The Explorers Club - If You Go
Although veering a touch too close to direct pastiche on some tracks, The Explorers Club’s debut album was a broadly successful effort in recreating the feel of early Beach Boys recordings, particularly when broaching the innocence of teenage love in tracks such as ‘Hold Me Tight’, ‘I Lost my Head’ and ‘Forever’. The standout track however is the gorgeous ‘If You Go’, the hushed harmonies and lovely “I thought I heard you call my name’’ ending evoking the spirit of a ‘Please Let Me Wonder’ or ‘She Knows Me Too Well’.
The Pearlfishers - David vs Godzilla
Scottish acts such as Teenage Fanclub and BMX Bandits have never hidden their admiration for Brian Wilson’s work. Although maybe not as well known, Glasgow's The Pearlf'ishers also wear his influence like a badge throughout albums such as 'The Young Picnickers' and 'Across the Milkyway'. ‘David vs Godzilla’ (an outtake from the British release of the former) is an outstanding example of their art, a dreamy backing track and tender lyrics floating across four and half minutes of your life.
Tony Rivers & The Castaways - Summer Dreaming
The Beach Boys’ influence on others was, in some cases, almost instantaneous. British-based Tony Rivers and The Castaways - for whom the influence extended to covering a number of early Beach Boys efforts - never achieved success despite releasing a handful of singles for EMI in the mid 1960's. One of their unreleased tracks was ‘Summer Dreaming’, a tremendous piece of pop worthy of the Beach Boys, Jan and Dean or any of the other acts trying to encapsulate the sound of the time . Rivers went on to sing the theme to 'Whatever Happened to the Likely Lads' for all you mundane fact fans out there.
Hal - Worry About The Wind
Emerging around the same time as fellow Irish, West Coast Americana obsessives The Thrills, HAL’s eponymous well-received 2004 debut was partly a large nod to the 1970’s and albums such as ‘Sunflower’ and ‘Wild Honey’. The gentle, falsetto-led ‘Worry about the Wind’ was the record’s superb lead single. Despite occasional mentions and promises in interviews since 2004, a second album has never emerged and, as with The Thrills, the band appears to have shuffled into obscurity.
Band of Horses - On My Way Back Home
And finally an effort from Band of Horses that keeps attempting to break into ‘Sloop John B’ but never quite manages it. Nice instrumentation mind.
Monday, 21 March 2011
Friday, 11 March 2011
Random great Everton goals #9
Kevin Sheedy - Everton v Manchester City
Goodison Park, January 13, 1991
The subject of left sided midfielders seemed grimly appropriate, given that an injury to Mikel Arteta on Wednesday night effectively signalled the end of the season, bar the opportunity to possibly bloody the noses of Chelsea and Manchester City in the remaining games. Therefore, here is a goal against the latter, long before they adopted their tramp with a scratchcard persona. Sheedy was by this time coming to the end of a Goodison career that boasted an absurd number of quality strikes and this one - at around 1m55 - coming in an early game of the reign of HKII (note his use of 4-5-1 you two striker nazis..), is right out of the cliched top drawer.
Goodison Park, January 13, 1991
The subject of left sided midfielders seemed grimly appropriate, given that an injury to Mikel Arteta on Wednesday night effectively signalled the end of the season, bar the opportunity to possibly bloody the noses of Chelsea and Manchester City in the remaining games. Therefore, here is a goal against the latter, long before they adopted their tramp with a scratchcard persona. Sheedy was by this time coming to the end of a Goodison career that boasted an absurd number of quality strikes and this one - at around 1m55 - coming in an early game of the reign of HKII (note his use of 4-5-1 you two striker nazis..), is right out of the cliched top drawer.
Sunday, 6 March 2011
Any More Pi?
Pi
24 Rose Lane, L18 5ED
website
If you ignore the axis of twattery - Yates's, New York etc - at one end, Allerton Road is not a bad place at all for a night out. Schmooze, Penny Lane Wine Bar and The Tavern are all decent places for a beer and mercifully light on the type of arsehole that can make town such a minefield at times. What it has lacked however is a Ship and Mitre-type establishment for those of us for whom the aim is not just intoxication but intoxication via a dizzying array of quality options. Welcome Pi on Rose Lane then, which boasts anywhere between eight and ten draught beers and apparently around sixty global bottled beers.
