Centre forwards – Come in, number 9!

Forwards, strikers, attackers, front men, predators. They’re the footballers who hog the headlines, attract the most sensational transfer fees, appear on more bedroom posters than anyone else. Whether in the flesh or on the box I’ve marvelled at many great marksmen over the years, from Pele to Aguero, Lineker to Ibrahimovic, Best to Kane. There are many different types of striker. There are the willing channel-runners like Suarez and Vardy, the penalty-area poachers such as Muller and Dalglish, the ‘off-the-flank’ dribblers in the image of Hazard and Mahrez or the awesome all-rounders – for instance, Cristiano Ronaldo. However, in my opinion, it’s the big target man, the centre-forward who is often the more irresistible member of the team.

I’ve already loaded plaudits on to the burly shoulders of Les Ferdinand and Ron Davies but I’ve enjoyed watching many more of their ilk over the last half a century. Many were as much villains as heroes; the players I loved to hate. Unless you were whole-hearted fans of their clubs or countries, it was hard to like menacing men like Duncan (‘Disorderly’) Ferguson, Malcolm Macdonald, John Fashanu or Diego Costa. But even I had a sneaking regard for their ability to leap above centre-backs or muscle their way into the goalmouth.

Everton seem to have a particular penchant for fearless centre-forwards. Setting aside historical figures such as Dixie Dean and Tommy Lawton, I recall Joe Royle being a towering presence in the League in the late Sixties and early Seventies. Like Jeff Astle, I daresay he would have won more England caps had Alf Ramsey not preferred the wingless approach which won him the World Cup. He was replaced by Bob Latchford who became a legend not only for the Toffees but also his first club Birmingham and latterly Swansea. I think he was playing for them when, as Division One leaders in 1982, they came to Exeter for a mid-season friendly for some badly-needed practice amidst a glut of winter postponements.

Andy Gray made a big impression in under two seasons at Goodison but, for any of his clubs, the Scot was never afraid to put his head in dangerous places in an attempt to score. Graeme Sharp was a different kettle of fish, a more cultured striker yet brilliant in the air, but then came Duncan Ferguson. Let’s face it, he was a throwback to a previous era: the Stone Age. He would slot in well in today’s game, with its fixation on ‘passion’. He was all about shaking his fist and grabbing opponents by the throat, the ‘harder’ the victim, the better. He even served time in Barlinnie for a vicious head-butt while playing for Rangers. At least he seems to have been rehabilitated with a coach’s seat on the current Everton bench.

Another Scot, Joe Jordan, was a similar sort of number nine, bristling with aggression and making life hell for defences and referees alike. With his front teeth missing he looked especially menacing. Both Jordan and Ferguson suffered a lot from injuries but I suppose that goes with the territory. You dish it out, you have to take it. Just ask Andy Carroll. Since announcing himself as a teenager at Newcastle in 2008-9, his career has been a series of layoffs, be they in the treatment room or the dog-house. Like most, I always give an ironic cheer whenever he gets a yellow or red card but have to admit his reputation precedes him and whenever Carroll’s elbow goes up, his opponent will surely fall down clutching his face, regardless of any physical contact.

John Hartson was another big bruiser who was targeted by rivals desperate to stop him rattling in the goals. He, too, played for West Ham, after being offloaded by Arsenal in 1997. His lowest point must have been the appalling kick at the head of a felled Eyal Berkovic. The perverse nature of Hartson’s violence was that Berkovic was a team-mate and the incident occurred on the Hammers training ground! Unfortunately for him, it was captured on video. His best years were to be in the 2000s at Celtic but he remains a hero in his native Wales where he often appears as a pundit, equally adept in Welsh or English

Iain Dowie was not a truly big centre-forward by modern standards but in the Nineties he was a barnstorming bull for several clubs, notably Southampton and West Ham. He wasn’t prolific in the goal sense but proved his worth by creating space and knockdowns. I always thought he looked less a footballer, more a boxer after a third mandatory count, his forehead alone bringing to mind a 3-d contour map of Dartmoor. However, before becoming a pro, he completed a degree in engineering, proving how darned deceptive appearances can be. 

Bolton’s Kevin Davies was a similar type of player, but far dirtier, as evident from this clip. Start as you mean to go on, Kev, why don’t you! That boyish face was as misleading as Dowie’s, yet he was a consistent performer in the Premier League, earning him membership of England’s one-cap wonder club. Davies had all the never-say-die qualities needed to become a fan favourite. The same goes for Watford’s Troy Deeney, Wolves’ all-time top scorer Steve Bull and Peter Withe, who must have lost count of how many clubs at which he is a legend. He’s also one of the few players who can claim a First Division winner’s medal with two clubs (Forest and Villa), along with a European Cup award with the latter in 1982.

At that time, black British players were thin on the ground so it was especially encouraging to witness the adoration warming the cockles of West Brom’s Cyrille Regis. As one of the Midlanders’ ‘Three Degrees’, Cyrille’s nose for goal was uncanny, and his 1981-82 Goal of the Season featured as perfect a shot on the run as you will ever see. His contemporary Luther Blissett epitomised the old-fashioned English number nine, banging in 186 goals for Watford in all four divisions. I used to laugh at his occasionally clumsy style but, boy, was he effective!

Withe apart. none above were particularly tall; no more than six feet. However, I did have a sneaky regard for a few human lighthouses over the years. Niall Quinn was 6 foot 4 and naturally a great target for crosses. The ever-engaging Peter Crouch is three inches taller, a penalty area threat at the highest level (pun definitely intended) for two decades. More than just a twig-legged, robot-dancing heading machine, he has hit the net with a few spectacular shots, too. You gotta love him.

However, the best all-round centre-forward I have seen was Alan Shearer. As a weapon of choice, his elbow had no peer and he could take on the Roy Keanes of this world, too. However, his true worth lay in his prolific scoring record. His tally of 260 in the PL may be beaten but 422 in all competitions is an amazing tally. Only 6 feet tall he nevertheless won duels by sheer willpower and could shoot ferociously, a belligerent bulldozer for club and country.

For all the rise in swift passing, it’s still great to see centre-forwards thriving, even if their nationalities have changed. They may often seem profligate, but the top managers always find time for the likes of Romelu Lukaku and Olivier Giroud, even Christian Benteke, for the muscle they bring to an attack. As with Crouchie, they may not always start but make a very useful Plan B. A or B, long may they continue.

