Jeff Powell, the befrizzed Australian who, impossible as it may seem - given that he is not exactly Mr Popularity in the business - is still writing for the Daily Mail, reckons he can trace the decline of Liverpool back to a seminal moment 34 years ago.
The day Bill Shankly retired, says Powell, was the day "Liverpool began selling their soul".
If this writer would care to key the words "Bob Paisley" into Google he would find the following: from 1975 to 1983 Liverpool, under Paisley, won the European Cup three times and were League champions on six occasions. For good measure they also lifted the UEFA Cup once and the Charity Shield five times.
Among the minor baubles, Paisley also took home the League Cup three times and set an all-time record of 85 home games unbeaten, in all competitions. This run included 63 league matches, also a league record, and stretched over three years from January 1978 to January 1981.
Hardly a decline, and if that constituted a selling of the club's soul there's a lot to be said for flogging off this particular asset.
But then this is a writer who has his own agenda in the matter of the most successful British manager ever.
Paisley disliked Powell with a passion - "I don't want that bloody so-and-so down here" was the standard reaction of the miner's son when he discovered Powell was due at Anfield for a home fixture.
Like many shunned tabloid hacks, Powell took it personally - and still does.
Sunday, January 20, 2008
THE CAPED CRUSADER
As if the Toon Army hadn't enough problems.
Racing eccentric (nutter to you and me) John McCririck, it turns out, is a Newcastle fan and has been "most of my life". At least that what he told Sky Sports News today.
Punctuated by cries of "Howay the Lads", the obligatory mention of the new Messiah and , tooled up in a black and white jersey, McCririck was in the sort of full tic-tac rant mode that has made him so many friends down the years and made him a shoo-in for TV trash like Celebrity Big Brother and Hell's Kitchen.
McCririck, on the face of it, does not seem the archetypal Newcastle supporter. I've visited St James' Park a few times over the last 20 years and I've yet to catch anyone there kitted out in deerstalker and cape.
Not even McCririck, who admitted he lives in Surrey, hasn't been to many matches and owes his allegiance to an unnamed uncle.
A long-range celebrity fan, then. He'd surely be better off with Eamon Holmes, Zoe Ball, Angus Deayton, Bertie Aherne and the small army of born-again celeb Reds at Manchester United.
At least he could bet on them winning things occasionally.
Friday, January 18, 2008
MORT D'KEEGAN
"It gives me enormous pressure to welcome Kevin Keegan."
Well, yes, Chris Mort, chairman of Newcastle United, it sure does. Perhaps he meant pleasure, but there again maybe Mr Mort is a student of Freud.
Or maybe like a lot of the Toon supporters looking on from the Shearer Bar, he'd had a few Newcy Broons.
In vino veritas, and all that.
Well, yes, Chris Mort, chairman of Newcastle United, it sure does. Perhaps he meant pleasure, but there again maybe Mr Mort is a student of Freud.
Or maybe like a lot of the Toon supporters looking on from the Shearer Bar, he'd had a few Newcy Broons.
In vino veritas, and all that.
Thursday, January 17, 2008
THEY HAVANT A CLUE
The return of Kevin Keegan to Tyneside certainly buried the bad news on Fabio Capello for the FA (I always wondered what happened to Jo Moore; she's alive and well and working in the next office to Brian Barwick in Soho Square).
Unfortunately, for little Havant and Waterlooville, it also buried the good news about them.
The greatest night in the history of the Conference South side was washed away under a tidal wave of black and white bullshit, submerged under wall-to-wall headlines about the Third Coming, the Talk of the Toon and even, believe it or not, God on the Tyne (thanks to the religious affairs correspondent at the Sun for that one).
By any normal standards the defeat of Swansea - and the prospect of a fourth round FA Cup tie at Liverpool - was the sports story of the day. Newspapers should have hailed the achievement of the impossible; not documented the inevitable.
I would have bet my house on Keegan going back to Newcastle. His carefully choreographed populism will always strike a chord there and it also makes commercial sense for the club judging by the queues around Gallowgate on the night of his Coming.
