The Premier League's New Quota

"I feel that when you want to see the best players in the best league in the world, you have to be open. To accept competition – and we live for competition – it is not to accept artificial rules and that is why I am against it."

- Arsene Wenger, speaking out against the new quota system

The Premier League's going to introduce a new quota system. Starting next year, clubs will have to include 8 "home-grown" players in a squad of 25 players. Those "home-grown" players will have had to be registered with an English/Welsh clubs for at least 3 years between the ages of 16-21.

Richard Scudmore says that "it will encourage youth development and the promotion of young players. It's a rule which we think will give clubs an extra incentive to develop players, and to make a better return from their investment in youth. Make, rather than buy, is our intention."

The rule is going to make things interesting. But I'm not sure it'll do what Scudmore wants it to do. The lack of young English players in the Premier League isn't due to lack of effort from Premier League clubs. Every Premier League clubs wants to promote youth players into the senior squads. You save on transfer fees, after all, and having players come up through the system imbues the club with a feel-good factor.

The problem with English football is that their kids aren't coached as well as their counterparts in France, Spain, Holland, Portugal, Italy, Germany... pretty much everywhere in Europe, really. There's too much emphasis on athleticism and not enough on technique. There's no central academy, such as Clairefontaine, in which to hone the the talents of the most promising kids. And probably worst of all, there's still that recruitment rule which restricts clubs from signing kids who live outside a 50-mile radius from the club.

I know this, and I'm just a plastic Arsenal supporter from Australia. I get most of my youth development theory from watching Craig Foster on SBS on a Sunday afternoon. If it's obvious to me what the problem with English football is, why isn't it obvious to the English FA and why are they doing sweet f*** a** about it?

A quota's not going to solve these problems. All it's going to do is push more mediocre English players into the Premier League, where they'll be up against the best foreigners that money can buy, and where they'll be out-classed game after game because they weren't given the proper coaching at youth level. It'll look good on paper, and it'll satisfy UEFA because the Premier League will revert to playing a classically agricultural style of English football, but it won't help England win a World Cup. And when you get down to it, winning the World Cup should be the English FA's first and only concern.

This plan won't even help clubs to break into the Top 5. All it means is that Man Utd, Liverpool, Chelsea and Man City will just pay staggering sums for the best 18/19 year olds in England, and leave the other 15 clubs scrounging around for the scraps. The other 15 clubs will have to fill their 25-man squads with 8 "home-grown" players of lesser talent, and therefore will end up with paper-thin squads that can't compete with the Top 4.

As for Arsenal, we're sweet. Wenger's crazy plan of stealing all the best 16 year olds on the planet is working. Just about everyone at Arsenal qualifies for the quota. From the first team, we have Song, Denilson, Clichy, Cesc, Theo, Ramsey, Vela and Wilshere. And if you add the likes of JET, Frimpong and Coquelin in the mix, you can see that we will qualify for the quota without having to buy up half the England U21s.

The quota makes no sense to me.

Then again, I'd like to ask Wenger a question about his comment. If he "lives for competition", why does he explain his refusal to buy experienced players by saying that it'll "kill his players"? Surely having no competition within a squad for places is just as bad as an "artificial restriction"?

Speculating about the World Cup

"We didn't expect such a crushing defeat. Not in our worst nightmares were we expecting this. It was not a normal defeat. It was humiliation."

- Slavan Bilic, talking about Croatia's 1-5 loss against England

Today we are all Croatians.

Losing 5-1 against England is a national tragedy, and the world feels Croatia's pain. If there's one thing worse than being beaten in an international sporting event, it's being beaten by England. It's something Australians experienced a few weeks ago when we lost the Ashes, and still doesn't feel right.

There's something profoundly wrong about being beaten by England. Over the years, various international sporting competitions have been set up with the express purpose of allowing nations the chance to beat England in the most humiliating manner possible. Think about the World Cups for rugby, cricket and football, the Olympics, Wimbledon and (until recently) the Ashes. All these events are designed to lure England into thinking they've arrived into the "elite" group, and then once their expectations are high, thrash them within an inch of their lives.

But from the looks of things, the world might be in for a surprise in 2010. By hiring Capello, they've managed to turn their squad of talented, gormless individuals into something that looks frighteningly like a decent side - and one that has a chance of progressing past the quarter-finals.

