early in the season?  Were they, in short, afraid?

A hindsight version of the Moyes Whinge emerged this morning on the radio.  He referred again to the perceived unfairness of the fixtures arrangement.  As an exponent of psyching his team up and psyching opponents out, Fergie was tiresome, he was tedious, he was annoying and detestable in the eyes of his enemies.  But it clearly worked more often than not in the bunker that was Man U’s dressing room.  Moyes, by contrast, seemed to have waved a white flag and called for stretcher-bearers before a shot had been fired. Certain of his players, van Persie for one, are already emitting rumbles of discontent. You can imagine them asking themselves: who would we rather have as our leader as we enter the trenches?  The margins between victory and defeat are incredibly fine, one iota of backsliding by the historically dominant force, one iota of improvement in the fortunes of his enemies (the football term for “iota”, interestingly, is “Özil”) – and the tables can be well and truly turned.

It may also be that Moyes’ emergence from the comfort zone of Goodison into the fishbowl glare of the Theatre of Hollow Myths has been particularly ill-timed.  The gene-pool at the top of the Premier League appears to have expanded dramatically over the summer.  Arsenal have improved by probably more than just one Özil.  Tottenham seem to have contrived to have lost a golden nugget and replaced it with the equivalent weight in gold-dust, and to have improved in the process.  Chelsea have wound the clock back to the reign of the Special One, and you just know he will weave his magic again whilst laughing sardonically at his carping critics in the media, embittered journalists all of whose significant others are unanimous in fancying Jose.  Liverpool have looked “at it” again, despite a dip in the last two games.  Everton are unbeaten, with a new style and belief under Martinez.  The whole landscape at the top of the game has a new and, from the Man U point of view, dangerously unfamiliar look about it.

Maybe one craggy and purple-faced individual in particular foresaw this sea-change, and perhaps this explains the abruptness of his departure from the hot-seat in Salford.  There must, after all, be a significant danger that the still debt-ridden Evil Empire will finish outside of the top six this season, favourable ref decisions notwithstanding; and on that subject – what on earth happened to Howard Webb in the Derby?  He failed utterly to live up to his Man U Player of the Season form, and must now be worried about his place in the team.  Moyes has a lot on his plate, and – sallow-faced and bug-eyed compared to the smug, well-fed, puce sleekness of his tyrannical predecessor – he frankly does not look as though he has the appetite for it.

The noisy neighbours across the border in Manchester will be well aware, as they leap and cavort in celebration in the sullen faces of Manchester’s Red minority, of the problems that are stacking up for the hapless current incumbent of Salford Towers. But those happy fans will care not one jot, as is the case with thousands of other equally happy fans the country over, outside of Devon and Cornwall.  They can see golden horizons ahead, and a game reinvigorated by true competition across a well-matched group of clubs vying for the ultimate prize.  If Man U do end up outside in the cold, there will be millions who feel it’s a reckoning that’s arrived not a minute too soon.

Arsenal Celebrate a Century of North London Domination – by Rob Atkinson

Arse Spuds

It was one hundred years ago today that Arsenal FC, kings of North London for as long as anyone can remember, made that historic move from Woolwich to Islington.  Life in North London would never be the same again – certainly not for Tottenham Hotspur, the Gunners’ long-suffering rivals.  For that day 100 years ago was the day that Spurs stopped being the Cockerels crowing from Tottenham right across North London, and became instead permanent residents within Arsenal’s shadow.

An aggregation of Arsenal’s league record across the 20th Century – the only complete century of League football – shows that they are not only top dogs in the Capital, but arguably across the country as a whole.  The aggregated League table 1900 – 1999 puts the Gunners firmly in top place.  The whole point of a league system is a club’s placing over time, so this decisively ends the argument as to who were the top club of the last century.

Spurs had their moments in the league during the 20th century as well – but not in colour. Their last title triumph was in 1961, an age of flickering monochrome TV when JFK succeeded Eisenhower for his ill-fated US presidential term, Harold MacMillan was Prime Minister in the UK and – most notably of all – I was born.  In short, it was a bloody long time ago.  If I ever wish to emphasise what an old fogey I am, I simply mention that my eyes first opened on a world where Spurs were Champions.  People tend to get the message.

