Assault and Blattery

Mr Sepp Blatter
Fédération Internationale de Football Association
FIFA-Strasse 20
P.O. Box 8044 Zurich
Switzerland

29 May 2015

Dear Mr Blatter

Firstly, congratulations on the retention of your presidency of FIFA.  Personally, I’m mightily pleased; I’m not sure that I could have approached the Jordanian fella with my issue.  He doesn’t look entirely cuddly and grandfatherly like you do (which, I’d hazard, is probably the secret to your continued tenure).

Anyway, I hope you don’t mind me writing, but I was out with my mate from next door this evening; having a couple of pints of Spitfire at The Woodpecker, when he outlined his dilemma to me; the timeliness of your re-election, despite some of the scurrilous rumours that surround it, has prompted me to drop you a line.

My friend has a ten-year-old who is deeply passionate about the game of football.  He’s never out of the garden, constantly knocking his balls against the fence, pretending he’s scoring the winner in a World Cup final at Wembley (which as you and I both know is hardly likely to happen on your watch, but that’s an altogether different issue).  Yet despite his efforts, he remains resolutely useless.  I’ve seen dachshunds exercise more control over a football than the lad next door, but I don’t want to break his or his father’s heart in pointing out the obvious.

The boy is desperate to get a place in the AFC Newbury under 11 squad, but just can’t get a look in.  Admittedly, it’s a very good side; they’ve just won the Under 11 Colts PHYL (Peter Houseman Youth League) & League Cup "double", the Under 10 League Cup the year before and another double as Under 9s in 2012-13; nice kids too, they were also Fair Play Winners that year.  But despite them being lovely, there’s no way they’re going to make room for the talentless (albeit enthusiastic) twit next door; which is where I need your help.

Given their astounding record, it’s clear to me that they could quite easily “carry” someone with the limited talents of my neighbour’s son.  I’m sure they could pop him up front alongside their target man and he could chase the ball all afternoon without causing too much damage to their pursuit of another championship.  Simply put, however, they are unlikely to do that unless there is an influential intervention.

I appreciate, of course, that such matters are a little beneath your sphere of activities.  However, I don’t doubt that you would be able to have a word in an appropriate ear to ensure that the authorities of AFC Newbury were cognisant of their need to widen the appeal of the game to a larger audience (the boy is a bit of a puddin’).

I realise that this would naturally divert attention from significantly more pressing engagements (and I suspect you may well have one or two of those on the horizon) so I contemplated sending fifty quid with my letter to compensate you for your time.  However, my good lady wife rightly asserts that you’re likely to delegate the task to one of your associates; if you’d prefer then, I’ll direct the funds elsewhere, just let me have the account details and I’ll wire the money to the appropriate account.

I know it’s only a small thing for you, but it would be a huge thing for the lad next door and his dad.  Not only that, but it would get the kid out of his garden and onto the pitch at AFC Newbury, meaning he’d stop knocking seven bells out of my fence and dislodging the blossom from my creeping Hydrangea in the process.  That would please me no end.

One last thing, have you considered dispensing with the democratic process at FIFA?  The charade around voting is just a little unseemly, it’s not terribly becoming of an organisation that is so much a reflection of the man who runs it.  Just a thought.

Yours sincerely

Craig Brown
GOM in Training

Eh? What?

It's official.  I am getting increasingly old and knackered. To imagine otherwise would be delusional, it's happening to us all. However, there's a difference between blissfully ignoring the ageing process and having it confirmed by a doctor possibly young enough to be one's daughter (always assuming I made a very early start on the reproductive process).

The casus belli of my latest attack on Old Father Time was, I thought, the ceaseless evening roadworks on the A34; which lies just one mile to the south of our home. Lying in bed, readying myself for sleep, I found my slumber delayed by the steady grind of a heavy roller flattening newly laid tarmac in what I believed to be remedial work to the pock marked surface that is our closest arterial route. Night after night this irksome nuisance hummed in the distance, consoling me only with the thought that it may be a terribly nice surface to take the bike onto, save for the cars and trucks flying by at close quarters at 70 mph.