In any case, there is probably no-one else around stupid enough to take the job on.
No excuses then, for this morning's multi-page documentation on the life and times of a multi-failed football manager.
Like Kevin Keegan, we have all been there, done that and bought the Toon shirt.
Unfortunately, for little Havant and Waterlooville, it also buried the good news about them.
The greatest night in the history of the Conference South side was washed away under a tidal wave of black and white bullshit, submerged under wall-to-wall headlines about the Third Coming, the Talk of the Toon and even, believe it or not, God on the Tyne (thanks to the religious affairs correspondent at the Sun for that one).
By any normal standards the defeat of Swansea - and the prospect of a fourth round FA Cup tie at Liverpool - was the sports story of the day. Newspapers should have hailed the achievement of the impossible; not documented the inevitable.
I would have bet my house on Keegan going back to Newcastle. His carefully choreographed populism will always strike a chord there and it also makes commercial sense for the club judging by the queues around Gallowgate on the night of his Coming.
In any case, there is probably no-one else around stupid enough to take the job on.
No excuses then, for this morning's multi-page documentation on the life and times of a multi-failed football manager.
Like Kevin Keegan, we have all been there, done that and bought the Toon shirt.
Monday, January 14, 2008
NOTHING BUT A HOUND DOG
As an example of superficial sports writing technique this takes some beating - Paul Kimmage going all ga-ga in the Sunday Times over Russian tennis princess Maria Sharapova:
"And that’s when it happens. Suddenly, inexplicably, I start to envy her dog. I want to be Dolce. I want to die and come back as that fluffy Pomeranian pooch and for the next five minutes I completely derail. It’s like that scene from American Beauty when Lester Burnham (Kevin Spacey) is watching his daughter’s cheerleading rally and is mesmerised by her cute, blonde friend. I gazed at Sharapova with eyes as big as dinner plates and was suddenly skiing off piste ."
Putty in Maria's hands, you might say. This, and another 2,000 words on the same theme, wins Kimmage the Sporting Pseud of the Week award - the first Irishman to be so blessed.
It's also a good excuse to use a picture of Maria.
Sunday, January 13, 2008
SO LONG, MARION
Neither Steve Cram or Brendan Foster are journalists, but as Olympians they should be able to offer cogent comment and opinion on "their" sport. Don't hold your breath.
Like many former participants, whose livelihoods depend on propagating the image of a particular branch of sport, they have mastered the art of fudge and tend to vanish whenever anything remotely controversial crops up. As has been noted here before, specialist cricket and cycling writers fall into the same category.
The news that multi-bemedalled Olympic sprinter Marion Jones had been sent down for six months by a judge in New York for lying about steroids abuse coincided with Saturday's coverage of a cross country event in Edinburgh, hosted by Cram and Foster. A golden opportunity, you would have thought, for a spot of analysis.
In fact, their take on the Jones case lasted about 20 seconds, about a tenth of the time allotted to the news that Foster had just turned 60 and certainly far less than numerous plugs for the Great North Run in October.
Foster is chief executive of Nova International, the sports marketing company that organises the race; Cram commentates on it for the BBC. What little good name athletics has left, you could say, is important to both men.
Jones, her drug-taking and her prison sentence was an irritation - and one they all but ignored.
Like many former participants, whose livelihoods depend on propagating the image of a particular branch of sport, they have mastered the art of fudge and tend to vanish whenever anything remotely controversial crops up. As has been noted here before, specialist cricket and cycling writers fall into the same category.
The news that multi-bemedalled Olympic sprinter Marion Jones had been sent down for six months by a judge in New York for lying about steroids abuse coincided with Saturday's coverage of a cross country event in Edinburgh, hosted by Cram and Foster. A golden opportunity, you would have thought, for a spot of analysis.
In fact, their take on the Jones case lasted about 20 seconds, about a tenth of the time allotted to the news that Foster had just turned 60 and certainly far less than numerous plugs for the Great North Run in October.
