Thursday 10 July 2014

The Germans


World Cup Final, Germany v Argentina



The familiar humming noise vibrated in my ears. 

A small plane was above, cutting across the azure blue, cloudless Majorcan sky like a pair of scissors scoring through a flawless length of silk.

'Pete's Bikes - 17? Impressionable? A prat? Rent a Quad Bike and take your life into your hands for 15 Euros an hour' read the banner, loosely attached to the rickety aerial contraption being piloted by an indifferent Spaniard.

One circling of the beach and it chuggered off, taking Pete's enticing message to the next resort. The firmament emptied and the chitter chatter of European voices were once again audible.

Rowett Senior was in the beach bar, reclining as he waited patiently for his daily cheese and onion toastie, he'd been joined by an elderly couple from Yorkshire. 

"What 'otel you stayin' at?" enquired Des, readjusting his fisherman's hat and carefully placing his newspaper onto the table.

"The German one, just over there. It's quite nice actually," responded Rowett Senior.

"Heh" uttered Des, coolly twirling his Pina Colada so that the ice cubes in his glass made a thrashing noise. He leant forward, fixed my father with a stare to show he was making the salient point of the day, maybe the whole holiday. Time seemed to stand still as this old man began to impart his wisdom......"The Germans don't stay in bad hotels".

That remark will always stay with me. 

I'm not sure why. Whether it's down to the way old Des delivered it, like he was some WWII soldier who had spent time amongst their ranks and had obtained this intel at great cost. Or whether it's because it's a hilarious stereotype that probably has no basis in anything - it's stayed with me. 

I don't care whether it's true or not, it's true to me damn it. The whole population of German are able to sniff out decent hotels if they find themselves in any location, any time period, facing any circumstances. God bless Des.

This was Sa Coma, 2008. The first time I'd really spent any prolonged period amongst groups of Germans.

I've never been to Germany. Germans have always been mysterious to me. The only exposure you tend to get to them is either as movie villains, football villains [because they've beaten England] or as walking stereotypes in Majorcan holiday resorts.

The kind of segregated places that make Apartheid South Africa look like a giant game of Twister.

My dad would always point them out on early family holidays, 'bet they're Germans' and sure enough you'd see a group of people with mullet hairstyles marching up the street, seemingly in their own world, wearing socks and sandals - although this was the mid 90s so perhaps dodgy hairstyles and fashion no nos weren't contained to just Deutschland.

Fast forward to 2008 and we'd booked up to go to Sa Coma and surprise my cousin who was over there celebrating her 40th birthday. They'd specifically booked this hotel because it was fantastic for her young children. A huge complex near the beach complete with a kids' club, computer rooms, water park, a mini golf course, a disco, all of it. We just didn't realise until we got there that the place was 90% German. The signs were in German, the hotel receptionists spoke German, the food and drink was German, the night time music was German [David Hasslehoff's hits and some folk music].

I'd finally get my chance to lift up the veil of the secretive Germans and see what the fuss was about.

The most troubling difference to the norm was the food. The hotel was all inclusive, we ate in the restaurants in the bunker and queued up daily for our slop.

As your espadrilles slipped across the tiled floors, if you lifted your head and glared across the restaurant you would see innumerable counters which held buckets of pork and beef smothered in garlic and spices. Alongside the meats were plates of potato shapes, gherkins and tubs of mayonnaise. 

The Germans would help themselves to a slab of garlic pork, pile the potatoes and gherkins as a side and add a dollop of mayonnaise with utter glee. Hmm, bit unusual, but when in Dusseldorf do as the Germans do as Des would say.

Our party followed suit. As someone who doesn't eat red meat, I picked up a plate of potato wedges and gherkins and sat down.

Crunch.

The gherkins were quite hard and not much more palatable.

A German with a peculiar moustache and a monocle, looking like a Bavarian watchmaker, screeched his wooden chair backwards and walked up to get seconds.

"Danke Frauline," he uttered, as a female kitchen worker passed him a plate of gherkins, before eyeing up my portion on his return.

