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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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There’s less at stake in the East Anglian derby than there once was, and discontent is in the air at the end of poor seasons for both clubs, but Ipswich are at least cheered by the prospect of pushing their neighbours closer towards the third tier and by the imminent ousting of an unpopular manager, as Csaba Abrahall witnessed

It can’t have escaped your attention that the BBC recently moved Countryfile to prime-time on Sunday evenings. I’m not sure why, as it seemed the perfect accompaniment to coffee and croissants in its late-morning slot, but I imagine the unavailability of a large section of the agricultural community twice a year proved too detrimental to the viewing figures. The East Anglian derby hasn’t been played on a Saturday for 11 years and the scene at Diss station on this spring Sunday morning, rural-accented supporters in blue and white, green and yellow, heading to football instead of listening to John Craven’s views on otters, has become a common one.

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Forest and Derby may not be closest neighbours but time has created a twisted rivalry. Al Needham reports

The relationship between Nottingham Forest and Derby Country may seem a little strange, but it’s actually no different to the ones you see on Jeremy Kyle on a weekday morning. So many elements bind them together, but it’s those very elements that drive them apart like inverse magnets.

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Dear WSC
I write to you concerning Simon Creasey’s fascinating article Parting Shots (WSC 259), in which Ignacio Palacios-Huerta of the London School of Economics describes that, in penalty shootouts, the team that taking a penalty first wins 60.5 per cent of the time. He then goes on to say that the team kicking first “has a 21 per cent greater probability of winning the shootout”. I don’t cast doubt on Mr Palacios-Huerta’s abilities as a statistician, but it is possible that he meant 21 per cent more probability of winning. If Team X has a 60.5 per cent probability of winning, then Team Y therefore has a 39.5 per cent probability. Team X’s probability is [(((60.5 / 39.5) -1) x 100) =] 53 per cent greater than Team Y’s of winning the shootout. Or, in other words, that Team X wins 21 per cent more matches means that their chances are 53 per cent better than Team Y’s for any given shootout. We can be sure that this is precisely what was going through Rio Ferdinand’s head after extra time in Moscow.
Patrick Finch, Eskilstuna, Sweden

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For half a century, celebrities have risked making fools of themselves with no need for reality TV, by playing football. But, as John Harding explains, it’s all in a good cause

The lure of the football pitch for theatre folk has always been strong. Ever since professional football became a mass working-class attraction, variety artists have craved some of the allure attached to the game. Before the First World War, comedian George Robey, “The Prime Minister of Mirth”, organised charity fund-­raising matches involving top football stars and music-hall favourites, which drew large crowds. After the war, the tradition continued in intermittent form with teams representing actors, the cinema trade and pantomime artists, dance bands and the pioneering women’s team, Dick, Kerr’s Ladies.

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