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30 Yard Sniper’s guide to…The Ultimate Premier League Manager

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It’s a fairly damning indictment of the recent generation of English managers that the 2011/12 season will mark the 20th anniversary of the last time a native manager won the league. Footballers themselves may have moved on a bit, both in terms of the amount of money they earn and the number of group sex sessions they have. But when it comes to tactical nous, man-management, mind games, media interaction, and all the other hoo-haa associated with running a modern club, it’s clear that English managers have a lot to learn from their Scottish brethren, and those wily foreign types, with their diets, and their coaching – what are they like, eh? It wasn’t like that in Harry Redknapp’s day!

Of course, if we were to judge the Ultimate Premier League Manager on titles alone, there’d be slim pickings indeed. So in the spirit of competition, we’ll divide up the body parts and choose subjectively from a range of arbitrary categories, ranging from Dress Sense to Ability to spin around in frustration without falling over – it seems like the fairest method of deciding.

Section 1: The head. Or to be more specific, the brain. When Arsene Wenger arrived at Arsenal in 1996, he looked like a cross between a supply teacher and a Debenhams area manager, but it was definitely his glasses that got him the nickname Le Prof. It can’t be purely incidental that the disappearance of Wenger’s glasses coincided with the Frenchman being unable to see his players’ malfeasances. Martin O’Neill is clearly a very intelligent man, whilst Iain Dowie has a masters degree in Engineering.

However there really can be only one noggin, and it’s a bit of a no-brainer [ouch – Ed] – the king of Mind Games himself, Sir Alex Ferguson.

Section 2: The eyes. As already mentioned, Arsene Mr Magoo Wenger is a definite non-starter in this category. Despite the glasses, you feel Tony Pulis must have fairly good visual acuity to be able to keep track of the arcing ballistic projectiles sailing through the sky at the Brittania stadium. The years of financial hardship at Everton have clearly taken their toll on David Moyes, whose glare can probably look straight through solid steel.

An honourable mention goes to Gerard Houllier, for the sheer peekability of his eyes, but after a last minute change of heart, the award must go to Ray Wilkins, someone who can literally force a bowel movement in another person just by staring at them. Literally.

Section 3: The hair. In the kingdom of the bald, the one-haired man is king. At least, that’s the motto Alan Shearer lives by, who is by far and away the stand-out candidate in the “taking his hair loss really badly” stakes. Gerry Francis’s receding hairline/wavy mullet combo made him look every inch the ageing 80’s rocker trying to cling on to the glory days, while Ruud Gullit’s dreadlocks were the thin end of the hairy wedge that was driven between him and Newcastle. Steve Wigley bravely sported the bowl cut, possibly in an attempt to distract everyone from the on-pitch catastrophies during his tenure at Southampton.

At the other end of the scale, Lawrie Sanchez’s haircut was as reliable as a Swiss watch, whilst Roy Evans and Chris Hutchings had the quietly stylised Jimmy Tarbuck look going on. However there can only be one King of the Coiff, and what a coiff it is (or was, anyway). That man is Kevin Keegan.

Section 4: The Torso. Without wanting to get too homo-erotic (not that I have a problem with that, mind), there’s been an eclectic mix of upper-bodies in Premier League dugouts. There’s the one-man fanny-magnet Sam Allardyce; I’ve heard many married women say he would be their “one” if they were allowed a fleeting extra-marital encounter. Big Phil Scolari certainly had his admirers, but that was more about the ‘tache. Jose Mourinho was always well dressed and looked very svelte, Arsene Wenger however is worryingly thin.

There’s a confident sexuality about Neil Warnock that’s hard to describe, or think about without vomiting, whilst Sven Goran Eriksson has always had some special power over the ladies, so he must be doing something right. However (and since I’ve lost all pretence in keeping this objective) the torso award goes to the Italian Stallion, Gianluca Vialli.

Section 5: The legs. It’s a sad fact of life for most football fans that we don’t get to see the manager’s legs very often, as usually they’re hidden away by tracksuit bottoms or suit trousers. We’re forced to think long and hard back to their playing days, with mixed results. There was always something chubby and untoward about Steve Bruce’s legs. I’m a big fan of Mick McCarthy’s browbeaten face, but somehow he seems like he has knobbly knees.

