The Initiation of Agent H.

The initiate couldn't quite think of what to expect; for very few, the chosen few, had ever managed to reach the inner circles of Rectus Maximus's organization. Even its very existence was known to very few men and women, an exclusive club whose entry was ultimately controlled by Him, Rectus Maximus, Himself.

And as he waited for Him in His dimly lit cabin, he couldn't help but gaze in amazement upon the countless evidences of His venerable stature - evidences in the form of photographs, trophies and medals. He observed the upholstery and admired the smooth and scarlet texture of it. Even the chair he was sitting in felt powerful. He knew he was in a privileged seat. He knew he was in a position of acquiring power. He knew.

And as he began to grasp the significance of the moment, he heard footsteps coming up from behind him. Before he could react to look behind, a hand clasped his left shoulder and a soft but intense voice spoke, "Be seated. And you can call me Alec. I prefer to use my more social name. Would you care for some wine?" As the initiate opened his mouth to answer, Alec indignantly said, "You should. You will." Alec strode over behind the table in a rather arrogantly nonchalant way, the way one would walk after sizing up and then dismantling countless powerful competitors. He took out a beautiful bottle of a rare breed of red wine - for Alec owned only unique wines, just as His unique virtues - one of a kind. He took out two wine glasses too and set the glassware on the table and half-filled both the glasses with the scarlet liquid. Then He sat down at the table on His Audi designed cockpit chair. And in the full glow of the table lamp, the initiate could see Alec's face quite clearly: Silky, white hair, deep, all-seeing set of eyes and a reddened nose. He was having a warm smile on His face now and anyone who would look at Him now would never in one's wildest dreams would take this man as fiery as He really was.

"Do ye know why ye have been called here? I assume you do. Do ye know what do ye have to do? I assume you don't. This is where I tell you what and how you do it." The initiate merely nodded and sipped his wine. Portuguese, he thought. A fine quality, no doubt. Definitely a token of submission by one-time competitor, he knew.

As they sat there, face to face, sipping wine, talking, most of which was done by Alec obviously, there was a shy but sharp knock on the door. "Come on ye in", said Alec. A blonde-haired, lanky young lad barged in. In a thick Glasgoweign accent similar to Alec's, he said, "You were right Boss, Rangers were torn apart." Alec smiled and motioned him to keep the bundle of money on the table and then told him to go away, smiling all the time. As the blonde reached for the door, Alec said in a slightly hushed tone, "Lock the door, Darren." Darren looked back at Alec and nodded. Alec winked and his smile grew wider. Then He turned to the initiate and chuckled, "A little bit of betting never hurt anyone, did it?" before palming the money away.

Alec continued to instruct the initiate and all that while, the initiate nodded and took down notes. He did have doubts but they were cleared as soon as they were born, just as Alec had promised. Impeccable. As always. At the end of their discussion, Alec said, "If ye cannae 'andle the pressure, ye got me hotline. Or ye could call Agent Hughes or Agent Queiroz, both have been efficient and carried out the plan till the last detail at the local rivals and in Madrid. And after you're done with it, tell the BBC that them Scousers are dozy bastards and that them BBC are dozy bastards and jump the ship. You get the plan?" The initiate said, "Aye, I'll get to it."

The initiate then got up to leave and as he reached for the door, Alec said in a slightly hushed tone, "And Roy, don't forget Lucas." Agent Roy Hodgson looked back at Alec and nodded. Alec winked and his smile grew wider. Impeccable. As always.

Walking in a Fergie Wonderland!

“The season that was: 2009-10”

It was a season that nobody seemed to want to win. The winners of the season would be the poorest team such was the performance of the teams battling out for the title – Chelsea and Manchester United.

Arsenal, for all their attractive football, failed to win any silverware, again. That’s been the case for 6 years now.

Liverpool, with their genius manager, plummeted from title contenders to also-rans and the last time I checked, were fighting for the last European spot which they finally secured. Ofcourse, I mean the Europa league. Sweet. To be fair, their manager is a blemish on the history of Liverpool Football Club. He lost the plot completely. Only the strongest of Scouse delusion should keep him at the helm of the club and knowing them, he will remain.

K. R. A. P.

Chelsea were the better team throughout the season – they led the table most of the time. They took their chances and that alone warrants you a winner’s medal. They amassed a huge tally of points and scored a record number of goals in one season. Although on the last day of the season, the sight of Drogba fighting to take the penalty kick was a disgrace and went a long way in telling what Chelsea FC is all about, let’s give it to them – 100+ goals in one season is no small thing.

But all that and Chelsea won the league by a single point – the smallest possible margin in terms of points. What does that say about them and about the season? To be honest, Chelsea should have won it long back. They should have sealed it – done and dusted. United, for all of their injury-ravaged season, should be credited with pushing Chelsea all the way. They coped well with the departures of Ronaldo and Tevez but there were certain games in which a bit of magic from That Boy Ronaldo™ would have made the difference between one point and three, full points. Nonetheless, what with the English media and ABUs predicting the title as Liverpool’s and United finishing third, United were brilliant, and Liverpool, shite. United's youngsters won the Carling Cup yet again and the future doesn't look bleak at all with those kind of players coming in through the Academy.

‘Arry Redknapp is a genius. End of. Roy Hodgson is more than a decent manager and I guess every neutral football supporter in the world wanted Fulham to win the Cup.