Foster is chief executive of Nova International, the sports marketing company that organises the race; Cram commentates on it for the BBC. What little good name athletics has left, you could say, is important to both men.
Jones, her drug-taking and her prison sentence was an irritation - and one they all but ignored.
Friday, January 11, 2008
KELVIN THE SPORTS FREAK
During his 13 years as the editor of the Sun, Kelvin MacKenzie showed little, or no, interest in sport - except on the occasions it became the news.
Events like Heysel, bungs, the pants down activities of Premiership footballers or Gazza's various meltdowns would turn Macca into a temporary sports fan. But the whereabouts of Hillsborough - let alone the name of the team that plays there - would still be a mystery to him but for the fact that a large number of people died there in 1989.
Now, if you believe his Sun column, he is an expert. In between the predictable rants about travellers and Muslims, MacKenzie also has definitive sporting opinion on everything from the Harbhajan Singh affair to a new book about the life and times of Brian Clough. He has got tips for the Premiership title and wise counsel for sacked managers. Macca has been a closet sports fan, with a typewriter, all along.
But of course he's not, and never has been. Anyone who knows MacKenzie will tell you that he doesn't have an opinion about very much at all, and certainly not about sport. Like many columnists, he reads the news bulletins and then attempts to reflect a populist opinion. Pound for pound, it's probably one of the best jobs in the world. The production of his £100k a year column probably takes him three hours a week at the most.
MacKenzie is now 61 and not exactly representative of what the Sun believes is its target audience. But it's pleasing to see the newspaper looking after one of its own in his dotage; as good as a pension, really.
MacKenzie, however, should really have resisted the temptation to prove to the rest of world something of which journalists have been aware all along. Like most newspaper editors who spend large parts of their careers telling others how it should be done, he can't actually write.
Events like Heysel, bungs, the pants down activities of Premiership footballers or Gazza's various meltdowns would turn Macca into a temporary sports fan. But the whereabouts of Hillsborough - let alone the name of the team that plays there - would still be a mystery to him but for the fact that a large number of people died there in 1989.
Now, if you believe his Sun column, he is an expert. In between the predictable rants about travellers and Muslims, MacKenzie also has definitive sporting opinion on everything from the Harbhajan Singh affair to a new book about the life and times of Brian Clough. He has got tips for the Premiership title and wise counsel for sacked managers. Macca has been a closet sports fan, with a typewriter, all along.
But of course he's not, and never has been. Anyone who knows MacKenzie will tell you that he doesn't have an opinion about very much at all, and certainly not about sport. Like many columnists, he reads the news bulletins and then attempts to reflect a populist opinion. Pound for pound, it's probably one of the best jobs in the world. The production of his £100k a year column probably takes him three hours a week at the most.
MacKenzie is now 61 and not exactly representative of what the Sun believes is its target audience. But it's pleasing to see the newspaper looking after one of its own in his dotage; as good as a pension, really.
MacKenzie, however, should really have resisted the temptation to prove to the rest of world something of which journalists have been aware all along. Like most newspaper editors who spend large parts of their careers telling others how it should be done, he can't actually write.
Wednesday, January 9, 2008
SIGN OF THE TIMES
This is the image chosen by Times online to illustrate the news that the Gloucester wing Lesley Vainikolo had been named in the England rugby union squad. Vainikolo was born in Tonga and used to play rugby league for Bradford Bulls.
Does anyone else think that the Times online picture editor is either a) racist; b) a Twickenham debenture holder or c) both?
Tuesday, January 8, 2008
UNDER THE COVERS
Like the sport they serve, specialist cricket writers work to a set of rules and codes unintelligible to much of the the rest of the world.
As has been pointed by Peter Whiby in his excellent media critiques in the Guardian, the majority of them regard themselves as the equivalent of rather grand theatre critics. They are there to analyse and muse on what is going on in the field, but without the responsibility, or the inclination, to report on what is going on off it.