The other main lovely feature of Pi is that while busy on a weekend evening, it is still relatively undiscovered by the local idiot, thus this Sunday lunchtime the wife and I were able to peruse their free Sunday papers for accounts of Everton's latest vaguely surprising result in the most schizophrenic of seasons pretty much undisturbed. In preparation for two TV matches in the afternoon, I opted for a Blanche de Bruxelles white beer followed by a pint of excellent Brooklyn lager.
Pi offers a range of four different pies to accompany the beer. Being the girly liberal bedwetter I am, I went for a goat's cheese, spinach and sweet potato pie, while Catherine opted the beef and ale pie with carrots and thyme. Both came with mash and we had a jug of slightly watery gravy on the side. Both were more than decent, particularly Catherine's, and were reasonably priced at just over a fiver each.
Nicely full, I got back to lie on the couch to gently doze, while watching Manchester United turn in the kind of gutless, bottle job performance at Anfield that even Everton have barely touched the depths of in recent years.
24 Rose Lane, L18 5ED
website
If you ignore the axis of twattery - Yates's, New York etc - at one end, Allerton Road is not a bad place at all for a night out. Schmooze, Penny Lane Wine Bar and The Tavern are all decent places for a beer and mercifully light on the type of arsehole that can make town such a minefield at times. What it has lacked however is a Ship and Mitre-type establishment for those of us for whom the aim is not just intoxication but intoxication via a dizzying array of quality options. Welcome Pi on Rose Lane then, which boasts anywhere between eight and ten draught beers and apparently around sixty global bottled beers.
The other main lovely feature of Pi is that while busy on a weekend evening, it is still relatively undiscovered by the local idiot, thus this Sunday lunchtime the wife and I were able to peruse their free Sunday papers for accounts of Everton's latest vaguely surprising result in the most schizophrenic of seasons pretty much undisturbed. In preparation for two TV matches in the afternoon, I opted for a Blanche de Bruxelles white beer followed by a pint of excellent Brooklyn lager.
Pi offers a range of four different pies to accompany the beer. Being the girly liberal bedwetter I am, I went for a goat's cheese, spinach and sweet potato pie, while Catherine opted the beef and ale pie with carrots and thyme. Both came with mash and we had a jug of slightly watery gravy on the side. Both were more than decent, particularly Catherine's, and were reasonably priced at just over a fiver each.
Nicely full, I got back to lie on the couch to gently doze, while watching Manchester United turn in the kind of gutless, bottle job performance at Anfield that even Everton have barely touched the depths of in recent years.
Tuesday, 15 February 2011
5 non-Everton footballing heroes
I have previously professed my admiration for the greatest goalkeeper ever seen, and would always consider him my overall footballing idol. Growing up though I was overwhelmingly obsessive about the game in general until far too late – for normal social interaction - into my teens and would embrace the (relatively rare compared to now) opportunity to watch any game deemed worthy of televising. I therefore developed affection for a number of individuals never lucky enough to wear the Royal Blue, foremost among them being the following five:
Roberto Baggio
Channel Four’s foresight in buying the rights to Italian football in 1992 was, for young nerds like me, a wonderful innovation. Saturation coverage of many European leagues now have encouraged a sense of complacency and near boredom about the opportunity to see the world’s best players week in, week out, but at the time it was superbly exciting given that an air of mystery still hung around players you would only ever see in international tournaments. As a result of this revolution though, a generation of kids grew up extolling the virtues of Ruben Sosa, Beppe Signori, Giuseppe Giannini and countless other glamorous players who appeared miles removed from the crash, bang, wallop nature of grey English football (the only Italian imported around this time was Andrea Silenzi, their equivalent of Kevin Kyle). Better kits, sunshine, ace hair and James Richardson with pink newspapers and ice creams – it had it all. Everyone had a favourite player. For me, it was Baggio all the way.