Coming onto United – having 9 out of the 10 recognized defenders in the squad, including the goalkeeper, injured is the worst injury crisis a team could face. At one point of time, United had Giggs at the left-back position, Evra and Carrick as centre-backs and Darren Fletcher at right-back. While United didn’t concede heavily in such a crisis, except the 3-1 away loss to Everton, they couldn’t score either. And that’s obvious with half of the mid-field playing in the defense. Wayne Rooney was a monster on the football field and one mad week with United facing Bayern away then Chelsea at home and then Bayern again, this time at Old Trafford, changed the season for him and United. Still, “It’s never over till it’s over” for United and they pushed Chelsea right to the wire and the hope was never extinguished. Looking back, after losing two prolific goal scorers and facing one of the worst injury problems, United did well, but ofcourse, hindsight is a wonderful thing. But the season that was should give us a lot of positives for the season that will be and I can hardly wait. Four titles in a row is a record still there to be broken and United can do it – the only difference would be that it’ll take another 4 years. For those “fans” who were thoroughly disappointed – we don’t have a God-given right to win everything in sight. Football is a game and there can be only one winner. Shit happens, move on. “Form is temporary. Class is permanent.”

Can’t wait for the next season! Come on you REDS!

Ancelotti…are ya listening?!

Can you keep our trophy glistening?!

‘Cause we’ll be back in May

To take it away

Walking in a Fergie Wonderland!

Manchester is RED. Manchester is GINGER.

“This is how it feels to be Citeh…this is how it feels when you’ve won nothing at all!”

So here we were, prepared for yet another ordeal of doing it the United way – or so we assumed. The Richest Club in the World faced The Biggest Club in the World at Eastlands. Citeh fighting for the last Champions League spot and United fighting for the title – it was always going to be a costly affair for the losing team. With Citeh coming into the game on the back of two thumping wins and United with an unfit Rooney and dismissal form, United had no chance to get away with all 3 points - or so they assumed.

United were up for it right from the off. One could see that United wanted it more than their Noisy Neighbours. Citeh were contended with defending in numbers and trying the odd counter-attack. Half-time dawned and passed, United still couldn’t break the deadlock. Berbatov came close with a header but couldn’t direct it home. Scholes had an absolute belter of a game: Hard, legit tackles and that pin-point passing was there for all to see.

As the clock ticked down, it looked as if Citeh had snatched a point afterall. Even United looked to settle for a draw. With seconds to go, United attacked one last time. I never really expected what followed. I don’t think anyone did. Evra clipped in a neat little cross in the Citeh box that evaded all the Citeh defenders. And who comes out of the box to head home? Sir Paul Scholes of Salford. Just as he had done countless times before over the years, Scholesy had his trademark little late run inside the box and delivered an inch-perfect header that no goalkeeper could’ve saved. The Ginger Ninja had done it, against Manchester City, in the last minute. He wheeled away, jumped up and down like a teenager and went to the fans to celebrate. It was so fitting that he scored the winner – that lad from Salford. For that Old Guard and for the United fans, it’s never over till it’s over.

And once again, Manchester was RED. But also on that day, Manchester was Ginger.

Linesman: A specie understood. Apparently.

Class name: Referee.

Generic name: What-the-fuckus Linesmanus.

Common name: Linesman, assistant referee, twat, dick, cunt.

Country of Origin: Ingurland.

Physical characteristics:

• Strong shoulders due to constant raising and retaining arms in mid-air.
• Poor vision, even in daylight. Really.
• Partially deaf (under debate) owing to the barrage of abuse thrown at it from fans, players, managers, stewards, warming-up substitutes et cetera.
• Agile neck due to occasional nodding.
• Dull facial features and almost always expressionless.

Behaviour:
A linesman spends most of its time running up and down half the length of a green area called a "Football field". While its exact authority will always remain a mystery, it never ceases to impact a Football game. Although a linesman can be active at any time of the game, its activity generally peaks after the ball is played in its territory.

A linesman does not roam in a group/herd/pack/. It is always alone. A peculiarity of the linesman is that it never reaches maturity. It always screws-up on one occasion or the other viz. it may cost one team a title or a place in the Premier League, and blows the concept of "luck evens itself out at the end" to smithereens.

A linesman is usually considered numb. Absolutely numb. It remains indifferent to the noise and chaos around it and its life and carries on. It probably does not experience a single sleepless night, something which it very easily but unknowingly inflicts on that touchy lot called the “Fans”. Currently, it is being studied whether they are even dumb or just pretend.

Social relationships:
A linesman is one of the least favourite creatures. It endures abuse from all possible directions. Yes, even its family. No one really gives a rat’s arse about them anyway. Its direct enemy is the “Unhappy Manager”.

Baiting and taming:
A linesman can be baited and tamed by the “Manager under pressure” or by the “Arrogant manager who can fucking play mind games”. The former, however, fails to do so most of the times, for example, Rafael Benitez. The latter not only succeeds in it but also reserves special right to berate the linesman, especially at the “Half-time intervals” or the “Post-match reactions”. Only Alex Ferguson has the distinction of being both and still succeeding.

Cultural depiction:
A linesman forms an indispensable part of football forums (and blogs such as this) around the world as the reason of initiation of topics that promote abuse and hatred and other ill-feelings towards it.

Sir Alex Ferguson, the Godfather of English Football, sums it best when he says – “…you really need quality officials and we didn't get them today. It was a poor, poor performance.” And who can deny that?