“It’s over. I’m leaving you. I just don’t believe in us anymore.” The World Cup split up with me last night. I went to my bed, lonely and empty. What was there for company? Just my memories and that extra, redundant pillow. I buried my face in it, hoping to catch one faint, final whiff of the World Cup’s musk.
After I cried myself to sleep, I had a strange dream. In my dream, I collected my World Cup memories in a scrapbook, and then showed the scrapbook to my mother, who turned into a dolphin.
Here is my World-Cup-memories-Freudian-dolphin-dream scrapbook, in the form of awards.
Best game: USA 2 – Slovenia 2. The biggest nation in the World Cup against the smallest. Slovenia won the first half, then the USA came back strong and with Rocky-like bloodymindedness snatched the draw that took them through. Eventually.
Best player: Kevin Prince Boateng. He probably wasn’t the best player, but this’ll piss the Germans off. He had a good tournament though.
Best goal: Carlos Tevez against Mexico. He smashed the ball so hard it entered another dimension and turned into a new star. Civilisations are now being founded on planets orbiting that star.
Best team: North Korea. The confirmation that football IS socialism, (or at least some bizarre kind of socialism where one small man with a dodgy haircut lives in a luxury fort made of iron ore and everyone else eats grass). In this context, socialism meant football without fouling, diving, playacting or whining to the ref. Just sweet tears for the beauty of your leader.
Most overused metaphor: Food. As soon as this World Cup began, everyone was hungry. One team after another went on about eating each other’s national dishes, because they believed that in some primal way the consumption of fish and chips would impart the strengths of a defeated English team. Come to think of it, it does make you feel bloated and greasy. Ha! See what I did there?
And then came Paul the bloody octopus – and apparently every living thing on the entire planet had to make a joke about eating the sorry bastard! Every last gene-carrying organism in the cosmos had a good old laugh about eating that octopus. There were bacteria sitting on a dead sea cucumber in the Indian Ocean who made jokes about eating that octopus. Even I did it. But as always, Jogi led the way. When it comes to eating, he showed you should always start with your own excreta.
Best post-goal blank looks between goalie and defence: Spain v Switzerland. Spain only conceded two goals in the whole tournament, and they were both in the group stage. But Switzerland showed there’s only one way to score against Spain: 1) kick the ball really far down the middle, 2) throw all your players after it, throw the kitchen sink after it, throw a crate full of cutlery after it, put your family in a range rover and drive after it, release a herd of wildebeest after it, get a one-man band playing “Oh When The Saints” to march after it, kill a few defenders with a machine-gun. 3) Hope.
Sexiest homoerotic player (according to my girlfriend): Wesley Sneijder.
Best man at the World Cup: Diego Maradona. This man IS the World Cup – the best player the tournament has ever seen, the scorer of the greatest goals, the dirtiest cheat, the biggest cigar-puffing genius – and at South Africa 2010 he became the maddest-bastard-manager, with the deepest sense of personal tragedy and injustice and misery when he lost. And he was right. It was unfair. He should have won it, and then at the press conference afterwards, he should have stuffed the trophy down his pants and said, “Pele kissed this, and now look where it is. It’s in my pants.”
From the sublime to the ridiculous and all the way back to the periphery of the absurd and beyond, it’s been a World Cup to remember. Here are my 2010 tournament gongs:
Best game:Argentina 0-4 Germany. Where Jogi Löw’s effervescent young bucks wiped the floor with Diego Maradona’s bewildered Argentina in a breath-taking display of cavalier, counter-attacking football.
Worst game: France v Uruguay was turgid fare. In fact anything involving France, apart from their hilarious mutiny, was crap. But Switzerland’s scoreless draw with Honduras in the last group game of the first phase takes the biscuit. Needing a win to advance the pathetic, shot-shy Swiss mustered a mere five shots on goal. Stick to making Tobelerones and precision time pieces.
Worst refereeing decision: So many to choose from! But it has to be myopic Uruguayan whistler Jorge Larrionda for Frank Lampard’s ‘Ghost of ’66 goal’ against Germany. The German media, with a hearty guffaw, called it “revenge for 1966,” while goalie Manuel Neuer said with a wry smile: “I saw what actually happened on the television in the doping control office. I knew it was tight – probably about two metres.”
