Published: 15 November, 2012
THE CROW

LOOK around and you’ll see there are a growing number of ninnies in sports journalism, wafting around thinking they are writing vital, intelligent pieces on football.

They all pen in the style of somebody who believes football is a burning issue of matched importance to war and poverty. 

I’m not saying they do believe that; it’s just their ornate pieces read that way – mainly because they find more decorative words to express the same things the rest of us say in cafés and pub conversations about Theo Walcott’s unpredictable promise.

To feel part of the crowd – and not the bitter, forgotten exile in local journalism’s chilly gulag that I am– I will therefore write this week’s north London derby preview in the style of a chin-stroking national writer in blazer and jeans, with carefully combed hair. Here goes: “You could turn to that great fabulist Aesop to understand the pivot lying between Arsenal and Tottenham Hotspur, two fantastical duellists fastened in a historic dispute as great as any fought between Cain and Abel. In one of his lesser known works, Aesop imagined conversing trees, writing: ‘The Pomegranate and Apple-Tree disputed as to which was the more beautiful. When their strife was at its height, a Bramble from the neighbouring hedge lifted up its voice, and said in a boastful tone: Pray, my dear friends, in my presence at least cease from such vain disputings’. How appropriate this vignette would be for London’s football hierarchy. While Arsenal and Spurs vainly dispute their faded importance, others tire of their contest. The blooming Manchester United could very well be the bramble of this fine moral.”

And so on…
Richard Osley

IS there much point to this mid-week international friendly lark if it just ends up giving the kids and Leon Osman a run-out?

Yes they say. It gives Roy Hodgson the chance to work out whether these bright young things (and, er, Leon Osman) have what it takes to become top class internationals.

Which is the football equivalent of buying a puppy and deciding that if it can sit on the sofa for half an hour without weeing on the cushions you might keep it.

I always thought that the real football equivalent of working out if kids can make it internationally was the Under-21s.

But that’s probably only good for when almost every senior footballer except for Steven Gerrard and, er, Leon Osman, hasn’t pulled a groin/hamstring/sickie.

Ah well, makes a change from watching Man City show us all up in the Champions League on a school night. I have to admit I did an Arteta scream when the Berties robbed us on Sunday.

You know the one – palms lightly touching the side of the face, mouth formed into a nice round O, body bent slightly forward, knees knocking gently together. It’s the kind of pose you might pull if you’d staggered off the 253 bus in search of a bin having had one pickled egg too many on a night out.

Or been robbed at the last minute. Or missed a penalty.

Let’s just hope that the only ones pulling it again this weekend are Gooners.
Catherine Etoe

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