Barbequing the French...

It’s getting cold up here on the top of Death Mountain and I think the vertigo's starting to set in. Or maybe it’s the hangover.

Two games… two recent world champions… seven goals scored…six points on the board… no complaints…its all getting rather boring.

Drinking and working has delayed the update of the orange summer scribbling but the break has given me time to reflect.

Genuine excitement has now set in as I believe that we’re going to be difficult to stop…unlike many of the petrol stations round here we show no signs of running out of gas. My sincerest apologies for the Americanism, I promise it won’t happen again.

Friday was brilliant. It was my dads fiftieth (sorry for the age reference Dad but happy birthday, oh and Fathers Day) and the game was taken in during a family BBQ. Once old Herby Fandel, (the German referee attacked by that mad Danish bloke in qualifying) had blown the final whistle out came the singstar and with it my urban roots.

While rocking the rapometer with a performance of Summertime by the Fresh prince and DJ Jazzy Jeff I realise how much of a carefully crafted orator Mr. Smith actually is:

“…you're invited to a barbeque that's starting at 4

sitting with your friends cause y'all reminisce about the days growing up and the first person you kiss

and as I think back makes me wonder how the smell from a grill could spark up nostalgia...”

And just like a pregnant mother watching Jeremy Kyle the nostalgia was definitely sparking up.

I think refreshing to watch a team so ruthless in front of goal. Many of today’s teams try to walk the ball into the net, try to score the perfect goal. But we don’t, the boys in Orange look desperate to hit the net. Were playing in a similar style to a testosterone filled eighteen year old lad looking to score on a Saturday night. Told you it’d sparked nostalgia.

For the first, Kuyty, who’s fast becoming my favourite player, doggedly won a corner on ten minutes. Only to then get his curly mop on the end of it with Malouda deciding to give out a bit of bump ‘n’ grind rather than marking.

For the next instalment we had to wait until the hour mark. The French had been piling on the pressure but inspired decisions from Van Basten put an end to that and on came Robben and Van Persie.

Then after some silky skills from the number nine at Sandown substitutes Robben fed Robin to make it two nil. Another superb breakaway, although maybe Coupet was a shade unlucky not to keep it out. Never mind.

Henry superbly struck back after good work on the overlap from Sagnol but their fight back lasted as long as a Paris Hilton jail term. Within a minute Arjen fired the ball past the hapless Coupet. Never mind.

Then right at the death, Sneijder gorgeously struck the ball beyond Coupet via the crossbar. Never mind.

So we’re looking down from the top of Death Mountain as smugly and arrogantly as an Apprentice contestant.

Now with 2006’s World Cup finalists beaten lets see what we can do against the lesser teams.

Bring on the Romanians.

Up the Dutchy!

Straight to the top of death mountain...

Easy this international football supporting business isn’t it?!

The Italian pensioners took one hell of a beating from my boys last night…the lads in Orange did the business with a superb counter attacking style.

It is Holland I’m supporting throughout this tournament by the way. I realise that apart from the poorly attempted innuendo and font colouring I haven’t yet expressed who would be getting my invaluable support. So for this summer only I’m officially more orange than Jodie Marsh, David Dickinson and even Ian Paisley.

The explanation will follow but for now, let me gloat…

Because last night we breathed life into not only the group of death, but the tournament itself.
With all the backbiting and infighting that comes with a Dutch pre tournament build up I don’t think many gave us a chance against the mighty world champion pizza makers. But with Edwin in goal, Wes Sneijder pulling the strings in the middle and Ruud up front now is the time to start believing. Christ, even Kuyt looked like a player. And with the orange out singing every opponents we have a potent mixture for success.

Maybe I have backed a winner after all…

Fresh from defeating my tip Casual Conquest in Saturday’s Vodaphone derby Van Nistelrooy led the line superbly, constantly looking dangerous. And with the photo finish for his first goal he was clearly onside to stab home the opener. Everybody knows that offside ruling 11.76672.62222 recurring stipulates that if a bloke is led injured off the pitch then it’s a goal…and it wasn’t just Panucci playing our Ruud on either…there were at least three press photographers doing the same. Goal given.

The grumpy old men were furious but once the Alzheimer’s kicked in the game resumed. And they hardly had time to draw breath, one moment Van Bronckhorst was clearing the ball off his own goal line before instantly popping up at the other end to set up super Wes to put the ball past Buffon. A great move, the perfect goal, orange ecstasy!

The game continued in a lively fashion with the Italians making chances, but with Edwin between the sticks the clean sheet was as safe a bet as a Gordon Brown speech being dull. The save from Pirlo’s free kick saw the greatest orange thing flying through the air since the launch of EasyJet. Cheap flight to Vienna June 29th anyone?