Fave Players

I have admired many players over the years but I have never elevated anyone to the status of sporting idol. No footballers were Blu-Tak-ed to my wallpaper, nor stalked for autographs outside a ground. That’s not to say I didn’t have favourites. As a young Chelsea fan in the early Seventies, three stood out for me.

Although his national reputation was tarnished after a couple of mistakes during England’s World Cup quarter-final defeat in Mexico, Peter Bonetti was a long-time Blues favourite, making 600 appearances.  Gordon Banks prevented him gaining more than seven caps but ‘The Cat’ consistently lived up to his nickname whenever I watched Chelsea play on the telly, including the 1970 Cup Final against Leeds. My other two Chelsea faves also made telling contributions in that match and the subsequent replay. Ian Hutchinson was, in traditional parlance, an inside left. However, he was better known for his long throw-ins, propelled with a distinctive windmill action. It was one of these aerial bombs into the goalmouth which resulted in David Webb’s Cup winner. In that brutal game, marked by wild hacks and X-rated tackles, Hutch was the only man booked, for a frustrated push, having been kicked to pieces by Hunter, Bremner et al. If ever a career was encapsulated in a couple of matches, it was Ian Hutchinson’s.

Nudging ahead of them both was Charlie Cooke. As a winger, the Scotsman had the flair which tended to excite boys like me, taking on defenders, threading clever passes and producing crosses towards Osgood’s head, as in the ’70 Final replay. Hutchinson had the sideburns but Cooke the moustache and, for me, the greatest star appeal.

His contemporary, Peter Lorimer, also appeared in those classic matches, albeit on the opposing side. Something about his driving midfield style spoke to me, and then there was his fearsome right-footed shot, said to be the most powerful in the game. All his goals seemed to be spectacular 90mph thunderbolts from outside the area, the kind of finish we kids always tried to emulate – and failed. Watch Leeds’ third in their 1971 win over Man City for an inkling of what goalies had to contend with for two decades. 

In the early years of the Seventies, I had yet to transfer my full allegiance to QPR but was well aware of the mercurial, occasional combustible talent that was Rodney Marsh. He wasn’t quite George Best but he had superb ball control, could shoot and head and was instrumental in getting us promoted from the Third to First divisions I never quite forgave him for moving to Man City in 1972 for a fee Rangers found impossible to refuse. 

Dad, on the other hand, was a lifelong Southampton supporter, with countless childhood trips to The Dell and even a few after setting up home in Essex. He always waxed lyrical about the Saints’ Welsh centre-forward Ron Davies, to the extent that I would stick fingers in my ears and hope he stopped scoring. He wasn’t exactly a mobile striker but he was one of the most prolific goal machines of the late 1960s, absolutely lethal in the air. Dad also grew to love Mick Channon and Matt le Tissier but Ron was undoubtedly his adult self’s footballing hero.

Like me, Dad also had a very high regard for Peter Shilton even before the England ‘keeper joined the Saints for five excellent years in the Eighties. However, the closest any goalie has come to rivalling Bonetti for my own affections was Jussi Jaaskaleinen. A Bolton stalwart for fifteen years, he was neither the tidiest of ‘keepers nor the smartest – marked by his gloves’n’ rolled-up sleeve look. However, he was an accomplished shot stopper and nothing seemed to faze him, even having to face two Blackburn penalties in one match. No problem; he just saved both.

My football favours aren’t limited to those in the English leagues. The Brazilian midfielder and devastating dead-ball expert, Roberto Rivelino grabbed my attention in the 1970 World Cup. Nobody, not even Peter Lorimer, could blast it or bend it like Rivelino. A decade later, Michel Platini was probably the finest player on the planet. There have been superb playmakers, able to control the pace of a game, pass short and long. There have also been ace goal-scorers. The French maestro could do all the above, for club (specially Juventus) and country. In the 1984 Euros he banged in no fewer than nine in five games. He never seemed to over-exert himself, bossing the pitch without appearing to run or tackle. In other words, my kind of player!

I could never be as cool as Paolo Maldini but I used to enjoy watching him at left-back for AC Milan and Italy back in the Nineties, moving across to central defence in his thirties. He played an incredible 902 times for the rossonegri, plus a further 126  as part of the Azzuri.  He wasn’t perfect but I regard Maldini as one of the very few who made the dark arts of defending compulsive viewing.

Another Italian who has epitomised the notion of Mister (Signor?) Cool, Calm and Collected is Andrea Pirlo. For years, his face has seemed lined and gnarled as a septuagenarian Sardinian shepherd, which merely made his midfield masterclasses even more amazing. I missed the bulk of his Inter, Milan and Juventus years but in the blue of Italy, I couldn’t ignore his ability to wrong-foot an entire opposition midfield with a blink-of-an-eye turn or a pass. His performance against England in 2012 was a one-man exhibition of playmaking.

However, probably my favourite player of the past decade has to be Andres Iniesta. I first became aware of his genius in 2010, when his goal clinched the World Cup for Spain. I haven’t seen an awful lot of him in the red and blue of Barcelona, which he represented at every age group and at senior level for fifteen years before leaving in 2018, but when I watched him play for Spain, he seemed to be indulging in a different sport altogether. Having grown up with Xavi and Messi from the Barca youth academy, I suppose it’s inevitable he developed a near-telepathic understanding with his team-mates. All those intricate passes, the clever little sprints and understated finishing make him stand out for me, even above Messi himself. In any case, the Argentine has no need of any more followers so I claim the small, balding, always modest star as my own. Even I was a wee bit emotional watching Iniesta’s very last appearances on the telly earlier this summer. His legs may have gone a bit but his footballing brain was as sharp as ever.

  

Of course, as a QPR fan, there have been a number of players in the blue and white hoops to have caught my eye. I have already mentioned Rodney Marsh but, in the intervening years, I’ve been particularly fond of Trevor Sinclair and one of our more unsung heroes from the 2010s, Jamie Mackie.  

Speaking of unsung heroes, if a future football historian should study my souvenir programmes (as if!) he or she would perhaps decipher my squiggles to discover who I had selected as man of the match. It may be surprising to them, but not me, to observe the name Clive Wilson cropping up frequently. He was a solid, unflashy left-back who provided many a precise cross and even the odd goal. When QPR were relegated in 1996, I placed the blame squarely on the loss the previous season of manager Gerry Francis and Wilson just as much as our star striker Les Ferdinand.

