Forrest Gump and Cilla Black got it right. Life is full of surprises.

I told you all at the start of the season I would weave a tale of mystery and suspense, but even I have been shocked at a) some of the comments my articles have inspired and b)some of the events that have unfolded so far.

So I hope to pacify some angry readers and enlighten those still not convinced by my impartiality. And all that without mention of Stevie G or JC – oh, already that plan has failed.

Anyway, a week of surprises started with the results from games we wouldn’t normally give two hoots about. If anyone else sat in a pub cheering on the Israelites like the weirdoes we witnessed after the sad Scotch, I’d be amazed. But clearly many of you did, which demonstrates how England do still mean something to many. The Russia and Croatia results set us up nicely for the Wembley decider, surely Steve ‘chuckles’ McClaren’s men would now not fail.

We know what happened, and our esteemed editor’s article summed it up far more succinctly than I could. However, whilst Brian Barwick was promising a ‘root and branch’ audit of English football, so I and my colleagues were reeling from a call from Ofsted. A similar inspection was coming, though hopefully wouldn’t have the same result as befell the new toothed one.

So football took a back step for a couple of days as we ran around preparing evidence and lesson plans. A wise man once said that ‘teaching is like football’ (ok, so it was me) and last weekend certainly felt like the nervy night before a cup final.

Saturday’s performance and result at Goodison was of an ilk I’ve never fully witnessed live before, only on historical DVDs through whisky-induced tearful eyes.

No less a sage as Stuart Hall apparently likened Everton’s football to Keats’s poetry afterwards, and there was certainly much beauty to appreciate and purr about. Although we’re on a good run, I for one didn’t expect such sublime soccer and high emotions. Everton have a habit of letting us down just when we think we’re on to something good, twas always so, in fact many Evertonians admit that nothing could surprise them where Toffeeness is concerned.

There were a few good goals, and quite a bit of champagne football. Arteta’s swagger returned with aplomb, Nuno was a joy to watch at left back, and Steven Pia-Pia-Pienaar gets better with every game. Of the magnificent seven, little Leon’s (still too young to take penalties) goal was possibly the pick of the bunch. However, Yakubu was the biggest (literally still) shock, and played like, well, an £11 million striker. His record is becoming alarmingly impressive, another pleasant surprise, as was the sight of Mr Testicles at half time (don’t ask.)

For a couple of hours at least, the Blues took me to football heaven, a scientific school where inspections and other such stress mean nothing. At this point I also have to express my amazement at the treatment of Rafa. In one respect it couldn’t happen to a nicer fella, but again I defend him and think it’s unjust. Tonight’s report that five thousand loveable Reds were to storm Anfield with anti-US slogans comes as no surprise, however the uncertainty surrounding a manager whose team are unbeaten still and is – just to appease all those who think I’m bitter -  undoubtedly a good coach who has a bit of luck. Maybe the result against Porto will have appeased the demanding Americans for a little while longer.

Yet more surprises were around the corner. Man Utd losing to the Ginger Mourinho’s horrible lot, Bruce to Wigan, Redknapp’s arrest (well, maybe not), Jewell to Derby, Sydney FC’s tactics, McLeish to Birmingham… and Alan Irvine to Preston. Less surprising, for my Carlisle-supporting flatmate at least, was Irvine’s predecessor Paul Simpson going back north to Gretna. Not to get married I presume, rather in some advisory role, temporarily thankfully given Preston’s form so far this season.

The Ofsted didn’t go too well in case you were wondering. It just goes to show that being taken by surprise isn’t always pleasant. But the joy of unpredictability is what lures many of us into the clutches of the beautiful game, and if you could say exactly what was going to happen, it wouldn’t be half as exciting. I realise I’m having to eat my words, given that in the recent past I said that just as death and taxes are certain, so was foreseeing Liverpool comebacks and Hollyoaks storylines. Now, at the risk of putting my bequiffed head on the metaphorical block, I’m not so sure.