I don't get out much these days, my commute to work was reduced to 14 stairs and a 30 foot hallway back in April, so when I did finally venture forth to the A34, I expected to drive along a velveteen smooth roadway flatter than the Bonneville Salt Flats. What I discovered instead, was the un-remediated asphalt on which I had driven many times before, vibrating through the steering wheel as my car lumbered over its worn and battered surface. At the time I thought little of it, but hearing the sound of the underachieving roller again at the end of the day, I was compelled to consider that perhaps all was not as it seemed.

It was upon hearing the roadworks closer to home in the middle of the day that I determined to investigate. The strident grumble of the heavy machinery saw me flip off my work slippers and don my sandals* for a quick wander to the source of the industry. As I opened the door, the sound vanished.  I returned to my desk; the rumble resumed. I opened the door; it ceased. Either a prankster was silencing the roller as I opened my door or I was hearing things; or not, as the case may be.

The human brain is a remarkable piece of kit. When our hand rests on something hot, the reflex to pull away is almost instant. A cut or scrape is felt immediately with our brain delivering a resulting sense of pain through our nervous system. In the inner ear, hair cells reside in the cochlea and send impulses to the brain for it to interpret sound. When something is awry and the hair cells don't send a signal to our grey matter for interpretation, it decides to check out what's going on and sends its own signal back, this signal is commonly known as tinnitus, and frankly, I would rather my brain didn't bother - the silence would be infinitely preferable.

A short period of research on the interweb revealed that there was little that I could do to stop the noise. I have to confess that I greet most treatment suggestions that begin with the words "to help you achieve a positive state of mind" with a healthy degree of skepticism; even if it is the gospel according to the NHS. Other options proposed included sound therapy to fill the silence with neutral, often repetitive sounds to distract you from the sound of tinnitus. I have a 12 year-old daughter who is relentless in her pursuit of a puppy. Repetitive sounds I can do without - they're hardly a welcome distraction. An alternative was to have the radio or television on, or to listen to natural relaxing sounds. When I experience it most, at the point of trying to sleep, I don't want to watch TV or listen to the radio, the only thing I want to do is generate a natural sound, that of my snoring, albeit, Mrs. Brown will be the first to tell you that that particular noise is not remotely relaxing.

As a consequence, I paid a visit to my GP. He was an older gent and nodded sympathetically as he listened to me through his ear horn. "Well", he hollered at me. "Either you're schizophrenic, or your hearing things. Sometimes, there's no difference," he chortled. "I can't tell!".  

I was hoping he was a better doctor than a comedian. "Of course," he added. "There's bugger all we can do for you." Confirming to me instantly that he might be better suited to a career in stand-up. In turn, however, he referred me to the local audiology department, whereupon I met the adolescent medic to whom I referred in my opening stanza.

Our meeting began with a surreal debate about my age. The hospital, it would seem, had recorded my date of birth to coincide with my 8th birthday. I could read in her face, instantly, that she considered me not to be weathering well. I reconciled this obviously slight to 36 year-olds across the country by considering the further cause of her distress, that before her might be sitting "the wrong patient". The tabloid press in the UK is quick to seize upon stories of healthy limbs being amputated or the removal of the functioning lung as a result of being presented with dodgy data. I worried momentarily that her investigation might be a little more invasive than I had expected, but we quickly established that although her information lacked integrity, I was still there for a routine hearing check.

Happily I was not advised to adopt aural therapies, instead, she confirmed the worst; that I am suffering what is otherwise known to millions across the planet as hearing loss. "What's that you say?"
  "Hearing loss dear. You're going deaf".

The great news is that I've got at least five to ten years before I'll require the installation of an hearing aid. The decline in auditory capability she says, is simply part of the aging process. Yep, she was young, and in the young, the aging process is something that's greeted with enthusiasm. First it gets them to a driver's license, then to an off-license before graduating to a marriage license; but not necessarily in that order.  

