“Theater of nightmares”
“I am not going to talk about football,
I am not going to talk about football,
I am not going to talk about football,
I am not going to talk about football,”
Fuck it, I’m going to talk about football:
I feel sorry for Manchester United. No. Wait, am I allowed to say that? Is it possible that the football club I actively despise more than anything is so below mine that I can show something of a suggestion of empathy?
I’m not sure. So, today, that performance. That 5-0 Liverpool thrashing.
I don’t really have a “take”, or a “tactical analysis”. I’m not Jurgen Klopp, Pep Lijnders, and though I might have a better managerial brain than Solskjær, there are more qualified people on the telly and in the papers than I to break down whatever that was.
But what I will say is this: I have watched Liverpool — arguably far too much.
I have watched Liverpool football club lose to Manchester United a lot — definitely far too much.
I don’t think — in those countless games I’ve seen — that there’s ever been such a gulf in intensity between 2 teams. Player for player, Liverpool are a better side — that much has been established. But in terms of attacking talent, there’s no way that game should end 5-0. Forget Maguire mistakes and Shaw miscalculations. Forget Pogba red cards and Ronaldo offsides. Those are all things that *can* happen over the course of 90 minutes. It’s part of the whole gentle chaos of the footballing universe. In other words, sometimes shit happens.
But there are some things that can be controlled, even on the worst of days. The intensity, the desire, the, for lack of a better phrase “number of shits given”. And that’s the crucial difference between the two sides. That’s what separates a 2-0 from a 5-0. Are Liverpool a better team with a better manager? Of course. But are they five goals better? They shouldn’t be.
A somehow defiant Gary Neville pointed out on Sky after the game that United have run the least of any Premier League team this season. That might be a bit of a misleading stat. You can run less and still be an intense side. Burnley don’t run all that much but they’re a nightmare to play against. Sure, Liverpool, City, Chelsea all run loads, cover tons of ground, but that’s because their system, and, more importantly, their manager demands that they do.
So, the point is, it’s not that United don’t run. They just don’t seem to care when they do. Late to tackles (see, Pogba, Paul.) Unable to track runs (see Lindelof, Victor.) Reluctant to mark Roberto Firmino (see McTominay, Scott.)
I don’t know, nor do I really care, how this gets solved. I’m not sure that the whole “take a long, hard look at yourselves” and “show some pride to be a United player” sort of rhetoric will have any impact. I’m sort of watching from afar, peeking from the shadows of social media. And I will undoubtedly enjoy whatever happens next.
I am not a Manchester United fan. But I do have a lot of friends that are. And as insufferable as I was via text and Twitter for 90 minutes, I think your duty as a football fan is to try and maintain a shred of empathy, even for your arch rivals.
It’s usually not easy; it shouldn’t be.
Today it was.
New decorations
There’s this really messy shop in Brooklyn, right on the main drag in the neighborhood of Greenpoint. It appears rather unremarkable but for the stools and old vinyl scattered just outside the front of the shop, lining the pavement as if they’re waiting for some sort of particularly opportunistic trash collector. But wander inside, as my girlfriend and I did on Saturday, and a sort of craziness ensues.
Unfortunately, I did not end up in Narnia when I stepped through the door, nor was I in the company of anyone but the usual Brooklyn conglomerate of slightly-stoned 20somethings. It is, effectively, a used furniture store.
But instead of, say, a standard table with a slight scratch, the owner seems to have made it his personal goal to make it look as mad as possible. Floor lamps coming out of what appeared to be a Panther sculpture, with a lightbulb replacing an eye. Uneven, multicolored side tables that appeared to do a very poor job of their fundamental purpose of, well, holding shit. Sofas made of see-through plastic. You get the idea. I imagine that it’s the kind of place that a slightly stoned Brooklynite would be transfixed by. However, for two sober people with bellies full of food, it was less exciting.
But get past the Mad Hatter’s domain and the owner had accrued quite the vintage record collection.
That’s where the fun begins.
I am something of a music arsehole. That much has been established by some of the things I have written here before. And in all honesty, I try to maintain a thin veil of denial of this more or less irrefutable fact. There comes a time, though, where one must embrace the self-indulgent narcissism of enforcing one’s taste on everyone, by decorating a bare wall with some iconic vinyl sleeves (while keeping the records themselves stored and very much intact, I might add.)
I already had 3 records: In Rainbows, 22A Million, I See You (thank you, Joseph Hindle). To complete the vacant wall in my living room, however, I needed another five. So, $50 to spend, 200 or so records to choose from. How the fuck do you manage that? And, more importantly, how long can you spend before your very understanding girlfriend loses patience with you?
It turns out that it’s not too hard. I was priced out by some of the nicer stuff: no Stones, Bowie, Talking Heads, or Beatles were going for less than $25. There were some immediate bargains in there: R.E.M.’s Green ($8), Van Morrison’s Moondance ($9).
So, $33 left, around 100 to go through, and a state of panic starting to settle in. Flicking, and, flicking, and flicking. I cared little for the Guns n Roses live records, or the Diana Ross’ greatest hits.
Then, a stroke of luck: Tom Tom Club, $13. Iconic album—or at least a few great tracks. Slightly edgy—who the fuck needs David Byrne anyway? Cool cover, too.
The second came fairly soon after. Allman Brothers Band’s “Eat a Peach”. It’s not the first time I’ve actively feared becoming my father, and it certainly won’t be the last. However, for $10, not a bad buy whatsoever.
The last one was random, a sort of controlled chaos. I’d identified 3 further records from which to choose:
Red Hot Chili Peppers’ One Hot Minute (shite, but has an admittedly cool album cover)
Bruce Springsteen’s Born in the USA (cheesy, and, frankly, factually inaccurate)
The Doors’ “Alive, She Cried” (Never heard it, but a quick Google search revealed that a nine-minute version of Light My Fire was described by Rolling Stone as: “a scream signifying the communal orgasm of a generation, and a decade, and a band that would flame out and fall silent all too quickly”)
That would be no. 3, please.
The pain is I have room for 7 more albums. I’m not going to buy anything new, nor am I going to spend more than $15 on a record.
This should be fun.
Updates to follow, maybe. Perhaps. Not sure.
All I hope is that this blog doesn’t flame out and fall silent all too quickly.
See you in 2 months, at this rate. Thanks for reading.