Best predicter:Paul the Oracle Octopus, who became a pop culture sensation by correctly predicting the outcome of as many World Cup matches as he has legs: all seven of Germany’s games plus the Spain-Netherlands final. I was pleased to hear today that, weary of celebrity and all those nasty death threats, Paul, who held off a late challenge to his clairyoyancy crown from Mani, Singapore’s psychic parakeet, has happily decided to hang up his prediction tentacles, “step back from the official oracle business and get back to his former job, namely making children laugh.” Hurrah!
Biggest disappointment: Apart from the final itself, I’d say Germany’s decision, conscious or not, to stop playing at 4-1 against England with 20 minutes still to play. With the abject English in total disarray, Germany had a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to go for the jugular and could’ve easily racked up 6 or 7 goals, in the process doing the world a great favour by silencing the pompous, deluded English press for decades to come - or a few months at least – and giving gleeful Scottish, Welsh and Irish folk a marvellous story to sustain them into their old age and beyond.
Best hair: Uruguay’s Golden Ball winner, Diego Forlan. With his flaxen locks Diego looks like he should be reclining on a cloud dressed in a toga, plucking a harp and being fed grapes and wine by a bevy of heavenly angels.
Worst hair: It’s a toss-up between Argentina’s Martin ‘Black Beauty’ Demechelis who bears an uncanny resemblance to absurd Italian beefcake Fabio Lanzoni; Maret Hamsik of Slovakia’s ludicrous Mohawk; or Rigobert Song of Cameroon with his dyed blonde dreadlocks and matching goatee. Old Rigo looks like he’s been doing bongs on a Jamaican beach with Lee ‘Scratch’ Perry.
Biggest individual flop: Wayne Rooney. No contest. England’s Shrek-a-like talisman lumbered around the pitch moaning and whining and blaming everyone but himself for his own inept displays like a giant Shrek-faced baby.
Worst statistic: Spain scored fewer goals (8), had fewer shots on target (35) & a lower conversion rate (8.1%) than any World Cup winner since 1966.
Team of the tournament: Germany. Die Mannschaft lit up the tournament with their fresh brand of carefree, attacking football, scored the most goals, had the most exciting young players and won the hearts and minds of neutral fans around the world who were pleasantly shocked to see stuffy old Germany reborn as a stylish, easy-on-the-eye football team.
Biggest flop team of the tournament: It’s a close call between Italy and France. But I’m giving it to the lamentable Italians who finished last in Group F behind the likes of New Zealand and Slovakia. Surely one of the worst defences of a World Cup title ever. It’s certainly up there with France’s pitiful, no-goals, first round exit in 2002.
Best XI (4-2-3-1): Iker Casillas, (Spain), Maicon (Brazil), Arne Friedrich (Germany), Carles Puyol (Spain), Giovanni van Bronckhorst (Holland) Bastian Schweinsteiger (Germany), Xabi Alonso (Spain), Mesut Özil (Germany), Xavi (Spain), Thomas Müller (Germany), Diego Forlan (Uruguay), David Villa (Spain)
Best coach: Joachim Löw was the wise Yoda to Germany’s eager young Luke Skywalkers. Jogi was also the effortlessly suave Bryan Ferry of the technical area with his 1960s Italian film-star clobber.
Worst XI: Robert Green (England), Fabio Cannavaro (Italy), John Terry (England), Patrice Evra (France), Ricardo Clark (USA), Felipe Melo (Brazil), Abdelkader Ghezzal (Algeria), Gareth Barry (England) Wayne Rooney (England), Nicolas Anelka (France), Cristiano Ronaldo (Portugal)
Worst coach: Granite-faced oddball Italian Fabio Capello narrowly avoided a French-style mutiny with his spiritless England squad, bored out of their tiny, pampered, booze-free minds at Stalag Capello; hurled sweary words at team physio Gary Lewin and manhandled unhinged assistant Stuart Pearce during a nightmare fortnight of guiding England to one of their worst ever performances at a World Cup.
