James Sharman

james sharman

From Headline Sports to The Score, from Sportsworld to The Footy Show.

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I have this disturbing image of Sir Alex Ferguson standing behind Arsene Wenger, and whispering through Scotch soaked breath into his ear “yiz know the boy wonts oot, yiz know the boys coming here next year anyhoo, sign the deal laddie, doon’t be a radge.” In the image, Fergie is played by Trainspotting’s Begbie, and Wenger is played by the American tourist, also from Trainspotting. I digress.

I’m not sure what truth there is to the various reports that Fergie resorted to a personal, bridge building dialogue with Wenger in order to finalize the Robin Van Persie deal, but you know that Wenger hates himself for having to acquiesce. He didn’t have much choice mind you, but when the only club willing to pay the moola, and only club the player probably wants to go to just happens to be your second greatest enemy, then frankly you’re shit out of luck.

It does add some delicious spice to start the new season though doesn’t it? I think we can all forgive Arsenal fans who despite knowing better than most the horror of broken bones, if they are currently gathered outside the Emirates, in a group pray-off demanding that such a fate befalls their former son.
As for Manchester United fans? That IPO distraction may have fallen into a distant memory at the moment, with a chance to usurp the ridiculously noisy neighbours once again top of the agenda, and perhaps a real possibility.

Manchester City’s silence over the summer has actually been deafening. With all due respect to Jack Rodwell, every soul within the EuroZone has been paying close attention, ‘will City do something silly that will actually get our country out of debt?’ To date there has been no Eight Trillion Euro offer for Sotiris Ninis.

It has been the European Champions who have made the biggest splash to date, just how such highly skilled practitioners as Eden Hazard, Oscar and Marko Marin intend to fit into Bobby Di Matteo’s blanketing and vomit inducing defensive style of play I don’t know though. Wait? The owner won’t accept that style of play this season? Even though it finally got him what he’d been fantasizing about since 2003? Interesting, more spice!

It will take a brave person to suggest that a team, not already mentioned, will end up in the Top 4, and despite being many things, I am not brave, so that shall not be me. So, sorry Tottenham with your sexy, well dressed Harry replacement, Newcastle with your ridiculous continental scouting department, and Liverpool with those lovely new red nets, it looks to be a battle to win the second tier in your midst. And that’s ok, last season was as special a season as we’ve enjoyed in some time, and this season is looking like a bit of alright too, I telt you so.

Bring on the anti-football!

It’s July 1st. The previous three weeks have flashed by faster than Mario Balotelli in a school zone. Euro 2012 has reached its triumphant conclusion and England are standing on the shoulders of giants—champions of Europe.

As Roy Hodgson had prophesized in the build up to the tournament, why not look at Denmark in ’92 and Greece in ’04 as inspiration for his troops? Indeed, proving that 4-4-2 is not only very much alive but in fact the formation of choice if you stand any chance of leading a bunch of overpaid misfits to the promised land, England ground its way through six matches, scoring four goals along the way to cull a championship of excitement and panache. The fans are happy.

That is the point isn’t it? Actually winning this thing? We can lament the demise of attractive football on the international stage all we like, relegating it to the hideously ugly step sister with the ginger locks to the beauty of the Champions League, and… eh? Oh, right, Chelsea won the crown jewel of football playing a less than fluid version of the game. If you close your eyes and listen really, really closely, you can actually still hear the Chelsea fans celebrating.
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As you may already know, recent changes at The Score have resulted in a new direction for The Footy Show. Long time viewers/listeners/readers have seen the brand evolve over the years, and this is no different. So, as of Monday, this is what you can expect.

A daily (Mon-Thurs) 30min Footy Show vodcast. Kristian and I will be joined by the Who’s Who of soccer journalism, authorities such as Paolo Bandini, Michael Cox, Tim Vickery, Andy Brassell, Ben Lyttleton and others. We’ll also feature popular segments such as ‘Avin it or not ‘avin it, Bits and Bobs, ‘Ave your say, maybe even a Twat of the Week if you’re lucky.