Most of them went absent without leave at the time of the Flintoff pedalo affair and their collective performance after Bob Woolmer was found dead in his Caribbean hotel room was a disgrace to the profession which they profess to serve. Most newspapers had to send in the pinch hitters - qualified reporters and journalists - to take over the messy business of finding an angle, doing some research and gathering quotes, leaving the specialists to ramble on interminably about the Bob Woolmer I Knew.
The current Harbhajan Singh/Andrew Symonds sledging row also constitutes a marvellous story but, tinged with controversy as it is, one which had the cricket writing gentry diving for the covers. The nitty gritty when it broke was detailed in the main by agencies or newspaper desk jockeys. Fairly typical was the Guardian's approach, with their version of events given by Richard Nathanson, their "European Football Correspondent".
Three days late, the likes of Pringers, CMJ and the rest emerged to pass comment - before disappearing back into their wine cellars.
Pringle will be remembered forever as the England player who got lost twixt the middle and pavilion after losing his wicket in a Test match; Martin-Jenkins is best known as the composer of the worst intros in the history of journalism.
They are the worst of a very bad bunch. No wonder the late England coach Duncan Fletcher loathed cricket writers.
As has been pointed by Peter Whiby in his excellent media critiques in the Guardian, the majority of them regard themselves as the equivalent of rather grand theatre critics. They are there to analyse and muse on what is going on in the field, but without the responsibility, or the inclination, to report on what is going on off it.
Most of them went absent without leave at the time of the Flintoff pedalo affair and their collective performance after Bob Woolmer was found dead in his Caribbean hotel room was a disgrace to the profession which they profess to serve. Most newspapers had to send in the pinch hitters - qualified reporters and journalists - to take over the messy business of finding an angle, doing some research and gathering quotes, leaving the specialists to ramble on interminably about the Bob Woolmer I Knew.
The current Harbhajan Singh/Andrew Symonds sledging row also constitutes a marvellous story but, tinged with controversy as it is, one which had the cricket writing gentry diving for the covers. The nitty gritty when it broke was detailed in the main by agencies or newspaper desk jockeys. Fairly typical was the Guardian's approach, with their version of events given by Richard Nathanson, their "European Football Correspondent".
Three days late, the likes of Pringers, CMJ and the rest emerged to pass comment - before disappearing back into their wine cellars.
Pringle will be remembered forever as the England player who got lost twixt the middle and pavilion after losing his wicket in a Test match; Martin-Jenkins is best known as the composer of the worst intros in the history of journalism.
They are the worst of a very bad bunch. No wonder the late England coach Duncan Fletcher loathed cricket writers.
Sunday, January 6, 2008
SPORTING PSEUD OF THE WEEK
As any author will tell you, it's next to impossible to earn a mention for your pride and joy in the review sections of a national newspaper.
Unless you work for that newspaper, that is.
No problems, then, for Jon Henderson of the Observer who was granted the best part of half a page - in the Observer - to plug his offering, Best of British: Hendo's Sporting Heroes.
I may be alone in this, but I am not really interested in the choice of hero offered by anyone calling himself Hendo, but I was transfixed by his justification for embarking on such a large scale cuttings job, an intro which read: "Choose 100 men and women for a book of British sporting heroes, said the publisher." (my italics).
In other words, it was the publisher's idea.
This is a laughable conceit for, as anyone with the slightest knowledge of the business will tell you, publishers never approach authors with ideas. It's simply not in their make-up. It's the wannabe author who has to do the bowing, scraping and pleading, particularly if, like Henderson, you don't have a track record as a published author.
He may not get many other positive reviews - cronyism has its limits, even in journalism - but by way of consolation Henderson is our Sporting Pseud of the Week.
Now he can rejoice in the other truism of publishing: that in this game there is no such thing as bad publicity.
Saturday, January 5, 2008
MISERYSIDE
"STINGY KOP" cries the Sun in reporting that Liverpool have refused to donate their share of the gate money from tomorrow's third round FA Cup tie - around £200,000 - to "cash-strapped" opponents, Luton.