Best quotes:
“They must be clever and forget their ego to realise that the only thing that matters is the team, not them. If they don’t understand that, I will need a gun.” French coach Raymond Domenech talking before the World Cup. See next.
“Go **** yourself, you ***** son of a *****.” Shy, retiring, Nicolas Anelka, at half-time in the defeat to Mexico, discussing tactics with Domenech.Next time Raymond you better come armed to the teeth, like a French Rambo.
Germany captain Philipp Lahm after the 4-1 horsing of England: “We want to beat Argentina now so we can finally say we’ve beaten a big team.”
“My name’s Pavlos and I’m looking for a toilet.” Pavlos Joseph introducing himself to the England squad after gatecrashing their dressing room following the 0-0 draw with Algeria.
Craig Johnston(ex-Liverpool striker and the designer of the Adidas Predator boot): “Asking players to shoot or pass with this (Jabulani) ball is like asking Picasso to paint a picture without bristles on his brush.”
Diego Maradona before Argentina’s quarter-final clash with Germany: “In the end it is about whether God wants us to be in the final – but I know that is what God wants. This time we will not need the Hand of God, because it is the will of God.”
El Diego after Argentina’s 4-0 humilation by Germany: “I am 50 in October and this is the toughest day of my life. This is like a kick in the face. This was a punch from Muhammad Ali. I have no more energy for anything.”
Best headlines:
After the United States’ second round defeat to Ghana, The New York Post produced perhaps the headline of the month with: “This sport is stupid anyway”.
As ever those comic geniuses at The Onion, America’s finest satirical news source,went several steps closer to the edge with an hilarious spoof story about soccer coming out of the closet (see video top).
L’Equipe on France’s embarrassing mutiny: “A stink bomb that keeps on exploding.”
According to Yahoo Sports the headline on the website of Brazilian newspaper Globo Esporte immediately after Germany’s 4-0 hammering of their footballing nemesis Argentina was:
“HAHAHAHAHAHAHA!”
That’s all folks! Thanks for tuning into The Local’s 2010 World Cup blog. It’s been a crazy trip!
Don’t know about you but I’m off to the Carthusian monastery of the Grande Chartreuse in the French Alps near Grenoble to wind down from a month of harem-scarem football action in complete silence, bar the odd bout of Gregorian chanting, with the monks of St Bruno. One sip of their famously heady liqueur and, like Baloo the Bear, I’ll be gone, solid gone…
The atmosphere at the Berlin biergarten, where I watched five out of seven of Germany’s adventures in South Africa, was several decibels more muted than normal for last night’s third-place play-off with Uruguay. Understandably so. It’s always been tagged as the game no team wants to play. I joked about this yesterday and hoped that the meaningless nature of the fixture would liberate the players and allow them to express themselves with carefree abandon. Happily that’s how it panned out.
Uruguay were quite dazzling at times too, with the delightful Diego Forlán once again a constant menace. The 31-year-old notched his fifth goal of the tournament with a humdinger of a volley – the flaxen-haired striker doesn’t do ordinary goals. Manchester United fans must be wondering if Alex Ferguson accidentally signed Forlán’s rubbish twin brother back in 2002. Forlán endured a torrid two seasons at Old Trafford but he’s matured into a world class goal-scoring, playmaking forward since switching to Spain’s La Liga, starring at Villarreal and now Atletico Madrid.
The tireless probing and blind-side movement of the gazelle-like Thomas Müller gave us a frustrating glimpse of what might have been but for the ludicrous yellow card he picked up against Argentina which denied him the opportunity to upset the Spaniards’ immaculate applecart. When Uruguay’s butterfingers goalie Fernando Muslera spilled a long-range drive from Bastian Schweinsteiger after 18 minutes the 20-year-old pounced to coolly stroke home his fifth goal of a sensational debut World Cup and draw level with David Villa and Wesley Sneijder in the race for the Golden Boot award. Müller’s vivacious impact in South Africa cannot be underestimated. It would be a scandal if he didn’t at least pick up the gong for young player of the tournament.
