Landing at Hong Kong airport this week, I expected to be greeted by adverts for the next generation of electronics, or maybe banks, or cars. The sight of Stuart Downing in an Aston Villa kit on a bilboard was a little surprising. As another recent addition to Dalglish's Liverpool squad, Downing was an unfortunate selection by advertisers of the Barclays Asia Trophy. The 2011 version of the biannual four-team event involves his former club 1982 European champions Aston Villa, local up-and-coming champions Kitchee, 'superclub' Chelsea, and (as proof of the pull of the 'EPL', as well as some of it's more prestigious members) Blackburn Rovers. Although as Rovers fans would be quick to highlight, the Lancashire club have at least won the Barclays Premier League, something Liverpool are yet to achieve (at the time of writing) and Aston Villa could only dream of. Despite the popularity of the English game, I was able to go directly from airport to hostel to stadium and purchase a £20 ticket. Meeting up with friends local and Liverpudlian, we endured two games at the Hong Kong stadium that typified preseason football. Aston Villa and Blackburn did their best to maintain a goaless scoreline, before Daren Bent claimed the game's only goal. Playing for the right to play the victors and avoid their conquest in Saturday's final / play off, Kitchee then played host to Chelsea. Villa-Boas' men strolled to a four-goal victory, with double Didier Drogba strikes sanwiched between goals from Lampard and Sturridge. Substitute Fernando Torres received a warm reception by the majority of the crowd, but failed to find the net. Aston Villa and Chelsea are likely to face a more useful test of their credentials and fitness on Saturday's tournament decider. © Dr Joel Rookwood & Soccerphile Tags World Cup Pens World Cup Posters Hong Kong football

Dr Joel Rookwood The 2003-04 season had ground to a halt on Merseyside, as Houllier’s Liverpool breathed its last monotonous, mediocre breath. Unaware that an inspired Spanish successor would lead the club to the European crown twelve months later, I headed south for the final weekend of the French/Spanish leagues: Bordeaux V Monaco preceded by Athletic Bilbao V Atletico Madrid. Monaco were European Cup finalists four days later, but the memory of that weekend is dominated by the performance of one man: Fernando Torres. Unfazed by the prospect of playing away from home, the 20-year-old captain won the game on his own, scoring all three Atletico goals. When Fernando Torres signed for Liverpool three years later, memories of that Basque evening basking in the brilliance of El Nino came flooding back. A substantial fee was justified by an even more substantial return. £24m Torres went on to score 65 goals in 102 games for Liverpool. Output aside, the cultural assimilation of Liverpool’s number nine was a process that began even before his famous signature graced a Liverpool contract. Rumours began to circulate about the club’s motto appearing on his armband in his final days at Madrid. This is Torres’ autobiographical account: “It happened in San Sebastian when I was playing for Atletico Madrid against Real Sociedad. I was battling with a defender, and the captain’s armband I was wearing came loose and fell open. As it hung from my arm, you could see the message written on the inside, in English.” The resultant song in celebration of an overnight Liverpool hero almost wrote itself: “His armband proved he was a red, Torres, Torres. ‘You’ll never walk alone’ it said, Torres, Torres. We bought the lad from sunny Spain, he gets the ball he scores again, Fernando Torres Liverpool’s number nine.” This was a period in which local social movements to ‘Keep Flags Scouse’, ‘Reclaim the Kop’ and reignite the ‘Spirit of Shankly’ saw a few thousand regularly vocal attendees move to the centre of the Kop. Disagreements over conditions and behaviours and the resultant friction between stewards and Kopites in Block 306 led to a refusal to ‘remain seated’ and instead – ‘bounce’. Predictably the animated chorus was instilled in the midst of the Torres song. “We’re gonna bounce in a minute” became a warm up, a reminder, a threat, an inspiration. Paul Du Noyer notes that: “With its back-alley poverty and idolatrous passion for football Liverpool has been compared to South America.” Yet at no other European club would such adulation have been bestowed. Torres’ commitment to Liverpool was reinforced by his goals and his accolades. He claimed: “The Kop is magical and generous; it transmits a kind of positive energy that fills you with confidence. It never lets you down. It never leaves you.” His allegiance and performances were honoured in flags, songs and bounces. It must be said that Torres’ reign as King of the Kop was subject to unfortunate timing. Poisonous foreign ownership, restrictive transfer policies and mismanagement on and off the field frustrated the man who