‘Sir Les’ must be my favourite player of the Nineties. He had all the attributes of the perfect centre-forward: a direct runner with a fearsome shot and a fantastic header of the ball. And yet he wasn’t entirely conventional; he was under six feet tall. Yet he had the rare ability of being able to sustain the ‘hang’ in the air before timing the contact and picking his spot. On average, Les scored a goal every other game for Rangers, and probably more at the home games I attended. Additionally his aerial supremacy also resulted in numerous flicked assists for Allen, Gallen or Barker. Despite his subsequent transfers, it was inevitable that Les should eventually return to Loftus Road as director of football. That role may not last forever but his legendary status is permanent, as is his position as one of my all-time personal sporting paragons.

Foreigers play abroad, too

The Champions League is back on the box, spread across umpteen channels and timeslots, but it wasn't always so.  For many years, my only opportunity to watch European clubs in action were in competitive matches against English opposition.

In the Seventies and Eighties, Football League clubs were regulars in the European Cup, UEFA Cup and Cup-Winners-Cup finals which had a fair chance to be snapped up by the BBC or ITV come May or June. Thus my younger self occasionally caught the likes of Bayern Munich, Borussia Moenchengladbach, Anderlecht, Valencia, FC Brugge, Roma or Benfica, featuring stars like Falcao, Beckenbauer, Camacho and Kempes. I probably saw – in black and white – the great Ajax team play Inter Milan in 1972 when Cruyff and co were in a purple patch.

It seems strange to think that Spain’s La Liga or the European Cup (now Champions League) wasn’t always dominated by Real Madrid and Barcelona, nor that Paris St Germain didn’t always win Ligue 1 or Juventus and Bayern Munich had, respectively, Serie A and the Bundesliga in their generously-proportioned back pockets. Real didn’t even hold that humungous hunk of silver at all between 1966 and 1998, and Barca had to wait until 1992 for their very first European Cup triumph.

In the Eighties and Nineties, Italy was the central focus of European club football. Serie A was the richest league on the continent, the prime destination for many of the most celebrated world players, including Brits such as Trevor Francis and Graeme Souness (Sampdoria), Ray Wilkins (Milan), David Platt (various), Ian Rush (Juventus) and, for three injury- and controversy-plagued seasons, Paul Gascoigne (Lazio).

It was when Gazza forsook Spurs for the cultural delights of Rome that Serie A attracted a bigger buzz amongst English football supporters and media alike. Channel 4, never a channel to mix with mainstream sports, took a gamble on broadcasting live matches on Sunday afternoons so we could see what all the fuss was about. I don’t think Dad and I cottoned on at first. However, with the new-fangled Premiership surrendering its soul to Rupert Murdoch’s fledgling Sky, to which we were seriously antipathetic, we found a new home for football after Mum’s roast dinner.

Football Italia altered my impressions of the Italian game in all sorts of ways. I’d previously had it drummed into me that it was dour and defensive, all catenaccio, designed to stifle attacking flair and generate a glut of goalless draws. I soon realised it wasn’t. Italian ‘calcio’ was about more than merely the back-line brilliance of Paolo Maldini, Alessandro Costacurta, Pietro Vierchowod and Giuseppe Bergomi; the Baggios, Francesco Totti, Attilo Lombardo, Alessandro del Piero and imports including Zinedine Zidane (Juve), Gabriel Batistuta (Fiorentina), Zvonomir Boban (Milan) and Marcelo Salas (Lazio) were amongst the forwards on display.

Another stereotype ripped up and chucked on the fire was that it’s always hot and sunny in Italy. It was partly disappointing yet also somewhat heartening to sit in our lounge and watch, say, Parma versus Sampdoria in cold, driving February rain every bit as miserable as our own. Under James Richardson’s presentation, the programme was far more cheery, and Football Italia also ventured outside the stadia for a cultural and culinary break, albeit not without some intelligent humour.

In the end, the fact that Serie A football was not much different from our own Premier League, with its own increasing number of top-notch foreign buys, killed our interest and, with other demands on my time, I stopped watching altogether. There remain, however, memories of AC Milan’s mastery under Fabio Capello in the early 1990s, the highlight being their European Cup success – shown on BBC – in 1994. Several years later I enjoyed reading Tim Parks’ book A Season with Verona which details the experience of following the frailties and fortunes of the Hellas Verona club, reviving images of those games, crowds and banners I’d once watched on Football Italia.

In the early twenty-first century, ITV’s Champions League coverage occasionally deviated from the usual dull preoccupation with Manchester United, Arsenal and Chelsea to showcase some extraordinary matches. Those Tuesday and Wednesday evening live broadcasts were by no means regular dates for me. Nevertheless, I did tune in to watch Monaco’s breathtaking destruction of a galactico-laden Real Madrid (Ronaldo, Beckham, Zidane, Figo et al) in a 2004 quarter-final to win on away goals. It was also a rare privilege to watch the French side meet the similarly unheralded Porto of Jose Mourinho in the final. I didn’t know who to support so didn’t mind when the Portuguese ran out 3-0 winners.

A year later I was on holiday in Sicily when Liverpool achieved their astonishing comeback against a Milan side which had ripped Gerrard and co so convincingly to shreds in the first half. Perversely unpatriotic as I am, I’d wanted the English team to lose. Our Italian courier told me afterwards that many of her countrymen and women were actually quite pleased Liverpool won on penalties because they hated the corrupt billionaire, far-right politician and Milan owner Silvio Berlusconi. Fair point!

In the last decade, the emphasis has shifted towards Spain as an alternative to the bloated beast that is the EPL. In particular, towards the cult of El Clasico and of Messi v Ronaldo. Even though I now live in a digital-subscribing household, the Sky and BT Sport channels featuring plentiful coverage of Spanish (or indeed French, Dutch and German) club football has been insufficient to lure me (or Angie) away from our domestic appetites of PL, soaps and thrillers.

It’s not that I don’t appreciate the genius of Lionel Messi. Quite by chance, one evening in March 2012 my channel-hopping led me to ITV as a backdrop to a tedious session of ironing. They were showing Barcelona’s Champions League fixture against Beyer Leverkusen and pretty soon my domestic god credentials were seriously bruised by the necessity to stop and watch what was unfolding. The champions were rampant. It wasn’t that the German side were atrocious; but whenever Pep Guardiola’s side attacked, they seemed to score. Prompted by Xavi, Iniesta and Fabregas, Messi scored five, finishing with such contemptuous ease I had to put the shirts aside and applaud. He couldn’t see me but I didn’t care. That’s how good he was. I had seen Messi with Argentina in the World Cup but here he was in his natural habitat, at the Nou Camp, a bird of paradise in red and blue plumage. I realised what I had been missing the past several years.

