Hertha BSC – 1. FC Kaiserslautern

Posted on December 22, 2011 by Neil


…Or how to rush off a match report while you’re meant to be packing to go to the girlfriend’s parents for Christmas, and, as such, refusing to rant about alcohol-free beer as much as you would like to…

Hertha Berlin, the capital’s leading club (in that they are the only Berlin club in the top division) have been having a canny season. Or were, anyway. Lying 11th in the club’s first season back in the Bundesliga at the halfway point, the club looked nailed-on to survive this season, and possibly even challenge for a top-half finish. But then something strange happened.

Last week, Markus Babbel (ex-Liverpool and Munich, among other teams), the manager who took the team back up to the Bundesliga at the first attempt, told the press that he would not be renewing his contract at the end of the season, when it runs out. Apparently he had told the club this earlier in the year, giving them plenty of time to prepare for this. Babbel actually added a Hertha tattoo to his collection after securing promotion, but he obviously wanted to move on, and as his contract would have run out in June, then that is fair enough.

But then club general manager Michael Preetz (Germany has a system where there is a powerful ‘director of football’ who sits above the manager) said that Babbel had not told them this. A war of words erupted, and with Babbel insisting that he had mentioned this to the club a while ago, Preetz and the chairman decided to sack Babbel on Sunday, as his statements implied that they were liars.

The club are now trying to get Michael Skibbe as manager, but have to sort compensation with his current Turkish club before they can push this through. As the league is about to enter its month-long winter break, however, the new man should have time – and some friendlies – to get things in place the way he likes them.

But first, Hertha had to negotiate this tricky last-sixteen cup tie against Kaiserslautern, who are lying in 16th place in the Bundesliga, which is the relegation play-off place.

With the match being an early kick-off (19:00, alongside Kiel – Mainz, with two other games starting later), I met my mates just outside the stadium. One of them had bought three boxes of mini-Hertha schnapps bottles, so after drinking one of them, and a couple of beers. He also had a large bottle of Hertha schnapps, which I didn’t touch. The irony of the club selling its own brand of schnapps will become apparent in the next paragraph…

The Olympiastadion. Yesterday. It really was yesterday!

Past readers of my German match reports will know of my distaste for alcohol-free beer. And, lo and behold, this game, as with every German match I have been to this season, was designated a risk-game, so there was only alcohol-free beer. I refuse to get upset about this anymore. Actually, that’s not true. I am still upset about it, but time constraints are stopping me going on the rant this deserves.

They still served mulled wine, though. Riddle me that, Batman…

Anyway, the first half wasn’t great. Neither team really played anything resembling fluid football, but Hertha deservedly sneaked a goal just before half time. Some good work by Ramos found the Brazilian let-winger Ronny, who curled a great ball into the danger area, which both Ramos and the other striker, Lasogga, slid in for, as well as two FCK defenders. Ramos got the decisive touch, and the ball rolled past the goalkeeper into the corner.

A Hertha (white) attack breaks down. Yesterday. And yes, that red fluff is the hat of the lad sat in front of me...

After half time, the game became a lot more open. FCK began to string some moves together, with the Israeli number 9 Shechter looking lively. And it was him who scored the equaliser, five minutes after half time, after a mix-up in the Hertha defence.

Both sets of fans made a lot more noise, urging their teams forward, and the rest of the game saw a lot more attacking play, sadly without an increase in quality. With an hour gone, Hertha’s impressive young striker Lasogga ran onto a through ball. He held off the defender while running towards goal, before cutting back inside him and shooting towards the near post from about ten metres out. The goalkeeper possibly saw it late, but got a hand to the shot and will be disappointed that he could only divert it into his own net.

FCK had a great chance, with Kouemaha shooting over, and Hertha had a Ramos goal correctly chalked off for offside, before, in the ninetieth minute, Hertha got a third. Ebert, who I have to admit I like – fast, direct and with a bit of a nasty streak – fired a low shot into the far corner from 25 metres out.

A deserved win for Hertha, although a victory by two goals flatters them, and they will face Borussia Moenchengladbach at home in the quarter finals at the start of February.