Don’t question the future or worry too much. Everything will be ok, as Donnie Darko said. Especially if we carry on playing such good football!

That’s it from the northwest for now. I have to go, I’ve got tomato ketchup between my eyes.

When Liverpool got new American owners this spring, a lot of Manchester United supporters questioned why the Liverpool fans didn’t protest against the move more stubbornly then they did. Having arranged massive protest against the similar overtaking of their own club by the Glazer family, they didn’t understand how the Liverpool fans could greet their new Yankee owners with such celebration. Now it looks like those questions were justified.

Yes, Gillett and Hicks played the PR-game perfectly at the beginning. Coming out with all the right noises, all the right sound bites. But now, Liverpool’s American honeymoon is over. Reality is setting in. And for the first time since they seized control of Britain’s must successful football club, George Gillett and Tom Hicks find themselves under fierce criticism from a vast majority of the Liverpool fans. It is the serious broad sheets that are leading the way; it isn’t the Sun or the other tabloids. Serious papers are writing that Benitez will be out of a job sooner rather than later – and no statement has been released, yet, where the owners show their support for Benitez. If you want the Rafalution to continue, it doesn’t look good.

Many newspapers have over the last few days written that Rafael Benitez has picked a fight he cannot win. Because, as Jose Mourinho found out, in modern football it is the men controlling the purse strings that now control the game. Well, by going against the Liverpool supporter’s wishes, it looks to me like it is the Americans who have picked a fight they cannot win. Sure, they can sack Benitez, but at the same time they will lose the vast majority of Liverpool Football Club’s main asset: the fans. I’m not talking about day-trippers from Bury St. Edmund, Trondheim or Donegal, but the loyal match going Reds, the season ticket holders from Bootle, Dingle and Huyton.

In this conflict, I cannot avoid thinking that the two Americans are seriously underestimating the Kopites. If the unjust sacking of the manager who brought Ol’Big Ears back to Anfield on a permanent basis goes trough, the before mentioned Manchester United supporter’s protests will seem like a San Francisco hippie love in from the late 1960’s. Yes, Benitez should have kept his criticism within the club, and not so actively used the press to get his point across. And yes, this is one of those conflicts where it is not black and white. None of the parties involved can claim to be 100 per cent right, none of the involved parties can claim that the opposition doesn’t have valid arguments. The two Americans anger at Benitez’s public outbursts are understandable, and it is unworthy of the manager of a gentleman’s club like Liverpool to use the kind of tactics that Benitez has used over the last week or so. But at the same time they should handle football related criticism from the man that is paid to decide on the football matters at Anfield, and that should always be the manager.

Frustration at the Liverpool suits’ slowness in transfer negotiations is nothing new, and is something that existed long before the two Americans arrived. Remember Simao Sabrosa? When it comes to negotiating - and more importantly, going through with – transfer deals, Liverpool aren’t exactly moving like Ian Rush onto a Kenny Dalglish through ball, but more fittingly like Neill Ruddock giving Jan Molby a piggy back ride.

So it is understandable when, according to reports, Benitez is close to a few cheap deals, but isn’t allowed to seal them because Mr. Hicks and Mr. Gillett wants to wait until they arrive in England just before Christmas, that Spanish frustrations run high at Melwood. Benitez hasn’t lost his temper because Hicks and Gillett have refused to sanction a big money move for some International superstar, but rather because the green light isn’t given to what can be described as minor transfer deals, and because the mighty Liverpool FC – one of the major trademarks in the World - is run via e-mails and a fax machine in Texas.

Apparently Liverpool have been close in recent weeks to clinch a £4 million pound deal for AC Milan’s Kakha Kaladze, wrap up a couple of Bosman player’s for next season, and sign a few talented but cheap South American youngsters. But all this is put on hold until the two Americans arrive on Merseyside for the game with Manchester United on the 16th – thus putting it all in danger as other clubs are hovering over the same targets. The transfer window means that you can only sign players in January, but that doesn’t mean that it isn’t necessary to get all the groundwork in, in advance.