Having come to attention with a big money move from Fiorentina and a memorable goal in the 1990 World Cup, he was clearly gifted and, as with other number 10s of this Serie A era, strolled around with a style and finesse that screamed confidence. But there was also an appealing fragility that suggested disappointment was around the corner, sadly borne out by the 1994 World Cup. Half fit and labouring, he almost single-handedly dragged an average Italy side through to the final before enduring a spectacular Al-Pacino-in-Scarface-type climax by spectacularly blazing over the deciding spot kick in the shoot out. Even Diana Ross thought it was a shit pen. When the tournament is recalled it is Roberto, hands on hips and utterly alone, staring fixedly at the spot, who provides the enduring image, rather than the celebrating Brazilians. Unlike his successor at Juventus, Alessandro Del Piero, who atoned for misses in the 2000 European Championship final by helping to win the World Cup in 2006, Baggio never achieved redemption. But he was still ace and my eventual realisation that we would never sign him, despite a cruel, vague tabloid link around the time he played for Brescia, was a disappointment.
Istvan Kozma
A real nostalgia selection. Half of my family being Scottish, trips were frequently made to Fife in the late eighties and early nineties to see my grandparents. My grandfather was a keen Dunfermline fan and while my dad often took my brother to Edinburgh to watch Hearts, I would walk the short distance through the park with my granddad to East End Park and watch a side shuttling between the top two divisions that for a while featured agricultural centre back David Moyes. The standout attraction for me at that time was Kozma, a lovely, graceful footballer at times seeming out of place when compared with the style of many of the teams he came up against. My one vivid recollection of him was being sat with my granddad, with my dad and brother suffering in the away end, watching him torture Hearts in a comfortable Premier League victory. His performances against Rangers convinced Graeme Souness to make him part of his glorious Anfield revolution, but he made no impact, often featuring in Liverpool worst buy lists. Which makes me like him more.
Josimar
In all honesty, his selection is probably as much a reflection of the tournament in which he came to prominence as for the man himself. I think it’s a truism that your favourite World Cup is your first. That is certainly the case for me, nearly seven and half years old in 1986. Looking back, my memories are fragmented – the time difference to Mexico meant that on many occasions my mum would come up the stairs and find that my efforts to defy orders and watch the 9pm matches on the little TV in my room had ended with me fast asleep with my head on my desk. But I was essentially a blank canvas, my love for Everton and football in general only properly having come to fruition through my desperation at Everton’s Cup Final defeat a month earlier. Such was the fickleness of being that age that domestic football concerns were almost instantly buried by wallcharts and the most important playground currency of them all: stickers. Once the tournament began it became a blur of goals, colour, exotic names and countries; Vasily Rats, Morocco, Preben Elkjær, Iraq, Joel Bats, Bulgaria, Steve Hodge, the list just went on. Until Diego grabbed my attention later on in the month, it was Josimar I became fixated with. A rampaging right back in a Brazilian side characteristically unconcerned by the boring art of defending, his standout moment was beating Pat Jennings from about 70 yards, the ball dropping beautifully into the great, yawning net. As if that wasn’t good enough, he scored another stunning goal a few days later against Poland, both goals being greeted with Tardelli-esque celebrations. He only made 16 appearances for Brazil but for me epitomises the glory of discovering the World Cup.
Matt Le Tissier
Workshy? Not ambitious enough? Maybe. But in an era where every player stringing together a few reasonable performances suddenly feels they ‘need’ Champions League football to achieve their ‘aims’ and ‘progress’ as players, there is something to admire in the attitude shown by Le Tissier. Undeniably capable of playing for better teams than Southampton but loved his environment and the club and felt no need to risk that for the sake of a bit more money. He had faults; he probably needed to have a team built round him, didn’t like tackling back and was not quick. But with the ball at his feet in the opposition’s half? Superb. I can’t help but enjoy the languid, lazy majesty of his goals, even if half the time his caressing of the ball into the net is probably because he couldn’t be arsed putting his foot through it.
Xavi
The only contemporary player on the list, and a player now considered among the most important midfielders in Europe. The man who completed more passes in the home game against Arsenal last season than Arsenal’s whole team managed. The man that even the Daily Mail, who initially inexplicably rubbished him, has come round to admire. But I first noticed him when he was by no means the first name on the team sheet, back in 2003. Over in Barcelona for a midweek trip, we had tickets for their dead rubber Champions League group game against Bayer Leverkusen. Settling in a bar near the ground before the game, over exposure to the six or seven draught beers on offer resulted in my remembering only two things about the match. The first was how bright the floodlights were for some reason. The second was how artfully the little midfielder, who barely seemed to move out of the centre circle, effortlessly controlled and moved the ball without anyone getting within twenty yards of him, in a manner I’ve only seen done live since by Juan Roman Riquelme at Goodison.