A classic piece of Sun dissemination, this. Firstly, there is no precedent for bigger clubs gifting gate money to less fortunate brethren - Luton are currently in administration - and certainly no precedent for one section of a football ground having the means, or opportunity, to do that.
If it had been Manchester United in Liverpool's boots would the headline have read: "STINGY STRETFORD END"?
The same Sun report informs us, as a sort of afterthought, that "the Anfield outfit are also facing financial troubles" which sounds like a reasonable justification for Liverpool hanging on to every penny.
Missing from this piece, too, was the information that Luton have been in administration three times in nine years. In the case of this club, there may be an argument against throwing good money after bad.
Why would one newspaper choose to view one football club, and one community, in such a prejudiced fashion?
For the answer we need to go back 18 years, to Hillsborough and the Sun's lurid and misguided coverage of that disaster. In the wake of that tragedy, the newspaper's sales on Merseyside went into meltdown, costing them over £50m in circulation over the next two decades.
Having long since given up the frail hope of recovering their decimated revenue The Sun reverted to its time-honoured modus operandi; anyone who won't be our friend, must be our enemy. Thus, the systematic scoffing at all things Scouse.
If Luton do go under, it will all be Liverpool's fault of course - at least in the eyes of the Sun.
A classic piece of Sun dissemination, this. Firstly, there is no precedent for bigger clubs gifting gate money to less fortunate brethren - Luton are currently in administration - and certainly no precedent for one section of a football ground having the means, or opportunity, to do that.
If it had been Manchester United in Liverpool's boots would the headline have read: "STINGY STRETFORD END"?
The same Sun report informs us, as a sort of afterthought, that "the Anfield outfit are also facing financial troubles" which sounds like a reasonable justification for Liverpool hanging on to every penny.
Missing from this piece, too, was the information that Luton have been in administration three times in nine years. In the case of this club, there may be an argument against throwing good money after bad.
Why would one newspaper choose to view one football club, and one community, in such a prejudiced fashion?
For the answer we need to go back 18 years, to Hillsborough and the Sun's lurid and misguided coverage of that disaster. In the wake of that tragedy, the newspaper's sales on Merseyside went into meltdown, costing them over £50m in circulation over the next two decades.
Having long since given up the frail hope of recovering their decimated revenue The Sun reverted to its time-honoured modus operandi; anyone who won't be our friend, must be our enemy. Thus, the systematic scoffing at all things Scouse.
If Luton do go under, it will all be Liverpool's fault of course - at least in the eyes of the Sun.
Thursday, January 3, 2008
ALL'S WELL THAT ENDS WELLS
In an extended rant against sports perceived as rich men's playthings, a Guardian Leninspart, Steven Wells, takes a swing at Tiger Woods' favoured game, telling us that "Golf is the quicksand at the end of the existentialist rainbow, sucking the unwary ageing hipster into a half-life of gin-pissed conversations about house prices, airport car parking and immigrants."
Strange how writers who regard themselves as reactionaries can't resist the word existentialist - or the mention of gin.
I haven't seen a contribution in The Guardian before by Steven Wells and I suspect may not see one again, so let's savour another morsel: "Personally I am in favour of banning all activities that give the rich pleasure - hunting, shooting, fishing, skiing, yachting, rowing, polo and rugby union - for the sole reason that they give the rich pleasure."
That should go down a bomb with toffy-nosed gits like Jack Charlton, Franz Klammer, Ellen MacArthur, Steve Redgrave and the natives of Bridgend's Brewery Field or The Gnoll, Neath.
Strange how writers who regard themselves as reactionaries can't resist the word existentialist - or the mention of gin.
I haven't seen a contribution in The Guardian before by Steven Wells and I suspect may not see one again, so let's savour another morsel: "Personally I am in favour of banning all activities that give the rich pleasure - hunting, shooting, fishing, skiing, yachting, rowing, polo and rugby union - for the sole reason that they give the rich pleasure."
That should go down a bomb with toffy-nosed gits like Jack Charlton, Franz Klammer, Ellen MacArthur, Steve Redgrave and the natives of Bridgend's Brewery Field or The Gnoll, Neath.