I'm hoping this is yet another cunning plan conducted by FIFA. Give England a good coach, drill them into a long unbeaten run, get them thinking they've a genuine chance at the World Cup, and then make sure they're splendidly spanked in the quarter-finals again....

By Australia.

It's possible. We're also guilty of thinking we're better than we are, and we've got the same kind of boozy, jingoistic, nationalistic fans. Only the world loves Australia, and the world hates England. So what better way rubbing England's face in the mud than being beaten by a turgid, boring Australian side, whose fans can be guaranteed to act as boorish in a victory as their English counterparts?

Anyway, hopefully this is the plan. Because the idea that England has a genuine chance at the World Cup is too terrifying to contemplate. I mean, this is what England's captain said after their win last night:

"Their No17 spat at me. It's not a nice reaction. He came on frustrated, but it's not nice at all. He's the first person who's ever spat at me in my career. It's disappointing to see, but let's not let it ruin a massive night."

Those nasty foreigners again, hey Terry?

My Madeleine Moments

"And as soon as I had recognised the taste of the piece of madeleine soaked in her decoction of lime-blossom which my aunt used to give me... the whole of Combray and its surroundings, taking shape and solidity, sprang into being, town and gardens alike, from my cup of tea."

- Remembrance of Things Past, Marcel Proust

I took a walk through Leicester Square this afternoon. 

The sky was bluish, the sun was kind of shining, and it wasn't raining or snowing or sleeting. It was actually kind of pleasant walking through the twisting, winding streets, with all those bars and pubs and restaurants lining the footpaths. I think it's my favourite little bit of London, that bit between Leicester Square and Covent Garden, with Trafalgar Square to the south and the Five Points to the east. 

Nice to have seen it one last time. 

It's my last full day in London, and it's pretty much the end of my trip. Just a stop-over in Hong Kong left, and then I'm back to Melbourne and back to reality. I've an old job to slunk back to, and an old rut waiting for me back home. 

It's not without a fair bit of trepidation that I'm going back. I'm not ecstatically happy at the moment, but I'm pretty much content. Six months on, and I'm relatively sane. And I've discovered that of all the things worth valuing, sanity is probably up there alongside allegiance to a beautiful football club and a facebook account. And since Arsenal's in the shits at the moment, and I've never bothered with facebook, I should treasure my sanity all the more. 

I've been thinking about why I'm writing this in a blog. 

Partly, it's because I've a relentless monologue in my mind that needs some kind of release. Partly, it's for my brother, who reads it now and then and probably wants to know where I've been; and I suppose, for him, this blog is a bit like to those "Hi Mum!" signs you occasionally see at sporting events. But mostly, it's for those times in the future when I need a reminder of what it felt like when, for six months, I put aside everything and just lived.

It's my little bit of madeleine dipped in tea, I suppose. 

Salisbury

"I'm not very happy to speak about my anniversary because what interests me in life is what is in front of me and not what is behind me"

- Arsene Wenger, a few days ago

I thought it'd be a neat idea to post from every town I've been in. It's been a struggle at times, because a lot of the times, there's not a hell of a lot of difference between one place and another. And it's such a blur that it doesn't really matter anyway. Everything's interchangeable, to an extent. 

But I happened to be in Salisbury on the 750th anniversary of St Mary's Cathedral. It was quite a do - even Rowan Williams, the Archbishop of Canterbury, was there. I caught the last half hour of it, just after the good bishop had baptised a couple of kiddies and had started on a bit of a sermon. 

It's quite an experience, listening to the sermon of the head of the Anglican Communion. Now, I'm no Anglican, but I do admire the guy. He's bloody learned. And there was this documentary once that photoshopped him in Jedi robes, and he looked a dead ringer for Obi-Won Kenobi. So, he's got an aura about him. 

When I listened to his words, I was blown away. It's a hell of a lot different from the stuff back home, where it's often just a compendium of various ill-thought prejudices and tenuously applicable biblical references. Rowan Williams actually used his brain to create a sermon which was clear, and symbolic, and soaring and touching and moving. And it was done without fanfare or trappings - just a good sermon, simply presenting. Brilliant stuff. 

It was about the symbolism of rocks and water in Christianity. About how Christ is the rock upon which all else stands, and how the living water of God can sweep us aside and take us to places we never thought possible. About how both are needed in the Christian life, and how both need to be embraced. 