fired Spain to European and World titles during his tenure at Liverpool. Club honours continued to elude him however, as Liverpool’s domestic and continental challenge faltered. I pitied Torres, a forward of world renown, as seasons came and went without the addition of a striker or winger of any note. Talented but ill-fitting and unsettled players were rightly sold but wrongly replaced. With that in mind, many heartbroken Liverpudlians would have accepted Torres’ decision to move on to pastures new, under certain conditions. The model for the legitimate leaving of Liverpool is represented by the departure of European champion Xavi Alonso. His lucrative arrival at Real Madrid in no way diminished his Anfield legacy. His consistently professional and respectful conduct and choice of subsequent employers mean that the related sentiments that echoed around Anfield are no less true today: “everyone wants to know – Alonso, Alonso, Alonso.” If El Nino had have chosen to leave for a non-English club in return for £50m, and said nice things about Liverpudlians in doing so, trophyless Torres would have been well remembered. As anyone at Anfield would have admitted over the last three years, Torres deserves a stable club, an inspirational manager and a world class partner in crime. Yet after 1284 days at Liverpool, Torres chose the very day in which those elements were finally fused (infrastructural stability, legendary management and the signing of ‘the hand of the devil’ – Luis Suarez) to put in a transfer request. In general terms I am an advocate of this process, as the transparency usually aids accountability. However, the circumstances surrounding Torres’ departure are difficult to support, unless of course you wear the blue of Chelsea, or Everton. I hear both sets of fans were singing about “Chelsea’s number nine” during the FA Cup tie at Goodison on Saturday. (I also hear Everton are delighted with their new Eastern European signing by the way. Ingrid will replace Maureen the cleaner who has reportedly received a shock promotion taking her to Asda). When the request was made, Liverpool’s response was reflective of the ‘Liverpool Way’ of old. Dalglish was ultra impressive in his handling of potential Liverpool targets and departures. Whereas Spurs ‘gaffer’ ‘arry Redknapp seems happy to discuss any potential signing in the world to any journalist who will listen, the Liverpool equivalent chooses not to act like an ale house manager. Dalglish discourse is considered and humble, and it follows action rather than leads to it. When King Kevin Keegan broke Liverpool hearts by quitting the European Champions in 1977, our response was to sign Dalglish, the greatest Liverpool player there will ever be. When Ian Rush was sold to Juventus in 1987, the replacements of John Barnes, John Aldridge, Peter Beardsley and Ray Houghton helped produce the 1988 team, one of the greatest Championship winning sides to have ever graced this city. Keegan’s departure was inspired by a desire to play for a ‘bigger club’. Similarly, Fernando Torres’ opening words to Chelsea supporters was: “This is the target for every footballer, to try to play for one of the top clubs in the world. They [Chelsea] are one of the biggest teams in Europe and are always fighting for everything. It's my dream to win the Champions League and I'm sure I can, playing for Chelsea.” The implications about Liverpool are not difficult to interpret. If this is his objective however, it seems strange to move to a city that is yet to produce a single European Cup. In the day Torres left to increase his chances of winning the coveted prize, Paul Konchesky signed on loan for two-time winners Nottingham Forest. (Their supporters should brace themselves for some legendary performances on the field from Konchesky, and some notable pleasantries off it from his mum). Torres’ decision to join Chelsea is undeniably a choice to play for a club that represents everything Liverpool do not. Whether El Nino has made an inspired or insane decision, time will tell. Yet given his insight into Liverpool culture, he will know full well that his words and actions have served to sever all ties with Anfield, in a way no player ever has – Michael Owen included. Torres’ five fingered salute at Old Trafford is consigned to history. He now represents a club with a zero on their Champions League badge. In his autobiography Jamie Carragher discusses the “recent epic battles” between Liverpool and Chelsea, perceived to be “a clash between football tradition and the arrogant rich: While we celebrate our working class roots, the Londoners love nothing more than to wave £20 notes at our visiting fans. Their players are granted the luxury of behaving like celebrities and superstars. Ours are expected to abide by a different set of values – the Shankly laws – and to show humility in a city where being flash is frowned upon.” Torres’ Chelsea will play host to