The cuisine was strange, but it was our first day. Live and let live. The situation only became problematic when it transpired that garlic pork, garlic beef, potato wedges and gherkins were the only options...every day.

Rowett Senior became mad with hunger, one day he burst through the crowds of sandal-wearing Germans and found a 21 year old Spanish lad pushing a food trolley around, smelling of Hugo Boss complete with Ronaldo-esque gelled hair. 

"Senior!...Every day....it's pork, potatoes, gherkins....every day....wha....wh...he.."

Rowett Senior grabbed the poor lad's shirt in sheer desperation.
  
"Why? When's there going to be different options?"

"I'm sorry....the Germans like it this way," our apologetic hombre murmured, before trolleying off.

Rowett Senior fell into a pile onto the floor and wept.

I think it was not until day four that my diet of gherkins had taken an effect on my sanity. I was walking around the mini golf course and started to hallucinate. The clubs had become spaghetti strands, the balls were hard boiled eggs, the fish in the pond were salmon steaks. Everything looked like the food I'd once known. The flavours that had disappeared. I was Homer, when he flips out on Chief Wiggum's chilli and meets the space coyote.

When Rowett Senior had told Des that the hotel was quite nice, he wasn't lying. The hotel was immaculate and had fantastic facilities - the food was just terrible for an English palate.

"Psstsh"

What was that?


"Psstsh, over heresh"

A dutch guy was sitting on the table next to us in the bar, dunking an orange peel into his Hoegaarden.


"You do knowsh that you don'tsh have to eat in the restaurant?"

The Brits, Dutch and Swedes would talk to one another in a sort of understanding of the minorities.

"Well..what do you mean mate?"

"The hotel opposhit. It'sh allied to thish hotel, you can use their restaurants if you book a table in the mornings. Get to reception at 9am. They have an Italian, Steakhouse and a Mexican. They're nicesh. The Germans keep it quiet so they can book all the tables".

Oh you beautiful man. Now it was your people liberating us from starvation.


Our family huddled together. We had to get up early the next day and book the Italian. Get to reception at 9am.

The sun had risen. 8:50am. We danced out of our hotel rooms and tip-toed down the corridor like a gang of ninjas. Down the stairs we ran. Through the empty corridors. Into the reception...

There they were.

Hundreds of Germans. 

They'd been waiting since 6am.

Oh damn! Damn!

All was lost.

There was no beating them.

We sadly shuffled to the back of the queue. At 9:02am a plump little Spanish woman paraded through reception, her high heels echoing around the great hall. The Germans were seething.

9:02am

Supposed to open at 9am

They were tapping their watches. Tutting aloud. Waving their arms in disgust.

I started laughing. The stereotype you see in the comedies and movies about them being ridiculously pernickety about such trivial things is absolutely true. Or it was in this instance.

Other differences I observed related to manners. You never got a 'danke' for holding doors open or for passing back a wayward beach ball in the pool. Around the bars nobody ever said please or thank you.

'Einen coke' 

'Einen bier'

They'd barely look at the Spanish barmen. I always made sure I'd ask the staff how they were and thank them when they served me up a drink.

The Germans contempt for people in the service sector probably isn't cultural. I imagine you'd get a similar number of arseholes in majority English all inclusive resorts - especially those ones in Mexico and Egypt that are suddenly in vogue for the chavs.


German hotel, Sa Coma



There's definitely something to the German stereotype though. During our two week stay in their hotel they did get up really early and nab all the sunbeds; the food was very much pork-based; they weren't quick to thank the staff - however, I quite liked it. It gave me a much needed laugh, distracted me from the gherkins and I think I preferred the quieter nature of the guests.

It's really easy [and fun] to portray the Germans are being secretly evil, or harbouring plans for a 'third-time-lucky' stab at world domination because they so often come across as being an extremely serious people, a nation of librarians.

In the library of Europe the English and Dutch would be the rowdy types who keep talking [being shushed by the Germans] and generally causing mischief. Whereas the Germans would be the goody goody worker who never puts a foot wrong.