Since those far-off days of temporary Spurs supremacy, Arsenal have been Champions six times.  Even my own beloved Leeds United have won it three times for heavens sake.  To hear Tottenham described as a major club in the light of such damning statistics always seems a little bizarre.  In London and beyond, the world of colour TV, the transistor era, the space age, the digital revolution, all the many different ways that the modern era can be encapsulated – it’s all been dominated by Arsenal.  And as befits a club with a full century of ruling their own North London roost, Arsenal have done it with class.  Class and prestige are integral to the club.  The marble halls of Highbury were legendary and now Arsenal have a new world-class super-stadium, the finest in the land.

The pre-eminence of Arsenal on their own patch, and in their own 20th century, is beyond doubt.  This Centenary day then is worthy of being celebrated – and Arsenal celebrated it in typical style with a comprehensive victory over Stoke City to go top of the league again. You don’t have to be an Arsenal fan to admire them and to appreciate what they’ve done for the game as a whole.  My fondness for them is down to their class, their history, their style and the sumptuously gorgeous football they play under M. Wenger.  And perhaps also for being the only club we can beat in domestic Cup Finals…

Congratulations, Arsenal, on your hundred years in North London.  May there be another hundred to come – and much more success.  Arsenal FC are what football is all about.

Fat Sam Has No Answer To Baines Brilliance – by Rob Atkinson

West Ham 2, Everton 3

This was a game that the Hapless Hammers will have been counting on for a maximum return to bolster their survival bid – but what can you do when the opposition hit you with two “worldy” set-pieces?

The ‘Ammers had done well, considering their season-long impotence in front of goal, to lead twice – albeit from a fortuitous deflection and a penalty. But the two answering salvoes from the Toffeemen were in a different class altogether, expert strikes from lethal Leighton Baines to emphasise Everton’s steadily increasing superiority.

Following Mark Noble’s conversion of a penalty to give the home side a 2-1 lead, he went from hero to zero, copping for a red card in the lead-up to Baines’ second quality free-kick equaliser. Earlier, West Ham’s Morrison had been rather fortunate to see his weakly-struck shot trickle into Everton’s net via a massive deflection off the unlucky Jagielka to send the ‘Ammers in at the break with the narrowest of leads. Baines’ found Jaaskelainen’s top corner from outside the area with his first virtuoso free-kick of the afternoon, his second later on clipping the inside of a post on its way in.

At 2-2 but with a man advantage, Everton were always too much for the home side, their bolt well and truly shot, to handle. Chelsea loanee Lukaku started and finished the decisive thrust, heading home powerfully from a cross by fellow Belgian Mirallas to finish the contest. In truth, the score line flattered West Ham somewhat, as the tide late on in particular was very much against them.

Allardyce will be only too well aware that he needs to pick up points in these games, especially at Upton Park, as the bulk of the Premier League simply have too much for his shot-shy plodders. The style of football he preaches does not appeal to the Boleyn congregation and a strong possibility of a fruitless relegation struggle is not calculated to gladden their hearts. Worrying times ahead for Fat Sam, but Everton under Martinez are showing that they may well be a force to reckon with in the top flight this season.

Still No Cure for West Ham’s Chronic Travel Sickness – by Rob Atkinson

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So West Ham’s winless run of games away from East London goes on.  It’s six months now since the travelling band of ‘Apless ‘Ammers returned home with a three point haul and they rarely looked like ending that dismal run at St Mary’s.  A point gained at Southampton however is a bit of a coupon-buster in itself, given the Irons’ current poverty of goals, meaning that a clean sheet is usually a must to avoid defeat.  Today’s shut-out was owed massively to inspired keeper Jussi Jaaskelainen who pulled off several fantastic saves to help keep his side in the contest.  At the other end, the Hammers had to wait until late on for a decent chance to add to their paltry output of TWO league goals so far this season.  Sadly, when the chance came, it fell to defender James Collins whose finish could charitably be described as wayward.  As the ball ballooned over the bar from Collins’ wild swipe, it was obvious that a much-needed victory was not to be.

The fact is, though that, while the Hammers have scored only two goals all season, they have conceded only one.  This grim fare is not the kind of thing that older devotees of the one-time “Academy of Football” were brought up on, but if you don’t let goals in – you don’t lose.  A good few victories will be needed, however, to add to a bland diet of dull draws if the Hammers are to survive for another year at this exalted level.  Where the goals will come from to provide those victories, with battering-ram Andy Carroll seemingly as injury-prone as Captain Scarlet, is somewhat of a vexed question.

