I Miss....

City are at home tomorrow night, so a day earlier than usual, this weeks I Miss strand. Seeing as I have football on the mind, this week I am focusing on what I miss about footie. Yes the Premier League has brought glamour and money to the English top flight, but lets face it, unless you are a die hard glory hunter, it is getting pretty dull. Apart from a single Rovers victory, the trophy has been won by just three team, and apart from Liverpool, and perhaps Spurs, it doesn't look likely there will be another team to reach the pinnacle. Gone are the days when a maverick like Cloughie could drag a team up one season and win it all the next. Believe it or not, it ain't that long since the likes of Leeds United, Everton, Villa and even Derby County could claim to be champions of England. Now the closest competition seems to be if Liverpool can blow fourth place, and even that doesn't happen too often. And whats fourth place all about anyway? What a great achievement, something to really strive for, fourth place. No wonder this country sucks at sports. Then we have the players. Poncy, soft drinking prima donnas, who collapse as if shot at the slightest touch. Yes Ronaldo is a fantastic player, but I would have loved to have seen him try his multiple step overs against the Leeds United team of the early seventies. He'd be fetching his left leg from the pie stand at the back of the Kop. Then there is the head to head malarkey, both players trying to be hard, usually followed by a slap, and one of them writhing on the floor as if punched by Tyson in his prime. For you young fellas who don't know better, this is how they used to do it. Of course today, the papers would claim it was the end of civilisation, and the police would get involved, resulting in the players involved being sent for anger management classes. When the little flowers manage to stay on their feet long enough to score, we are then subjected to either fatuous kissing of the badge by a player on his 42nd team, or even worse, some cheesy choreographed set piece celebration, probably thought up whilst spit roasting some slapper in a posh hotel. Yet again, for those born in the eighties or after, an example of how it was done when it meant something to score and play for your country. Click here, for Marco Tardelli's 1982 World Cup final goal. Brilliant. Moving on to the clubs themselves, or should I say business's, that treat fans like consumers, and attempt to rinse out every sovereign they can. Bad enough that the majority now play in out of town retail parks, in soulless bunkers bereft of atmosphere, they then employ over eager stewards, all to ready to throw their weight around at slightest whiff of spontaneity, supporters are expected to cough up silly money for ever changing strips. The golden goose hasn't been killed yet, but at this rate who will care about football? Watch any game outside the bigger clubs, and you will see half empty stadiums, and kids walking around towns like Bradford wearing Chelsea shirts, instead of following the local teams. Sitting in front of the telly cheering on a team you will never see in the flesh, to me, defeats the object totally. We are bombarded by the winning is everything ethos, which is nonsense. Having a pint with the lads, and taking your kids down to the game on Saturday, for the crack, is what it's all about, and anybody who tells you different is talking out of their arse.