Mesut Özil, so dashing in Germany’s earlier games flitted intermittently in and out of the 4-0 quarter-final rout of Argentina and was starved of the ball by possession-greedy Spain, but he oozed class once again in the Nelson Mandela Bay Stadium. The Werder Bremen man is an instinctive playmaker, born to play in the hole behind the strikers and gnaw away at an opponent’s defence. His all-round play and assists against Australia, England and Argentina were, for me, among the highlights of this World Cup.
Many prodigiously talented young players shirk the bread and butter aspects of the game, like chasing and harrying to win back possession. Not Özil; he covers almost as much ground in 90 minutes as Müller, or the imperious Schweinsteiger, which is saying something. And he has an uncanny knack for getting himself into fabulous goal scoring positions. However, his stunning strike against Ghana aside, finishing has been the only glaring weakness in his game so far. But he has all the time in the world to become more clinical in front of goal.
What is incredible, at the callow age of 21, is that he’s already so accomplished – showing intelligence and guile beyond his years – in a position, normally associated with the number 10 jersey rather than Özil’s 8, and often the domain of wily old masters. Think silky smooth Zinedine Zidane for France, Romania’s maverick genius Gheorghe Hagi or the sublime Argentinean Juan Román Riquelme, for a few outstanding exponents of Özil’s free-roaming role. Perhaps one day Germany’s very own ‘Messi’ can be mentioned in the same breath as these legends…
Watch the wonderful Özil playing keep-uppy with a piece of chewing gum in the video at the top of this post. He’s so cool; the exact kind of stylish midfielder I wanted to be as a boy. Wrigley’s should sign him up quick for their next spearmint gum advert…
Hopefully following their exhilarating run to third spot in South Africa, young guns Özil, Müller, Sami Khedira, Jerome Boateng, Manuel Neuer, Toni Kroos et al have inspired a new generation of awestruck German kids to follow in their footsteps.
The immediate future of the World Cup may be brilliant Dutch oranje…or the merciless blood-red of Spain…but the future is certainly looking bright too for the third-placed team in South Africa…
Na ja. After I mentioned the indifference with which the German nation greeted the fateful semi-final, Blumentopf, the Raportage masters, have delivered a eulogy to the campaign which I can’t top. Honest as ever, these most moral of rappers tell a story of defeat followed by triumph, culminating with a simple but eloquent expression of pride. I defy you to keep an eye dry.
And note the opening acoustic guitar riff – so plaintive and sad, in marked contrast to the electric chords which began previous Raportages, and then, well, “Drum kommt ihr als Sieger heim.” “That’s why you’re coming home as winners.”
Which they are. News came out today that Löw’s likely lads are being honoured by the new German president as “ambassadors” for the country, because they won “hearts and minds.” (I wonder if Christian Wulff didn’t mix up his speeches there – isn’t that soundbite meant to apply to Iraqis and Afghans we’re trying not to kill? But maybe he meant that.)
This is indeed the achievement of this team – to make neutral football fans, and some Afghans, support them, and they were brilliant. But really, all this is getting a bit Diana-ry now.
Consolation prizes have such sad connotations. Sorry, you lost. But, hey, why don’t you pick a booby prize from the leftover pile of claptrap in the corner; after the winners have grabbed all the best ones, of course. The big, glittery, gold ones.
I once finished third in a Cub Scout Halloween fancy dress contest when I was 10-years-old. I was hot favourite to stroll away with the top prize in my guise as walking, talking scarecrow Worzel Gummidge, from the children’s book and 1979 British TV series of the same name. In my mind I was an uncanny dead ringer for the scary, bizarre, rather macabre Worzel. My costume consisted of an ill-fitting old suit of my dad’s with small bundles of straw sprouting from the sleeves and pockets and from under the brim of my tatty old hat. An artificially mucky face and a host of deranged facial expressions, courtesy of myself, completed the look. I didn’t have one of Worzel’s magical interchangeable heads or a nest of robins in my pocket but otherwise I WAS Worzel in miniature.