Liverpool on Sunday. Their recent acquisition will surely see a further demonstration of the philosophical gulf that exists between the clubs. But with the visitors having sold the injury prone albeit world class crank, it is worth remembering that Ryan Babel slipped out the Anfield exit this week – yet even the physically challenged rapping addict of social networking had the decency to tweet these departing words: “There is no other club than Liverpool with the anthem ‘YNWA’ – Beautiful. Wanna thank ALL of you fans but the ones in particular who believed in me and supported me all those years. It’s definitely a shame it didn't worked out for me and the club, but that’s how it is sometimes. I was blessed to work with one of the greatest football players and I learned a lot. I learn to love the LFC way, the city, the people and I made lots of friends in Liverpool.” Who ever thought a departing Babel would engender greater Scouse support than Torres? It is also worth remembering that Liverpool will have two exciting attacking recruits to select from when we face Chelsea (fitness permitting). The purchase of Newcastle’s Andy Carroll joins Luis Suarez from Ajax in what could prove a very threatening Liverpool attack. No man is bigger than a club like Liverpool. Torres was allowed to leave for Chelsea because he wanted to go there – but no position is more important than the manager, and at Liverpool – the future’s bright, the future’s Dalglish. In the meantime, I’m off to warm up the vocal chords for a good round of ‘Where’s your European Cups?’ I might leave the bouncing in the past though – where it and Torres belong. Tags World Cup Pens World Cup Posters Joel Rookwood Liverpool

Dr. Joel Rookwood The flights to Doha were booked without complication, accommodation was effortlessly secured, and match tickets were purchased with ease. My introductory experiences of international tournaments have rarely unfolded with such simplicity. Faz and I arrived at the Khalifa Stadium in Doha last night genuinely excited at the prospect of witnessing the opening ceremony of the Asian Cup. The deafening and visually spectacular pre-match firework display, which would have impressed even the dourest Mancunian, seemed ideal preparation. What followed however was a comedy of errors: Qatar vs Uzbekistan. I've never seen a stadium so disinterested in a football match. Faz and I might hail from Liverpool, a city with an almost idolatrous passion for the game, but this level of indifference to the sport is something you won't find in many places - even Milton Keynes. The performance of the hosts made me long for a cessation of their national alcohol restrictions, or that I too had come dressed from head-to-toe in a thobe/gutra, if only to allow me to sleep without incurring suspicion. I would have shielded my face with the "Qatar" scarf I bought outside the ground, but it was covered in Arabic writing, which could mean anything. 'We hate football' would be the most suitable sentiment, but that was admittedly unlikely. I decided not to risk the facial disguise, and just en-joy/dure the game. By contrast, the handful of travelling supporters made far more entertaining viewing. They actually watched the match, and I'm pretty sure they knew the rules. (Which probably helps explain why Uzbekistan's initial bid to host the 2022 World Cup finals got lost in the mail, somewhere over the Chatkal mountains). Like any self-respecting European my knowledge of the Stans derives chiefly from watching Borat. I'm not certain whether Uzbekistan is one of those countries with 'inferior potassium' or if they are indeed a nation of 'assholes'. I'm quite sure however that many Qataris came to the latter conclusion tonight when the visitors had the audacity to defeat the hosts in the opening game. Not that the home supporters I spoke to were in buoyant mood before kick off - and with the game only minutes old, I was able to see why. I saw Sudan play in the African Nations tournament in Ghana a few years back, and was almost sickened by their stark inability. As a more recent frame of reference, I'm a Liverpool season ticket holder, and we are managed (at the time of writing) by Roy Hodgson. Yet even by such lowly standards, this Qatar side are genuinely horrific. Both teams spent the first half seemingly determined to avoid respectable pass completion rates. It was like watching two sides (both managed by Roy Hodgson) of overweight, partially sighted strangers play netball, at altitude, in the dark, on an ice rink, with a medicine ball. Occasionally a player would maintain possession by finding a team mate, but that was usually as a direct consequence of shooting, from inside his/her own half. The visitors (who will probably win the tournament now after I have so publicly offered such disparaging remarks) clearly had the balance of ability and ideas. However, their refusal to capitalise on the gulf in capacity