The End Beckhams

Looks like I was wrong on that Beckham-going-to-Celtic post. Just as well I was otherwise detained when I intended writing the one hailing our new capture of Anthony Stokes...

Where's Wally?

Rangers have definitively cemented their reputation as the most-hated club in Scotland with their poaching of Scotland manager Walter Smith to take over from poor old Paul Le Guen, who resigned last week when the Huns realised that Barry Ferguson had nowhere else to turn to to earn his absurdly inflated wages. Le Guen's brief tenure at Ibrox was a disaster, with the exception of the UEFA Cup win away to Livorno, but the Breton is a decent manager. It was he that built the force that Lyon have now become, though it is a lot easier to win championships when you have good players at your disposal, which was not the case in Glasgow. Rangers are, no doubt offering Smith a pay deal far in excess of what the SFA could though there is something distasteful at bailing out on your country at such a crucial time in a qualifying campaign. The Jocks are welcome to talk to Steve Staunton, if they want to replace them.

Becks to Paradise?

A fellow Ballymote-man and regular reader of this blog informed me over Christmas that, as rumours a few months back had it, David Beckham will sign for Celtic during the transfer window later this month. An bare investment for the Bhoys, intended to sell millions of replica shirts in China, and which comes relatively cheap, Becks apparently having agreed to a £35,000 per week salary in exchange for exclusive control over image rights while at the club. While nobody can deny that even an under-performing Beckham will strengthen the current squad, it is not as if we really need him either. Most of his magic has been effected the past couple of years from dead-ball situations (so often that he puts his foot on a rolling ball in play in order to facilitate a strike) and with Shunsuke McNamara's current form, the Hoops will hardly be encouraging Becks to step up and take the free kicks. As for the fans, I cannot imagine them giving Beckham an overwhelmingly warm welcome, especially given the transparently mercenary nature of the possible transfer. Back in September Gordon Strachan laughed off media suggestions that Celtic were to make a move for Beckham, saying that it was news to him. Maybe it was and that Brian Quinn is telling him what to do on this one. Should the transfer go through it would be funny to see Posh hob-knobbing in the stands with Thomas Gravesen's pornstar girlfriend Kira Eggers. Posh is desperate to get her career going again, maybe a change of direction is all she needs...

The Weekend's Fitba'

Celtic narrowly fail to bury Rangers' title ambitions once and for all but they still remain seventeen points clear at the top. Meanwhile here in France the title race is already all but over, following the 4-0 demolition of second-placed Lens, in their own Stade Félix-Boellart, by Lyon, who are now effectively assured of a sixth successive title. St-Etienne, local rivals of Lyon, by whom their regional supremacy has long been usurped, moved into Champions' League qualifying position following a 3-0 win at home to Valenciennes. Admittedly les verts occupied a similar position this time last year only to fall behind catastrophically in the New Year; but at least this winter is no African Nations' Cup to decimate the squad as happened during this year's tournament in Egypt. Lyon's dominance of French football is so complete that it is hard to remember that the last club other than them to win the title was Nantes, back in 2001. The once-great Breton side have fallen badly and for the third season running are battling relegation, currently lying second-last in the standings. In an effort to stem the rot they have signed up Fabien Barthez, until recently unwanted by most football clubs in the known world.

Miles Offside

The Iranian filmmaker Jafar Panahi started off life in film as assistant director to the magisterial Abbas Kiarostami, an apprenticeship he achieved as a result of reading John Baxter's biography of Luis Bunuel, and being inspired to write to Kiarostami and ask for a job, just as Bunuel did in his youth. As cutting one's teeth in cinema go, it doesn't get better than that and Panahi has not squandered what he has learned. His debut film The White Balloon, a beautifully subtle children's film set on Iranian New Year's Eve won the Caméra d'Or at Cannes in 1994 and since then he has won the Golden Lion at Venice in 2000 for The Circle and also made Crimson Gold, two films which are among the greatest made anywhere in the world so far this decade. Panahi studied closely Kiarostami's method of filming and mounting fiction among a reality so fluid, shifting and uncertain that one never knows where the film might end up, forever being at the mercy of the vicissitudes of Iranian power changes, between judiciary and legislature, a quality that, as I have noted elsewhere before, is not too different from the 'Great Satan', the US.

