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The Archive

Articles from When Saturday Comes. All 27 years of WSC are in the process of being added. This may take a while.

 

BBC presenter reshuffle

Cameron Carter casts his eye over the BBC's football presenters

With no summer tournament as a distraction the new season has been a long wait for all of us. Even so, it is still irritating of Gary Lineker to preface each Match of the Day with a promise of “enthralling” games and “high drama”, as if a significant amount of those watching were still debating whether to commit to the whole programme. Match of the Day is one of the few commodities left, along with milk and weapons-grade uranium, that does not require a hard sell. Lineker is dangerously close these days to resembling the kind of schoolboy no one ever liked until his parents invited all the neighbourhood kids to his birthday party with a bouncy castle (symbolically, Lineker’s 1986 World Cup goals) and a chocolate fountain (the 1990 World Cup goals). This makes the boy popular for a while, but not, as he mistakenly believes, forever. In other words, we’re not actually winking back at you, Gary.

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Import and export

With recent controversy surrounding English clubs signing Europe's young talent before they turn professional, Neil Rose looks at FIFA's plans to protect Europe's schoolboy stars

The furore over French teenager Paul Pogba – with Le Havre accusing Man Utd of stealing him – is just the latest controversy thrown up by English clubs signing the cream of foreign youth. United insist that they complied with UEFA guidelines in signing the 16-year-old and the row is reminiscent of that caused by their capture of Federico Macheda from Lazio in 2007, or Arsenal’s of Cesc Fàbregas, or several other players, mainly by the Big Four. Of course, signing players before they can pen a professional contract is not just an English pursuit – French clubs themselves have plundered Africa for a stream of young players. With transfer fees spiralling ever higher the appeal of relatively cheap, if raw, foreign talent is growing.

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A force for good

Ian Plenderleith reports on how the internet has led to the downfall of a British football pundit whose show can only be heard on the other side of the Atlantic

If a loudmouthed British football pundit based in California decides to broadcast a big opinion on a satellite radio show available only in the United States or by podcast, will anyone care? Well, thanks to the internet the world has become a smaller place and so the unfortunate answer for Steven Cohen, host of World Soccer Daily (nothing to do with the monthly magazine), was a resounding yes. Shortly before the 20th anniversary of the Hillsborough tragedy earlier this year, he told his audience that Liverpool fans still bore the responsibility for the 96 deaths. After a web lobbying campaign led to sponsors such as Heineken and FourFourTwo magazine pulling their support from the show, it ceased to broadcast in late August, citing harassment and deprivation of the right to freedom of speech.

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Arch enemy

The revamped stadium has been open since March 2007. Despite trying his best Cris Freddi just can't get used to it

I went to the opening game at the new Wembley. That sounds like a minor boast, I suppose. If there were anything to boast about. You can only judge a stadium in daylight. Lights at night gloss over things. On an overcast afternoon, the Wembley arch looks like a giant concrete rope. And you stand under it and think: what’s that all about? What’s an arch got to do with it?

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Crystal Palace 0 Manchester City 2

A late summer night out in Selhurst. Manchester City breeze down to south-east London for the early rounds of the Carling Cup where Crystal Palace huff and puff against mega-rich opponents. David Stubbs reports

It’s grim down south. The freshly mint Manchester City and their supporters come down to Selhurst Park like a delegation from Italy’s Lega Nord descending with wrinkling noses on one of the more malodorous outlying districts of Naples. What a culture shock it must be for visiting fans from the regenerated and nouveau riche north-west as they emerge from Selhurst station, with its unappetisingly urinal-like walls, down a ginnel flanked with mistrustful barbed wire and as rank as the breath of an alcoholic in the afternoon.

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