Personally, my main beef with the American owners is their lack of involvement in the day to day running of the club. I cannot help but think that Rafa feels the same way. Hicks and Gillett visit Liverpool around every two months, all the major decisions are made through e-mails and phone calls across the Atlantic. Mr. Gillett’s son Foster, who is supposed to be at Anfield to run the show together with Rick Parry, has apparently been spending more time back home in the States lately, than in Liverpool. The new American Liverpool seems to be like a car with the engine in England, and the steering wheel in America. The main course of concern for me, is Rafael Benitez’s boldness. Has the situation gone so far that Benitez feels that he now has nothing to lose? Is the fact that Benitez now uses the media as his outlet a sign that he feels himself that his time at Anfield is running out? Or even worse, is Benitez using this as a tactic to speed up the process of his own departure, because he sees that it will happen sooner rather than later anyway?

I think it boils down to one headstrong and stubborn Spaniard, who knows how Liverpool FC works, and who knows where the chink in the Americans armour is: Their lack of history in the game of soccerball, and their lack of historical knowledge when it comes to Britain’s most successful soccerball team. Rafael Benitez hears his name being chanted at every game, not at least so in the last outing at St. James’ Park. He is well aware of his own popularity, and I believe he attempts to use this as a stick to beat the Americans. Or rather, he gives the stick to the Kopites, so they can swing it for him.

When Liverpool face Porto and Bolton later this week, Gillett and Mr. Hicks will see what fans’ passion is all about. This isn’t hockey, baseball or the NFL. This isn’t bowl shaped stadiums filled with middle-aged rednecks sitting still, sipping their Budweiser while they punch the air and let out screams of “Yeah!” every five minutes or so. This is real football, real feelings and real fans. By picking a fight with Benitez, the two Americans have also picked fights with the Liverpool fans. Perhaps seen by the Americans as nothing more than “customers” in their new soccerball business. But this will not be an American dream for George and Tom. If they do sack Benitez, it will turn into a nightmare, because as a poster on a Liverpool forum wrote here the other day:

“The Yanks have the money, but we have the scousers…”

I awoke this morning overwhelmed by a familiar feeling of impending doom, thus igniting painful memories of a childhood flooded with extinguished dreams. For if England lose to Croatia – who have already qualified –tomorrow & subsequently fail to reach Euro 08, it will be the 2nd time in 13 years a nation of supposedly considerable football clout has been unable to qualify for a major tournament. Of course after Russia’s dramatic late defeat in Tel Aviv, England only need a draw at Wembley & should join a Croatian team, seemingly having nothing to play for, in the finals. But, despite qualification being in our own hands, I remain extremely pessimistic about the state of English football, deeply concerned by the lack of quality in our national team & continue to be uninspired by players this country seems to be producing. If we do qualify for Switzerland – I don’t fancy our chances.

England will go into the game without Rooney & Owen, & wont find it easy against a characteristically skilful & gifted Croatia. With memories of Rotterdam weighing heavy on the mind, it’s an all too familiar story & one, which, no matter what the outcome, will leave question marks hanging ominously over, not only the ability of the manager & the reasoning behind his appointment; but also, the calibre of players he’s had at his disposal.

On that fateful night in the Netherlands, I blamed Ronald Koeman, but most directed their anger at a hapless manager who ultimately paid the price defeat & duly sacked. In hindsight, those incredulous shortcomings marked the end of an era for me & death of a certain type of player, which hitherto had been commonplace in English football. My heroes of ‘86’ & ‘90’ were all but retired at this stage & were being replaced by such players of the Carlton Palmer, David Batty & Andy Sinton mould. It was the birth of a school of thought in this country that skill didn’t win you matches & flair, thereby, was no longer deemed necessary. At first this change in approach & a new ethos to ‘win at all costs’ worked perfectly & nearly paid immediate dividends in ‘Euro 96’ when football ‘almost’ came home. But this initial success was short lived & arguably we’ve not come anywhere near these standards since. If Taylor’s failings suggested an increasing vulnerability, then McClaren’s latest struggle indicates that once more we stand culpable of becoming victims of our own infallibility. And like Taylor, McClaren cannot be held fully accountable.

