Ah, football. Football football football. A passion for millions around the world, a sport so infused with romance that, had it been invented in Shakespeare's time, he would have written sonnets about it. Crap, boring sonnets that children in English classrooms would have been obliged to learn, despite being more interested in knifing somebody or talking about how Krystal shagged Kyle behind the Co-Op last Wednesday after school, for £2.75 and a ringtone.

The world's biggest sporting obsession can inspire the sort of logic-free thinking not witnessed since, well, since the 'Great British Public' last decided to vote in their hundreds of thousands for another mindless pop star to trundle off the Simon Cowell-powered conveyor belt.
The mode of thought I am talking about is perfectly encapsulated by the Geordies this week (it's always either the Geordies or the Scousers), and their jubilant celebratons at the news that Big Al Shearer is finally in his rightful place at the right-side of God in the Newcastle dug out. He is the man to save us, they say, and if he can't do it then nobody can. So that's that cleared up then: nobody can.
The problem is that the Newcastle fans really really want Shearer to be their saviour; they paper over the obvious cracks (i.e. it's apparent from his Match Of The Day punditry that he knows about as much about the tactical side of football as a stapler) and convince themselves that love of the club and a hard work ethic - qualities Shearer has without doubt - are enough. But they're not, as the Premier League and the higher echelons of football in general has shown time and time again. Quality will out, and no amount of careering around a football pitch until you're throwing up your own pancreas from exhaustion will dictate otherwise if you don't have the ability. Shearer has motivational skills for sure, but that doesn't make him a good manager, and willing it doesn't make it so. In the words of Peter Kay's creation, the wheelchair-bound Brian Potter of Phoenix Nights, "I wanna moonwalk son, but life's a shit-house".

The football wasteland is littered with illustrious names who have endeared themselves to clubs and fans with their performances on the pitch, but ultimately failed in the dugout. Just ask Glenn Hoddle (he walked on water as a player at Tottenham, but sank as a manager), John Barnes and Tony Adams, to name but three. The truth is that managing a football team and playing for one are two very different things; as a player you are concentrating on the game and the players around you, and have no time to pick up on subtle tactical issues. And most footballers, with the possible exception of Graeme Le Saux, have a brain the size of gnat's bollock.
Managers require an analytical brain, one open to possibilities and quick to see patterns and faults (this of course, has it's exceptions too - see the likes of Phil Brown and the ProZone crowd, who wouldn't notice if Ghengis Khan ran on to the pitch and slaughtered all their players). This possibly goes some way to explaining why, very often, the best managers were not necessarily the greatest players themselves. Arsene Wenger, Carlo Ancelotti, Marcelo Lippi, Louis Van Gaal - not exactly the world's most famous footballers, but certainly excellent managers with proven records.
The sad fact, however, is that romance often overrules these ideas, as it has done with the gullible Newcastle fans and Alan Shearer. They fell for it with Kevin Keegan (revered as a God despite never actually having won them a trophy, and having the notable distinction of taking them 14 points clear at the top of the league at Christmas, before blowing it) and they're falling for it again. But I suppose that's what the romance of football is all about - hopes, dreams, and laughing at other people's misfortune.

Ah, football. Football football football. A passion for millions around the world, a sport so infused with romance that, had it been invented in Shakespeare's time, he would have written sonnets about it. Crap, boring sonnets that children in English classrooms would have been obliged to learn, despite being more interested in knifing somebody or talking about how Krystal shagged Kyle behind the Co-Op last Wednesday after school, for £2.75 and a ringtone.

The world's biggest sporting obsession can inspire the sort of logic-free thinking not witnessed since, well, since the 'Great British Public' last decided to vote in their hundreds of thousands for another mindless pop star to trundle off the Simon Cowell-powered conveyor belt.
The mode of thought I am talking about is perfectly encapsulated by the Geordies this week (it's always either the Geordies or the Scousers), and their jubilant celebratons at the news that Big Al Shearer is finally in his rightful place at the right-side of God in the Newcastle dug out. He is the man to save us, they say, and if he can't do it then nobody can. So that's that cleared up then: nobody can.
The problem is that the Newcastle fans really really want Shearer to be their saviour; they paper over the obvious cracks (i.e. it's apparent from his Match Of The Day punditry that he knows about as much about the tactical side of football as a stapler) and convince themselves that love of the club and a hard work ethic - qualities Shearer has without doubt - are enough. But they're not, as the Premier League and the higher echelons of football in general has shown time and time again. Quality will out, and no amount of careering around a football pitch until you're throwing up your own pancreas from exhaustion will dictate otherwise if you don't have the ability. Shearer has motivational skills for sure, but that doesn't make him a good manager, and willing it doesn't make it so. In the words of Peter Kay's creation, the wheelchair-bound Brian Potter of Phoenix Nights, "I wanna moonwalk son, but life's a shit-house".

The football wasteland is littered with illustrious names who have endeared themselves to clubs and fans with their performances on the pitch, but ultimately failed in the dugout. Just ask Glenn Hoddle (he walked on water as a player at Tottenham, but sank as a manager), John Barnes and Tony Adams, to name but three. The truth is that managing a football team and playing for one are two very different things; as a player you are concentrating on the game and the players around you, and have no time to pick up on subtle tactical issues. And most footballers, with the possible exception of Graeme Le Saux, have a brain the size of gnat's bollock.
Managers require an analytical brain, one open to possibilities and quick to see patterns and faults (this of course, has it's exceptions too - see the likes of Phil Brown and the ProZone crowd, who wouldn't notice if Ghengis Khan ran on to the pitch and slaughtered all their players). This possibly goes some way to explaining why, very often, the best managers were not necessarily the greatest players themselves. Arsene Wenger, Carlo Ancelotti, Marcelo Lippi, Louis Van Gaal - not exactly the world's most famous footballers, but certainly excellent managers with proven records.
The sad fact, however, is that romance often overrules these ideas, as it has done with the gullible Newcastle fans and Alan Shearer. They fell for it with Kevin Keegan (revered as a God despite never actually having won them a trophy, and having the notable distinction of taking them 14 points clear at the top of the league at Christmas, before blowing it) and they're falling for it again. But I suppose that's what the romance of football is all about - hopes, dreams, and laughing at other people's misfortune.