To our huge embarrassment we’d been forced by the Scout leaders to invite girls along as dates and I remember playing a Postman’s Knock-style kissing game where I suddenly ended up outside the side door of the Scout hut with one of my best friend’s older sisters. I was terrified at the prospect of kissing her. Not to mention the poor girl’s terror of puckering up to a scary little scarecrow. We sat for several excruciating moments before, all-a-fluster, I broke the silence with the moronic line: “What do we do now?” Like a trauma victim, my memory of what happened next is a complete blank, but mercifully the bewildered girl didn’t tell her brother else I would’ve been the laughing stock of the party. And the whole school the next day.
My Halloween night didn’t get any better. As everyone gathered to hear the results of the big contest I readied myself for a famous victory. Hang on; some other kid’s name has been called. And a second one. What’s going on?! Suddenly I had plummeted from odds-on favourite – in the same way the critics, pre-Spain-gate, fawned over Die Mannschaft’s cavalier play, so everyone had said my costume was the best – to tragic also ran. Third place! Behind a shocking Six Million Dollar Man and an even worse Count Dracula. I felt totally empty. After the smug winners got first-pick of prizes from the table of booty – they probably bagged a Scalextric set and a Rubik’s Cube - I was invited to select my consolation bauble. What remained was a sorry-looking pile of junk. I panicked and grabbed a model aeroplane. It was a dirty, fusty-looking WWII bomber, already built and painted by someone else with the transfers on the wings and fuselage half-peeled off. A propeller came off in my hand and a sad trail of straw fell from my trouser legs as I returned to my seat, head down, clutching my ugly, meaningless consolation prize, inconsolable. Finishing third felt rubbish. What was the point?
Actually I’m struggling to muster even the faintest enthusiasm for what is, essentially, an utterly meaningless encounter between the two losing semi-finalists. Two LOSERS. In fact, I think Fifa should scrap the third place game. I don’t think Germany and Uruguay should be allowed to play another match in South Africa. They’ve been knocked out of the World Cup. It’s time to check those flight schedules and hop on a plane home. Well done for getting so far. It was a great ride. Thanks for the memories etc. Bye bye! Am I being terribly cruel?
I know the match carries personal significance for a bunch of players who still have a chance of picking up prizes. But they’re just consolation prizes. The chance of collecting the big prize – the World Cup trophy – is gone. Just like my Scalextric set…
Mesut Özil, Bastian Schweinsteiger and Diego Forlan are all in the running for Fifa’s Golden Ball award for the player of the tournament while Germany’s Thomas Müller is on a short-list of three for the young player award. These gifted players deserve to be celebrated for their thrilling contributions to this World Cup. But I bet they won’t feel like celebrating after tonight’s game. Whoever wins will probably only feel a slightly milder form of anticlimax than the apocalyptic devastation they felt after their crushing semi-final defeats.
Even if Miroslav Klose, who is a doubt for the match thanks to a back injury, or Müller, or Uruguay’s Diego Forlan (also struggling to be fit with a thigh injury), all tied on four goals apiece, were to pip David Villa or Wesley Sneijder to the Golden Boot prize for top scorer, surely it will offer only scant consolation for failing to make the final?
If Klose plays he has an even bigger prize to aim for: one more World Cup goal would draw him level with Ronaldo of Brazil on 15 goals as the tournament’s all-time top scorer. A wonderful honour for the 32-year-old although he’d certainly trade such personal glory for a face-off with old foes Holland. But it’s too late. It doesn’t matter anymore. Despite Klose’s goals, Germany are out.
Can these personal incentives inject meaning into a pointless game and inspire a third-place match to remember? I’m not so sure. Who really cares anyway? Do you? As the old saying goes: no-one remembers the runners-up. That’s true of most sporting competitions. So, unless your country is involved, absolutely NOBODY remembers the third or fourth placed nations at a World Cup. Did you even watch Turkey beating South Korea 3-2 to claim third spot at the 2002 World Cup? Nope, neither did I.
Of course, both teams insist the match has significance beyond the personal. Uruguay defied all expectations in reaching the last four as their more illustrious South American compatriots fell by the wayside. Third place would be their best finish since 1950 when they won the trophy for the second time; a brilliant result for La Celeste. Germany has the opportunity to finish third for the second World Cup in a row. A record Die Mannschaft can be proud of and one to add to their incredible list of major tournament statistics, but one that will surely stick in the craw.