So it falls to one man to complete our dream entity, one man who still plays one reserve game a season and who continues to wear to shorts on the touchline – probably just in case he needs to come on at short notice. His team may be sliding towards the abyss, but Mr. Owen Coyle, we’re taking your legs. And you can’t have them back.

The result:

The Ultimate Premier League Manager

30 Yard Sniper’s guide to…The lost art of commentating

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There’s no doubt the role of the play-by-play commentator has evolved over the years. As the pace of the game has increased, so has the speed of the vocal delivery. But gone are the days of regularly hearing only two or three commentators. In the old days, you had Brian Moore on ITV, and John Motson or Barry Davies on BBC. There was no need for any more, because there weren’t enough televised games to spread the workload around without the “main-man” getting offended – just look at the politics the Beeb had to deal with in trying to juggle Motson and Davies between the big games.

The advent of digital television and Sky’s ubiquitous coverage has led to a growth in recognisable voices behind the microphone. Brian Moore retired in 1998 (and sadly died 3 years later); Davies followed in 2004, while the last of the traditional “big 3”, Motson, is slowly being phased out, gradually appearing closer and closer to the end of MOTD before one day he’ll finally drop off the end and we’ll never hear from him again. He should have retired around the same time as Davies – his stat-attack style really sounds muddled and forced these days.

All this has left the gantry wide open for a new generation of hungry commentators, all ready with their “It’s been 15 years since Everton last beat Arsenal away from home; the scorer of the winning goal that day was former Manchester United winger Andrei Kanchelskis. One-time Arsenal player Anders Limpar was on the bench for the Toffees, but he didn’t get the nod” style facts. Information like this makes a fairly interesting introduction, but it’s when these nuggets of pre-prepared information start cropping up every 90 seconds that a nation starts reaching for the valium. Many of the new breed commentators spend far too much time relating uniteresting statistics from the current match to uninteresting statistics about previous matches, to the point whether you think you might give a sh*t that 52% of Arsenal’s goals conceded in the last 3 years have come from set-pieces.

I’m not saying the odd stat or fact goes amiss, but there really is such a thing as too much information. These Motson-wannabes should try listening to some tapes of Brian Moore, the greatest of them all in my opinion. He could call a match with reverence and poise, but without sounding pious or self-serving. He could judge the temperament of a match and his discourse would flow perfectly along beside it. There’d be no Tyldesley-esque sarcastic asides; cynicism was left to the discretion of the viewer, and to Barry Davies, of course, but he did it well.

So in the way that many modern indie bands now sound like a tribute band to an Oasis tribute band, many of the current crop of commentators are essentially failed Motson clones: stattos with no real prescence. Notably:

  • Peter Drury. It’s hard to imagine in what other situation you’d end up listening to such a sanctimonious man for 90 minutes, outside of a Jeremy Kyle marathon. In the “useless information overload” stakes, no-one comes close to Drury, who makes a point of contextualising every minute occurrence in the game against some sort of higher historical background. He is also always biased towards one of the teams being covered; usually it will be the English team in Europe (we don’t all want Man Utd to win, muppet), or failing that it’ll be the underdog, or the team with the star player, whatever – he will take sides. And it’s awful. No-one makes me reach for the mute button faster than Peter Drury. Currently ITV’s second choice, usually paired with Jim Beglin. Poor old Jim Beglin.
  • Jon Champion. As I was writing my pre-match intro in the 3rd paragraph, (factually correct by the way), I could hear Champion’s voice saying it aloud in my head. You might think that qualifies me for an intervention, but for me, he’s far too nasal, to the extent of sounding a bit like a human trumpet. WSC’s Cameron Carter once wrote: “Cham­pion’s commentary is the footballing equivalent of the chap next to you on a long train journey vocalising his investigation of the Times crossword.” Also his introduction as lead commentator on the Pro Evolution Soccer computer game series instead of Peter Brackley coincided with the marked decline of the title in the games market. Currently ESPN’s first choice, generally accompanied by Craig “I’m sorrry, but…” Burley.
  • Alistair Mann. His monotonous voice reminds me of the dull headache associated with a Sunday morning hangover. He manages to sap the excitement out of any game situation in the style of a particularly dull English teacher going through War Poems in the last lesson on a Friday afternoon at school. Usually gets the last game on MOTD or one of the featured Championship games on the Football League Show.
  • Clive Tyldesley. You can imagine every wall of his house is covered with posters of the 1999 treble-winning Man Utd squad. I kept forgetting about the time they won the Champions League, but luckily Clive is always on hand to remind me about “that night in Barcelona” and those tearful but happy memories come flooding back, like the way 10 pints of lager and a vindaloo return the morning after. Few commentators achieve the almost visble level of fawning droolery that Tyldesley does when commentating on a Man Utd game. Wikipedia alleges that he is actually an Everton fan. Never trust Wikipedia. 