Another great man, Arsene Wenger, is only living half this life. As the quote above suggests, he's perfectly happy to be swept along by the vicissitudes of life. He's less keen to look back see what he's built all his successes upon. There is danger in that. One can be blinded by promise of the future and forget the lessons learnt in earlier days (i.e. why doesn't Wenger get someone to organise the defence?)

Our Defense

"What makes me happy at the moment is that we have a good combination of defensive balance and offensive efficiency... at the moment we are combining the two and it means when everyone puts the effort in we still can be very dangerous going forward."

- Arsene Wenger, a bit bullish at the moment

It's a bit like that with the Arsenal. We can go games and games without conceding much and scoring freely, but then freeze up in a game we really should win. We'll miss shot after shot, our passes will go astray, and we'll concede a cheap goal through a set-piece. 

When it suits us, we do okay at the defensive part of the game. When everyone's focused and determined, we're quite good. We hustle their midfield out of the game, our defenders mark their men, and we even cope with the odd long-ball pretty well. The problem is that we don't set up to defend well, so that when our player's aren't as focused as they should be, we leak costly goals. 

Throughout the first half of the Blackburn game, I kept think it was only a matter of time before they equalised. They scythed through our midfield, they dominated set-pieces, they had chance after chance, and we didn't have enough pressure on their players to stop it. The fact that we went into the break 2-0 up was due to very, very good fortune and nothing more. It was better in the second half, when the defensive pressure from Cesc and Denilson was more apparent, but still... it was scary for that half. 

The encouraging start to the season is telling Wenger that we don't need a central midfielder in January. Denilson and Song are both improving by the game, and there's still Diaby to come back. But I disagree with Wenger. I'd still like someone experienced, either a Flamini-type who can be relied upon to hustle for 90 minutes, or a Gilberto-type who's dedicated to shield the back four. 

Because we need a Plan B in case the youngsters fall by the wayside, right? 

I'm in London again. I've seen my folks and showed them around the city. They'll be leaving tomorrow, and then, a few days later, I'll be flying to Norway. It'll be interesting. Never been to Norway before. Haven't even been to Stansted airport before, either. I wonder which will be more exciting?

In Cashley's Defense

The road to Chelsea is paved with good intentions

- St Bernard of Clairvaux (1091-1153), with prescience so accurate it's scary. 

I'm in York at the moment. Saw the Minister and walked around the old city. It's quite pretty if you like all that Ye Olde England stuff. Like Bath, only medieval-like. I don't know. Too tired to care, really. Spent the night in Manchester listening to the dude below me snore his tonsils down his throat. 

Had a really nice afternoon in Manchester, though. Bright, sunny day lazing around Piccadilly Garden. Had a pint while watching the Chelsea vs Man Utd match. Laughed my head off at the reaction of the Man Utd supporters when Chelsea equalised. Well, laughed silently in my head, anyway - I'm not that brave. Bought a MacBook. Ate an orange. 

Guess I've got low standards when it comes Sunday afternoons. 

There's not much going on with the Arsenal. Bendtner's impressed. Eboue's showing us that Wenger really does Know. Song's cut his dreadlocks. Peter Hill-Wood escaped his minders and came out with another nonsensical comment. 

So I thought I'd say something about Cashley Cole. While in London, I read his book. And surprisingly, there was a perverse kind of logic to his actions. No one step was monstrous - it's only when you string it all together that you realise how reprehensible the whole affair was. 

To recount:

1. Cashley was in a position to command $80,000 a week in wages.

2. Cashley decided to ask for $60,000 a week, against the advice of his manager, his captain and probably most of the Arsenal first team. His reason was, ironically, that he wasn't "greedy" and that $60,000 was more than enough to play for the Arsenal. 

3. David Dein verbally agreed to $60,000 a week.

4. The board decided to counter with a $55,000 a week "final offer".

5. Things got out of control. 

There's a fair degree of farce to the whole situation. Ashley wanted to stay, and thought he was doing the honourable thing by asking for a lower amount. The board thought he was stupid and demanded an even smaller amount. Ashley didn't realise that "final offer" was just a negotiating tactic, and so he jumped over the fence to see what Chelsea were offering. 

The stupidity of that whole series of events was evident when Ashley Cole was given a one year extension at $74,000 a week. Why didn't the board have this largess one year before? 

The pragmatists amongst you would say that everything turned out well. Clichy's as good (or better than) Cole. We got Gallas in return and crippled Chelsea. And Cole's been exposed as a vain, shallow, stupid, greedy, arrogant man who gave up the chance of being a club idol for a few measly pounds. 