Germany team manager Oliver Bierhoff said: “For us, this World Cup is anything but over. We will be 100 percent focused and dedicated (on Saturday). We want to play with the same fresh, free-flowing football we have shown so far here.”
Meanwhile Uruguay manager Oscar Tabarez said his team will “prepare ourselves for a fight to the death.” Grrr! Fighting talk!
Maybe I’ll be proved wrong. Perhaps playing for honour and the incentive of personal prizes can help liberate both teams and make for a compelling spectacle. I really hope so. And if Germany finish third at least they’ll get a bronze medal (actually, so will the fourth-placed team – you see what I’ve been saying all along about it being meaningless?) rather than a battered old model aeroplane…
This, from the master of the one-liner, pretty much sums up my view on all this nonsense.
“Serious sport has nothing to do with fair play. It is bound up with hatred, jealousy, boastfulness, disregard of all rules and sadistic pleasure in witnessing violence: in other words it is war minus the shooting. So what did the octopus say?” – George Orwell
Well, George, the octopus said Germany would beat Uruguay and Spain would beat Holland. But I watched the whole sordid newsorama octo-feed on TV, for the first time, and I was very disappointed.
He just ate the squishy morsel from the perspex box that was nearest to him. There was no swimming around, putting on a mysterious pose, wavering over his decision, perhaps holding a tentacle up in the current to divine the will of the spiritual ether. He just looked like an octopus going, “There’s a squishy morsel. I reckon that’s sea-food. I’m having that, I am. See if you can stop me.”
But with the news now emerging of other psychic animals all over the world, I’d just like to say that I am selling a woodlouse that correctly predicted that Lena would win Eurovision. He is called Tony, and he likes sawdust.
So the Germans don’t seem too upset about losing yesterday. The public mood has been a sort of big Teutonic shrug, which Germans like to express with this sound: “Na ja,” sometimes augmented with a philosophical “Tja.” In the press, there has been a gracious acceptance that Spain were better, and Schweini and his mates did not fulfill their potential.
What a bunch of pussies! What happened to all the Argentina-baiting and England-gloating of the last rounds? What about blaming the vuvuzelas, and getting on your high-horse about the ref? “They deserved to win,” the Bild said. The Bild! Come on, get mad, Bild! GET MAD! Pretend the Spanish are all immigrants or Hartz IV Empfänger or something. All this respect for the Spanish “style” is really a bit unsporting.
The problem is, Jogi Löw’s acceptance of Spain’s superiority, noble as it was after the game, seems to have infected him before kick-off. The Spanish style is not all that. Don’t get me wrong, just because I’m writing a World Cup blog doesn’t mean I know anything about football, but I’m pretty sure you can’t “tika-taka” much with a broken ankle. Get stuck in there! Do you remember this? Do you think this man would have sat back and waited for the Spaniards to give you the ball?
Well, na ja. Here’s what really happened: the German team defended so deep and admired the Spanish so much, like the press today, because they have a collective cultural memory of what it was like to be a boring, organised World Cup team who everyone hated – like Spain are now – and secretly yearn for that feeling again. All this new-found joy of life and pride in a team that projects a positive image of German youth is making them uncomfortable. Fair enough, I suppose.
Due to circumstances beyond my control today’s blog post has been cancelled. The dog ate it. It was trampled to pieces by a rampaging unicorn. Actually the truth is I’ve got the (deep breath) ‘Hypnotic-Death-by-a-Thousand-Passes-Style-of-Tiki-Taka-Strangulation-World-Cup-Elimination-Blues.’
OK, I’ll try to haul myself out of this lethargic fug of depression and type something…
Die Mannschaft’s thrilling brand of counter-attack football, which has lit up this World Cup, had the plug unceremoniously yanked out by a Spanish team whose exceptional defence negated Germany’s, up until now, devastatingly effective style. Those dastardly Spaniards built a red cage outside the German’s penalty box that they couldn’t escape from. Jogi Löw’s erstwhile vibrant, dynamic young bucks had the life slowly squeezed out of them by Spain’s high-pressing, mesmeric passing game. Why take two passes to move the ball 10 metres sideways when you can take 40 appears to be their mantra? While hugely effective and often enthralling to watch, am I alone in also finding it sometimes quite tedious?