With the boys in blue still marvelling at the wonder save, the night was topped off by yet another energetic break from Van the man…Bronckhorst that is. He broke away on yet another ruthless counter attack to set up Kuyt. With Buffon making the save, Dirky retrieved the ball and looking unusually composed set up little Gio to send us to the top of death mountain.

Before the end subs Ibrahim Afellay and Robin van Persie went close but as the final whistle went the first victory in thirty years over the Italians was met by pure joy and wild celebrations…by the players. Forget team bonding days, this victory could be the catalyst for our first tournament victory in twenty years.

This year two countries share the hosting, but in 1988 it was half a country that provided the setting for victory. West Germany saw the Orange take home the trophy, beating the hosts in the semis before defeating the U.S.S.R in the final. Marco Van Basten took the golden boot with five goals. Then he led the line, now he leads the team.

Bring on the French on Friday.

Up the dutchy!

The prologue: You what?! England are out? Really?!

It’s here. And are we really not there? Nobody’s changed the rules for us? Who’d have thought football would have turned out to be more embarrassing than Eurovision.

Lets think back to that day. The day hopes and dreams were sent spiraling. The rain poured and poured and poured, oh and did I mention it pissed it down? On the night in question I was attending the Guardian Student Media Awards and as the rain came down further, I kind of figured it’d be one of those nights. I didn’t win and neither did England. After the ceremony finished we raced across the road to watch the second half at a pub across the road. As we entered the ale house, the mood was sombre, briefly lifted by an England equaliser and then dashed by the Croatians third. I think what angered me the most that night was conceding three goals at Wembley in a make or break qualification game. I found that infuriating, Alan Hanson would be proud.

During the second half, McLaren had what is affectionately known in the business as a “Sven v Brazil”. But what was he doing under that umbrella? Listening to Rihanna? Or maybe Paul McKenna’s ‘I can make you rich’ on his Ipod? If he was, it definitely worked. He was about to become a very rich man.

The F.A quickly disposed of McLaren in the best decision they’ve made since…I can’t actually recall one, and it’s not for the lack of research either.

Looking back, in some ways he was the perfect candidate to replace Sven. After all, in the run up to getting the job the papers alleged him to have a mistress. But at least England got results under Sven, we might not have gone beyond the quarter finals but at least we got there, at least Sven took us to the point of lukewarm ecstasy, had us teetering on the brink of that special once in a lifetime feeling, apparently he did the same to Ulrika too.

McLaren had the demeanour of a politician, smug, smiling, towing the party line. A student of spin, sure he said all the right things but did we believe him? I didn’t. He even took us on a “revolution”, dropping Beckham, Campbell and James from the squad in favour of a new direction. Unfortunately for York’s answer to Che Guevara the direction took us so far out of Europe it made even the most fervent Conservative wince.

Eighteen games in sixteen months proved to be a dull affair; the only thing that was bright about England’s qualifying campaign was the manager’s teeth. A fifty percent win record speaks volumes; he could have saved us all the time, expense and heartache and just flipped a coin instead. Still, even if we had flipped a coin to decide matches, we’d have still been unlucky with injuries, suspensions and Croatians.

The thing that made me joint most angry (on a par with the three goals conceded I’d say) about the whole situation is that after the Croatia game, the manager did not resign. He was still happy to stand there in front of the whole country and make claims he’d get it right. He knew his fate; he knew he’d be sacked. Paul McKenna told him so. Holding your hands up and saying you were wrong and simply were not good enough is worth much more in football than a couple of million quid compensation. Easy for me to say but I’d have respected McLaren if he had come out and said he was wrong.

But forgetting about England now, on the eve of this slightly less watchable major tournament we all know it’s still the best excuse not to watch Big Brother.

Unshackled by all the patriotism, without England a major tournament can be liberating, a chance to mix with a variety of people from many different nationalities without the prospecting of having to throw a plastic chair at them.

But who should I support, if anyone? There has to be someone. Footballs not about being neutral. There always one team you’d rather win, for whatever reason. They have a great player you admire, a manager you feel sorry for, a good kit, oh and their number ten has nice muscley legs. Apparently it was some women once said that. And it was probably Dani Behr in the mid nineties. Ooooh Dani Behr, where for’t art thou?! I wonder how many people are going to follow me now and google Dani Behr? Apparently she’s living in Australia now, possibly working her way through the NSL as we speak. Right, enough of that sort of talk, now I’m off to search for her on Facebook.