Panahi's new film Offside focuses on the efforts of women, mainly working class Teheranis, to watch the decisive Iran-Bahrein World Cup qualifier of last October, in defiance of a law forbidding their presence, for the typically insane reason of 'defending their honour'. As in The Circle, which treated of the efforts of Iranian prostitutes and other 'loose livers' to evade the moral police, Panahi is courageously on the side of the fairer sex, and in this case his film was successful enough to persuade head head-the-ball Mahmoud Ahmadinejad to change the law and allow women into the stadiums. The film starts, as ever with Pahani, in media res, on a bus carrying football fans out to the stadium on the outskirts of Teheran. There are a number of women who find themselves coralled by the military police on duty for infractions of the law and Panahi constructs the drama around successive episodes that show up the law, and by extension Iranian society, for the insane absurdity that it is, such as the bravura sequence where a young woman, desperate to pee, eventually persuades her inflexible guard to let her go to the toilets. When there he instructs her to avert her eyes from the coarse Farsi graffiti on the toilet walls. The fact that the earthy female captives give as good as they get renders this act doubly absurd.

The women are all photographed without their chador, though crucially not with their hair uncovered (a restriction that Kiarostami circumvented in Ten by filming a shaven-headed young woman), though even still, filming women in baseball caps and military uniforms, in intentionally androgynous get-up is a risky and courageous act by the director, not to mention his actresses. Things such as these demonstrate how Iranian film directors must make do without freedoms that Western directors take so for granted that they abuse them readily, restrictions that have paradoxically turned Iranian cinema into one of the most thematically and formally inventive in the world. The film ends with celebrations among captors and captives alike as Iran qualify for Germany - though the fate of the women is still uncertain - and Panahi's filming of the street celebrations afterwards is breathtaking in its technical mastery; to shoot such a film on the night of the game itself - and much of it in the stadium - is astonishing. But then Panahi, like his mentor Kiarostami and the Makhmalbafs, and other filmmakers like Abol-fazl Jalili, has long been accustomed to fit his fiction to the template of everyday life and its potentially recalcitrant permutations. Offside may not be as rounded nor as possessed of such depth as his previous two films but it is still a remarkable feat of filmmaking. And, despite Kiarostami's mastery, Panahi has, by now made Teheran his own; when the provincial soldiers scold Teheran women for their outrageous morals, you can feel the glint of pride in the eye of the camera. Proud of being offside in the Mullahs' Iran.

Make Room For the Jocks, Paddies (and Latvians)

The fools and knaves at the Scottish Football Association are attempting to persuade UEFA to expand the European Champhionship finals to 24 teams, no doubt because of their historical ineptitude at getting anywhere near the damn thing. When we have seen how so many of the teams that grace the World Cup every four years are scarcely worthy of the epithet 'world-class', why would anyone want to see the also-rans of Europe trudge about in a tournament that is unarguably more competitive? It is bad enough that the cloggers of Austria and Switzerland will be present in 18 months due to their hosting of the next tournament. Scotland are supported by fellow mediocrities Latvia and Ireland, with whom they fielded an embarrassingly bad attempt to host those same 2008 finals. You'd think the FAI, given their handling of the Steve Staunton affair and the subsequent mauling by a team of Cypriot hairdressers, would see it best to lay low for a while and stop making pathetic excuses for themselves. Next they'll be asking to be made play only against schoolboy selections in competitive games.

Hail, Hail, Rain or Sno

It didn't take long for Celtic to take the sheen off their Champion's League last-16 qualification. In a match that was academic, and which they might have thus taken as one they might throw caution to the wind and attack to win in, they were humiliated 3-1 by the ever-so-modest FC Copenhagen. It is a significant reversal because once again Celtic have failed to overturn their abysmal away record in the Champions League and they advance with a negative goal difference, their home record paling in comparison with the maulings they have suffered away from home. We approach the second round with a fresh reacquaintance with reality. For every three goals we score at home, we can be guaranteed we will concede as many elsewhere.