The vodcast will be available on www.thescore.com, iTunes, and our new Youtube channel. It will also be available as a Podcast version for you old fashioned types, or simply those of you who find KJ and I grotesque and sickening to the eye.

In addition to this, our Monday round-table English Premier League specific Podcast will continue as usual. With ‘Take Your Kick Wednesday’s', now moving to Thursdays, making it now ‘Take Your Kick Thursday.’

The Saturday Footy Show on The Score that accompanies our Serie A live coverage continues as normal, as do our Footy Show segments on Live@thescore throughout weekday afternoons.

So that, in a nut shell, is about it.

We are excited to continue feeding your frenzied soccer appetite on all platforms. So, we’ll see you next week… or at least, you’ll see us!

Kristian’s post from Tuesday, recollecting his favourite goals ever, inspired me to delve into the deeper recesses of my cerebral cortex, and dig out…  my least favourite goals of all time.  I’m sure there are many strikes that I have tucked away in an even deeper recess, goals that I needed to forget about in order to live a happy and productive life, but the following ten little gems managed to not only ruin my viewing pleasure, but in each case actually managed to dramatically alter my mood for several days.  What a saddo you may say, well, yes… indeed.  England and Liverpool fans, perhaps it’s best you hit that little X in the top right corner of the screen right now… do it!

Lawrie Sanchez for Wimbledon in the 1988 FA Cup final.  Bastard.

England decide not to close down the worlds premier attacking mid, in Luis Figo at Euro 2004. Bastard.

Mladen Petric rips any interest in Euro 2008 out of my heart. Bastard.

Javier Zanetti causes David Beckham a little strife for the next few years, cicrc World Cup 1998. Bastard.

Staying with the Argentina theme, one I actually hate to love. Diego. Bastard.

As if you’d think I’d forget about this one. I cried. I still do. Diego again. Bastard.

I remember crying over this one as well , my friends grandfather, a Gooner, actually died celebrating! Michael effing Thomas, 1989. Bastard.

Time now to thank some very special goalkeepers. To begin, Robert Green. Bastard.

Up next, David Seaman makes all of Englands fine play, mean utter shite, courtesy Ronaldinho. Bastard.

Must say, I still feel for Paul Robinson on this one, the turf? Not so much. Bastard grass.

England fans, you’ll get the irony on this one. Linesman. Bastard.

And to end… a little something from 1993, around the 3:15 mark. Gretzky. Dare I say it? Ok. Bastard.

Here's your answer, Sharms

Every Christmas Kristian Jack assembles his Top 100 Premier League players list. Now, remember this assortment of brilliance is not full of world class talent, at least not in the warped sense of the term that KJ has bastardized over recent times. Regardless, it is a list screaming out to be debated, and debate we do. I still don’t quite understand how he managed to select Darren Bent at number one last year, but I digress. I also lie.

This year, as he announced on Tuesday’s Footy First, KJ will be assembling a Top 100 All World players list, with the help of some the brightest most intuitive minds in the game… and me.
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On Sunday the two men that made last January’s transfer deadline in the English Premier League as compelling as it was mind-boggling, see their respective clubs meet up at Stamford Bridge. Yet, neither man is guaranteed to even start the match.

I remember arriving at work last Monday, January 31st and began hearing rumours of some serious activity regarding Newcastle’s Andy Carroll and Liverpool’s Fernando Torres. As the speculation began to grow, what at first seemed like tabloid nonsense began to feel as if it actually might make sense.

After all, Torres was clearly unhappy at Liverpool, was mired in a scoring funk, and had even handed in a transfer request. Carroll meanwhile was the current golden boy of English football, was already being crowned the next Shearer, and played for a club that by all reports needed money badly. However the numbers being bandied around from media hack to media hack were preposterous.

Fifty million quid for nine goal man Torres? Insane, although everyone agreed that at his best there were few better goal scorers, and don’t forget that Real Madrid had paid thirty million more for Cristiano Ronaldo two summers before. Still, that number can’t be right.