We’ve had enough of big strong centre backs & complete(?) midfielders, we need players with genuine skill & artistry, who can not only entertain but turn matches in a heartbeat with one moment of brilliance. It’s time for a shift in company policy & time we faced up to the reality that this so called golden generation are not so golden after all. As when you look at it – what the fuck have they won?

Thinking back to the joys of ‘Italia 90’ I drool with envy over both England & Ireland’s line-ups & the creativity we used to take for granted. Both teams possessed a wealth of talent & experience, oozing flair & fecundity. As a result both teams made it out alive from the group of death; with Jackie’s men ‘giving it a lash’ & partying their way to a creditable quarter-final, & Bobby Robson’s England a whisker away from reaching the final, after bowing out to West Germany on pens in the semis. But this didn’t tell the whole story. Gazza & England’s entertaining style captured the hearts of the world & had a nation – seemingly tired of a sport destroyed by hooliganism – sobbing to the Nessun Dorma & proudly ‘Singing For England’ once again. In 1990 fans sang loudly, wholeheartedly & it meant everything to us.

Today, players for some reason aren’t the same. No dribblers, no magic, no nothing, just static. In 1990, Lineker aside – who incidentally had other uses – players had the skill to turn & win us important matches. Whether it was a Waddle shuffle, a Beardsley shimmy or Gasciogne just being ‘Gazza’, those moments were worth 20 of a well-drilled Beckham set-piece, an over-rehearsed Joe Cole step-over or even for that matter, homo-erotically marvelling at the physic of a Micah Richards. And that’s not me by the way! Plus, players used to have personality. Despite Gerrard, Rooney & Terry displaying plenty of character on the pitch, off it, it’s another story. Their over-used media trained clichés & the laboriously annoying “erms” of Rooney are enough to turn even the most hardened supporter off the ‘beautiful’ game. Then there’s 2 Cole’s, Rio, Lamps & Gary Neville – enough said really. How I long for a Gazza “I’m off to get me suit Measured” rant, one more ‘stop-look-listen’ Keegan commercial, or even another Johnny Barnes Rap to awaken me from my ‘It’s a matter of life & death’ dull & deep slumber.      

Obviously it’s important that we win matches as success brings about much pride & happiness, but the need to be entertained is every bit just as important.

Although Lennon, Pennant, Wright-Phillips & most promisingly Ashley Young, all provide a glimmer of hope, our game is desperately in need of the artistry & invention made famous by the flare wearing mavericks of the late 60’s & 70’s. Pioneers such as Matthews, Finney & Law paved the way inspiring the likes of Best, Bowles, Osgood, Hudson & Marsh - who were to light up English football like never before. To watch these men perform was mesmerising & enchanting. And there has been no finer sight in football since, than George Best in full flight; rhythmically smooth & perfectly formed, all natural & flowing, like poetry in motion. My father used to say, “football isn’t what it used to be” & in many ways it certainly is not, but it’s his “money has ruined the game” chestnut that echoes more poignantly through my mind.

This ‘Golden Generation’ tag is a load of old poppycock & England’s struggle to qualify supports this very notion. They might be more disciplined, extremely richer, & even a lot fitter, but in no way are they in the same class as their forefathers & this will continue to be the case unless English football makes massive changes & attempts to get to the root of the problem. Although modern players possess many admirable qualities, which complemented by the sublime skills of ‘foreigners’ has brought English club football much success in recent years, flair has to be added to the equation. If only English players could emulate the skills they see each day in training. But this, in reality, is easier said than done & the missing ingredient has to be developed much earlier in a young footballer’s education.