Hertha: Kraft; Lell, Mijatovic, Janker, Kobiashvili; Ottl, Lustenberger (Niemeyer); Ebert, Ramos, Ronny (Ben-Hatira); Lasogga

Kaiserslautern: Trapp; Dick, Abel (Amedick), Rodnei, Bugera; Tiffert, Kirch; Fortounis (De Wit), Sahan; Nemec (Kouemaha), Shechter

Attendance: 40,944

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Solving a Problem like Michael

Posted on December 21, 2011 by Neil


…Or why England’s Michael Owen would be better being not heard, as well as not seen…

It all started innocently enough. England’s Michael Owen (EMO) tweeted this:

That’s fair enough. I mean, it’s a bit boring, and it’s not really relevant to the stage he is at in his footballing career, but the word could well be his favourite in relation to his horses. Or maybe he likes play-wrestling with his kids, and he has a humurous finishing move that he uses on them. I have no idea. Of course, the point of Twitter is interaction, and EMO picked one of the several responses to react negatively to:

Firstly, I don’t like wasting further breath on EMO, both in real life, after having him grace the St James’s Park physio room for four years at an average cost of five million pounds per season, and on this blog, where I have previously written in great detail on his impact on Newcastle United here (I’ll give you a clue: the article is mainly negative, with the exception of EMO’s alleged support of penguin prostitution charities).

However, this reply has annoyed me greatly. He made several poorly received tweets that night, mainly about whether fans have the right to criticise managers (and players) in response to the ongoing protests at Blackburn. I can live with those tweets, as I can see why he would believe that fans should not be able to hurl abuse at players, and I think he qualified his statements quite well. He is obviously a very sharp man in some respects. He has earned a lot of money over his career, and has rarely said anything that could be deemed offensive or controversial. However, the above tweet really struck a nerve.

Firstly, the tweet he replied to looks like it was meant as a joke. It doesn’t seem to be the bitter tweet of a disappointed fan. This lad, a Manchester United fan, put a smiley face at the end of the tweet, and even admitted that he had meant the tweet as a joke. In fact, he seemed to think that it was quite funny that EMO had made a joke about his gut. As a Man United fan, he would have every right to harshly criticise Owen’s terrible appearance record for the club since, but he didn’t.

EMO is obviously sensitive to such comments, although why picking  a tweet from a supporter of his current team to criticise seemed a good idea to him, I have no idea.

Let’s break his response down:

1) “Hilarious when your picture has a big roll of fat hanging over your shorts”. EMO seems to find it hard to believe a person who looks a bit chunky while in a seated position (not my opinion. The chunky bit, not the seated position. I mean, he is clearly sitting. When seated, I think most normal people have some kind of fold effect going on.) is not fit to criticise someone who is currently injured. Apparently, in his mind, being overweight is the same as being injured.

2) “Had a successful life have you?” EMO has certainly had a lot of success in his life. Hell, he won a Premier League winner’s medal last season without even having to take his puffer jacket off.  This comment is puzzling – I mean, is he implying that he will only accept criticism from those that have achieved success in one field or other (for example, Piers Morgan… oh… yeah…). What happens if this person has had a terrible life. Does that mean his opinion is invalid.

3) “Peasant.” This is where it goes from being borderline abusive and bizarre, to just plain offensive. This is the word that sticks in the craw. Basically, EMO should not have to listen to criticism from poorer people, which in his case is, I would imagine, a huge percentage of the UK population. For someone who has an army of advisers behind him, this is the one word that I bet they would wish he could take back.

Twitter is a unique mode of communication, but one of the downsides is that there is such a limit on what can be conveyed in one Tweet. Brevity is necessary. So, if anything, you would think he would be more likely to leave unnecesary words from his Tweet. Words such as ‘peasant’.

That he views football fans as beneath him, if it wasn’t already clear, could not be more obvious now. The people who pay to watch his teams play (while he usually has the best seat in the house in a heated dugout, free of charge), should have no right to criticise his poor appearance record. But Twitter is full of ‘peasants’.

Makes you wonder why Michael Owen is on Twitter…

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A Christmas Carroll

Posted on December 20, 2011 by Neil


Part Four – The Ghost of Ameobi Yet to Come

…In the last instalment, Ebeneezer Ashley was visited by the Ghost of Christmas Present. The ghost showed him the work Christmas party, which Ashley had not gone to. Ashley was shocked to find out that Bob Pardew and the lads would be getting him a Christmas present, and would forgive him for his tight-fisted ways…

Ashley found himself back in bed. What did it all mean? The team had clubbed together to buy him a present and said they would forgive him for the way he had behaved in the past. He didn’t like many of them, and in fact he thought of them as nothing more than assets in part of his corporate machine, but to hear them speak of him in such friendly terms touched his heart somewhat. Maybe they weren’t such bad lads after all. Maybe even Pardew was ok.

He lay awake, waiting for the next ghost to visit.  And he didn’t have to wait long. Hovering above his bed was a tall, thin figure, his features covered by a dark robe and shadows.