Roberto Baggio
Channel Four’s foresight in buying the rights to Italian football in 1992 was, for young nerds like me, a wonderful innovation. Saturation coverage of many European leagues now have encouraged a sense of complacency and near boredom about the opportunity to see the world’s best players week in, week out, but at the time it was superbly exciting given that an air of mystery still hung around players you would only ever see in international tournaments. As a result of this revolution though, a generation of kids grew up extolling the virtues of Ruben Sosa, Beppe Signori, Giuseppe Giannini and countless other glamorous players who appeared miles removed from the crash, bang, wallop nature of grey English football (the only Italian imported around this time was Andrea Silenzi, their equivalent of Kevin Kyle). Better kits, sunshine, ace hair and James Richardson with pink newspapers and ice creams – it had it all. Everyone had a favourite player. For me, it was Baggio all the way.
Having come to attention with a big money move from Fiorentina and a memorable goal in the 1990 World Cup, he was clearly gifted and, as with other number 10s of this Serie A era, strolled around with a style and finesse that screamed confidence. But there was also an appealing fragility that suggested disappointment was around the corner, sadly borne out by the 1994 World Cup. Half fit and labouring, he almost single-handedly dragged an average Italy side through to the final before enduring a spectacular Al-Pacino-in-Scarface-type climax by spectacularly blazing over the deciding spot kick in the shoot out. Even Diana Ross thought it was a shit pen. When the tournament is recalled it is Roberto, hands on hips and utterly alone, staring fixedly at the spot, who provides the enduring image, rather than the celebrating Brazilians. Unlike his successor at Juventus, Alessandro Del Piero, who atoned for misses in the 2000 European Championship final by helping to win the World Cup in 2006, Baggio never achieved redemption. But he was still ace and my eventual realisation that we would never sign him, despite a cruel, vague tabloid link around the time he played for Brescia, was a disappointment.
Istvan Kozma
A real nostalgia selection. Half of my family being Scottish, trips were frequently made to Fife in the late eighties and early nineties to see my grandparents. My grandfather was a keen Dunfermline fan and while my dad often took my brother to Edinburgh to watch Hearts, I would walk the short distance through the park with my granddad to East End Park and watch a side shuttling between the top two divisions that for a while featured agricultural centre back David Moyes. The standout attraction for me at that time was Kozma, a lovely, graceful footballer at times seeming out of place when compared with the style of many of the teams he came up against. My one vivid recollection of him was being sat with my granddad, with my dad and brother suffering in the away end, watching him torture Hearts in a comfortable Premier League victory. His performances against Rangers convinced Graeme Souness to make him part of his glorious Anfield revolution, but he made no impact, often featuring in Liverpool worst buy lists. Which makes me like him more.
Josimar
In all honesty, his selection is probably as much a reflection of the tournament in which he came to prominence as for the man himself. I think it’s a truism that your favourite World Cup is your first. That is certainly the case for me, nearly seven and half years old in 1986. Looking back, my memories are fragmented – the time difference to Mexico meant that on many occasions my mum would come up the stairs and find that my efforts to defy orders and watch the 9pm matches on the little TV in my room had ended with me fast asleep with my head on my desk. But I was essentially a blank canvas, my love for Everton and football in general only properly having come to fruition through my desperation at Everton’s Cup Final defeat a month earlier. Such was the fickleness of being that age that domestic football concerns were almost instantly buried by wallcharts and the most important playground currency of them all: stickers. Once the tournament began it became a blur of goals, colour, exotic names and countries; Vasily Rats, Morocco, Preben Elkjær, Iraq, Joel Bats, Bulgaria, Steve Hodge, the list just went on. Until Diego grabbed my attention later on in the month, it was Josimar I became fixated with. A rampaging right back in a Brazilian side characteristically unconcerned by the boring art of defending, his standout moment was beating Pat Jennings from about 70 yards, the ball dropping beautifully into the great, yawning net. As if that wasn’t good enough, he scored another stunning goal a few days later against Poland, both goals being greeted with Tardelli-esque celebrations. He only made 16 appearances for Brazil but for me epitomises the glory of discovering the World Cup.