throughout the opening period triggered a host of conspiracy theories from yours truly. Any suspicions that they might each have been offered a goat farm in return for a goalless draw were removed however, when the Uzbeks took the lead midway through the second half. As a second and final meaningful event of the evening, that lead was doubled thirteen minutes from time. There's no point me telling you the goal scorer's name(s). I'd have to look up the details and I would probably not spell names correctly - and let's face it, neither of us really cares. Let's hope tonight's encounter at the Al Gharafa stadium (Scouse translation - 'Old Giraffe Ground') is an improvement, on the field at least. Oh wait, I’ve just scanned the match ticket - it says 'Bahrain v China'. Scrap the optimism - but stay with me, things can only improve. © Dr. Joel Rookwood & Soccerphile.com Find the latest Asian Cup odds at Bet 365 , which has LIVE STREAMING of the Asian Cup matches. Japan are 7/2 favorites, followed by South Korea and Australia at 9/2, Saudi 15/2 and Iran 8/1. Tags World Cup Pens World Cup Posters Asian Cup football Doha Qatar

We had seen World Cup matches on consecutive days in Pretoria, Johannesburg, Rustenburg and Nelspruit, followed by four days of sightseeing in Botswana , South Africa, Lesotho and Swaziland. It had been an incredible first week in Southern Africa, crammed with unforgettable experiences. Sitting on Spion Kop hill at the half way point of the trip, surveying yet another picturesque slice of African history, the three amigos discussed the proposed itinerary for week two. It was then that we realised a more daunting journey lay ahead. The completed route, ink-stained on our increasingly tattered map, seemed a journey of insignificant distance relative to the mammoth stretch of road that lay before us. But Scousers are not prone to intimidation. We are no strangers to overconfidence however, particularly when the context is of a footballing nature. With that I went to buy another biro – and prepared myself for another week of farcical conversation, nonsensical radio commentary, breathtaking views and ludicrous driving, oh, and some World Cup football. We completed our 2000+km southbound journey – which had begun in Kruger Park two days earlier – arriving in Cape Town the evening before Portugal were due to play the curiously named 'Democratic People's Republic of Korea'. Cape Town just has to be seen to be believed. It feels removed from the rest of the country, and indeed the continent. It is more easily comparable with Sydney and San Francisco than Luanda and Lusaka. Table Mountain, arguably Africa’s most recognisable landmark, comes into view long before you reach the city limits; drawing you in to the incredible metropolis and all that lies within. We arrived just as the sun was setting, without a hotel or a match ticket, but unfazed by the prospect of securing either. The following day match tickets initially seemed hard to come by, as inexperienced supporters caved in to desperation, paying grossly inflated prices, which inflamed the street value. Unperturbed by the black market and the grey skies, we sauntered around the architectural statement that is Green Point Stadium before casually purchasing tickets for the equivalent of £14. Those of you who recall the score line and possess a brain will realise that worked out at £2 per goal. My former flat mate is the current match analyst of the Portuguese side, and he was understandably excited at the 7-0 drubbing. I'm sure the Portugal camp will be dreaming of lifting the Jules Rimet trophy at Johannesburg's Soccer City stadium on July 11th - although European pretenders to the World Cup crown will have to be at their best to overcome the very evident South American threat. The following morning we woke to the rare prospect of a day entirely free of both football and travelling. Adverse conditions at sea prevented a visit to Robben Island , and instead we had to settle for the view of the infamous prison that held Nelson Mandela from the top of Table Mountain. I was disinterested in the two-hour wait for the death-defying cable car, the route of which stretched almost vertically up the famous rock before disappearing into the cloud known as the 'table cloth'. Alerted to the possibility of a human-powered ascent, we opted for the walk instead, despite the lingering effects of the Cape Town nightlife. The sign at the bottom of the mountain suggested a challenging investment of 2.5 hours was required to reach the summit. Eight minutes later Mick had begun his dissent, about four steps in. With the Atlantic Ocean stretching out behind him, his claims about altitude sickness were about as water tight as the North Korean defence. Within an hour however Danny and I were looking down on Cape Town from the top, the cloud having the decency to shift west, offering us superb views in every direction in the