But the romantics amongst you (and you've got to be romantic to support Arsene Wenger) will regret that it ever came to this. Ashley Cole never intended things to pan out like this. He's still a gooner, you know, and he probably still watches the matches on TV. He could've been a living legend for us, you know. He would've been captain. He would've won trophies and led this current side to greater glory than Arsenal have ever known. 

But as St Bernie once said, the road to Chelsea is paved with good intentions. 

3-1 to the Arsenal

We are Fabregas

And we are fabulous

- the Arsenal away stand in the stairwell after the game. 

Spent last night in Bolton. Didn't mean to; I wanted to get a bed in Manchester and commute to the game, but there's some Labour Party Convention in the city. Apparently the Prime Minister here's getting caned for banks going bankrupt, the credit crunch and all the other things that have kept me entertained in hostel lobbies this past month. 

I watched the Arsenal for (probably) the last time. Reebok Stadium is a very pretty ground, which is in complete juxtaposition to the fare on the pitch. It's got this white lattice framework that holds up four, vast arched stands. Very nice, much prettier than the corporate Emirates, I'm afraid to say. 

We played okay, I thought. You have to do alright, to win 3-1. Eboue had a really good game on the left wing. He made quite a few damaging runs in the first half, and was very effective when cutting in and driving down them middle. But we started with a midfield of Eboue, Song, Fabregas and Densilon, which was a but muddled. With Eboue's propensity to cut in from the left, and Denilson's inability to go around his marker, it made for a very narrow formation.

And it showed. 

We didn't really get into the match until after they scored (off a corner, of course). And we didn't really click as a team until Theo Walcott was brought in in the second half. Straight away, he gave us a boost in speed, width and directness. His run down the middle set up the third goal. It's amazing how his stature has grown over the past month. He's not the finish article yet, but he's very, very important to this Arsenal side. 

Yorkshire and Northumbria next. Got to see about a bus or a train or something. 

I hate Manchester

Fooking Walcott! He's too fooking weak, the bastard! Weak fooking Arsenal bastard!

- the Mancs at the bar, moments before the first of Walcott's three goals

I hate Manchester.

It's not a personal thing. I actually think the city's remarkably pretty - it's all red brick and glass and steel. It's an amazing rejuvenation of a city of the Industrial Revolution. The architecture is really well done. The city's small enough to walk around in, and big enough to contain everything you'd want. The pubs and bars and clubs are, according to those in the know, well good.

It's just that Manchester is where Man Utd come from. There's something decidedly sinister about being in the Red Devil's city, like I'm invading foreign territory or something. It's stupid, because I'm not normally partisan. I'd like to believe that I'm a football fan before an Arsenal fan, and that I can appreciate great football on any level. I admire Man Utd's skill, pace and tenacity. And I consider Ferguson to be a great manager.

One of my objectives in this Grand Tour of mine was to visit the homes of all the great football clubs in the world. Man Utd's one of them. But when I was leafing through the brochure for a tour of Old Trafford, I felt a horrible twisting sensation in my gut, and I couldn't do it. I didn't want to step into Man Utd's home ground. It just felt wrong.

Theo came of age last night. Three goals in a 4-1 victory against Croatia. Bloody brilliant. All three were absolutely clinical, and watching the last goal was like watching Theirry Henry again. Theo's a natural finisher - maybe the one we've been waiting for. Maybe he's the one who'll provide the goals from midfield this year. Maybe we can win it this year. Maybe.

I love Theo Walcott.

And as luck would have it, I'm only minutes away from Blackburn, where we're playing on Saturday. Might pop over to Ewood Park to see the Arsenal. I'm sure there'll be tickets available.

Shakespeare World

Lisa: Anyway, a rose by any other name would smell as sweet.
Bart: Not if you call it stinkweeed.
Marge: I'd feel very differently if someone gave me a bunch of stinkweed.

- The Simpsons, I can't remember which one.

There's something unseemly about the whole tourist industry. It hit me yesterday as I wandered around the various Shakespeare sites in Stratford. They've bought up a couple of tenuously related houses (his grand-daughter's two houses) and dressed them up as genuine Shakespearean temples of worship. They've shoved a tacky gift shop right by his birthplace (admittedly, with an amusing coffee mug full of Shakespearean insults). And they're charging admittance fees to see his grave.