Since then, the Champions League has mainly been a battle between Real and Barca, with Atletico Madrid, Bayern, Juve and even Liverpool sneaking onto the top table when the opportunity presented itself. The 2014 final featured a Madrid derby in which Atletico shared equal billing. I fervently hoped they’d thwart Real’s push for La Decima, their much-vaunted tenth title, and it seemed my wish had been granted until Sergio Ramos powered an unstoppable injury-time header. Bale popped up on the far post to put Real ahead and who else but Ronaldo applied the coup de grace.

However impressive Pep’s latest charges, Manchester City, may appear, there’s always a certain appeal in snooping around the obscure fringe channels to spot contests in Barcelona, Breda, Bologna or Beijing, players adorned in exotic purple, green and white stripes or red and white quarters. Football is universal. Wherever the location, the grass is always green, the lines are white, fans sing, chant and wave banners and the emotions of joy, disappointment, indignation and fury are the same everywhere, regardless of local language or dialect. I’ve watched in hotel rooms around Europe, loving the ubiquitous manic Latin “Gooooooooaaaaaallllllllllll” commentary, even Thailand, and seen how TV football unites multinational audiences in many a continental bar. There’s more to the sport than the Premier League. Lots more.

Foreign invaders

English football isn’t terribly English any more. No, this isn’t some xenophobic UKIP rant but a statistical fact. Apparently, only about one in three Premier League players were born in England, and two in five in the UK. The balance is probably not a great deal different in the lower leagues. Watching Everton v West Ham the other week, I noted that the away team’s starting XI featured eleven different nationalities! The familiar debate concerns the question: is this a Good Thing?

On the whole I’d say yes. While the talent pool from which England draw their international squad has inevitably shrunk, those that emerge from the system are probably better players for training and mixing with the 60% who hail from all corners of the globe.

Once upon a time, when this Essex boy first immersed himself in the sport, a foreign import probably originated in Glasgow, Cardiff or Belfast. Familiar faces from the Republic of Ireland, such as Johnny Giles, Don Givens or Eamonn Dunphy, were positively exotic. The first genuine foreigner I recall seeing on Match of the Day was West Ham’s Clyde Best. It seemed ironic that a club with such a racist (or ‘racialist’, as it was then) following could embrace a black player in their team alongside Moore, Hurst and Peters, but the Bermudan overcame initial hostility to become a firm favourite in an eight-year stint at the Boleyn Ground. A teenage Nigerian Ade Coker joined him in 1971 and these trailblazers helped attract not only English black youngsters but also those from overseas.

By the end of the Seventies, imported players were still rare, largely restricted to a handful of Argentine World Cup stars like Ossie Ardiles and Ricky Villa at Spurs and the classy Dutch midfield pair of Arnold Muhren and Frans Thijssen at Ipswich. In the Eighties, after Italy won the World Cup, Serie A was the centre of European football. There were more top Brits heading to the likes of Milan, Inter and Juventus than Italians heading in the opposite direction. The UEFA ban on English clubs after years of hooliganism culminated in the Heysel disaster of ’85 didn’t help. However, a two-way flow was beginning to take shape.

Liverpool’s all-powerful squad included the entertaining Zimbabwean ‘keeper Bruce Grobbelaar, Danish midfielder Jan Molby and Aussie Craig Johnston, and Nottingham Forest fielded the Dutch pair of goalie Hans van Breukelen and centre-back-cum-free-kick expert Jonny Metgod. Jesper Olsen was a welcome sight on the wing for Man United, too. However, perhaps the greatest foreign import arrived in early 1992: Eric Cantona. He’d pissed off just about every club in France so Leeds picked him up for £900,000, an absolute bargain as he was the catalyst for winning the last League championship before the Premier League era. Of course, King Eric became one of Man U’s most colourful and celebrated characters, stroking the ball, scoring goals and polishing his ego. Oh, and kung-fu kicking barracking fans at Selhurst Park which actually made him more, not less endearing to real footie fans. I’m sure I’m not the only adult either to have found it amusing to turn up a shirt collar in homage to the idiosyncratic and eccentric Frenchman. Surely not. Am I?!

The arrival of foreign managers accelerated the imports. Chelsea’s sequence of coaches from Gullit and Vialli to Ranieri and Mourinho, backed by the bottomless pockets of Ken Bates then Roman Abramovich, brought in a galaxy of stars such as Roberto di Matteo, French defenders Marcel Desailly, Frank Leboeuf and William Gallas, Romanian wing-back Dan Petrescu, Portuguese pair Ricardo Carvalho and Paolo Ferreira, and Ivorian striker Didier Drogba. With Arsenal signing the delightful Dennis Bergkamp from Inter Milan in 1995 and Arsene Wenger further introducing the PL to his fellow countrymen Thierry Henry, Robert Pires and Patrick Vieira, London began to steal some Nineties limelight from Manchester and Liverpool.

Boxing Day 1999 was a significant date in the history of footballing migration. It was the first instance of an all-foreign starting eleven in England (Chelsea). This was surpassed on 14^th February 2005, when Arsenal fielded not only a starting XI but also a full subs bench of non-UK players. The future looked bleak for home-grown youngsters; how could they ever break through when the top clubs buy abroad and abandon the traditional route of developing talent via schools and youth systems?

Some of the traditional footballing enclaves up north also cast their nets wider. In particular, Bryan Robson somehow convinced the young Brazilian Juninho and silver-haired Fabrizio Ravanelli to join Middlesbrough in 1994 and for a season or two they and Emerson looked irresistible but it didn’t last. In the past twenty-five years, so many overseas players have sprinkled their stardust on the Premier League for huge fees and salaries, making a massive impact before moving swiftly on. Deco, Jurgen Klinsmann and Didier Deschamps spring to mind.

Others have lingered longer to become as legendary as many homegrown predecessors. Claus Lundekvam (Southampton), Sami Hyypia (Liverpool), Angel Rangel (Swansea), Tim Cahill (Everton), Branislav Ivanovic (Chelsea), Denis Irwin (Man Utd), Lucas Radebe (Leeds) and Vincent Kompany (Man City) have all left a lasting legacy with their clubs. In contrast, hired guns like Louis Saha, Nicolas Anelka and Robbie Keane ploughed a furrow crisscrossing the country over a number of years, accumulating a fortune in signing-on fees in the process.