Last night’s semi-final in Durban was an insanely frustrating game of football to watch. God only knows what it must have been like to play in! The German players hunted red shadows all over the pitch but couldn’t gain, or retain under relentless pressure, enough meaningful possession to trouble Spain’s defence. Germany spent “a lot of time chasing the ball” said Bastian Schweinsteiger. “And once we had it, we were too tired to do anything with it,” added a spent Miroslav Klose. Those two lines neatly encapsulate the entire game from a German perspective.
In saying that, perhaps the tactically astute Löw got it wrong for the first time in the tournament? Did he shackle his instinctively attack-minded side to an unnaturally defensive game plan? Jogi’s formerly carefree young team seemed overtly wary of the Spanish, backing off them at times and sitting far too deep, and were strangely tentative, nay careless, on the rare occasions they had the ball. They also appeared to lack belief that they could throw a spanner in the works of the Iberians fluid passing machine. The Germans needed someone to grab the Spaniards by the Mark van Bommels, to stick the boot in. Maybe Michael Ballack was missed after all?
Or perhaps there was simply nothing the Germans could do to stop the insatiable dominance of Spain’s possession play? Goalkeeper Manuel Neuer admitted as much when he said: “We wanted to be strong in defence and make fast breaks but Spain were good in defence and did not let us. We maybe showed Spain too much respect.”
The final outcome almost had a creeping inevitability to it. The match had the eerie atmosphere of a Hitchcock movie. Spain’s charming psychopath smothered Germany’s naïve ingénue to death with a big red pillow.
They also simply ran out of ideas. Seemingly there was no Plan B. The dreadful, lumbering Mario Gomez came on – always a desperate sign that Germany are in trouble – and gangling centre-back Per Mertesacker was turned into a makeshift target man as Germany tragically resorted to the ‘kick and rush’ football Franz Beckenbauer had sneered at England for using earlier in the tournament…
But Germany shouldn’t be too depressed. This young team is still a work in progress and performed brilliantly in South Africa, way beyond most people’s expectations. There is much more to come from the outstanding messrs Özil, Müller, Khedira et al. And they were beaten by a far superior team who know each other better than most families do. As Jogi said afterwards: “Spain are the best side in the world because they have played together with virtually the same line-up for two, three years. We have played together for six, seven weeks.”
Gracious and dignified in defeat, as all the German team were, Löw added: ”I looked at the players’ faces in the dressing room after the game and there was such disappointment, but we weren’t good enough tonight. Spain are a wonderful team, so what more can I say? They deserved to win this match, absolutely. They moved the ball quickly and we weren’t able to combat them. They have been the most skilful team over the last few years and they were better than us.”
Despite the sometimes infuriating nature of their metronomic tiki taka style Spain are, at last, after a disappointing World Cup by their formidable standards, approaching the cusp of perfection. The European Champions couldn’t have picked a better time to peak. Maybe their coach Vincent del Bosque planned it like this all along to drive everyone crazy!
Beckenbauer perhaps summed it up best for Germany when he said. “There’s no reason to feel sad. The team has played a wonderful tournament”.
Nice try Kaiser, you’re absolutely spot on, but it’s no use; I still can’t shake these pesky blues. The only thing that can possibly cheer me up is by watching the classic episode (see video part 1 top & part 2 below) of ‘The Ren and Stimpy Show’ in which dim-witted Manx puss, Stimpson J. Cat, attempts to make his old pal Ren Höek, a psychotic Chihuahua with a Peter Lorre accent and Mesut Özil’s eyes, happier by inventing a ‘Happy Helmet.’ Why don’t you strap on Stimpy’s mad invention too and join me in an unhinged chorus of the ‘Happy Happy Joy Joy’ song? Feeling better now? Good.
May I offer for your delectation, on this monumentally exciting World Cup semi-final day, an epic, fun-filled miscellany of German/Spanish-tinged true stories, imaginary nonsense, fabricated guff and outlandish factoids:
* Did you know? When giant German goalie Manuel Neuer isn’t throwing himself around between the sticks for his club Schalke 04 or Die Mannschaft he can be seen playing exchange-student Üter Zörker in a long-running cameo role in The Simpsons. It’s true.
