I knew where I was with Sven-Graham Taylorsson

David Thomas13 April 2012

Sven-Goran Eriksson hasn't got the first idea how to manage an England football team. The longer this World Cup goes on, the more I realise he has no consideration whatever for the traditions of English football, or the rights of England fans.

Everyone knows how England are supposed to play at World Cups. For the first few games we always struggle against teams we should beat easily. We're absolute rubbish. But somehow we scrape through, undeservedly, by the skin of our teeth.

The whole country then spends endless happy hours abusing our players, our manager, our system and our tactics.

All the while, we know we've got another game, and yet more opportunities for vitriol, coming up in a few days' time.

Finally, after a fortnight or so, we're drawn against Argentina or Germany.

At this point we play brilliantly, passionately, inspirationally . . . and we lose. But only - and this is very important - because we have been in some way cheated. The Hand of God, penalty shoot-outs, dodgy red cards. You know the drill.

Now, at first, Sven appeared to appreciate our traditions. He got off to a proper England manager's start in these finals with the game against Sweden.

Adopting the tactics of Sven-Graham Taylorsson, or even Sven-Kevin Keegansson, he selected the wrong team, put his players in the wrong positions, left his central midfielders isolated, and had us pumping useless long-balls randomly at the opposition.

Excellent! This gave us all masses to whinge about. We could slag off Emile Heskey and Danny Mills, bitch about the need to have three men in central midfield, and even (in madder, more drunken moments) suggest that Sven should have had Steve McManaman in the squad.

But now look at us. Three games later, Sven's turned England into a footballing Volvo: efficient, rock-solid, utterly reliable and as thrilling as a school-run.

There's something weirdly chilling about the way England are happy to concede possession, fall back on our own goal, and let the other side bash their heads against our defensive wall.

It's the footballing equivalent of Muhammad Ali's old rope-a-dope tactics. Except we do it the other way around: we land a knock-out punch, and then let the other guys blow themselves out trying to get it back. But after it's all over, what is there left to say?

I've never seen a group of TV pundits look as bereft of inspiration as Alan Hansen & Co after the Denmark game, and I can't blame them. Every England player did his job. No one played out of his skin. Three handy goals. And, er, that's it.

With any luck, the Brazil game will prove a tad more thrilling. It has to, surely? I mean, come on. England v Brazil, for a place in the World Cup semi-final - how much sexier does it get than that?

Except that, as Belgium showed for 67 minutes, the way to beat Brazil is by matching individual genius with team organisation. Deny space in midfield. Close down the strikers. And (unlike the Belgians) take your chances.

If Sven has his way, we'll put out their fire with our ice. Then we'll calmly cruise on, get to the final, win it one-nil to the Ing-er-lund. Then it's off to the team hotel, friendly handshakes all round, and a celebratory crispbread afterwards.

I never thought that 36 years of hurt could ever end so painlessly. And I'm not sure I can bear it.

I want what I'm used to. Give me 90 minutes of crazed, lung-busting passion.

We attack like dervishes, hit the bar, skim the post, have shots cleared off the line. Brazil go down the other end and score a single sneaky goal, preferably from an offside position. We all bask in the masochistic bliss of a truly glorious defeat.

Ten days later, Brazil get mugged in the final by the worst German team in living memory. We sit there chucking rocks at the telly and telling ourselves that we should have won it.

It's agony. It's futility. Now that's what I call England!

Wrong, wrong, wrong and Right Guard

I was the mug who wrote this paper's World Cup guide, in which I confidently stated that Italy would win, Brazil would disappoint and Germany would crash out in the first round. Oh, and I said Roy Keane would be Ireland's top player. I thought Cameroon would top Group E and saw Portugal as semi-finalists.

England-wise, I got the 1-1 draw with Sweden dead right and accurately spotted Nicky Butt as the key to England's midfield solidity. But I didn't even include Trevor Sinclair in the squad.

I reckoned Senegal would trouble France (yes!) and qualify for the second phase (brilliant!). But I also reckoned they had 'no chance in the long term' (wrong!).

Still, I tipped the long-haired Senegal boss Bruno Metsu as 'the wildest-looking dude in any technical area.' Though you've also got to love the way the Cameroon 'Indomitable Lions' manager Winnie Schaefer, actually grew his own mane.

And a big, squelchy hug to Spanish coach Jose Antonio Camacho.

I've got a tenner that says his underarm sweat-patch actually reaches his belt by the end of their quarter-final.

Get that man a jumbo-sized Right Guard, somebody!

Football conquers all

A British driver, Colin McRae, has won the Acropolis rally. England's athletes have competed in the trials that will determine the team for the Commonwealth Games. And no one has given a monkey's.

This is a subject on which there is much more to say, but for the moment, let me just observe this: football is to other sports what oilslicks are to oceans. It's a thick, sticky, overpowering blanket that suffocates everything in its path. Britain has long had the most diverse sporting ecology in the world.

We may not win much, but we have a go at everything. Football is killing all that. If it carries on like this, there'll be Becks, Owen, Sven and absolutely nothing else.

Blair ready to lift Cup

Obviously, if we make the final, Tone will be right there, grinning and simpering in the Imperial Box. If Brazil give us the old heave-ho, he'll be waiting at the bottom of the steps when the team jet touches down, clammy hand extended, elbows ready to barge Her Majesty out of the way.

But how far will it go, do you reckon? Cherie and the kids in matching England strips? Baby Leo taking tea with Brooklyn? Whatever the final decision, I'm getting in stocks of Tums and Milk of Magnesia, because nausea is guaranteed.

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