As ever, it’s strikers like those two who tend to grab the headlines. For fourteen consecutive years, sandwiched between Kevin Phillips and Harry Kane, overseas players topped the Premier League scoring charts. Jimmy Floyd Hasselbaink, Ruud van Nistelrooy and Robin van Persie flew the Dutch flag but Arsenal’s Thierry Henry was particularly prolific, taking the Golden Boot four times in five seasons. Much as I would detest the Gunners, few strikers can have made such a permanent impression as the va-va-voom Frenchman.

It used to be said that England had the best goalkeepers in the world but that’s definitely a boast long since consigned to the bench. They may have killed the art of catching the ball but, from the unbreachable Peter Schmeichel to David de Gea, Brad Friedel to Petr Cech, our own ‘keepers have had to play catch-up with middle-ranking clubs.

Top class defenders have become part and parcel of the English game, too. It’s not just the World Cup winners who formed a solid wall for the Arsenal and Chelsea champions, but also classy centre-backs like Man Utd’s Nemanja Midic, Newcastle’s Phillippe Albert, Olof Mellberg (Villa), Stephane Henchoz (Blackburn), Josef Yobo (Everton), Jan Vertonghen (Spurs) and Southampton’s Ken Monkou, all of which I liked watching.

We’ve imported some of the finest midfielders, too. It’s not all about the goal-scoring ‘number tens’ like Hazard, Payet and Coutinho, either. Sometimes it’s easy to forget the seasons in which Michael Ballack (Chelsea), Santi Cazorla (Arsenal), Luca Modric (Spurs) and even Ivan Campo (Bolton) graced the league. And when it comes to helping others put the ball in the net, few have surpassed the Spanish assist wizards Cesc Fabregas, Juan Mata and David Silva.

I can’t deny there have been some marvellous entertainers amongst the influx. For ball control, few could surpass the little Georgian genius Georgi Kinkladze, who wowed the Maine Road crowds in 1996/97 or Bolton’s Jay-Jay Okocha a few years later. Paolo di Canio delighted and exasperated in equal measure, in the colours of Sheffield Wednesday or West Ham. Adel Taarabt practically promoted QPR to the PL single-handed in 2010-11, for which we Hoops supporters are eternally grateful.  But for me one of the greatest signings from foreign shores was Gianfranco Zola. I always love sportsmen and women who play with a smile on their faces. Forget the rock star poses, the tattoos, the well-rehearsed goal celebrations; the humble Sardinian shone even amongst the Chelsea superstars in the late Nineties and early Noughties, scoring one of the cheekiest goals ever in 2002.

Some have been more memorable for their snigger-friendly names. Who can forget Messrs Shittu, Arca, Bong, Rat and Fish? And then there are the stereotypes: rangy African midfielders, steadfast Czech and American goalies, flying Irish full-backs, twinkle-toed Iberian playmakers, and East European strikers who never quite live up to their hype. For all their strengths and shortcomings, the insurgents have been key figures in the rich tapestry of English football for five decades.

The Football Gaffer

Love ‘em, hate ‘em or merely tolerate ‘em, managers have always played vital roles in football. I’m not sure the breed has changed an awful lot since my early days following the sport in the late Sixties. You still get the jacket-and-tie brigade and the tracksuits bearing the wearers’ initials (such a quaint tradition!); the brash characters and the quiet, noble types; the ex-stars and those who came apparently from nowhere. The main difference is that they are not the hugely-respected father figures of old.

Maybe it’s because I am now in my late-fifties and most top managers – apart from the Roy Hodgsons and Neil Warnocks – are younger than me, but as a child the managers seemed like men I would look up to: not father figures but grandfather figures. You had men like Alec Stock, the blazer-clad inspiration for Paul Whitehouse’s Fast Show character Ron Manager (“Jumpers for goalposts, isn’t it, mmm?”), Arsenal’s Bertie Mee and West Ham’s Ron Greenwood, contrasting with the more colourful characters like Liverpool’s Bill Shankly, Tommy Docherty and the legendary Brian Clough.

Up to the early Seventies, managers seemed to stay at the same club for donkeys’ years. Bosses like Matt Busby (Man Utd), Ted Bates (Southampton), Don Revie (Leeds), Joe Mercer (Man City), Bill Nicholson (Spurs), Greenwood, Shankly and others each had their names on their respective office doors for at least ten, even twenty years. Even if they were relegated, getting the sack was unthinkable. Since the retirements of Sir Alex Ferguson and Arsene Wenger, the manager’s tenure is more likely to be measured, not in years but in months. At the time of writing, only one manager in the entire Premier/Football League has been at the same club for more than six years.

The long-serving icons have been replaced by the rent-a-coach who knows he’ll be lucky to survive two years. Men like David Moyes, Alan Pardew, Nigel Adkins and Neil Warnock are hired and fired with a frequency which has become infuriatingly predictable. Get us promoted/keep us in the Prem/qualify for Europe* (delete as applicable) or else…. The pressure on coaches – and indeed players - must have soared, correlated with the stakes for failure. I wonder why they accept such posts when chairmen/owners will wield the axe at the first adverse run of results. I suppose the Premier League clubs’ multi-million pound contracts provide adequate compensation so it’s hard to weep for their woes. There is one exception: I do still feel sorry for Roberto di Matteo who finally won Roman Abramovich the Champions League he and Chelsea so desperately craved only to be booted out because he wasn’t a big enough name. Pardon?

So who have been my favourites? I must admit a sneaking regard for Brian Clough. He took Derby and Forest to League and European titles and proved such a reliable source for fantastic quips and quotes It’s a shame that ‘bungs’ and alcoholism made him an increasing liability (punching pitch-invading fans?) because he was a special leader. I also held Southampton’s Lawrie McMenemy in very high regard – articulate, likeable and football through and through – while who could not like Sir Bobby Robson of, Ipswich, England, Porto, Newcastle and many others?

These, plus the likes of the unfairly-maligned Graham Taylor, were characters capable of bringing out the best of players, be they League One strugglers or La Liga galacticos. I have little time for the dodgy cowboys of management – wide-boy wheeler-dealers like Terry Venables, Sam Allardyce and Harry Redknapp – or the former England stars who think that management is as easy as sitting in a comfy studio pontificating on what others are doing wrong. Being an England captain has never been a guarantee of managerial ability, either. Just ask Moore, Charlton, Adams, Shearer, Hoddle, Keegan or Bryan Robson. I wonder how newbies Steven Gerrard and Frank Lampard will fare given that Rangers and Derby are presumably stepping stones to the England role, a very different kettle of fish to club football.