But then if, on one occasion, that German librarian got pissed at the work's party and made a scene, the English and Dutch co-workers would be compelled to take the piss relentlessly forevermore because it was so out of character. I think that's essentially the source of the fun behind the German bashing part of our culture.

The problem is that there is a real chance our mockery of the Germans masks the notion that we are now essentially the villains in the world of football, and the Germans are the good guys.

Lahm, Mueller, Metresacker, Kroos not only speak well in the media, but they play the best football at the moment and they come across as hard-working, nice guys too.

Compare with our Jack Wilshere, Cleverley, Rooney, Luke Shaw types. Too busy taking instagram photos of themselves; needing to be seen wearing over-sized headphones as they emerge from various forms of transport. Seemingly not really giving a toss about the fans.

The Germans will go over to their fans at the end of the game, hold hands and do a unified salute where they all raise their arms up and down.

Of course this is probably sensationalised. There's probably pictures of Lahm doing a post-match interview wearing over-sized headphones and Thomas Mueller might love a selfie.

But it certainly feels like the Germans are more in touch with the ordinary fan and old school values and haven't been corrupted by rampant greed like our brats.

It was embarrassing when Bayern Munich had to step in and subsidise tickets in their away game at Arsenal because the English club was avariciously profiteering off the goodwill of ordinary fans.

When Bayern Munich or Dortmund [who are owned by their fans] play against the likes of Chelsea [a Russian oligarch's play thing, with a sickening level of wealth] again it's easy to see who the bad guys are.

The English game is full of half empty stadiums, non-existent atmospheres. It's almost eaten itself. Compare and contrast with what we see in the Bundesliga. A league of full, bouncing stadiums. The whole town comes out to support its team. Tickets are cheap. People are drinking in the stands. The atmosphere is electric. It looks like really good fun.

The combination of having a national team comprised of hard-working, honest kids and a domestic league that looks after the working man makes the Germans....dare I say it.....quite likeable.

There you have it. Not only do they treat the fans better and protect football's soul but they've got a far better national team too. There's seemingly no benefit in us acting like twats.

If the Germans do go all the way this Sunday and lift the World Cup I can't see many people complaining. I certainly wouldn't.

I might even have a celebratory plate of gherkins.




                                                                  ~






Sunday 6 July 2014

The Krul Decision and Manchester United


Bang, bang, bang!

If you live in Surrey, The South Coast or The West Country you were kept awake last night by the thudding noise of thousands of Manchester United fans jumping in celebration.

When Krul saved his first Costa Rican penalty the confetti filled the air of Poole. Thin ribbons of colour littered down as bumpkins in red shirts with 'Sharp' emblazoned across their chests emerged from taverns and joyously waltzed in the streets under the pale moon light. 

Robin Van Persie cheekily poked his penalty into the net and was met with innumerable gin and tonics flying through the air in celebration across the bars of Epsom.

Manchester United are back.

I logged onto the football 365 forum and saw pages and pages of Irish Manchester United fans posting in sheer ecstasy: "Van Gaal proved tonight he is a Manchester United manager"  noted one fan. 

"The rest of the league will be shitting themselves now" hiccuped an excitable Finbarr of Knocknaheeny. 

"I have absolute unconditional faith in the gaffer" stated Fintan of Rathangan.

Hmm

There's a hint of desperation about the Manchester United fans. An eagerness to show everybody that they've 'still got it'. It seems like they've tricked themselves into believing that the good times are definitely coming back too.

To the outsider they look like a former tap dancing champion, who has become fat, with ill-fitting jeans slumping downwards, exposing a hairy arse crack. A sad figure that leafs through a tear-stained book of former memories, of a slimmer more graceful time.

And then one day this character finds some golden shoes in a skip, and is convinced that this means that he's back to being the best in the world again. So the slob slips the golden shoes back on and bursts into the local tap dancing studio, running up to people, breathing foul breath all over them while proclaiming: 'Look at these new shoes, they're better than your shoes, I'm back, I'm the best!'