Barry Davies certianly wasn’t everyone’s cup of tea, but I found his determination to always compare everything to a ridculously high standard quite endearing. His commentary on Dennis Bergkamp’s goal against Argentina at France ’98 epitomised his greatness, veritably screaming “OHHH WHAT A GOAL!” – no smart-arse turn of phrase or attempt to say something profound – he was just blown away at witnessing one of the greatest ever goals and he didn’t care how he sounded.

30 yard sniper’s guide to…The Ultimate Premier League Footballer

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Whether it’s mazy dribbling, electric pace, foxishness in the box, lots of deflected shots from midfield, or all-around brilliance, 30 yard sniper takes the best bits of players from the last 20 years and transmogrifies their composite parts into The Ultimate Premier League Footballer.

Section 1: The Head
Beginning as all things should, we start at the top. The ultimate cerebral footballer was of course, Teddy Sheringham, able to gain a mystical advantage over his opponents, since he had “the first yard in his head.” Apparently that rendered the other 10 or 20 yards he trundled along at irrelevant. David Beckham is well known as having a great “football brain”, whilst it would be remiss of me not to mention definitive 90’s target man John Hartson.

All things considered, we will choose to decapitate Niall Quinn for the purposes of this nefarious experiment, king of the flick on and able to compose a sentence or two in the real world as well. Not to mention those  Disco Pants.

Section 2: The Upper Body
A difficult selection, this, since there are so many excellent torsos out there. The extra girth carried by Frank Lampard hasn’t hampered his glittering career of over 150 goals from deflected free-kicks and penalties. D-Beck also must be mentioned again, along with fellow former Gillette alumni Thierry Henry.

There can be only one, however, and once you think about it, it’s a no brainer. The fastest player over a yard. The ‘tache. Micky Quinn. I wonder who’d win in a 1 yard race between him and Teddy Sheringham?

Section 3: The Legs
Crucial to any player. Legs. Before Owen Hargreaves turned into a good player at the 2006 World Cup, England lost a qualifier to Northern Ireland 1-0 at Windsor Park. Explaining the ineffective introduction of Hargreaves, manager Sven-Goran Eriksson said: “We needed more legs…. Hargreaves has legs.” Unfortunately he doesn’t have knees anymore, and they’re important.

In a similar vein, 30YS’s own Jez MacBlain lauded Aston Villa’s recent signing of Jermain Jenas on our first podcast, saying they “lacked legs” in midfield. Peter Crouch’s long legs are impressive, whilst pre-geriatric Michael Owen was super-fast. But for all-around pace, grace and general leg-tastic excellence, Thierry Henry gets the gong.

Section 4: The Feet
Possibly the hardest category to choose from. The genius of Dennis Bergkamp. The wizadry of Gianfranco Zola. The wankery of Cristiano Ronaldo. Kanu in his late 90’s prime even made Martin Keown chuckle. Plus there’s Paulo Di Canio, Paul Gascogine, L’Oreal’s David Ginola, one-foot wonder Georgi Kinkladze…I could go on.

But it comes down to one man, one man who defines feet. He kept Southampton in the Premier League for years. He was quite literally amazing. Matt Le Tisser, take a bow.

Section 5: The Result

The ultimate footballer.