Vuvuzela? Not the worst noise at the World Cup.

So, 4 days in and the World Cup is up and running. We have had goalkeeping errors, dodgy red cards, a humorous thrashing for the Aussies, the violent-rage-inducing non-stop-drone of the vuvuzela, everything really except some world class football. The standard of play will presumably increase, not least because today Portugal face Ivory Coast, Brasil enter the fray later this evening and the excellent Spain get under way tomorrow. Unfortunately it looks like the vuvuzela situation will remain unchanged, not least because about a million of the things are on sale with a FIFA logo pasted on the side.


However the African Stadium horn is not the most irritating sound of the tournament so far. That honour must surely go to the ITV coverage of Saturday nights England game, an event so littered with crimes against broadcasting that I almost don't know where to start. The panel were two-thirds awful. Kevin Keegan who appears to have been drinking non-stop since leaving Manchester could barely string a sentence together. His contributions limited to merely repeating things that he had heard in the commentary. Gareth Southgate comes across like a schoolboy who has won the chance to be a pundit for the night, with his rabbit trapped in the headlight eyes he looks more scared than before 'that' penalty in 1996. Only Patrick Vieira saved the ensemble, a man for whom English is probably his third language being the most coherent member of the team. Even he was guilty of watching a completely different match to everybody else, England were excellent?


But at least you have a choice of whether to watch the tedious pre-amble, half-time drivel or post-match common sense massacre. There is NO getting away from the reprehensible Clive Tyldesley and Andy Townsend. I have since heard Tyldesley commentating on other World Cup games since, he does a perfectly adequate job, almost registering lower on the irritation scale than John Motson. Unfortunately when England are involved he becomes the worlds biggest jingoistic cliche merchant. His constant references to 'the millions' watching at home in 'bars, clubs or lounges'. His complete inability to say the name of an England player without rattling it through the very depths of his throat first. I can only assume he does this in case RooOOONNNNnnEEYYYYY's touch on the half way line leads to the greatest goal ever scored and is subsequently replayed forever. Clearly, Tyldesley thinks he is part of the action rather than a mere spectator, a journalist, a commentator. Sitting next to TyyyLLLDDDEEESSSley is Andy 'Tactics-Truck' Townsend, a man whose skill in repeating the obvious is so large that it staggers me everytime I hear him in action. Thankfully the vuvuzela's help to blot out the sound of these two idiots.


A final mention must go to the World Cup Express on Radio 5 Live, each night at 9:30. Truly Mark 'Chappers' Chapman and Dave 'Comedy' Vitty provide a level of banality and tedium not before experienced on the BBC. 5 Live usually provides excellent football coverage and analysis (606 aside), but after listening to this yesterday evening for around 20 long minutes I now know what resides at the bottom of the barrel. The two ground breaking issues up for discussion were, goal-keeping howlers and vuvuzelas! Insightful stuff I am sure you will agree, particularly the haha, hilarious, oh I am laughing now just thinking about it, section where they discuss places where the vuvuzela would not be welcome. Cue, snippets of commentary from the Open golf, the snooker, the tennis all with horn noises added for good measure. Chapman, Vitty and 'special' guest Robbie Savage were laughing hard at this section, with Savage heard to mutter the word 'brilliant' through his guffaws. The phrase 'lowest common denominator' springs to mind. How these two were allowed to escape from Radio 1 is an absolute mystery.


Lets just hope the football picks up over the next few days. and if it does, my advice is this. Turn down the sound, pop on your favourite album, crack open a beer and enjoy the football in beautiful horn free bliss.

Come on United, don’t take the Michael?!

Some people love spring, the early blossoming of daffodils, the first day of genuine T-shirt weather. Others, they love Christmas, presents, family, good food and drink, terrible television. Me, I love this time of year. The new football season has finally begun, the cricket is exciting, and the new football season has finally begun. The Football League is well under way and the Premier League is 12 days and 16 matches old. Markers have been set down, new signings have been blooded, and pundits have made their predictions.


Liverpool have given us a glimpse of the bad and the nearly beautiful, with Glen ‘Armitage Shanks’ Johnson in particular, looking very impressive. Manchester City look like they have spent more wisely than many had anticipated. Some big names in football, Sir Alex included, rubbished there chances this term, lets just hope someone buys the Scot a hat made from liqueur chocolates this Xmas, he may need it. Ancelotti’s Chelsea, 2 from 2 so far, look like being as strong as ever, if by ever you mean the last five years. Arsenal will in all likelihood, continue to thrash all comers beyond redemption without troubling the engraver and his pencil come May.


The real story of this first week and a half though, is at Old Trafford, and the travails of a certain half-pint sized striker. A substitute on Sunday, as United squeaked past Birmingham, he was on from the start Wednesday night, as Burnley sprang a shock 1-0 victory. The Clarets win does not mean they will stay up, and United’s defeat does not mean they won’t win the league, far too early for predictions of that sort. However, what screams at me from the match at Turf Moor is this. You have lost two major forwards from your side in Ronaldo and Tevez. Your only major signing up front to these vacancies is an ex-England striker, who has failed to score in pre-season and has a point to prove. Late in the first half, 1-0 down, you get a penalty, over to you, fill your boots, get off the mark Michael….. CARRICK???


When Michael Owen appears on the television at the moment, I have to look away. His body language is terrible, shoulders hunched, he looks almost embarrassed to be there. He wears on his tormented face the harrowing memories of every moment of his Newcastle nightmare. Michael Owen, shoulders hunched, failure, relegated, injured too much, dropped from the England squad. An England squad he has been part of since he was 17 years of age. This is Owen’s last chance to fulfil his potential, and he knows it. His last chance to win a League Title, a Champions League, perhaps even a World Cut to sit on the mantle with his golden boots, Ballon d’Or and assorted cups from a glorious heyday at Liverpool.


What should not be forgotten is that officially, Owen is in his prime. Yes, his pace will never come close to that which destroyed the Argentinean rearguard in 1998. Perhaps he will never again feel the love of supporters that greeted his early career at Anfield. But this is Michael Owen. England’s top striker for the last decade, 9 goals short of Sir Bobby Charlton’s record in an England shirt, and this is a World Cup year. Now forgive me for being a sentimentalist, but it all looks set up for Owen to have one last hurrah. Just imagine, the World Cup final, the 90th minute, Argentina and England tied at one apiece, and Owen nips in at the near post to snatch the winner, his 50th for his country. All he needs is a goal to get him started, to wipe that hang-dog expression off his face, put the spring back in his step. So please Manchester United, next time you get a penalty, for everyone’s sake, give it to the right Michael.