Anybody remember a footballer called Shaun Wright-Phillips? Rather likeable chap, by all accounts. Almost exactly one year ago his reputation as Britain’s most exciting young talent was enhanced by a magnificent goal against Arsenal at Highbury — a sudden, irresistible spurt of pace followed by a gently cambered 25-yard bullet into the net.
Back then, he entranced and mesmerised even those of us who, for ancient and irrational reasons, harboured a visceral dislike of Manchester City. There was eager talk of him maybe replacing a jaded David Beckham in England’s midfield. Each week we watched him, on Match of the Day, eviscerate even the most brutally competent of Premiership defences. This boy will go far, we all thought, with enormous admiration.
And then, indeed, he went — and was scarcely seen again. A descent to anonymity effected not through the traditional route favoured by our young footballing stars — crate after crate of Cristal champagne and a few too many roasting sessions with pliant moppets in top hotels — but, in a way, by something far more corrosive and debilitating. He signed for Chelsea.
Last summer he was presented with the No 24 shirt by Jose Mourinho and commented jubilantly: “It’s the date my son was born! He loves football!” What Wright-Phillips didn’t realise was that the number on his back referred to the total amount of minutes he’d be allowed on the pitch in the following season. Okay, a little poetic licence there — he’s actually made six starts in the Premiership for Chelsea. But most of the time he has been cooling his heels, waiting patiently behind Joe Cole, Arjen Robben and Damien Duff. Twenty-one million quid for a fourth-choice midfielder? Hell, Jose, if you ever want cover for Michael Essien you can have Jody Morris back from Millwall for a snip at £15m.
Wright-Phillips said at the time that he’d signed for Chelsea because he wished to improve as a player and cited Cole as the example to follow. This was either disingenuous rubbish or simply a bad call. I remember all too well that England appearance, against Northern Ireland in Belfast: 54 minutes of misplaced energy, the performance of a decapitated whippet on Benzedrine, out of focus and out of practice. He was replaced on that woeful evening by one Joe Cole, the irony of which one hopes registered with him as he trudged towards his familiar perch on the bench. So has he become a better player these past nine months? I don’t think so.
As we’ve seen, Cole is the exception, not the rule. There are plenty of England players or future England players whose careers have been blighted by the easeful, narcotic luxury of not actually playing for Chelsea at all. The excellent Scott Parker, now fulfilling his early potential at last at Newcastle — but afforded just one Premiership start for Jose.
Or Glen Johnson, who has played for 150 minutes this season and who, as a result, looked about as comfortable playing for England against Denmark as John Prescott would soaking up the atmosphere at Glyndebourne. And then there’s Wayne Bridge — once a very serious contender for a regular England place but allowed not a single Premiership start or even a substitution this season for Chelsea.
Nor is it very long ago that Carlton Cole was talked about in the same terms that were a little later applied to Wright-Phillips: exciting, explosive, a dead cert for England. Cole has spent 96 minutes on the pitch this season. His career has been dribbled away, languishing in the reserves or on the bench or in fractured and episodic loan spells at Aston Villa and Charlton. He doesn’t seem terribly bothered by this impasse; the enormous piles of dosh, one assumes, alleviate those fleeting moments of worried contemplation about a career going nowhere very, very slowly.
In fairness to Mourinho, all of the players I’ve mentioned have been let out of their kennels to scamper around, blinking a little confusedly beneath the unfamiliar floodlights, during the occasional Carling Cup tie. And it is hard to blame the coach for wishing to field a reserve side that is slightly better than the national teams of, say, the Czech Republic or Portugal. Mourinho’s politics are decidedly right-of-centre; one therefore assumes that he subscribes to the notion that the market should be the sole arbiter — an agreeable ideology if you have pretty much complete control of said market. However, the problem lies not with Mourinho and Chelsea, and we might even forgive the players for their vaulting, if misplaced, ambition. Aside from the easy and predictable target of venal agents, we might point the finger at those who, like Sven-Göran Eriksson, feel that a player can only realise his potential at one of the top three or four clubs.
Sven, remember, gave his blessing when Wright-Phillips made an abrupt volte-face and insisted that when he said he wished to be a “true blue for ever”, it was out of an aesthetic appreciation of the colour rather than a deep love for Manchester City. Was that really good advice, Sven? Right now, who looks the sharper, more likely, candidate to slot into an England midfield berth and give hell to the opposition in Germany this year — Wright-Phillips, who has spent the season largely sitting on his arse, or somebody like, say, unfashionable Jimmy Bullard at unfashionable Wigan?
Spare a thought for suffering fans
I suppose it doesn’t matter that Middlesbrough’s 0-0 draw with Bolton was called off last week before a ball was kicked, due to a subsoil heating failure. Being spared watching Kevin Davies and Gareth Southgate elbow each other to death for 90 minutes in sub-zero temperatures is not a bad thing, if tempered by the fact that we will have to watch them do it when the weather improves. Bolton fans will not feel the same, having crossed the Pennines and been left to find their own entertainment in downtown ’Boro. Good luck, gents.
Seventeen league games were called off last Wednesday, and nobody seemed to care much about the plight of the fans. The police were happy enough, the clubs were, by and large, happy enough (Sam Allardyce was probably delighted). Nobody who matters loses out financially — except supporters, and that’s okay, really. Sod them.
Some 35 loyal, if clinically insane, fans of Torquay United travelled 260 miles to Stockport. I daresay they will get their tickets refunded, but have no hope of compensation for the time and money spent travelling to Cheshire. But clearly, they, and all fans whose days were ruined at often enormous cost, should get compensation. The act of buying a ticket should be deemed a legally binding contract and the clubs should pay if the game is called off. If, as at Newcastle, the decision seemed to have been taken by local authorities, NUFC can look for legal redress at city hall.
The utter insouciance with which all those involved regard the fans is a disgrace. How about this: mandatory pitch inspection 12 hours before the game and a decision arrived at bearing in mind the weather forecast. If the decision changes due to unforeseen circumstances after that, the club concerned bears full liability for away fans’ travelling expenses.
If nothing else, this would spare us the sight of hundreds of Charlton supporters, notebooks in hand, at Newcastle station, trying to make the best of their ruined evening when they should have been at St James’ Park, watching the next stage in their team’s descent to the abyss and later, defeat at the New Den next season.
Time to tackle cheats
It is a strange thing to find oneself sticking up for Lee Bowyer, but quite clearly he has been done an injustice by referee Mark Halsey and the FA. His challenge on Liverpool’s Xabi Alonso seemed, to me, scarcely worthy of a free kick, never mind a red card. Now that the authorities have reviewed the evidence, why weren’t retrospective red cards issued to Peter Crouch, who rushed towards Bowyer like an enraged crane and pushed him to the ground, and Steven Gerrard, who did the same thing except more like a human being? Like most fans, I get temporarily annoyed by scything neck-high tackles when they are perpetrated against a member of my own team, but — again, like most fans, I suspect — I don’t hate them as much as I hate flouncing, whining, cheating, diving, self-righteous retaliation. Gerrard and Crouch should have gone, Bowyer should have stayed on the pitch. And Bolton’s goalkeeper Jussi Jaaskelainen should have been dismissed retrospectively for a blatant piece of acting against Everton, the sole purpose of which was to convince the referee a fellow professional should be sent off when he committed no crime. Refs are tough on tackles and elbows. It’s time to get tougher on the cheats.
Hugh McIlvanney is away