process. As football tourists from around the globe posed for photographs, I looked out along the south coast in the direction of our next port of call, in complete awe of South Africa. With a heart full of admiration, a mind full of expectation and a mouth full of conversation, we reluctantly bid farewell to Cape Town and headed to Nelson Mandela Bay. Having seen representatives from all six confederations play in our first five games, we were largely indifferent about the prospect of watching any more World Cup football. No more so than concerning England's must-win encounter against European minnows Slovenia. I was aiming to avoid a rant about the English in my SA 2010 columns but we’ve encountered too many of Ingerlund's finest, carving my resolve. I promise to keep the following to a single sentence: Being English is about driving a German car to an Irish bar for a Belgian beer, then on the way home grabbing an Indian curry or Turkish kebab, then sitting on a Swedish sofa and watching American sitcoms on Japanese TV and still being suspicious of anything foreign – only in England can you get a pizza to your home faster than an ambulance, only in England do the banks leave the doors open but chain the pens to the counter, only in England do the supermarkets make sick people walk to the back of the store for prescriptions while healthy people get their cigarettes at the front; only in England do unimaginative, unoriginal football supporters travel abroad en mass to intimidate anyone who has the audacity to be born any other 'race' but English, singing 'God Save the Queen' without believing in God or the monarchy, but just as an excuse to utter the words 'no surrender'; only the English travel to a nation that taught the world how to overcome racism, but see nothing wrong with singing 'Britons never shall be slaves'; only the English moan about vuvuzelas and then rely on a trumpet to start every song; only the English can make Wayne Rooney seem like a level-headed social commentator, and only the English complain about their tabloids destroying team morale and then boo their side, buy copies of The Sun and break into the changing room to 'give it' to the manager. That being said, England are impossible to ignore; they travel in numbers, comprehensively representing the most extensive professional club network in the world, and always display an impressive if unimaginative set of banners. The laboured defeat of the Slovenians did not make the footballing world sit up and take notice, but the team remain unbeaten (at the time of writing) and deserve their unspectacular qualification to the knock out stages. In truth we had only included an England game in the itinerary to observe the fans and to watch Jamie Carragher play. The fact he was suspended did not stop us from hunting him down and having a quick chat about Liverpool. Thankfully he made more sense than his inebriated dad who we had sat with for most of the match. We also bumped into Roy Hodgson, who is rumoured to be on the brink of a high profile role, possibly at Anfield. For the record, he refused to comment, but agreed at least to pose for a picture. Next up was a trip to hectic Durban, where Brazil and Portugal were to contest their final group game. As is often the case where the South American giants are concerned, tickets proved elusive. We settled for our first experience of a South African fan park, the goalless encounter unfolding in the Durban stadium behind us. Despite an extensive search, £300 was the cheapest ticket we found, which was £100 more than the combined cost of the previous six matches we had been to. Masking our slight disappointment, we then headed for the beach in search of whales and surfers. Then with the tank full of petrol, the trainers full of sand, and the memory card full of photos, we set off towards our final destinations of Soweto and then Johannesburg, concluding the journey in the city where it had began two weeks earlier. As night fell on our last evening in South Africa, we soaked up the view of roadside fields ablaze with fire, beneath an orange moon and a red sun separated by a huge African sky. If you want to contemplate and experience the wonder of God's creation, then come to Africa, where evidence abounds. If you want to encounter a celebration of humanity then travel to the group stages of a World Cup, where fans from all over the globe congregate, unified by the international language of the ultimate social tool. The opening fortnight of the tournament has shown South Africa to exceed every expectation. Fears about security have proven to be unfounded, and every question about the capacity of an African nation to host an event of such magnitude had been answered. Of course no World Cup tournament passes without negative incident. Added to that, this is not a country devoid of social problems - you don't have to scratch far beneath the surface to encounter the hangover of apartheid. We have met local idiots who claim real South Africans don’t follow 'Bafana Banana', but should instead only support the white-dominated Springbok rugby team. But the handful of encounters with the mindless minority should not be allowed to detract from the reality of a people and a place brimming with warmth, with compassion, with hope. South Africa continues to teach the world about the dangers of ignorance and the possibilities of co-existence, and the World Cup serves as its latest offering. The continent and the country has earned our respect, our admiration and our gratitude. Tags World Cup Pens World Cup Posters World Cup football