People who have achieved success across the globe deserve particular credit. However, when managers start assuming deity-like status, they lose my respect completely. Yes, Jose Mourinho worked wonders at Porto and, in his first spell, Chelsea, but his well-grooved grumpiness, and over-willingness to blame everyone but himself when things go wrong, grate horribly. Like a Man U predecessor Alex Ferguson – who also demanded respect at Aberdeen and in his early years at Old Trafford – his predilection for mind games in place of honesty and tenable philosophy have led me to hate him. The ‘Special One’? Well, let’s see him take over at a Wycombe Wanderers or Rochdale for an appropriately paltry salary and see how special Jose really is.

When the overseas head coach began to take over the Premier League in the Nineties, along with the players they bought, English football benefited from a kick up the arse; they brought a fresher feel to the role. Don’t get me wrong; the PL badly needs homegrown talent like Sean Dyche and Eddie Howe. However, from Wenger (“I deed not see eet”) and Claudio Ranieri to Pep Guardiola and Jurgen Klopp, for whom everything is “cool”, a soothing zephyr of continental air has infiltrated domestic club football, not to mention different ideas on how football should be played. Jose might specialise in bus-parking but Pep knows a thing or two about regaining and retaining possession, creativity and attack. He also knows how to charm the press and fans alike. His biography by Guillem Balague makes a fascinating read, yielding an insight into the uber-manager’s tactical head.

The old cliché is that football management’s all about results, unless you’re a Chelsea manager, of course. But from this fan’s point of view, it’s also about dignity and respect. A bit of old-school fist pumping and hair-drier ranting can go a long way but when it also involves disgraceful behaviour (for example, Fergie’s orchestrated intimidation of officials and Neil Warnock’s four-letter dismissal of the Wolves manager) give me a Klopp or Howe any day.

United Kingdom United

As a child, football was a gift which kept on giving – unless you were a player, in which case the season must have seemed interminable. If your club wasn’t in the Anglo-Italian Cup, the British Home International Championship might grab you instead. 

There was none of yer here-today-gone-tomorrow UEFA Nations League nonsense. For a hundred years, each domestic season was wrapped up by a week of fixtures involving each of the home nations, England, Scotland, Wales and Northern Ireland. These days, eyebrows are often raised when any two of the above are drawn against each other in qualifying groups for the World Cup or Euros, but until 1984, we could enjoy not two but six matches every single year. For me, they were as much a part of the season as the FA Cup Final. 

Many of the Scots played north of the border, fuelling the success of Celtic, Rangers and Aberdeen, but almost all the men in red or green were familiar faces in the Football League alongside their English counterparts. England and/or Scotland reached the World Cup Finals in 170 and ’74, respectively, but come May I welcomed the opportunity to watch the likes of George Best, Pat Jennings, John Toshack and Leighton James in their national colours.

I don’t recall whole matches but isolated incidents have stayed with me. An imperious header against England by Southampton’s Ron Davies – it must have been in 1969 - had Saints fan Dad in absolute raptures: “He was away above Moore”. And indeed he was. However, Wales lost that game, as they did most of the ‘Home’ internationals they played against their more populous neighbour.

A rather more famous incident two years later also sent my normally placid father into a state of heightened animation. For the opening fixture Northern Ireland were hosting England at Windsor Park, presumably hoping to snatch a goal against Sir Alf Ramsey’s men. George Best was at his peak, a constant thorn in any goalie’s side, and at one point he cleverly spotted a chink in Gordon Banks’ armour. Noting how the English number one tended to throw the ball high when attempting a drop-kick clearance, he tracked Banks from the side then, with the ball in the air, flicked a left boot to clip it over the ‘keeper’s head and nodded it in the empty net. Genius, and entirely within the laws of the game. Banks protested and the goal was shamefully disallowed. Dad, of course, had been a goalie but we recognised a perfectly legal goal when he saw it. The ref’s decision cost the Irish not only the goal and the game but also the championship which at that time they had never won outright.

In 1975 I remember watching in amazement as a rampant England, so feeble in their previous games, ripped Scotland apart at Wembley, and the legend of the Incompetent Scottish Goalkeeper was born. Poor Stewart Kennedy may have been a Rangers mainstay but he had an absolute nightmare in the 1-5 humiliation and never played for Scotland again.

Two years later, Scotland gained their revenge. I don’t remember it as a classic match, although the uncompromising centre-forward Joe Jordan roughed up the England defence as only he could. However, the images of the raucous Scots celebrating a 2-1 victory on the Wembley pitch culminating in the destruction of one of the crossbars not only increased awareness of hooliganism in British football but also hastened the end of the championship itself.

By the Eighties, only the oldest rivalry in world football, the England-Scotland clash, roused much passion – too much for the stadium owners and London councils. 100,000 could pack into Wembley or Hampden Park but there wasn’t much enthusiasm for a rain-soaked Tuesday evening at Ninian Park. The growing fear of hooligan incidents, coupled with the political situation in Northern Ireland, only hammered the final nails in the tournament’s coffin.

I couldn’t help feeling sad, despite recognising the reasons for the ruling. The Championship was dying on its feet but, paradoxically, was becoming more interesting as the Welsh and Irish teams were more competitive than they had been for years. Wales had one of their more memorable moments in 1980, a glorious 4-1 triumph over a mediocre England at Wrexham. The hundredth tournament was to be the last, in 1984, and who were the final champions? None other than Billy Bingham’s Northern Ireland. It may have been achieved on goal difference but the trophy remains Irish FA property for as long as the Championship is consigned to history. George Best et al had the last laugh.

Being a Fan - Billericay and Exeter City

While QPR have resolutely remained my number one club, others have infiltrated my affections from the touchline without quite taking over the midfield. In the mid-1970s, my local side Billericay Town languished in the Essex Senior League: too good for the division but unable to escape because of inadequate facilities. Only when we won a set of floodlights could we advance to what was then the Athenian League.

Meanwhile, Town were also competing strongly in the national FA Vase tournament for the lowest tiers of the English football pyramid. In ’76 they reached the final, to be played at Wembley. Suddenly everyone was a Billericay supporter. The boys – and even some girls - at school were buzzing with excitement at the prospect of winning a trophy at the greatest stadium of all.