Nuclear Arsenal

A first posting on the Russian spy polonium affair; apparently traces of the exceedingly expensive radioactive agent have been found at Arsenal's Emirates Stadium. The same stuff that killed Aleksandr Litvinenko may have been deposited during Arsenal's Champions' League tie at home to CSKA Moscow on the 1st of November. The biggest enigma is that I found this out from a Swedish daily, and my sifting of the facts is dependent on my very rudimentary Swedish.

Pats On The Back For Derry

The last football game at that crumbling kip Lansdowne Road (sorry but not being a member of the sheepskin-coat brigade, I could never get too sentimental about the ground) was the FAI Cup final between Derry City and St. Patrick's Athletic, which was by all accounts a thriller, and which the Candystripes came from behind three times to win 4-3 after extra time. Similar in many ways to the FA Cup final earlier this year. Congrats to Derry on their minor double and hopefully they can overshadow the dull Dubs of Shelbourne once again next year.

Merrion Squares

I'm a recipient of the FAI's daily RSS feeds (until recently the only feeds to be had at Merrion Square were for the blazers in business class on flights to matches behind the Iron Curtain) so I suppose I was asking for this. But I was nonetheless amused by this dispatch from the Boyos in Green: groundbreaking meetings at El Paso II between the two-associations-formerly-at-handbags-with-one-another. Only the deluded, glazed minds of people involved in the vicariously pleasurable world of sport administration could find this worthy of news. Until 80 Merrion Square is stormed and its inhabitants exiled to the minority sport that is rugby, Irish football is doomed.

Henke Joins MU

Former Celtic hero Henrik Larsson has just signed on loan with ManYoo in a surprise deal that will bring him to Old Trafford from the 1st of January until the 12th of March, in other words, for the duration of the Swedish close-season. News that hits me as that of the marriage of an old flame might; yes, of course Henke is free to do as he likes, and, yes, it has long been over between him and us but still it pains us that he will not be exclusively associated with the Bhoys. Thank God we have already got our ManYoo problem out of the way before he had the chance to inflict traumatic damage on us. He must be finding those Swedish winters a bit tough already...

'I am Racist, but...'

Further to the killing of a Paris Saint-Germain racist hooligan by a plainclothes police officer last Thursday evening - killed while trying to attack a Jewish supporter of Hapoel Tel-Aviv, who just happened to be Parisian and a supporter of PSG on most other nights of the year - an 'ultra' on a supporters' site claims that a man hunted down by a group of hooligans might expect to be 'beaten, but certainly not lynched'. Even this lot have a threshold of acceptability. It reminds me of those frat boys featured in the Borat movie who are suing Sacha Baron Cohen for defamation of character. Their avowed racism and misogyny, so thoughtfully displayed for the putative public of Kazakhstan, of course, could not have defamed those same characters all on their own then.

Jean-Marie Le Pen, the best excuse ever for the Irish taking one step further away from their so-called Celtic cousins, the Bretons; beloved of 17% of the French electorate at the last count - last week, and whose name was evoked by the PSG thugs at the moment of attack, is himself threatening to sue the public prosecutor for our old friend 'defamation of character'. Said the actress to the Bishop. Of course the only witnesses to this evocation are the Jew and black cop that were under attack and a bystanding journalist from the news-weekly L'Express. Unreliable, all-told. Another far-right hooligan site says that that the slain lout was the 'perfect target, white and poor, no-one will ever lobby for you'. It may be said that 'white trash' as opposed to 'black trash' does not arouse much liberal sympathy (and the use of the second epithet there only emphasises how offensive the much more common first is) but the best way to get this sympathy is not really to run after defenceless individuals in packs after a football match.