What’s that? Thirty five million for Carroll? I am certain that mouthfuls of coffee were spit across many a newsroom when that little doozy began to get leaked.

Suffice to say, by the end of the day, both men had moved to their new clubs, for the exact fees that had been rumoured earlier.

I suspect there is not an honest person living who was not surprised by these deals. I just wonder what the responses would have been that same evening, if we were told that by the time the two met each other on the field the following season, they had combined for seven Premier League goals.

Seven goals!

Eighty five million pounds!

Is it too soon to argue that these two transfers were the worst pieces of business the Premier League has ever witnessed? Bear in mind this is a league that remembers Andrei Shevchenko’s outing as an over the hill, in it for the money has-been, not to mention Juan Veron’s dramatic fall from world class maestro to fat conductor.

I will say it is too early. Both men have time on their side, Carroll is still only twenty two, and Torres is barely into his prime at twenty seven. I have hope both men still have plenty to show, but as it stands they are being defined by their price tags, not their quality of play.

Of course, dig deeper and these figures don’t really tell the true story. Even Liverpool would likely admit that Andy Carroll is not a thirty five million pound man, how could he be, after all Carroll cost more than the likes of David Villa, Didier Drogba, and of course Luis Suarez, however when you get a cool fifty for El Nino, and the deadline is approaching, well, you can understand why Newcastle’s Mike Ashley is a shrewd business man can’t you.

It will be fascinating to see whether owners and managers tread a little more carefully this January. As it stands today, Carroll and Torres have been enormous disappointments for their clubs, not to mention their fans. This weekend at Stamford Bridge the travelling support could be forgiven if they seem a little half-hearted in their abuse of Nando, as Carroll launches another effort seventeen feet wide.

As the old cliché goes, we Canadians are just too nice. Well, let’s change that tired old chestnut, let’s grow one enormous chip on our shoulder, and become thoroughly unpleasant people.

It all kicks back into action this weekend, Canada travel to the cauldron of St. Kitts and Nevis, seeking a solitary point in order to prolong its quest of qualifying for that one month sojourn in Brazil in a little less than three years time. Of course failure in the Caribbean would only mean a second crack at said point in front of the masses in Toronto on Tuesday.

Qualifying has not been without its challenges, but let’s all be honest, there has never been a doubt that Canada would stroll through the chaff of world football, and make it at least to the penultimate phase of qualifying. It feels so good typing that! Hell, I have a swagger on.

The reward for one measly point this weekend will be a tasty group featuring Honduras, Panama and Cuba.

Damn.

I will leave detailed analysis and prognostication for others far more entrenched in the nuances of Concacaf soccer, but if we are keeping things frank and honest, that is going to be one bitch of a group.

The ever increasing educated soccer masses in Canada understand the job at hand, unfortunately the overall masses, which salivate at the prospect of berating another failed Canada team will not be so sympathetic.

We all know who they are, some are likely friends, and their response to dropped points against such cultural back waters as God forbid, Cuba or Panama are as predictable as they are galling.

Let’s not just nod begrudgingly; basically accepting that yeah, the haters are actually right. These people will be the first to jump on the bandwagon if the unimaginable happens after all. Question them, and then destroy their generic uninformed responses.

Yet it is possible isn’t it? Canada is not a bad team. Not a bad team. Say it again, not a bad team. That is fine; I’m at peace with that. We don’t need to be a good team at the moment, we just need to be good enough to take some points against a couple of teams (Honduras is obviously in a different league) to make the next stage at least compelling. Then of course could come the Hex. At which point we’d need to really step up the anger levels.

Canada needs to enter a bunker mentality, it needs to grow an almighty chip on its collective shoulder, it needs to have edge, stare down the opposition, and I’m not just talking about the eleven players on the field. Canadian soccer fans, let’s get a little nasty, let’s make the naysayers think twice about spewing their vitriol.

Game on, and to hell with anyone that doesn’t get it!