SWEDE DREAMS ARE MADE OF THIS

“ANOTHER great night for Swedish football” was the verdict of controversial rock critic George Byrne on the European demise of Manchester United at the hands of IFK Gothenburg, last seen being thrashed to within an inch of their lives by a League of Ireland selection.

Yes, “The Filth” of Old Trafford have made a few enemies over the years, and it is difficult to imagine the levels of ecstasy which that 4-0 slaughter in Barcelona or the shame of Gothenburg induces in the heart of the Red-baiter.

Foul Play is pretty ambivalent about The Filth, feeling the odd pang of loathing, but nothing of a congenital nature.

I am appalled at their exploitation of the young and the stupid through their massive merchandising wing, but I kinda like them when they play football the way that they can.

The problem for United seems to be the increasingly peripheral role which this football-playing has in the general swing of things.

“Giggsy” seems to be dropping in to Old Trafford of a Saturday, pale and wan after another promotional shoot for a new bedspread. His appearances are keeping his name in the public eye, and helping to shift a few more units of his computer game, but the full-backs of this world are not exactly weeping with fear any more at the potential humiliation which he will wreak.

In recent games, there have been signs that Paul Ince and Mark Hughes see it as their sacred duty to impress upon the referee what a total wanker he is, and to play a bit of football in passing, not very accurately.

The disasters in Spain and Sweden have plunged the British soccer community into its monthly bout of psychotherapy, wondering how far they have fallen behind the swarthy foreigners, and whether they are only codding themselves about the affluence of the Premier League.

In the Filth’s case, it is a tough one to call, because they didn’t play in the British style or in any other style during the Champions League. They played in the manner of extremely stupid people who were comprehensively trounced by teams who simply used whatever grey matter they possess, and found United bamboozled by mere simplicities.

Doing it doggy-style, United were incapable of summoning up any of their strengths, while the extremely average Gothenburg knew no weakness.

It is distressing for the British pundit to see decidedly ordinary Swedes pouncing with rapier-like thrusts on the slightest opportunity, while their prime contenders bluster around the rank amateurs and village idiots. But it is primarily a question of brain-power rather than manpower.

The Britons don’t regard the cerebral aspects of the game with much deference, whereas Johnny Foreigner never stops using his head when the shit hits the fan.

Witness the alarming manner in which Athletico Bilbao stole the match from Newcastle, 3-0 to the good and already placing their orders for Brown Ale in the clubhouse bar.

Aston Villa had the better of it against the wily Turks, and still managed to die roaring, conceding a simple opportunist goal of remarkable similarity to the one which killed United in Gothenburg.

The British teams, when they perform, can maul the opposition pretty horribly, but seem incapable of finishing them off. Meanwhile, the “continental” outfits have advanced doctorates in the art of the sucker punch.

But let us not dwell on such melancholy matters, and consider instead the lifestyle of Mr. Paul Merson of Arsenal and England.

Phew, rock ’n’ roll!

“Merse,” it seems, found himself at a stage of his life where he was unable to pass a betting office without dallying to wager on the outcome of various sporting events.

He found little success as a punter, and this had a draining effect on his cash-flow situation.

This led to a sense of general depression, to which he responded in a less-than-logical, but emotional understandable manner.

He participated in “marathon drinking sessions”, often involving, and kept buoyant by the ingestion of large quantities of Colombian marching powder. On a good night, he would put away some £150 worth of the white lines, feeling that this would ameliorate the effects of the booze on the morrow.

Merse was clearly confused about the nature of “masking agents”. He didn’t want a hangover, so he settled for cocaine-induced psychosis instead. It may have been good for the ego, but it probably led to mazey dribbles of the type that George Graham would not appreciate.

There is talk of another England international being an enthusiastic consumer of the old courage-creator, while the reprobate Mark Dennis, late of Southampton, is adamant that coke is “the footballer’s drug”.

It’s a far cry from the likes of George Best railing against the evils of “drugs,” but seeing no harm in a naggin of brandy along with his Cornflakes.

Then there was Mr. Jan Molby, of Liverpool and Denmark, who, in the course of a legal dispute, revealed that he regularly incurred expenses of some £600 a week on gambling, drinking and women. Presumably, he squandered the rest.

For all the sanctimonious outrage about the leisure pursuits of Merse and Molby, it is sad to think that Man. United don’t even have the excuse of being out of their gourds at the time.