Dad and I bought tickets and joined one of the many buses hired for the trip around the North Circular. The ground was nowhere near full, with most sections unused. However, unlike my Milk Cup Final experience a decade later, we came away having witnessed the Billericay captain Arthur Coughlin receiving the gleaming trophy from FIFA’s then boss Sir Stanley Rous after a 1-0 victory against Stamford. There was also the less edifying sight of my first episode of football hooliganism in the coach park, but my first Wembley visit had been one to remember for positive reasons. A week afterwards, I joined the throng as the town turned out in their thousands for an open-top bus parade and Billericay bathed in the glowing rays of glory (above). 

They repeated the feat the following year (programme left), although Town required a replay at Forest’s County Ground (pupils were allowed the afternoon off school to travel if they had a ticket) after a 1-1 scoreline at Wembley. We missed out in ’78 but Dad and I completed the hat-trick a year hence, enjoying a comprehensive 4-1 drubbing of Almondsbury Greenway, including a rare Wembley hat-trick of his own for Town’s Doug Young.

I can’t pretend to have been stimulated by all this success into regular attendance at the little New Lodge. University intervened, then the world of work, and the momentum had been lost. I still stay alert for Billericay’s results and give a cheer on the occasions (four so far) they reached the heady heights of the FA Cup first round proper. Under the ownership of showy businessman Glenn Tamplin, Town upgraded the ground, won promotion to the Bananarama – sorry – Vanarama National League South. Could we (we!?) do a Salford or AFC Wimbledon and scale the non-League ladder in double-quick time? Tamplin's sudden decision to sell suggests not.

Between 1979 and 1982, while an undergraduate, I took the opportunity to follow

local Division Three outfit Exeter City. My charmed sense of timing was again to the fore as my university years coincided with a great FA Cup run and a home tie against the European champions.

Early in 1981, the Grecians earned home replays in both the fourth and fifth rounds, facing higher-ranked opposition. The best performance I witnessed in my three seasons down in Devon came in Exeter’s match against First Division Leicester City. Our prolific striker Tony Kellow scored a hat-trick in that game, which also featured a fellow Maths undergraduate (a year ahead of me) Ian Main in goal. Three weeks later, on another cold Wednesday evening, I again took my place on the cramped terraces within the venerable 1930s ‘Cow Shed’ stand, this time for the visit of Newcastle. More than 18,000 fans were shoehorned into the decrepit ground and the atmosphere was superb. The night air rang out with the Devon version of the Pompey chimes: “I-oh, City. City, I-Oh”. And what a result, too: 4-0 to City! There was a massed pitch invasion after the whistle and nobody batted an eyelid. I then hurried back through the residential streets to the Birks Halls TV room to enjoy the highlights on BBC1’s Sportsnight, this time with John Motson’s commentary.

The following October, Exeter were drawn against the mighty Liverpool in the two-legged second round of the League Cup. Unsurprisingly we were smashed 5-0 at Anfield but maybe we could nick a goal or two at home. I went early after tea, bought my ticket (probably about £1.50 with a student card) and programme (below) and ambled along to find an anticipated spot on the Big Bank terraces. Before reaching the turnstiles I could hear renditions of ‘You’ll Never Walk Alone’. Clearly many Reds fans had made the trip down the M5 – or had they? No, St James’ was rammed with local glory-hunters waving Liverpool scarves, kids screaming in West Country accents for “Kenny, Kenny!” The official gate was 11,740 but it felt like many more.

I had no choice but to squeeze into the Shed, from which I watched as all those household names, from Grobbelaar, Hansen and Thompson to Dalglish, Rush and McDermott, humbled City 6-0. For all the disappointment at the scoreline, I could at least return to my room having seen the best team in Europe in their pomp. It wasn’t all glamour fixtures; the last ones I attended were against Walsall, Doncaster and Southend, each one as boring as one of Dr Coppell’s topology lectures. No matter: I have fond memories of those afternoons and evenings at St James’.

Sadly, Exeter never hauled themselves out of the third tier. On the contrary, unaffordable ground improvements and devastating debts led to the club into administration and out of the League altogether. Celebrity fans like Uri Geller and, allegedly, Michael Jackson, made no difference to our plight. Fortunately, Paul Tisdale’s twelve years as manager oversaw great improvements on the pitch, broadcasting receipts from Cup ties with Liverpool and Man United boosted the coffers and St James’ Park looks almost unrecognisable from the 1980s version, all-seater structures gleaming yet incongruous amidst the city’s backstreet terraces. That's got to be a Good Thing.

Being a Fan - the QPR Years

Queens Park Rangers have never been a fashionable club. After a nomadic existence in their early days, they eventually made their home amidst the Victorian terraces of Shepherd’s Bush in West London in 1917. They quietly ploughed a furrow in the second and third divisions before surprising everyone by winning the League Cup and promotion in 1967. That's when I came to pick them out of the end-of-season tables. .

Six years later, still possessing their engaging name which had attracted this six year-old boy, they were in the top flight and had become my number one team. We weren’t exactly awash with household names and yet we finished a creditable eighth. However, everything came together when Dave Sexton took over as manager. He brought with him the steely David Webb and the excellent John Hollins. The experienced Frank McLintock had already been purchased from Arsenal and with the Irishman Don Givens banging in the goals, the classy Scot Don Masson in midfield, a host of home-grown talent like fullbacks Dave Clement and Ian Gillard, Gerry Francis and the ever-present goalie Phil Parkes, we had a superb blend.

QPR weren’t often featured on Match of the Day but, with the benefit of colour TV at last, I enjoyed watching highlights of our opening match of the 1975-76 season, in which we beat Liverpool 2-0, including Francis’ Goal of the Season. A week later we went to champions Derby County and thumped them 5-1. Blimey! What’s going on? We played flowing, attacking football, Francis became the England captain and others were also capped, and yet Liverpool and Man U remained favourites to win the League. Everyone had to sit up and notice when a brilliant run-in saw us finish our forty-two games a point clear.

But we weren’t champions. Liverpool were granted a ten-day wait (because of European fixture congestion) before their finale, away at Wolves. I remember sitting with Dad listening to the radio that evening, too nervous to pay full attention yet unable to turn away. Liverpool only needed a draw so when lowly Wolves scored an early goal my knees turned to jelly. It remained 1-0 until bloody Kevin Keegan equalised in the 75^th minute. They added a couple more for good measure. We’d missed out by One. Sodding. Point! All those ‘if onlys’, We did reach the UEFA Cup quarter-finals but Liverpool went on to win their first European Cup. By such small margins is history made. Anyway, I’d been bloodied as a true fan, introduced to the football supporter’s familiar emotional rollercoaster and bitter disappointment of ‘so near yet so far’.