An alternative view, once one has achieved those milestones, is to look at life through the lens of certification - birth certificate, marriage certificate and... let's not go there.  

Instead, let us content ourselves that there is a decline over which we can grumble. After all, there's much worse in this world than the gradual deterioration of one's hearing. Personally, I will content myself in the knowledge that when Pippa next asks us to get a dog, I can respond, with the sincerest legitimacy, that I didn't quite hear what she said.


* For the record, I continue to cling to youth by sporting bare feet beneath my sandals.

It's not just on the pitch he doesn't work...

Having been a tad critical of the boy Balotelli in my recent letter to the lad, I was a touched surprised to find a response sitting on my doorstep a few days ago.

I needn't have been.  The chap's so lazy that he failed to:

     a) Use my address
     b) Add a date
     c) Personalise the salutation
     d) Write the letter himself

Presumably the club didn't want to wake him from his nap, or perhaps, as he so frequently does during a game, he was hiding.

Balotelli's fearsome fungi

Mario Balotelli

c/o Liverpool Football Club
Anfield Road
Liverpool L4 OTH

1 October 2014

Dear Mario

I’m sure you can appreciate that, as a Liverpool fan, I was somewhat disappointed that the team failed to gain a point against Basle tonight in the Champions’ League.

Bitter pill as that was to swallow however, that is not the reason for my note; what follows has more to do with concerns for your health.

I noted, during the course of this evening’s game, that you appear to have a growth atop your head which isn’t perhaps entirely natural.

I have done some considerable research on this phenomenon and can only conclude that you have developed a nasty fungal infection leading to the ivory colouring coursing the centre of your bonce.

Further investigation has revealed that your disfigurement has probably emerge as a result of immobility; borne of your natural tendency to remain stationary during the course of a football match.  There are some nasty airborne infections one can acquire when stood motionless in the open air for prolonged periods and I would hazard that you are more prone than others to be affected given your regular stasis.

In the interest of your wellbeing, I have consulted with a number of experts in the field and, universally, they are of the opinion that if you moved during the course of a game you would not only avoid the fungi finding refuge on your noodle, but you might also contribute to the team’s performance; the corollary of which might be to influence a result that is somewhat more positive than the one I witnessed tonight.

I presume that movement is not a natural state for you and that you would perhaps benefit from some guidance on how best to do this.  May I suggest that you request recordings of some of last year’s games where you can review the work of Luis Suarez, who will, l assure you, provide you with a master class in how to perform on a football pitch.  Do however stop short of adopting his more carnivorous instincts, you’re likely to develop a gastric complaint if you embrace all of his tendencies.

You may note that many of your teammates are a little less static than you and also, that none of them have been similarly afflicted.  May I propose that you follow their lead, move about a bit and see what unfolds?  I suspect that not only will you manage to shed the fungus, but you may also find yourself part of a team capable of delivering more favourable results.

For the sake of my health, I beg you to do this.  The increases to my blood pressure that your lack of effort engenders is of considerable concern to my nearest and dearest.

Yours sincerely

Craig Brown
GOM in Training

Almost... but not quite

"Amazing", Jamie said, as we watched Rory McIlroy tee off on the first hole on the third day of The Open Championship whilst having breakfast this morning.  

A short flutter of joy coursed through me as I considered that, finally, he was showing some appreciation for sport.  Then he continued...

"We have managed to invent a game even more boring than cricket."

<Sigh>

Evolving football knowledge

As a follow-up to Jamie's attempt to build a world eleven, we had a go today at naming 10 football teams.  It was a struggle to eight, then he considered the World Cup.  No problem with his geography...

Living vicariously

I wanted to be a professional footballer.  As a teenager, I poured my heart and soul into the sport, loving (almost) every minute of it and dreamt of representing my country and playing Premier League football.