Matt Le Tissier
Workshy? Not ambitious enough? Maybe. But in an era where every player stringing together a few reasonable performances suddenly feels they ‘need’ Champions League football to achieve their ‘aims’ and ‘progress’ as players, there is something to admire in the attitude shown by Le Tissier. Undeniably capable of playing for better teams than Southampton but loved his environment and the club and felt no need to risk that for the sake of a bit more money. He had faults; he probably needed to have a team built round him, didn’t like tackling back and was not quick. But with the ball at his feet in the opposition’s half? Superb. I can’t help but enjoy the languid, lazy majesty of his goals, even if half the time his caressing of the ball into the net is probably because he couldn’t be arsed putting his foot through it.
Xavi
The only contemporary player on the list, and a player now considered among the most important midfielders in Europe. The man who completed more passes in the home game against Arsenal last season than Arsenal’s whole team managed. The man that even the Daily Mail, who initially inexplicably rubbished him, has come round to admire. But I first noticed him when he was by no means the first name on the team sheet, back in 2003. Over in Barcelona for a midweek trip, we had tickets for their dead rubber Champions League group game against Bayer Leverkusen. Settling in a bar near the ground before the game, over exposure to the six or seven draught beers on offer resulted in my remembering only two things about the match. The first was how bright the floodlights were for some reason. The second was how artfully the little midfielder, who barely seemed to move out of the centre circle, effortlessly controlled and moved the ball without anyone getting within twenty yards of him, in a manner I’ve only seen done live since by Juan Roman Riquelme at Goodison.
Wednesday, 2 February 2011
Salt Yard Charcuterie Bar and Restaurant
54 Goodge Street
London
W1T 4NA
website
A trip down to the big smoke for a couple of days to revel in Everton’s entirely predictable, never-ending ability to snatch defeat from the jaws of victory at the Emirates afforded the opportunity for a meal at Salt Yard Tapas, located on Goodge Street. The small bar area was busy for a Monday night and the four of us were taken downstairs to the cosy restaurant area. We decided on a sharing platter of meats and some rillettes with crostini to start, both of which were excellent, to be followed by a very decent selection of many of the various options on the pleasingly compact menu.
The main dishes, for the most part, maintained a very high standard. The jamon croquetas were superb, in no small part due to the manchego contained within, while the 'Gloucester Old Spot' pork belly with cannellini beans was moist and had gratifyingly tasty crackling.
The chargrilled chorizo with marinated peppers was smoky with a lovely substantial kick to it and benefited from the presence of the peppers, while another tapas staple, crispy squid, was lifted above the norm by a powerful and garlic-fuelled shellfish Aioli. One slightly unexpected hit was the light and moreish butternut squash gnocchi with a sage and butter sauce, which had a lovely soft texture.
The dishes were not faultless though. Despite a lovely goat’s cheese stuffing, the courgette flowers tasted slightly underseasoned and were marginally on the bland side of tasty. Similarly two meat dishes almost but didn’t fully hit the mark; an excellent salsa verde didn’t quite rescue the Fillet of Lamb, which didn’t seem well matched with crushed Jerusalem artichokes, and the bavette arrived at the table somewhat late and somewhat tough, although by no means inedible.
Pudding ensured the evening ended well, my excellent cold chocolate and honeycomb fondant was more than rich enough for someone without much of a sweet tooth, and an equally positive report was received on the milk pudding with rhubarb. A varied and well-judged cheese board rounded off an overwhelmingly positive night’s feeding, washed down very nicely by a couple of bottles –between the table - of a decently priced Honoro Vera. Competitively priced and very enjoyable.
London
W1T 4NA
website
A trip down to the big smoke for a couple of days to revel in Everton’s entirely predictable, never-ending ability to snatch defeat from the jaws of victory at the Emirates afforded the opportunity for a meal at Salt Yard Tapas, located on Goodge Street. The small bar area was busy for a Monday night and the four of us were taken downstairs to the cosy restaurant area. We decided on a sharing platter of meats and some rillettes with crostini to start, both of which were excellent, to be followed by a very decent selection of many of the various options on the pleasingly compact menu.
The main dishes, for the most part, maintained a very high standard. The jamon croquetas were superb, in no small part due to the manchego contained within, while the 'Gloucester Old Spot' pork belly with cannellini beans was moist and had gratifyingly tasty crackling.