Now many might think I’m being very cynical, so I’ll go & annoy those people more by suggesting it’s a bit like this with music. Many aspire to be famous, whether they’re manufactured or not & have little regard for producing something raw, unique & innovative. Bob Dylan even branded modern music as sounding atrocious with “no definition, no nothing” & that Cd’s have failed to capture an authentic sound. Lee Mavers from The La’s said something similar & if you compare a live version of his classic “feelin’” to it’s album track equivalent, then I think you’ll appreciate what he means.

I got chatting to this Cork man the other day who was heavily involved in the organising of an U-21 match between England & Ireland about a month ago. England brushed aside a much younger & inexperienced Irish team 3-0 & this bloke saw it as a clear indication of how the ‘foreign invasion’ in the Premier League is affecting Irish football. In the 80’s & 90’s young Irish players littered England’s top-flight first teams, yet in this game only one was a member of a Premier League squad & he couldn’t even get a game at a heavily Irish-favoured Sunderland. Now, in many he’s right of course, but it’s almost as bad for us English. Despite this victory, I fail to get too excited about the prospects of Noble, Milner & Lita. In my opinion the English league is over saturated with far too many foreigner’s who are inadvertently stifling the development of English & Irish players; who aren’t cost effective & who sadly no longer appear to be a requisite for success.

Both are in need of new infrastructure & possibly a new catalyst if past glories are to return. Ireland – who have some useful youngsters – are in desperate need of a man with the knowledge & experience of a Giles or a Brady with the youthful enthusiasm & man-management skills of say, Paul Jewell. If the latter took the job then there’s a chance with some support he could be a huge success. Whether he favours a return to club management, only Paul knows, but in my eyes it’s a win-win situation for him. England on the other hand will probably qualify, McClaren keep his job & things continue much in the same vein, meaning my anxieties will be fully justified.          

The cause of my consternation is that less than two months after foolishly ignoring my better judgment and allowing myself to believe that Liverpool actually could claim number 19 this year, my dreams once again seem perilously close to being shattered, as a Liverpool team beset by injuries to key players and a chronic crisis of confidence, teeter on the brink of the precipice that is being a premiership also ran by Christmas. 

While the optimist in me looks at the fact that we remain unbeaten in the league, and only 6 points off the summit, despite being a month into what surely must be the major blip in our season, the pessimist fears that already we are falling too far behind the pace setters in terms of performance and attacking verve to be considered serious challengers. Wednesday’s timely thrashing of Basiktas did, however, mitigate my suffering somewhat. But not enough to convince me we have the edge over our major rivals in England. 

The galling sight of Rooney and Tevez clicking so spectacularly (ill admit I was one of those who had hoped they were too similar), Nani doing a passable impression of Ronaldo at Old Trafford, and Arsenal continuing their metamorphosis into the best team in the country has left me feeling a little sorry for myself. I mean why is it so fucking difficult for Liverpool to make the final step?

I can’t understand how United and Arsenal currently seem so far ahead of us. During United’s march to the title last year my mind constantly wondered to the match we inexplicably lost to Ferdinand’s last minute header at Old Trafford the season before. We dominated the game so comfortably, with our midfield simply too strong. Indeed, a couple of hours after the horrific scenes of the jubilant ugly mug of Mr Ferdinand and that twat Steptoe Sr  trying unsuccessfully to kiss his badge in front of the traveling Kop, I was convinced that I had witnessed proof of a power shift. Ironically, I was more optimistic than after any of the Danny Murphy inspired wins under Houllier - cause unlike those matches we had actually dominated. 

Similarly despite being a little concerned by Wenger’s pre-season calm and noises of unity (the delightful Gallas aside) coming from The Emirates, I was convinced a porous and lightweight centre mid would again prove a crippling Achilles heel. Unfortunately, Wenger’s quiet confidence seems entirely justified and the young team seems to have summoned a spirit reminiscent of the so-called ‘invincible’s’.  