BARTON: THE INSIDE STORY
In the gloating manner unique to The Sun, Anthony France (or rather the sub-editor who wrote the story for him) reports that "jailed soccer bad boy" Joey Barton nightly cries himself to sleep behind bars.
The newspaper's back bench, with a strapline "All Together Now, AAh!" invites us to join in their gruesome sneeralong.
The story has all the ingredients: a list of the player's misdemeanours, a note of his annual salary (along with his weekly one lest we fail to get the message) and the disclosure that five days into his remand sentence, he has already been confronted by a fellow lag, possibly a Sunderland supporter, who branded him "the scum of the earth".
France, without a trace of irony, quotes a "prison insider" as his source.
Forced to spend New Year's Eve in Walton jail, without actually having been found guilty of anything, I reckon I might just shed a tear or two at night. What is more, I would probably attempt to ingratiate myself with fellow inmates in the hope they wouldn't molest me in the communal showers. In the eyes of The Sun, this is another justification for labelling him a CRY BABY.
Barton was involved in the sort of seasonal scuffle to which a number of journalists, if they peered into their pasts, could truthfully plead guilty. Unlike one senior reporter in The Sun's newsroom, he has never actually killed anyone. The judge who granted him bail today plainly recognised that, too.
At least Barton can now safely cry himself to sleep back in what The Sun - again without discernible irony - calls "his luxury home in Widnes".
The newspaper's back bench, with a strapline "All Together Now, AAh!" invites us to join in their gruesome sneeralong.
The story has all the ingredients: a list of the player's misdemeanours, a note of his annual salary (along with his weekly one lest we fail to get the message) and the disclosure that five days into his remand sentence, he has already been confronted by a fellow lag, possibly a Sunderland supporter, who branded him "the scum of the earth".
France, without a trace of irony, quotes a "prison insider" as his source.
Forced to spend New Year's Eve in Walton jail, without actually having been found guilty of anything, I reckon I might just shed a tear or two at night. What is more, I would probably attempt to ingratiate myself with fellow inmates in the hope they wouldn't molest me in the communal showers. In the eyes of The Sun, this is another justification for labelling him a CRY BABY.
Barton was involved in the sort of seasonal scuffle to which a number of journalists, if they peered into their pasts, could truthfully plead guilty. Unlike one senior reporter in The Sun's newsroom, he has never actually killed anyone. The judge who granted him bail today plainly recognised that, too.
At least Barton can now safely cry himself to sleep back in what The Sun - again without discernible irony - calls "his luxury home in Widnes".
PLUS CA CHANGE
Foreign newspapers have always been a rich source for the sort of speculative sports story in which we specialise over here.
Armed with Babel Fish and a few keywords (Chelsea, Arsenal, Manchester United, Capello or England for starters), UK-based hacks regularly raid the online pages of La Gazzetta dello Sport, L'Equipe or El Pais for titbits.
This week, with the January transfer window imminent, they hit pay dirt when Nicolas Anelka gave a long interview to L'Equipe during which he mentioned the attractions of a move to Chelsea.
The interview was intended for the newspaper's Saturday magazine but L'Equipe, in their guileless way, flagged it up in advance. The British press pounced and in their inimitable fashion gave the story its "legs". Talks between the Bolton and Chelsea chairmen were invented and a price - around £10m - agreed by hack consensus. The justification for the move - Didier Drogba's injury - was also carefully logged.
It goes without saying that most of the UK redtops - and even The Times - claimed the "Anelka Bound for Chelsea" story as an exclusive. The Telegraph excepted, not one of them acknowledged L'Equipe as the source.
It was not, to be honest, a great story. In the case of Anelka, we have all been here before and despite his reputation as an eight-club man, not one newspaper wondered if the player may just have had an agenda of his own.
Deliberately or otherwise, the UK sports press also missed a couple of other salient points in L'Equipe's article that should have rung a few alarm bells.