Libération on Saturday published a facsimile of a police memo issued before the game, which proved to be remarkably accurate in its prediction of an incident. Probably nothing unusual in this but one imagines that the clueless thugs, indulged as ever by PSG and their overlords at Canal Plus, have been all too easily infiltrated. A look at Scorsese's The Departed, finally released here today, might reveal all.

Much Adu About

Fabio Cannavaro wins the European Footballer of the Year award, or the Ballon d'Or as it is officially known, an unusually unflashy choice but logical enough given his majesty in leading Italy to their fourth World Cup last summer. American teenage prodigy Freddie Adu, who had trials at Old Trafford last week, is being warned off going to Manchester by some remarkably sensible American and European coaches, who warn that his talent will get swamped in the Premiership, or more likely the reserve leagues-formerly-known-as-the-Football-Combination where the 17-year-old is more likely to end up. Nike, who have a vested interest in both Adu and ManU, are no doubt, fretting at the youngster accepting the sage advice of going to play for either Ajax or PSV Eindhoven. Quite why The Guardian had to employ a stringer based in Belo Horizonte (Brazil, and birthplace of Pelé, for those that don't know) to file this story, is anyone's question.

The Only Good Nazi...

Paris Saint-Germain, one of the world's least loveable clubs, is at the centre of attention over here, less for their exploits on the field - they were humiliated 4-2 at home to Hapoel Tel-Aviv on Thursday in the UEFA Cup - than for the violence of some of their racist fans. One of the notorious Boulogne Boys was apprehended by a plainclothes police officer trying to lynch a Hapoel supporter (French Jewish incidentally) and was shot dead by the officer, who, irony of ironies, was black. There are plenty of ready-made moral tales to be drawn from the incident, given the racial make-up of the personages, and for the first time in living memory the French left are on the side of the police, but what the episode demonstrates best is the horrific indulgence of fascist elements by the PSG executive. I was at the UEFA Cup game against Derry City in September and it was marred by constant Nazi salutes coming from the Boulogne end. It would be quite easy to eliminate this, as has been done in England, Holland and elsewhere, but PSG choose to do nothing, while claiming, risibly, that they are the most pro-active club in France in the area of fighting racism. PSG's solution is to cordon the Boulogne end off from everybody else, man the section with fellow die-hard racists and pocket the cash.

Though I have a loathing for PSG that cannot be matched by any other team on earth, they have many good fans, white, black and even Arab (though most Parisians of Arab descent support Marseille). The club do not deserve these supporters, who go to games week-in week-out and put up with the same poisonous racism all the time. One big difference between France and Britain is that black people are far more visible in stadia in France. And this is the treatment they receive for their loyalty. As an expat in Paris who loves the city, I would love also to support a local team in the top flight, but PSG, in their tolerance of racist fans, their absurdly favoured status in the French media, and their overall mediocrity, are not it, and never will be. If PSG do nothing about the racist element that sully their name even more, the best thing would be to wind this prefabricated club (established only in 1970) up and start anew with something else that Parisian football people can be proud of.

Meanwhile, a club not too different from PSG, Rangers, played out a 2-2 draw in Auxerre on Thursday night and some of their charming fans sought out a known Celtic bar in Paris to stand around hassling people. A friend of mine had the displeasure of serving them all afternoon, and having put up with their sectarian abuse for long enough, she told them that her mother was a Scottish Presbyterian (which is true). The answer she got was "well we won't trash your bar then". The Billy Boys pass through town.

Hail Hail!

