A million miles removed from the opulent lives of the millionaire players and the neatly coiffured executives, the reality of Portsmouth’s financial desperation came home to roost. It didn’t, however, come home to roost for those that can afford it or those that are to blame for this whole sorry mess in which they find themselves.
Category: The Ball
It all started around a week ago, when a committee member at Northern League club Billingham Town found an envelope taped to the gates of their Bedford Terrace ground. Inside the envelope was a writ from Hartlepool United, who allege a debt of £10,443.97 owed for improvements carried out to the ground by them.
To anyone that has been following the modus operandi of the British gutter press for the last few years or so, the news that the England hotel at The Grove Hotel at Chandler’s Cross, near Watford in Hertfordshire was bugged prior to their friendly match against Egypt will come as little surprise.
There is something strangely appealing about a really bad pitch. In an age in which so many aspects of football seem to be so sanitised, there is something quite comforting a pitch with puddles on it or one that is completely and utterly devoid of grass.
Spring is in the air, and since it is the start of a new season, it must be time for a new financial crisis at Weymouth Football Club. The club was relegated from the Blue Square Premier at the end of last season and is already adrift at the bottom of the Blue Square South and facing relegation for the second season in a row.
Portsmouth beat Birmingham City 2-0 at Fratton Park yesterday afternoon to reach the FA Cup finals for the second time in three years. This in itself is a remarkable achievement considering the absolute chaos that is unfolding behind the scenes at the club, but it seems likely that any financial benefits from this will be the equivalent of applying a sticking plaster to a gaping wound.
As quietly as a mouse, spring has sprung. The FA Cup quarter-final between Fulham and Tottenham Hotspur this afternoon is a 5.20 kick-off, but the sun is still glittering on the River Thames behind Craven Cottage as the teams kick off and the football season, which, throughout the winter months, starts to take on the feel of being endless, is starting to feel considerably more finite now.
So, there are just ninety-eight days left until the start of the 2010 World Cup finals in South Africa. As a very small number of you may be aware, this site started out as a World Cup site almost four years ago and we plan to mark the coming of our second World Cup finals with a build-up to and coverage of the tournament that will make your eyes and ears bleed with their luxuriousness.
FSF will remain anonymous, then, according to The Football League. No surprises there, but how are we supposed to take them seriously when they talk about transparceny in football club ownership.
Thursday night, of course, is Mungo night, and this week’s “Shit Shit Mungo” sees art (to the extent that this can be calld “art”) mirror life, as news of Mungo’s affair with a woman from 1967 (which he managed when he passed through a vortex in time and space – oh, do keep up) breaks in the present day.
Roll up, roll up. It’s the biggest circus in town. This year, without a single ball having been kicked, hasn’t been a terribly successfully one for England so far and, as a result, Egypt could be forgiven for thinking that they are the home team at Wembley tonight.