I realise that this sort of self-pity is food and drink to those, especially Evertonians, who perhaps rightly feel red Liverpudlians and woolys like myself feel it is their right to be successful. But I have to be honest here, supporting a team with our history, resources, fan base and a squad that seems to be perpetually one piece away from the complete jigsaw, at times feels like being subjected to a particularly sadistic form of Chinese torture. From the absurdity of Paul Stewart or Nigel Clough under Souness, to the more promising Collymore then Ince under Evans, seasons of progress have invariably been followed by major transfer blunders billed as the elusive final piece/pieces. These have equally invariably been false dawns with the trend reaching a nadir with the catastrophic signings of Diouf, Diao, and Cheyrou in 2002 - after our best season in the league in years.

This quest for the final ingredient is increasingly reminiscent of that shit day-time tv quiz show where the finalist has a minute to select, for example the six Al Pacino films out of a selection of ten titles. They generally, if my memory serves, started quite promisingly getting say four or five of the correct answers, the troubles arose when they had to revise their choices and infuriatingly swapped ‘Dog Day Afternoon’ for ‘Goodfellas’ and subsequently moved further away from the winning formula. This appears to be largely what has happened at each crucial juncture for Liverpool over the past two decades, although I am attempting to battle the fickle urge to condemn this summers latest batch of final pieces just yet.
      
With hindsight, believing that two Senagalese and a Frenchman (even one who was the heir to Zidane) with not an ounce of experience of English football between them, were going to transform us into champions was patently self-delusion of the most severe type. Surely this year, however, it was not unreasonable to think that the star quality and pace of Torres allied to a number of shrewd squad reinforcements and the existing platform of arguably the best defence and central midfield in the country, represented all the necessary ingredients for a genuine title push.

The hugely encouraging start served to extinguish any lingering caution only for the wheels to come off spectacularly in the wake of injuries to Agger and Alonso, Gerrard’s loss of form and the mystifying departure of Paco. From imperiously dispatching Toulouse (not Bordeaux I realize) with a heavily rotated team, Liverpool went to being played off the park by a Marseille side - themselves in complete disarray - in a number of weeks. 

It was in this context and after the wretched first half against the bluenoses culminated with Sami’s preposterous own goal that I became genuinely despondent at the prospect of yet another fruitless league campaign, and the fact that despite our obvious superiority we still seem to be labouring to beat sides that Arsenal and United swat aside with contempt. Whether this is to do with deficiencies in the players, a worryingly negative approach in away games or hopefully just a loss of form, it triggered the same familiar frustrations in me. I felt genuinely angry that we once again appeared so far off the pace and so far from the winning formula.

Moreover, I genuinely envied the simple pleasures of supporting a team with no realistic chances of challenging the top three let alone winning the championship.  Not having to endure yearly raised then shattered expectations, not having to endure the weekly minefield where a draw or defeat represents a catastrophe and a victory merely a stay of execution; but rather, drifting along in a happy cocoon of mediocrity, where unexpected wins are a very pleasant surprise and the odd defeat is merely to be expected.

Of course, then up stepped Agent Clattenburg and Dirk Kuyt to fully restore my faith in football and the world and remind me that without the pain of defeat victory would be meaningless. Indeed, when the championship does return to Anfield it will be all the more gratifying for the despair that has made such frequent, unwelcome incursions into our dreams. And despite Basiktas playing their part in Liverpool’s 8-0 drubbing, that victory Jon (Of The English Football Post) - after the fortnight we’d endured - I can assure you, was sweeter than any Toffee I’ve ever tasted.