“You must be the other Ameobi…”

The figure continued to hover.

“Sammy. That’s the name. The young one.”

A dark hand stretched out from the darkness, beckoning Ashley to get up.

“You don’t speak?”

The ghost pulled its hand back into the shadows and waited for Ashley to get out of bed.

“I guess not… This should be interesting. I mean, how will the writer be able to hit the target word count if it’s just me talking to a shadow?” Ashley muttered, breaking the fourth wall. He slowly dragged himself up, an act which I should really describe in more detail to fill space and hit said word count… Of course, Ashley then confounded the writer (me) by moving quickly towards the ghost. This is getting quite confusing, as I am blurring the line between fiction and reality. Well, my imagined reality. Unless this all actually really happened… Anyway…

Ashley stood by the apparition. Even from this close distance, nothing about the figure was distinguishable. Ashley was starting to get a bit nervous – no longer certain he was hallucinating, at least the other ghosts were human in nature. With this one, he could not tell. It could be a speedy winger hidden within the black shroud, or it could be a wolf riding a unicycle while holding a severed human hand. He had no way of knowing.

Within a flash of light, Ashley and his new ghostly companion were in a gentleman’s club. Not that kind. A classy member’s only bar, I mean. Three men were talking, and Ashley knew them all. Fellow sweatshop owner Dave Whelan, Ellis Short, the American owner of a laughing stock of a company (which saw itself as competition for Ashley’s own company), and Phil Gartside, a chubby Lancastrian mouthpiece. They were laughing and swilling expensive champagne.

“Classless. All I have to say about the man” said Short.

“Aye, he were that. Crass as well. Boor of a man. Coming up north to try and steal our business” agreed Whelan.

Gartside nodded his agreement. He was distracted by a draft plan on his lap, one which would ensure that his company, a small and unproductive little outfit, would retain its seat on the trade association’s top table, at the expense of bigger, more productive outfits.

“I’m glad he’s gone” continued Whelan. “Doubt he left anything for the funeral. Though, I guess no one will go anyway…”

“I would go if there was food on…” opined Short. They all laughed at that one.

“Who are they talking about?” asked Ashley. He had no sooner finished asking the question when he found himself, alongside his ghostly companion, in a morgue. One large body lay under a green plastic blanket, framed by a circle of pale light. Ashley felt a chill in his bones. The ghost floated over towards the table. Once again the dark hand reached out, pausing above the blanket, poised to reveal the dead man.

“No!” shouted Ashley, overcome by fear. “I no longer want to know. Take me away from here!” he commanded.

 *****

They were now in Bob Pardew’s living room. Pardew was sat in armchair with a glass of whiskey in his hand, staring out the window at the gently falling snow.

A woman, Ashley assumed it must be Pardew’s wife, stuck her head through the door. “You coming to bed, Pards?”

His wife called him ‘Pards’. Ashley added this to the mental list of reasons why he disliked Pardew. It was a long list, despite his kind words about Ashley at the Christmas party.

“Yeah, doll. After this drink.”

“I know it’s not what you want to hear, but he was a terrible man.”

“He saved my career.”

“No. You saved your career. He ruined the company, and you’re better off now. The new company is so much better. Better money, better staff, and a much better, and kinder, owner.”

Ashley winced. Could they be talking about him? Pardew had white hair, but he had had white hair when Ashley had hired him. He looked older, but it was hard to tell how much.

“True, but he’s dead now, and it’s just such a waste.”

“Come to bed, Pards.”

Pardew took a long look at his glass, drained it and headed for the door. He flicked a finger back in to the room to turn the light off, and shut the door behind him. As the door clicked shut, Ashley and the ghost were in a snowy graveyard. It would have been beautiful if it wasn’t for the headstones and the eerie calm of the cold night air. He was stood at the foot of a fresh grave. The shadow was between him and the headstone, seemingly waiting for him.

Ashley swallowed his fear and nodded his head slowly The ghost drifted to the side, allowing Ashley to focus on the headstone. Made of cheap stone, it read simply:


 Ebeneezer Ashley
1964 – 2014

That was it. His life summed up as the hyphen between two dates. No words of remembrance, and a cheap headstone. A pauper’s grave. And the date – 2014 was just over two years away.

Overcome by shock, he dropped to his knees. He looked back to the ghost, who was now perched over his right shoulder. “But this hasn’t happened, right? I mean,” he pointed at the grave, “that is based on this current present. If I change, this changes, don’t it? I can change. I can change… I can change…” he pleaded into the cool, still air.

To be continued…

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