Tag Archives | Murdoch

I Support Spurs Because I Want To, I Choose Labour Because I Have To

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(or is it the other way round? I can’t decide)

Let me start this with a confession.

For two whole weeks in the spring of 1988, I became a Nottingham Forest supporter. My ten-year old fickleness was seduced by the charisma of Brian Clough in the dwindling twilight of his managerial pomp and the general attractiveness of their football. Thankfully though, the flirtation was a brief one. Common sense naturally prevailed. What business did I have supporting a team from a town I had never (and still haven’t) visited when there was one that played within earshot of my house? And what would my mum have made of it, having scrimped and saved for my first proper Spurs kit that wasn’t bought off some wheeling and dealing Del Boy clone from the local market?

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How We Can Change Football. Can We Change Football?


You spend half a season moaning about the state of football and then when you actually sit down to try and think of how we, as supporters, can change it, you find yourself staring into space for the best part of a week. It’s easy to complain, far harder to find solutions and I can certainly testify to that.

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Thatcher’s Game: Spurs, Sky And Revising History

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If I’m being honest, had I written this on the day she died my words would have been fuelled with eviscerating anger. Anger for the countless individuals, whose lives and livelihoods were callously considered by her to be collateral damage when compared to the implementation of her grand designs for this country. As the days have passed however, my moods have swung dramatically from bouts of resignation (her way won, right?) to moments of outright dejection witnessing as I have, the re-opening of the scars she inflicted upon us all; proof that the society which she alleged did not exist, remains as fractured as it was when she grabbed the reigns of power in the first year of my life.

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This Is Dispatches From A Football Sofa…

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In the final series of The Wire incarcerated druglord Marlo Stanfield, having been made aware that his ‘employees’ had kept concealed that his reputation was being denigrated by sworn enemy Omar Little on the streets of Baltimore, angrily exclaims, “my name is my name!” Faced with having his name forever associated with the malicious rumours of gossipmongers, The Crucible’s John Proctor defiantly proclaims:

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When Dispatches Met 90 Minutes


Ah, the nineties – New Labour, Britpop and Euro ’96. Everything seemed possible, right? And in the midst of all that euphoria, there was 90 Minutes magazine. Having graduated from the innocent charms of Match but finding the grown-up seriousness of When Saturday Comes a little too highbrow, this magazine with its irreverent charm came at just the right time and inadvertently inspired me into putting together my own badly photocopied fanzine which traded under the name ‘Injury Time’. I sold three copies in the school canteen.

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A Brand Apart


Dispatches From A Football Sofa kicks off the new season with a double-bill of posts over the next two days. First up, the nature of the brand. Have a great season, whoever you support.

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According To Type


In his machine gun tone of delivery, Chris Rock eloquently captured the distinctions in class within America’s Afro-American population. According to him, there are black people and there are ‘niggaz’. Rock has been criticised for his willingness to confront racial tensions in his stand-up shows and although much celebrated, this particular routine could be seen as reinforcing certain cultural stereotypes. However, to say that would be to miss the diatribe’s point; that there is a distinct separation in terms of class and attitude amongst America’s black communities. It is more a case of how black people perceive themselves and how there will always be a minority that allows the media to stoke public perception.

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Chelsea Dagger


Chelsea are simply awesome. Not awesome in the way a teenager were to describe the definition of ‘cool’ but awesome in the sense that their wanton goal sprees against West Brom and Wigan have left many people shaking their heads in wonder and with an impending dread for the months that will unfold. It has left no doubt that the Premier League is merely a series of mismatches between expensively acquired and technically assured Goliaths and expensively acquired but nevertheless limited Davids. Can anything further be read into Blackpool’s annihilation by Arsenal at the Emirates after their opening day jubilation, other then a sense that this is a League comprising a small elite of technocrats and artisans putting lesser mortals to the sword on a weekly basis?

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Eyes Wide Shut


Before the unfolding drama of England’s second round match with Germany today, the BBC ran a puff-piece evoking the words of the giants of both countries’ literary traditions with the aim of putting the requisite fire into well-fed Sunday afternoon bellies. Rounding it off were the words of William Shakespeare imbibing visions of glory. After witnessing the events in both of today’s matches, a more appropriate truism from the Bard would be Hamlet’s: “There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, than are dreamt of in your philosophy”.

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