Ever wondered how someone on £100,000 a week can have a “wrong” foot? Tom Green investigates the case for everything being all right with the left, as well as with the other one…
In an age of ProZone and FIFA coaching badges, one significant aspect of football technique appears to be overlooked: for some reason, right up to the very highest level, it seems acceptable to be one-footed.
There should be an air of panic around Elland Road, but it’s hard to locate. Have the past few years been so traumatic that no one can yet admit that a season ticket starting in August could be for League One? Al Needham investigates
Norris. That’s who I think of automatically when Leeds United’s glory years come to mind. Not Don Revie with his reams of dossiers, or sock-tags, or the Smiley badge, or seats on the pitch of the Parc des Princes. I think of horrible, devious, pill-pushing Norris, the ginger vermin of Slade prison who conned poor Blanco out of his treasure map in that episode of Porridge, only to find himself desperately scrabbling away in the dead of night in front of the imperious East Stand with the floodlights at full glare and the police advancing.
Ireland’s foreign minister has broached a tricky subject: if one team can represent the island in rugby, why not in football? Paul Doyle reports on the backlash, or lack of one, from some quarters
The mainly Nationalist fans of Cliftonville came up with a new chant a few years ago to mark the beginning of the Northern Irish peace process. Reworking the words of the popular old terrace ditty “You’re going to get your fucking heads kicked in”, they taunted the supporters of traditionally Unionist-backed teams such as Linfield and Glentoran with triumphant cries of “Cross-border bodies with executive powers”. The creation of such bodies was part of the Good Friday Agreement and a move that Nationalists hope will eventually lead to a united Ireland, which, of course, is a scenario Unionists dread.
Phil Ball analyses David Beckham's time in the Spanish capital
Back in the mists of time, during David Beckham’s first season in Madrid, Guillem Balagué of Sky was given the privilege of interviewing the great man in situ. They sat together in the Asador Donostiarra restaurant, a regular haunt of Real Madrid’s bons vivants, Beckham looking splendid in his Lucius Malfoy haircut phase and Balagué asking all the right (pre-selected) questions. Becks seemed relaxed and happy, trusting Balagué. As he supped on a glass of red wine, he agreed to show his startling prowess in Cervantes’ tongue, “Tienes un poco de chorizo por favor?” (Have you got some salami sausage please?) He seemed Euroman incarnate, the symbol of a new era. Not only was this a man who could generate greenbacks by the million and play football half-decently, he could also meld into the sophistication of Madrid, a city whose hauteur and social mannerism know few limits. Balagué did to Beckham what Martin Bashir did to Princess Diana – teased him out and appeared to humanise him. It was a weird occasion, during a weird time when Beckham, if you recall, was everywhere – even in M & S.
David Beckham’s mission to explain his sport to Americans while making lots of money is going well. For a start, as Mike Woitalla writes, more of them have discovered that Los Angeles has a soccer team
On the second Friday of 2007, nearly every American newspaper reported the deal on its front page, next to news that made the man seem all the more appealing. On the Miami Herald’s page one, he celebrated a goal beneath photos of hooded protesters dressed as Guantánamo prison detainees and of US Secretary of State Condoleezza Rice. In the New York Times he took a shot while, to his right, Rice argued emphatically for a troop increase in Iraq.