The chargrilled chorizo with marinated peppers was smoky with a lovely substantial kick to it and benefited from the presence of the peppers, while another tapas staple, crispy squid, was lifted above the norm by a powerful and garlic-fuelled shellfish Aioli. One slightly unexpected hit was the light and moreish butternut squash gnocchi with a sage and butter sauce, which had a lovely soft texture.
The dishes were not faultless though. Despite a lovely goat’s cheese stuffing, the courgette flowers tasted slightly underseasoned and were marginally on the bland side of tasty. Similarly two meat dishes almost but didn’t fully hit the mark; an excellent salsa verde didn’t quite rescue the Fillet of Lamb, which didn’t seem well matched with crushed Jerusalem artichokes, and the bavette arrived at the table somewhat late and somewhat tough, although by no means inedible.
Pudding ensured the evening ended well, my excellent cold chocolate and honeycomb fondant was more than rich enough for someone without much of a sweet tooth, and an equally positive report was received on the milk pudding with rhubarb. A varied and well-judged cheese board rounded off an overwhelmingly positive night’s feeding, washed down very nicely by a couple of bottles –between the table - of a decently priced Honoro Vera. Competitively priced and very enjoyable.
Thursday, 27 January 2011
Great Liverpool Songs #1
Michael Head & The Strands - ‘Something Like You’
I have seen Michael and John Head live in their various band incarnations and as solo artists more than anybody else over the years. First alerted to the work of the brothers by positive press in When Skies are Grey, whose online presence is now sadly limited to Twitter, I invested in HMS Fable, which I loved, and worked my way backwards from there to the Pale Fountains. To be frank, aside from one or two notable exceptions such as the sparkling ‘Thank You’ and the cover of Deniece Williams’ ‘Free’, I’ve never really taken to the Pale Fountains for some reason, but the subsequent one-off Michael Head and The Strands album and the Shack recordings, including ‘HMS Fable’ and the brilliant ‘Here’s Tom with the Weather’, are superb. There is some similarity in investing money watching Everton and Mick Head – it would be unfair to bring John into the analogy, as he is rarely less than spot on – live. Very occasionally the whole occasion will be a massive unexpected letdown due to Mick’s well-known love of a drink and stronger, whereas on other instances what you are expecting to be a run of the mill night is lifted into something far more majestic and uplifting. Their lack of fame in the face of many inferior alternatives is maybe just further proof that much of the most worthy art lies on the periphery of popular culture.
From all their recordings, this is my favourite individual track; a lyrically stunning string-led emotive affair, encompassing all that it is great about their work over the years. Although they’ve taken criticism for their continued slavish devotion to the brothers, who both are apparently due to release solo offerings this year, I’m probably one of the few who feels there isn’t enough about them in the average edition of WSAG.
I have seen Michael and John Head live in their various band incarnations and as solo artists more than anybody else over the years. First alerted to the work of the brothers by positive press in When Skies are Grey, whose online presence is now sadly limited to Twitter, I invested in HMS Fable, which I loved, and worked my way backwards from there to the Pale Fountains. To be frank, aside from one or two notable exceptions such as the sparkling ‘Thank You’ and the cover of Deniece Williams’ ‘Free’, I’ve never really taken to the Pale Fountains for some reason, but the subsequent one-off Michael Head and The Strands album and the Shack recordings, including ‘HMS Fable’ and the brilliant ‘Here’s Tom with the Weather’, are superb. There is some similarity in investing money watching Everton and Mick Head – it would be unfair to bring John into the analogy, as he is rarely less than spot on – live. Very occasionally the whole occasion will be a massive unexpected letdown due to Mick’s well-known love of a drink and stronger, whereas on other instances what you are expecting to be a run of the mill night is lifted into something far more majestic and uplifting. Their lack of fame in the face of many inferior alternatives is maybe just further proof that much of the most worthy art lies on the periphery of popular culture.
From all their recordings, this is my favourite individual track; a lyrically stunning string-led emotive affair, encompassing all that it is great about their work over the years. Although they’ve taken criticism for their continued slavish devotion to the brothers, who both are apparently due to release solo offerings this year, I’m probably one of the few who feels there isn’t enough about them in the average edition of WSAG.