Sam Allardyce divided his time after the match between praising his defence, moaning about a red card not issued to the Saints’ allegedly sinful Morgan Schneiderlin and proclaiming his happiness with a point – despite a forbidding run of fixtures coming up. West Ham have the air of a club about to suffer from a nasty case of second-season syndrome; if they fail to address their striking deficiencies this will pile far too much pressure of a defence that creaked but did not yield today.  Whether worried fans of an East End persuasion can hope to rely on that holding true in the tests ahead must be open to some doubt.  With due respect to Southampton, it is in fixtures like these that the Hammers must seek their survival points.  The major players in the division are likely to roll over them without undue difficulty, so if the Hammers fail to benefit from the dog-eat-dog mentality of the league’s lower reaches they may well find that they’re dropping back over the fateful edge of that dreaded precipice and back into the Championship come next May.

Moyes Faithfully Following Fergie Methods to Achieve Success – by Rob Atkinson

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One thing stood out plain and clear from today’s insipid victory for Man U over newly-promoted Crystal Palace – it’s going to be the tried and trusted route to success for Devon’s finest, especially at the Theatre of Hollow Myths.

It was the classic Man U home game against stubborn opposition bent on making things tough for the media’s darlings. Batter away, secure a dodgy penalty and if at all possible, have a complaisant ref who’s well-briefed enough to be aware of his responsibilities and who will obligingly reduce the away side to ten men, consigning the rest of the game to the status of a non-contest. It’s a reliable enough game plan, though depending heavily upon Ashley Young’s talent for ending up prone in the penalty area, regardless of where the alleged foul took place. It’s happened time and time again, prompting embarrassed “hem hems” in the commentary box, and a general air in the press of hoping that people won’t notice, no matter how often the same scenario plays itself out. It’s depressing, but modern football is modern business, and markets speak louder than words. Those shirts and the other Man U tat won’t just sell itself, don’t you know – and there’s warehouses full of the stuff all over the hotbeds of support across the South of England.

As they travel back to London after the match, fans of both teams might agree on one thing: Old Trafford isn’t quite the place it used to be. Time was it would be described as a fortress, albeit a pretty quiet one. But there’s always been that suspicion that “fortress” was not a very apt description, indeed that “bent crap table with loaded dice” would be far more accurate, the local management usually ending up happy, by hook or by crook. That reputation preceded Fergie, but certainly flourished under his tyrannical reign, his use of bluster, threats and intimidation to ensure that press and officials were all singing from the Man U song sheet.

As I’ve already mentioned elsewhere, new boss Moyes appears to have shed his former “quite nice guy” image, and reinvented himself as a Fergie Lite. Given the relative paucity of quality in his current squad, as compared to the likes of Liverpool, Chelsea, Arsenal and City, this would appear to be his best bet – take those boys on at Football, and the modern-day, post-Taggart Man U would be in danger of some humiliating batterings. Already, Moyes’ paranoid pre-season whinge about having to play three Big Clubs in their first five fixtures appears prophetic. Two home points dropped against Chelsea, defeat away to the historical masters Liverpool. Better then, surely, to rely on the admittedly shady measures that brought so much undeserved success over the past twenty years of Murdoch-sponsored domination. After all – what’s a global franchise supposed to do? It’s win or, quite possibly, bust.

Whether a continuation of the same old, same old routine down Salford way can really take a sub-standard Man U squad to their accustomed honours must be open to doubt. The transfer window was a sobering experience for die-hard Nitid devotees from Torquay to Jakarta. City have secured diamonds, Arsenal have a pearl in Ozil, Liverpool are improved beyond all recognition and Chelsea have The Special One – ’nuff said. Man U meanwhile experienced a long and ongoing tragedy of a window, a car-crash experience of humiliating failure and rejection – ending up with someone in Fellaini whose best chance of a major role at the Theatre of Hollow Myths would appear to be sticking his head down the toilet and giving that U-bend a good going-over. Even Champions League pariahs Tottenham fared much better than that, and could well be dark horses for a top-four place this time around, particularly if favourable officiating and Moyes’ pallid impersonation of Nasty Alex isn’t enough to raise Man U out of sub-top six mediocrity.

And what if Man U really do fail – as their lack of quality and surfeit of internal strife might suggest they will? What then for former nice-guy Moyes? Is he destined to be the 21st Century Wilf McGuiness? Will “Sir” Fergie be tempted back to reprise Busby’s early 70’s attempted rescue act? It all remains to be seen, but the harrassed and worried glory-hunters on their long trip back to the south can be reassured after today’s standard-issue double-whammy of penalty and red card against opposition who threatened to frustrate them, that some things at least haven’t changed.