QPR have never since been that close to the League title, but we again finished a tantalising runner-up in the 1982 FA Cup Final. I was definitely in the minority sitting in my Exeter University halls of residence bar to cheer Rangers against Spurs, setting aside Finals revision to watch our bid for immortality in the premier knockout competition. We were in Division Two, Spurs the champions and odds-on favourites. It’s fair to say we were outclassed but Peter Hucker’s saves kept us in it until extra time when a deflected Hoddle shot left us one down. Imagine my delight when Terry Fenwick’s close-range header made it 1-1. Up yours, Spurs fans!

The following Thursday’s replay was to provide no happy ending for Rangers. Tony Currie’s hopeless lunge at the advancing Graham Roberts resulted in a clear penalty, converted by Hoddle. It was to be the only goal. It’s still our only FA Cup final appearance. We did reach the ‘Milk’ (i.e. League) Cup Final in 1986 and this time we were favourites, drawn against fellow First Division side, Oxford Utd. They’d had an easy route to Wembley. Rangers, though, had needed to beat Forest, Chelsea and the mighty Liverpool.

Not only was I licking my lips at the prospect of our first proper trophy in two decades but I’d entered the ticket ballot through the club to witness it at first hand. I didn’t receive the seats requested but Dad and I were able to stand on the terraces behind a goal for the princely combined outlay of £20. Pushing the boat out! Naturally, we lost. 3-0. On the day we were simply second-best all round. C’est la vie. 

  

That was our last sniff at a genuine prize (I don’t count play-off victories or the Championship winners’ trophy) but it wasn’t my first live Rangers match. That had been on Boxing Day 1980. Uncle David’s family were spending Christmas with us in Billericay and my Hammers-loving uncle suggested Dad and I came with him to Loftus Road. He was surely expecting a straightforward victory given that West Ham were miles clear at the top of Division Two and we were mid-table.

This time, on a cold, crisp sunny afternoon, he was the one left grim-faced. With Tony Currie dictating the midfield, we murdered them 3-0, Brooking, Bonds, Devonshire and all. I had to rein in my celebrations given we were standing on what was then the away end, surrounded by claret and blue, but inside it was me blowing bubbles of delight. A comprehensive kicking by the InterCity Firm of hooligans was a Christmas gift I could do without.

My next home game was more than five years away. A month before that miserable Milk Cup experience in ‘86, I watched as we defeated Graham Taylor’s Watford 2-1 for whom 22 year-old John Barnes was outstanding on the artificial surface. I remember feeling uplifted by the applause given to him by home fans. Credit where credit’s due. The following winter, I attended another couple of home wins, against Southampton and Nottingham Forest. My first taste of a League defeat at Loftus Road was a dispiriting 1-3 reverse at the hands of Oldham but it didn’t mean the end of my expeditions to West London.

                              

During the early seasons of the new-fangled Premier League, QPR – now managed by Gerry Francis and captained by Ray Wilkins – were one of the most consistently excellent teams and well worth the £20 or so to watch. I tended to pick and choose my fixtures carefully, avoiding the more expensive category ‘A’ games such as Arsenal or Liverpool. Thus it may be unsurprising to know our results were mostly positive.

I would obtain a real buzz emerging from White City Underground station to the hubbub of police walkie-talkies and pop-up merchandise stalls, then walking down South Africa Road. The scent of booze and bonhomie spread from the Springbok pub and I would buy my programme (above) close to the ground itself. In the main stand, the hard plastic tip-up seats were incredibly uncomfortable, even for a shortie like me, but it was worth the two-hour sacrifice to watch Wilkins nudging the ball around, Clive Wilson and David Bardsley haring down the flanks and ‘Sir’ Les Ferdinand, Bradley Allen or Kevin Gallen banging ‘em in.

The most memorable games were the 1-1 draw with high-flying Middlesbrough (two missed penalties and young Trevor Sinclair running rings around the Brazilian wonder-kid Juninho) and our 1992-93 home finale. Strolling down to Loftus Road after work at the BBC on a warm May evening, I could sense the love flowing towards the QPR side who were heading for a highly satisfying fifth place. We defeated Sheffield Wednesday 3-1, the fans flowed onto the pitch and everyone, apart from the Yorkshire fans (they finished a decent seventh), oozed happiness.

The next big game I attended was with Angie, this time in Cardiff on a very warm April afternoon. It helped that we were dominating the Championship, but City were also pushing for the play-offs. Fortunately, there were no tears or tantrums because it ended 2-2, a fair reflection of play, but for which we had the mercurial Adel Taraabt to thank.

That season ended fifteen years of hurt, including one in the depths of League Two; we were back in the Prem! A few years previously, QPR were taken over by some seriously wealthy individuals. Oh, yes, I thought. Champions League here we come!  However, unlike Chelsea and Man City, our approach to side-strengthening was remarkably scattergun. Furthermore, with Taraabt no longer a big fish in a small pond, he seemed to lose interest and we struggled. 

The season concluded in astonishing fashion. We had to travel to frontrunners Man City needing a win to ensure survival, an almost impossible task. The commentary and analysis focussed almost exclusively on the title battle between City and United but all I cared about was Rangers staying up, which meant knowing what Bolton were doing in their simultaneous game. Sky Sports ignored that entirely. It was one of the most one-sided matches you’ll ever see but remarkably we scored with probably our only two attacks in the whole match. City, of course, won the match 3-2 and the Premier League with that injury-time Agueroooooooooh goal but luckily Bolton didn’t win either. We were safe.

The ever-spendthrift Harry Redknapp ensured we were comfortably demoted the following year, a period which has blighted the club ever since. We did, more by luck than ‘Arry’s judgment, achieve a further top-flight season, but we were in no position to maintain it. Hamstrung by the Redknapp era legacy, I suspect Rangers are in for a tough, financially stringent period for many years to come. Mid-table mediocrity is the best I can hope for in the Championship. As for me, living 150 miles from Loftus Road and no longer recognising any member of the squad have stretched my support thinner than I'd like but, whatever lies around the corner, I’ll be with them every step of the way – in spirit, at least.