One was that Anelka's agent, Doug Pingisi, was quoted in the piece. Something on the lines that "Nicolas is ready for a club to match his lofty talents" - familiar agentese for "ten per cent of £10m, make my day". Anelka's combined transfer fees, thanks to Pingisi, currently total £66m.
Anelka also told L'Equipe that he would consider moving back to Sven-led Manchester City and that "it wouldn't hurt me to stay with Bolton", statements that were also ignored for the simple reason that they weakened the Chelsea angle.
Anelka, incidentally, signed a four-year contract with Bolton earlier this season, played for Bolton last night and earned praise from his manager Gary Megson for "chasing a ball that he lost himself with five minutes to go".
In every sense then, the boy done good.
Tuesday, January 1, 2008
QUIET DAYS IN CLICHE . . . 3
More candidates kept in the the sports desk database for the appropriate occasion:
The goalkeeper got a big hand to it: Has anyone come across a goalkeeper with small hands?
Pivot: Central midfielder, stand-off, basketball centre, take your pick.
Braveheart: a Scottish loser.
Rumbled over the line: Exclusive to prop forwards scoring a try.
Burly: prop forwards in general (as if lanky ones exist).
A great player from tee to green: Golfer who can't putt.
He'll love, just love it, if he wins/loses: De rigueur in any article about Kevin Keegan.
And a few faithful stand-by headlines:
Kop that: Liverpool win at home.
Red menace: Liverpool or Manchester United join the title race.
Rovers return: Blackburn player back from injury.
I'm Gunner do the trick: Arsenal striker's pre-match boast.
Wolves at the door: Bad times at Molineux.
Happy Wanderers: Bolton win at last.
Seasiders: Any team with a home ground a mile from the sea (around 157 of them at the last count).
Numbered cliches:
Three and easy: A 3-0 win.
Phwoar! (usually in the Sun); A 4-0 win.
Bunch of fives: Applied to teams who lose 5-0.
Five-star: Applied to teams who win 5-0.
Hit for six: Someone's lost 6-0.
Seventh heaven: Team wins 7-0.
Pieces of eight: An 8-0 victory.
Cloud Nine: Ditto, for 9-0.
Finally, commiserations - and best wishes for a speedy recovery - to Andy Dunn of the News of the World who spent New Year's Day in hospital after downing a massive cocktail of cliche on Sunday: "Sir Alex Ferguson not only threw the book, a verbal volley and anything he could lay his hands on at his partying stars ... he threw down the gauntlet."
The goalkeeper got a big hand to it: Has anyone come across a goalkeeper with small hands?
Pivot: Central midfielder, stand-off, basketball centre, take your pick.
Braveheart: a Scottish loser.
Rumbled over the line: Exclusive to prop forwards scoring a try.
Burly: prop forwards in general (as if lanky ones exist).
A great player from tee to green: Golfer who can't putt.
He'll love, just love it, if he wins/loses: De rigueur in any article about Kevin Keegan.
And a few faithful stand-by headlines:
Kop that: Liverpool win at home.
Red menace: Liverpool or Manchester United join the title race.
Rovers return: Blackburn player back from injury.
I'm Gunner do the trick: Arsenal striker's pre-match boast.
Wolves at the door: Bad times at Molineux.
Happy Wanderers: Bolton win at last.
Seasiders: Any team with a home ground a mile from the sea (around 157 of them at the last count).
Numbered cliches:
Three and easy: A 3-0 win.
Phwoar! (usually in the Sun); A 4-0 win.
Bunch of fives: Applied to teams who lose 5-0.
Five-star: Applied to teams who win 5-0.
Hit for six: Someone's lost 6-0.
Seventh heaven: Team wins 7-0.
Pieces of eight: An 8-0 victory.
Cloud Nine: Ditto, for 9-0.
Finally, commiserations - and best wishes for a speedy recovery - to Andy Dunn of the News of the World who spent New Year's Day in hospital after downing a massive cocktail of cliche on Sunday: "Sir Alex Ferguson not only threw the book, a verbal volley and anything he could lay his hands on at his partying stars ... he threw down the gauntlet."
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