The Ballad of Little Mickey O

This tale begins back in '98 in the cool Saint Etienne breeze. A young lad from Cheshire way had something special up his short Umbro sleeve. The lad had 23 goals in the big leagues, 23 times he had got his name up in lights. There was talk he could be the next big thing, Englands new hope, the man that could bring the titles back to Liverpool.

So he went on a bit of a jog did little Mickey Owen in France. Floppy haired Becks lofted it up. A deftness of touch and a burst of raw pace. A jink right, a jink left, and a sublime finish. Good God it was good. But that was it. That was best, his zenith, his peak. The mountains rolled away in front of him, he would never tread so high again, than he did that night in St Etienne. I doubt if he knew it, but ahead of little Mickey, lay the foothills and plains. Some high points yes, but at the end of it all was a city by the sea, all altitude lost, the Gallowgate called.

And so it went. Make no mistake, little Mickey still tucked them away; another eighteen then eleven more, before one glorious season that promised so much. Mickey won the cup by himself he did, one afternoon in Cardiff, then again in Dortmund. Three titles for Mickey and the Reds. This was it, they could challenge for the league, the Champions League. Gerrard knew how to do it, Mickey knew how to find the net. He got three on that night in Munchen, the first man do that since some bloke in red. Liverpool were ready, and so was Mickey. How could it fail? Yet fail it did, it all unravelled somehow, it didn't happen. It was time for a change.

So Mickey went Galactico, when he could get a game. The boy did good, he outscored Raul and everyone else in Spain. It was going so well. Except it wasn't somehow. Goals per minute is great n' all, but if you still ain't getting the minutes so what can you do? You could go to Newcastle I suppose.

Hoho, Mickey was to good for that, he could never be convinced tha Tyneside is where his future lay. But he did it, he wanted to play, hats off to the lad. Alas, injurys took their toll, he scored when he could but is wasn't what it was supposed to be. As he looked over his shoulder little Mickey could see European glories over on the Mersey. Should have gone back lad, should never have left. Turns out fortune dosen't allways favour the brave. You can be a man, and stride out from home, away from the worship of the Kop, and how does fate repay you, by exploding your knees that's how.

When Mickey was playing, he could still put them in, but that second night in Germany, something broke. The knee poping, the spiralling fall. Seemed like the nation recoiled, seemed like Mickey could be done, but he wasn't. The lad picked things up, and after a years out he was back on form. Keegan and Owen, how could that fail? Then some fat bastard ruined it. Mickey despaired with the rest of us. He got caught up in the great shitstorm of the Tyne. He lost face, he lost his England place, he got relegated for Christs sake.

But Mickey had one last trick up his sleeve. The boy couldn't jink no more. He is a poacher now, but if you are poaching for Manchester United, you are going to catch some pheasants, and so Mickey proved. Last gasp winners, European hattricks, the boys getting them. Not bad for a lad with knees held togethor with naught but bailor twine.

Alas Mickey's future is still up in the air. You need games for England lad so it seems, Bailor twine or no. But we need a poacher right, an impact sub? Surely no Italian can forget what good an past his prime hero can do. Take the lad Fabio. His knees may be past it, his speed gone, but he is a good lad.

I was going to be all scathing in the above rubbish, but it turned out all posetive. Who'd have thunk it?

Sympathy For The Devils

So you may have gathered that I am not generally a supporter of English teams in Europe, unless it is the Toon or Fulham (I lived opposite the Cottage for a year), but having just watched the United game, if a British team has to win, I would like it to be them.

But this shocks even me. My earliest football memory was of United being the bad guys, they where responsible for 'I would love it'. They ruined the glorious dream time and time again. Loosing the league to them was probably a bit early for me, but in the 1999 FA Cup final those bastards reduced me to tears. My controversial among ten year olds decsision to support Bayern Munich in the Champions League final seemed fully justified. I remember a glorius Shearer inspired 4-3 a few seasons later, still that win is up there in terms of my favourite Newcastle memories. Jose Mourinho's touchline run brought joy to my heart.

But something changed. I think it was Arsenal and Chelsea that did it. United didn't win the league for a few seasons, went out of Europe early a few times. My viewpoint definately softened. During the Moscow final i suprised myself. I genuinely wanted United to win, and the fact that they did so during a game in which Ronaldo missed a penalty and then cried lots was perfect.

Now Ronaldo and Kenyon are gone really am struggling to find an acceptable hate figure. So Fergie is an obvious one, but I can't do it. I don't know why, I just can't. And besides, a man who took Aberdeen to European glory would be a hero if he hadn't done those things to Kev.

No hate figures is one thing, but I like, actually like the fact that here is a team that can take on the best in the world, but that features on a regular basis Ferdinand, O'Shea, Carrick, Fletcher, Neville, Hargreaves (God rest his sole), Rooney, Giggs and now Owen. It feels like a British team, unlike Liverpool, Arsenal or Chelsea. And i can't help but love Nemanja Vidic, what with my natural soft spot for eastern european talent, Ji Sung Park was a favourite since the glory days of Mr Ahn and co. in 2002, and if Ji Sung loves Patrice Evra which he clearly does (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=br25EVIx8RA), then I can too.

See what I mean, i just used 'love' when talking about United. Still hope they loose at the weekend mind.