I'm not sure what to make of it. On one hand, the Bard would probably have encouraged it - he was a businessman himself. On the other, there's something distasteful about profiting from a guy's grave. Maybe I'm just imposing my sensiblities onto the situation (he did part with quite a bit of money to be buried there), but it seems tacky.

I guess I want to be a tourist without seeming too touristy. It's a fine, and rather hypocritical line to take.

Went to Warwick Castle today. Yep, when they were thinking up names to call this castle, someone decided that "Warwick" was fearsome enough to deter enemies. Then again, it was once owned by a guy named Neville. It makes for a deflating experience.

What's in a name, you say? Quite a bit, especially if it's stinkweed.

Meanwhile, Appiah is trying to decide between West Ham and Arsenal. Seriously. Fuck me down and slap me silly. Have we sunkne so low that Appiah can't tell us apart from West Ham?

Misc. post about stuff

Karma police, arrest this man
He talks in maths
He buzzes like a fridge
He's like a detuned radio

- Radiohead, Karma Police, (it's a snide reference to Peter Hill-Wood, okay?).

I've only ever seen two Arsenal matches in my life, but I'm very impressed with Song. He's got a languid grace about him. He's positionally very good, and slips into defence very well when Toure goes off on his forward runs. In both matches, I didn't see him caught out once. Admittedly, he was playing against weak opposition, but he was still very impressive.

I think he's the future partner for Fabregas.

However, that's not to say we don't need someone now. Appiah, who's been linked to us on a free, would be good cover for a year while Song and Denilson get the experience needed for the first team. I'm not as convinced about Denilson, but then, I've only ever watched two Arsenal games. What the hell would I know about it?

Peter Hill-Wood said:

"If somebody came and made a really huge bid then you cannot recommend shareholders turn it down because we don't like it. We want the club to stay in its current ownership and, of course, you have some concern that someone will try to buy the club. The directors don't want to sell but we are a public company. It depends on the price."

I never get tired of saying it - Danny Fizsman needs to muzzle this guy, or at least make the position of chairman a non-speaking role.

And our Theo Walcott said after the Andorra match:

"I know how to scare any defender."

Please don't be too scary, Theo. You're such a nice boy. I'm going to name my first-born after you, if and when one comes along.

I'm leaving for Stratford today. Going to see where William Shakespeare was born. And the clouds have broken, the sun's shining, and the world is lovely and green. And it'll be this way for a day until the next low-weather trough drifts in from the west. Apparantly, England experiences what Florida experiences, only in a weaker form and a week delayed.

I hate the Gulf Stream.

On a Sunday

The breath of the morning
I keep forgetting
The smell of the warm summer air

I live in a town
Where you can't smell a thing
You watch your feet
For cracks in the pavement

- Radiohead, Subterranean Homesick Alien, my favourite lines from my favourite song from my favourite band

Before they were Radiohead, they were called "On a Friday". Before superstardom, they were just a bunch of skinny schoolkids who wanted to play music. And every Friday night, they'd unload their gear in a pokey little room above a pub in Oxford, and play to a tiny little group of people.

I spent the best part of a Saturday night walking around Oxford looking for that pub. It was the strangest experience. I didn't even know the name of the place, so I just asked people on the street. It lead me from one side of Oxford (where I'm staying) to the other side (to The Zodiac). That place had been turned into a cinema, but a woman on Cowley Rd directed me back across town to a pub called The Jericho. She had no idea where the pub was, but a guy in the city centre directed me to Little Claredon Street. That was wrong, but a drugged-out barkeeper directed me down Walton Rd, where I finally found The Jericho Tavern.

I walked in halfway through a mixed night, and saw a couple of bands - Censored, from Nottingham, and The Brent Wood, from London. Not bad, but not Radiohead. But to be fair, back then, not even Radiohead were Radiohead.

As I walked back to the hostel, I reflected on the strangeness of it all. No one knew where I was going, apart from the last guy I asked. Each person had a different idea of where things were. But somehow, it worked. I drifted from person to person, and it was far more effective than if I was armed with a map and directions. If you're open about it, turns out that people really do want to help you. Kind of renews my faith in humankind somewhat.

I'm not sure how it happened, but Oxford's turned from a walk amongst medieval college squares into a circuit of all of Radiohead's former haunts. The lady in the tourism office thinks I'm some kind of cultural Philistine. Here I am in one of the great centres of learning in the world, and I'm chasing the ghosts of an indie rock band with way too much pretension for its own good.

What the hell am I doing here? I don't belong here.