Üter’s favorite catchphrase, “Don’t make me run; I’m full of chocolate!”, was based on something Manuel often said to his school football coach growing up in Gelsenkirchen, as he was bum-lashed with a wet, twisted towel (see CCTV video footage top).
Like Üter, Manuel was a chubby little chocoholic with a dinky set of bouncing man-baps, until he ditched the candy and turned to weightlifting. Now he’s a hulking man-mountain with hands like shovels and abs of steel.
Unlike his animated alter ego, Manuel’s uncle doesn’t own a bubble-gum factory in Düsseldorf. It’s a Wunderbar factory on the outskirts of Basel.
Actually none of the above is true. It’s nonsense. I made it all up. Please forgive me. I’m a trifle strung-out with all this World Cup blogging and somewhat emotional ahead of tonight’s semi-final. It won’t happen again. I promise. Everything I write from now on will be the honest truth…
* Meanwhile, “Süddeutsche Zeitung reports that stocks of Jogi Löw’s lucky blue v-neck sweater have sold out in Munich. All three of the city’s branches of the Strenesse fashion chain, stockists of official Nationalmannschaft clobber, have run out of the figure-hugging baby cashmere number (retailing at €199 a pop). There’s now a waiting list, but new stocks aren’t expected until August. Imagine the scene at this year’s Oktoberfest: thousands of burly, beer-swilling Bavarians with big bellies bursting out of their light blue baby cashmere pullis. No, stop! Please! You can’t wear that with lederhosen! Jogi would be horrified! Someone call the fashion police!
* Now to a real-life, heart-warming tale that is enough to restore one’s faith in ‘the man’ (I’m still in Woodstock-hippie mode). Those lovely, benevolent people at Daimler, the owner of Mercedes-Benz, have changed the shift times at one of their biggest factories, in Sindelfingen in south-west Germany, which employs 30,000 people, to allow night-shift workers to watch tonight’s big game against Spain. Bless ‘em. In an official statement, Daimler said, “the evening shift will end at 7.30pm instead of 10pm, with the night shift starting at 1am instead of the usual 10pm.” In the event of a German victory I wonder how many tipsy, high-as-a-kite workers will make it to their workstations for the 1am start?! C’mon, Daimler! Stop the production lines! Let these good people down their tools for the night and get sozzled with the rest of us!
* And finally:this illuminating interview with the brilliant German football writer Raphael Honigstein supports this theory. He cites the 2008 European Championship final defeat to Spain and the appointment of former Barcelona boss Louis van Gaal by Bayern Munich last year, as catalysts for a sea-change in the style of Die Mannschaft. Van Gaal brought the Barca template to Munich and drilled it into quick-learners like Lahm, Müller, Kroos and Schweinsteiger. In his first season, Van Gaal led the Bavarian giants to a domestic double and the Champions League final.
This new, free-spirited Die Mannschaft is now reaping similar rewards in the way it utilises existing German traits of tenacity, discipline and team spirit and, allied with Löw’s meticulously-orchestrated vision, merges them with Spanish flair and panache. Fresh talent from other clubs, particularly Werder Bremen’s sparkling playmaker Mesut Özil, add their own unique spice to the heady mix.
Fingers crossed Jogi Löw’s vibrant young bucks can continue their insatiable momentum and pick up from where they left off against England and Argentina to beat Spain at their own game. Either that or the wise Iberian masters will teach the fresh-faced apprentices another harsh footballing lesson and hand the young Germans their bums on a plate…watch this space…
So, are you nervous about tonight? I am. Everyone else is. I’m intoxicated with nervous fluid. I’m so nervous, I keep forgetting who I’m supporting, like my mum does. And what must Jogi Löw, whose personal hygiene has come under such scrutiny in recent weeks, be going through?
So where does that leave us? Perhaps with this lovely thought for the day from football correspondent Rafa Honigstein, who says that the reason why this German team is so popular is because it makes Germans glimpse what it feels like to be liked. Oh yeah, I remember who I’m supporting now.
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