Wednesday, 19 January 2011
Random great Everton goals #8
Leon Osman - Everton v AE Larissa
Goodison Park, October 25, 2007
At the time of writing there are under two weeks of the two weeks remaining and our financial predicament appears so delicate that any players not nailed down are disappearing to enable the club to try and bring in new faces. While the departures of Yakubu and Vaughan (not confirmed but looking increasingly likely) are lamented; in the case of the former for talent lost through injury, for the latter talent never quite fulfilled due to injury, it is the loss of Steven Pienaar that appears the most wounding for the team. A lovely footballer, whose partnership with Leighton Baines has often, particularly this season, represented the team’s most potent threat, the South African is now subject to the classic jilted-lover supporter revisionism – “he wasn’t that great anyway”. While this is 95% horseshit and doesn’t reflect his tireless contribution over the last three seasons, the only small kernel of a point might be the suggestion that his final ball or shot was too often wasteful, which would appear to be backed up by a mediocre goal return and lack of recorded assists, to use a depressing modern method of player assessment.
Whatever the truth, if Pienaar’s replacement is to come from within the squad then one of the most likely candidates is Leon Osman. In many ways, his performance the 2-2 draw at Anfield on Sunday could be seen as an excellent summary of his curate’s egg Everton career to date. Large stretches of the match were marked by an inability to impose himself on the game, giving the impression that things were just too quick and powerful for him. However, when in possession around the box his quick feet and brain allowed him to cause Liverpool problems, most notably in his perfect hold up and layoff for Jermaine Beckford’s second half goal, a passage of play that caused tight-trousered irritant Jamie Redknapp to correctly (for once) point out that had that been Iniesta or Xavi we would be talking about it for months. In many ways he would be far better suited to a slower, more technical league, and his better performances have often come when he has had more time on the ball as part of a central three man midfield in a 4-5-1, as opposed to stuck out wide on the right where his lack of pace has told. While not ideal, being used as a ‘false’ winger on the left and cutting inside, allowing Baines to bomb past down the wing, would seem an obvious short-term measure for David Moyes, and has already been used to decent effect in a number of the team’s better results this season. This goal from the 2007-8 European campaign is one of the best team goals of recent years and highlights the clear footballing ability the 29 year old possesses.
Goodison Park, October 25, 2007
At the time of writing there are under two weeks of the two weeks remaining and our financial predicament appears so delicate that any players not nailed down are disappearing to enable the club to try and bring in new faces. While the departures of Yakubu and Vaughan (not confirmed but looking increasingly likely) are lamented; in the case of the former for talent lost through injury, for the latter talent never quite fulfilled due to injury, it is the loss of Steven Pienaar that appears the most wounding for the team. A lovely footballer, whose partnership with Leighton Baines has often, particularly this season, represented the team’s most potent threat, the South African is now subject to the classic jilted-lover supporter revisionism – “he wasn’t that great anyway”. While this is 95% horseshit and doesn’t reflect his tireless contribution over the last three seasons, the only small kernel of a point might be the suggestion that his final ball or shot was too often wasteful, which would appear to be backed up by a mediocre goal return and lack of recorded assists, to use a depressing modern method of player assessment.
Whatever the truth, if Pienaar’s replacement is to come from within the squad then one of the most likely candidates is Leon Osman. In many ways, his performance the 2-2 draw at Anfield on Sunday could be seen as an excellent summary of his curate’s egg Everton career to date. Large stretches of the match were marked by an inability to impose himself on the game, giving the impression that things were just too quick and powerful for him. However, when in possession around the box his quick feet and brain allowed him to cause Liverpool problems, most notably in his perfect hold up and layoff for Jermaine Beckford’s second half goal, a passage of play that caused tight-trousered irritant Jamie Redknapp to correctly (for once) point out that had that been Iniesta or Xavi we would be talking about it for months. In many ways he would be far better suited to a slower, more technical league, and his better performances have often come when he has had more time on the ball as part of a central three man midfield in a 4-5-1, as opposed to stuck out wide on the right where his lack of pace has told. While not ideal, being used as a ‘false’ winger on the left and cutting inside, allowing Baines to bomb past down the wing, would seem an obvious short-term measure for David Moyes, and has already been used to decent effect in a number of the team’s better results this season. This goal from the 2007-8 European campaign is one of the best team goals of recent years and highlights the clear footballing ability the 29 year old possesses.
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