There’s a wonderful moment in the 1993 FA Cup semi-final between the two Sheffield clubs at Wembley, which kind of makes you a little bit nostalgic for times past. From inside their own half, Wednesday, who eventually won 2-1, put together a superb, flowing movement, all of it along the floor, completely befuddling United (who, in fairness, probably had John Pemberton playing for them, so it’s perhaps not all their fault.) John Harkes to John Sheridan, Sheridan to Chris Waddle, Waddle to the overlapping Nigel Worthington, who centres for David Hirst…. who misses from three yards.

It’s a tremendous experience watching the footage 14 years on, and not just so we can reminisce in disbelief that Sir Alex Ferguson wouldn’t have signed Eric Cantona and changed the course of English football history if Hirst, his preferred choice, had been available. It’s worth remembering that the Sheffield Wednesday of a decade-and-a-half ago were a genuinely excellent side, capable of having a say in who won the league title. Two cup finals that season (that they didn’t win any silverware was thanks to some ruthless finishing by Ian Wright and a dreadful goalkeeping clanger from Chris Woods) to go with a third-placed finish in 1991-92, and some outstanding players: Waddle, Sheridan, Roland Nilsson, Carlton Palmer (OK, not Carlton Palmer.) While the pre-Abramovich Chelsea, replete with Robert Fleck, Eddie Newton and David Hopkins were languishing in mid-table, Wednesday were one of the top teams in the Premier League.

Now, fast forward to 2007. Wednesday sit just one place and one point clear of the Championship relegation zone, having lost nine of their first 13 league matches. A measure of how far they’ve fallen is that nobody was surprised when they were thumped 3-0 at home by Everton in the Carling Cup at the end of September - a result that would have been nigh on unthinkable a decade ago. Owls fans, renowned for their excellent support and gloomy sense of humour (maybe the best banner I’ve ever seen at a Test match at Headingley proclaimed “Richie Benaud is a Wednesdayite”) must be somewhat fed up, and then some. What went wrong? How did a once proud club, a fixture in the top division, stoop so low? And why are their city rivals United now much better than them?
<Wednesday probably won’t go down, but it’s a distressing time for supporters, particularly after last season ended so well. After Brian Laws replaced Paul Sturrock, a decent bloke who nonetheless did little to discourage the notion that all Scottish managers exist on chips, white pudding and Tennent’s Extra, the club went on an excellent end-of-season run, winning something like seven of their last nine games to finish just four points shy of a play-off spot. Optimism abounded. Now they’re officially rubbish; one of the most workmanlike sides in a league full of them. All right, they’ve got Franny Jeffers (in a new departure for him, he’s decided to move to a new club before the season starts, and not during the transfer window, when panicked clubs destined for the drop decide a) they’re desperate b) he’s available and c) they’re desperate.) But the rest of them - even those toothless old crones whose purchases are justified by managers insisting they‘ve got ‘Premiership experience’ (Deon Burton, Marcus Tudgay and Graham Kavanagh in this case) - are, much like the war on Iraq, impossible to justify, whichever way you look at it.

It seems Laws, who had some success as manager of a right motley crew at Scunthorpe, has made the wrong call. Someone should tell him that team spirit can’t win you promotion (quite how Derby managed to pip a West Brom team including Kamara, Koumas, Gera, Koren and Davies last season remains a mystery). Good players, however, like Steve Maclean and Chris Brunt, two who Laws allowed to leave over the summer, can. It’s a peculiarly British phenomenon, seemingly; that is, pinning your hopes on grit and determination, spirit and resolve, and a healthy dollop of kicking people up the arse, as a means of achieving success. I mean, how else to explain the career of Lee Dixon? Of course, 11 simply amazing footballers refusing to do anything as tawdry as tackling, marking or tracking back would be unable to beat anyone (apart from Derby, possibly) but guys, it’s simple: buy good players. Those with skill, finesse, technique and poise are far more beneficial to a team’s cause than those without, which is why Manchester United win the league all the time and Wigan don’t.

Laws, Jeffers and Frankie Simek (Missouri’s finest) aside, has blundered. Prepare for a long hard season, Wednesdayites. And that includes you, Benaud.