Celebrations at Parkhead last night where Celtic qualified for the second round of the Champions' League for the first time by surprising Manchester United 1-0, thereby leaving Man U needing a draw in their final game against Benfica in two weeks time to qualify. A stunning free kick by Shunsuke Nakamura - identical to the one he scored at Old Trafford back in September - gave the Bhoys the win, though a save by Artur Boruc from an admittedly awful Louis Saha penalty was also crucial. The English media are incredulous at the win by the champions of an inferior league, conveniently overlooking the fact that sides of much less calibre than Celtic, such as Southend United and FC Copenhagen, have already toppled United this season. Various news reports claim that United 'outplayed' Celtic, which is arrant nonsense, even if the difference in class was evident. United, for all their fine passing, created next to nothing in the way of chances; it was like watching Brazil crossed with Ireland. The chances they did get in the first half when they were more dominant came by mostly because of bad defensive errors by the hosts. Though United have happily shown themselves to be a serious threat to Chelsea domestically this season their European form is once again poor and another early exit is not unthinkable. Celtic's ambitions should be realistic enough - they are unlikely to go too far - but surely roughly half of the teams in the last 16 would be within their grasp over two legs. They did after all defeat Man U 'on aggregate' and even their disastrous performance in Lisbon would have been good enough to see them through to penalties. Best of all, the money from qualification will come in handy to bolster the squad for next season.

Ferenc Puskas RIP

Almost exactly a year after the death of one footballing legend, George Best, another, Ferenc Puskas has met his end, admittedly at an advanced age of 79, and following a long illness. Puskas is one of those players that people of my generation know exclusively by reputation, though that was probably the case in his playing days too, when media coverage of football was confined to Pathé newsreel items. He became a mythical figure however due to a convergence of phenomena: the fantastic run of the Magical Magyars where they lost only one match in six years (unfortunately it was the 1954 World Cup final); the failed Hungarian revolution of 1956, after which Puskas and many of his teammates fled West; and of course the rise of Real Madrid as the premier European club, Puskas, Alfredo di Stefano and Paco Gento being the troika that won them the first five Champions' Cups. When I was growing up it was common to see Puskas togged out for veterans' matches, a touching demonstration of the obvious love he had for the game. Though I have no particular vested interest in Hungarian football I find the current parlous state of the game and the national team there sad considering the rich history they have.

Entitled To It

Alas, Shelbourne, probably the least charismatic Irish football club, following the demise of the prefabricated Dublin City earlier this year, have won the National League for the third time in four years, foiling Derry City's attempt to cap their superb season with a much-deserved league title. Derry can still take the FAI Cup and they should have little trouble overcoming St. Pat's in the final. Sligo Rovers managed to stem their disastrous finish to the season with a draw away to Bray, finishing fifth.

Marino Waltz

5-0 to Ireland against San Marino, a result just on the threshold of respectability in a game that was inflated by the Pravda-like FAI as 'an emotional farewell' to Lansdowne. A goal apiece by Andy Reid and a first by Kevin Doyle, together with a hat-trick by local fairweather forward Robbie Keane, ensured Ireland move into positive goal difference for the first time since their Euro 2008 qualifying campaign started. A surprise 1-1 draw between Cyprus and Germany has provided a glimmer of hope for the beleagured Boys in Green, one that will no doubt soon be snuffed out by Steve Staunton's shambolic outfit.

Rayner Shine

I mentioned a couple of weeks ago Pauleta's alleged slurring of female referee's assistant Nellie Lagrange's reputation; now one of Mme Lagrange's English counterparts, Amy Rayner, has suffered a similarly craven attack from Luton manager Mike Newell, who claims, with bracing old-school gusto that "women shouldn't be here" and that their presence officiating is only due to political correctness. Well might the same thing have been said about Jackie Robinson, Clyde Best, Viv Anderson and other black sportsmen in the past.

Newell, to his mitigated credit, initially admitted to being sexist, and has since apologised. He is still likely however to lose his job, which seems a bit harsh for something that only makes him look an idiot. There is course no reason to say that women cannot make officials as good as if not better than men but given the inevitability of the hostility they face, one wonders do they suffer from some beastly form of masochism. That said, best of luck to Amy Rayner and all her female colleagues.

Minnows Go Shrimping

Congratulations to Southend United, currently bottom of the Championship, who recorded probably their greatest victory even last night, beating holders Manchester United 1-0 in the fourth round of the Carling Cup, spoiling Alex Ferguson's celebrations of being 20 years in the job. And neither was it a below-strength side the likes of which United often field in this competition. Well done, the Shrimpers.