So he attempts to dance, and ends up tripping over his feet, spinning to and fro then falling onto the table of judges, smashing it to pieces before being carried out by paramedics.

Maybe I'm wrong. Maybe Louis Van Gaal is a magical figure who will transform United into the league's powerhouse once again. Maybe the excitable provincial plastics are actually right to be so energised. We'll have to wait and see.

I'm inclined to lean towards the idea that they're so wearied from Moyes that they're willing to find a messiah in anybody. The coach driver might have turned up, sat in the dugout and 60k United fans would chant his name in devotion. We were a bit like that in our worship of Hughton once we freed ourselves from the shackles of McLeish. 

Van Gaal stated today that the decision to swap Cillessen with Krul was down to the Newcastle goalkeeper's greater height and reach -  which rather than being a masterstroke, appears more like common sense.

Bizarrely however, the move was inadvertently a genius play because it gave the illusion that Krul was a master penalty saver, even if that wasn't what Van Gaal was attempting to do. 

If you were a Costa Rican player and you saw Krul coming on in the final seconds of extra time you'd think "Bloody hell, this guy must be the penalty king", which is perhaps enough to plant just enough doubt in the mind which leads you to miss your spot kick.



Cillessen, Louis Van Gaal, Holland, Costa Rica, Netherlands


 
You had to feel for Cillessen, who had performed admirably for the whole match, including extra time, and kept the Dutch in the game at times. The pathos was enhanced because, despite being 25, he looks like a lost boy. If he had a beard, some tattoos, you might reflect...'He can take it, he's had a rough life, he's as hard as nails', but Cillessen has the aura of one of the players' younger brothers, who's been called up late to make the teams even and is just helping out.

At the end, the Dutch players swamped Krul and celebrated with him for his five minute heroics, whilst the man who had kept the Costa Ricans out for 120 minutes stood in the background holding a towel being ignored. There was a particularly awkward moment where Cillessen approached Krul to shake his hand, but the tall goalkeeper just looked the other way and spoke to somebody else.

Cillessen, even sounds like 'silly son'. Which is perhaps what Krul calls him away from the cameras.

You can imagine the pair of goalkeepers in a Balearic nightclub, and a hot girl approaches Cillessen and seems keen. Krul comes over and tells him it's his round, by the time Cillessen returns Krul is neck deep in the stunner. Back in the hotel room Krul is having his fun with the girl whilst across the room in the other twin bed Cillessen is hiding under his duvet, pinching his ears to try and block out the terrible sounds.

Although in fairness to the spurned keeper, he didn't skulk away during the penalty shootout and seemed to embody the 'team before the individual' spirit as he joined in with the celebrations.

The Dutch move on to play Argentina in the semi-finals, in possibly the most eye-catching, old-skooly tie in the 2014 World Cup thus far.

I'd like Holland, as the 'fun Germans', to go all the way and bring the cup back to Europe. I'll be continuing to support De Oranje. I think Robben has been the player of the tournament too. His engine is astonishing.

Let's just hope they can win the World Cup in circumstances where Van Gaal has as little input as possible, because these internet United fans are costing me a bleedin' fortune in smashed computer monitors.



 





Wednesday 2 July 2014

Liverpool Must Keep Suarez

Luis Suarez, Liverpool, Barcelona, Bite, Uruguay






















"We're all sweating in here, the air conditioning is broken" coughed a dehydrated Gary Lineker.

Alan Shearer unfurled a cotton napkin and mopped the sweat off his dripping bald bonce. "Eeh mon, I think they should ban Suarez for the World Cup like. This guy is a disgrace. Three bites.....and you're out. Get it? Bites, not strikes, but bites?".

"Very good" spat a bored Lineker.

Shearer glared at the cameras in smug satisfaction, like a simple child who had pleased its master by sweeping the leaves off the driveway into a neat pile, unaware that they'll just blow back into a mess five minutes later when the next gust of wind comes.