Six days a week were spent training or playing, with the pre-game Friday the only day that didn’t see me in a pair of boots or trainers.  Admittedly, those Friday nights would often find me in Wellington’s Bond Street Inn with my mates, not necessarily the perfect preparation for a match, but such was my youth and fitness that I managed to ride through the perils.  Those nights are perhaps an indication of why I didn’t quite make it in the game, but nevertheless, it was a dream I harboured.

Not realising your dreams, or at least acknowledging the fact, can sometimes be a difficult experience; often for someone else.  On the 26 May 1999, Manchester United recorded their historic treble of winning the Champions League, Premier League and the FA Cup in the same season.  That same day, a much bigger event in my life occurred, the arrival of one James John Brown.  3lb 6oz of fighting little man who I thought was so keen to catch the football that he arrived six weeks early.  I determined there and then, that my ambition to be a footballing legend would transfer to the tiny bundle in my arms, who I would support, cajole and encourage into a future England team.

Fast forward 15 years and we are on the cusp of the World Cup, an event I desperately wanted to attend, not as a spectator, but as a player (though I’m still clinging to the dream of visiting the World Cup as the former).  The TV and radio are tuned to broadcast the games, the matches I can’t see live are set to record and there’s a bottle or two of Brahma in the fridge as my tilt towards being in Brazil.  I’m savouring the build-up, entering match predictions and a fantasy league team on SuperBru, placing my outside bet on the Belgians at Ladbrokes and listening to the experts opine.  On one such programme airing on the BBC’s 5Live last Friday, a number of pundits named their world eleven, a team comprising the best players that history has delivered us.  Amongst others, names such as Pele, Beckenbauer, Maradonna, Zoff, Matteus and Zico were pencilled onto the team sheet, conjuring some of the most magical moments in football, as I recalled the feats of some of these players.

At the time, Jamie and I were heading to the Rutherford Appleton Laboratory near Oxford to listen to an illuminating talk by Prof. Mark McCaughrean on the work of the European Space Agency and I asked Jamie who he’d have in his world eleven.  What transpired is proof of a number of things: that we are each our own; that we should form only our ambitions; and that my son has not the remotest bit of interest in the world of football.  For 20 minutes we laboured at establishing a team, me providing what I considered to be the most obvious of hints, but which in hindsight, only someone with an interest in the game would be able to get, albeit, when it came to Walkers Crisps, we got to Gary Linekar relatively easily, although Jamie did think he was a cricketer. 

We soon dispensed with naming players to their preferred position or even the possibility of filling a bench, we were like a pub team on a Sunday scrubbing around to find enough fellas to fill 22 boots.  Even David Beckham didn’t manage to raise a mention, although admittedly I failed to think of him myself and provide Jamie a clue like “Who is Posh Spice’s husband?”

Which leads me to my point.  Despite his utter lack of interest in football and his unwillingness to share my passion for the game and fulfil my dreams, I am immensely proud of my son.  One day, he may be a brilliant scientist, mathematician or pilot (or something as yet still to be determined).  Whilst I marvelled at Professor McCaughrean as he outlined the staggeringly clever maths and physics that go into landing an explorer on a comet, Jamie took it in his stride, accepting it simply as a component part of the science that goes into space exploration.  He is quite beyond my level of understanding in matters of the Universe and will never be able to turn to me for help with his homework; not that he needs my assistance; his independence, diligence and skills in the maths and science disciplines are more than enough to see him through, although he does have the physicists disdain for what he considers to be biological nonsense.

He will inevitably follow his path in the world and my role, I now realise, is not to lead him down a route that I would follow, but rather be there to support him along the road, doing what I can to make it as smooth a ride as possible.

It is right to have dreams for our children, but they shouldn’t be what we had as our own.  The dream should be that they are happy and free to pursue their dreams.  One should dream too, that through hard work, endeavour and if it takes it, luck, they achieve them.  That is a dream worthy of any parent. 

Of course, all that said, Jamie realising those dreams may not help to diminish the pain I felt when, in all seriousness, he asked me, “Dad, what is the point of football?”