"Is he just insane? Does he need help? What is his issue?" whined the Bogglin-faced Chiles on the other channel, sitting resplendent in River Island's Summer 2010 gear. He pulled nervously at the rope on his military style, three-quarter length combat shorts. "Liverpool surely have to sell him now?"

"Guys, I don't see, erm, yer know, erm, I don't see, erm, like how he stays at Liverpool to be fair guys, erm" opined Ray Parlour on Talksport.

Hawksbee and Jacobs giggled in agreement.

"He should be banned from the World Cup....and....locked in jail....forever" decreed Danny Mills, in a rant which reminded us all of that Simpson's scene where Lisa, her children and her children's children are banned from the Jebediah Springfield museum.....for three months.

Diddy Hamman is the latest to write why Liverpool should sell their toothy asset. I haven't read his piece but I imagine it's roughly a thousand or so words stressing the need to preserve Liverpool's worldwide reputation, an emotionless plea to cash in quick before the next full moon rises and Luis bites again.

But....I haven't really heard a decent argument as to why Liverpool should sell Luis [maybe I should read Diddy's article]. The whole notion doesn't make sense.

So we expect Liverpool to sell arguably the best striker in the world to a top four or Champions League rival?

Why is it OK for a rival to buy Suarez but it's totally unacceptable for Liverpool to hold onto him?

Surely he either retires from football indefinitely or Liverpool should just keep him? Why should a different team profit from Suarez's ability?

It's a bit like owning a beautiful [ok, maybe not beautiful] diamond and then some bloke walks up to you and says...

"Whoah, you need to get rid of that diamond straight away."

You respond "....why?"

"Well, err, because it's a blood diamond. Loads of Africans have died to mine that rock, and hey man, like it's totally immoral for you to keep it."

"......ok, fine, i'll just chuck it in the bin"

"No! No...just give it to me, i'll have it."

".....but I thought you said it was immoral to keep it?"

" Yeah, it is...for you, but I want it."

And then Suarez signs for Barcelona, they face Liverpool in the Champions League semi final, he scores against the scousers and knocks them out, that would be a nonsense.

Well, when they're sitting in Toxteth Rileys snooker bar come next May, watching Suarez lift the European Cup in Barcelona colours on a humming tv screen in the corner of the room as some locals continually push 50p into the jukebox and play Akon's hits over and over again- at least they can say the club did the right thing.

It's not about success, it's about being moral apparently.

That reads like an Arsenal fan's end of season review.

Liverpool must build a team around Luis Suarez. Revel in their villainous status. If you're liked by neutrals, you're not winning. 

Will you accept Alan Shearer taking the moral high ground when he has crumbs of Neil Lennon's cranium still encrusted on his shoes?

Will you give credence to the views of United, Arsenal and Chelsea fans who have long dined out on constant top four finishes and fear a resurgent Liverpool?

Will you listen to the likes of Paul Scholes who was as silent as a dormouse during his playing days, but is now so desperate to forge out a media career that he'll bark on command whenever Paddy Power throws him a biscuit?
 
Must Liverpool sell Suarez to Barcelona? Who so gruesomely pumped Messi full of hormones and chemicals. Who employ the tricheurs Alves and Busquets? Who say that they will not besmirch their shirts with sponsors as they are 'mes que un club', but now whore themselves out to parts of the Middle East where slave-like Indian manual workers fall and die in ignominy every time you blink.

You know the answer Scousies. Tell the rest to get stuffed. In football nobody remembers the sporting, they only remember the winners. 

Liverpool must keep their star man and ignore the morality lessons from violent former pros; corrupt institutions and rival football clubs with an interest in seeing the Reds suffer. 

Let Suarez's goals do the talking next season, bring home some trophies and silence your detractors. That has to be a better course of action than just meekly bowing out.

Liverpool can't afford to sacrifice their future in order to be martyrs of morality, and neither should they. 

Martyrdom is so very final. Whereas a Lambert, Sturridge and Suarez attacking triumvirate is so full of possibilities.