South Africa is an epic land at the tip of the world's most epic continent. It is a country that almost defies description, a constellation of attributes, a constant source of awe, intrigue and inspiration. It may be the 121st nation I have had the privilege to explore, but comparisons seem futile – this place is simply unique. A complex political history has forged a complicated series of intersecting cultures. The diverse, warm and at times problematic people have inherited or migrated to a sublime slice of earth, teething with an embarrassment of riches. For Mick, Danny and myself interacting with this smorgasbord of scenery seemed more a necessity than an option. The World Cup may have brought us here, but there is so much to discover that a few football-free days were inevitable. After all, it is the place and the people more than the football that we find ourselves discussing during the daily late night pints before succumbing to fatigue. Having seen four games in our first four days in South Africa , we spent our next four days on the road, in exploration mode. Of course football is always on the African horizon. Unlike previous World Cups in Japan and even Germany, where it was easy to escape the hysteria, the South African mindset is completely consumed by this global sporting event. Impromptu games of football with locals and tourists, frequent stops at road work sites together with general conversations with hotel and restaurant staff are all dominated by talk of the plight of Bafana Bafana and who will lift the trophy on July 11th. Thrice daily match coverage on national radio has been another travelling companion, keeping us informed of the latest football developments. The commentary was annoying at first, to the extent that I almost began to long for Britain's Martin Tyler and Garth Crookes. But we soon warmed to the senseless musings of South African commentators, who would scream with excitement at a two-yard pass or a throw-in and then casually hide the details of an imminent red card or penalty save in the midst of a random story about where Samuel Eto'o's mum does her weekly shopping. The half time analysis soon became our favourite feature of the matches however, where the level of punditry reminded me of a Zambian sitcom I once had the misfortune of sitting through in Lusaka airport. Imagine your mate's dad, you know, the socially inept one who doesn't know anything about football and likes something stupid like Formula One instead, discussing the events of the first half with your Nan, who says things like middlefielder, 'they need to kick the ball harder', and 'they are losing so they need to score some goals'. Maybe this is where Channel Five in the UK recruit their panel of 'experts'. Maybe not though, as I'm not sure Colin Murray and Stan Collymore are quite of the standard of Radio SA2000. Our cultural explorations began with a form of safari, tailored of course to our unique interests. We stumbled upon the turn off for Kruger National Park just before inadvertently entering Mozambique. We arrived just after sunset, to find the gates locked. The manager of the adjacent lodge told us to return at 6am and pitying our lack of organisation even booked us rooms at a nearby guesthouse. The conversation then somehow got onto Braais, the South African food-centred social event that we were warned not to refer to as a 'barbee'. She was shocked to the point of being offended that we were yet to experience this national institution, and insisted on hosting us the following evening at her house. She would bring friends and food, we would bring ale and charm. At least that was the plan. So a day on safari in South Africa's smallest car, followed by the complete culinary experience was on the cards. As we drove through the world's most spectacular animal park the following day, the three least knowledgeable wildlife commentators exchanged theories about matters of real zoological importance. Meaningful debates transpired centred around significant questions such as: who would win a fight between a hippo and a lion? Is Kruger better than Knowsley Safari Park? What's Gary Neville doing in that cage? And will they mind if we feed cereal to these monkeys? The braai that followed was worth the trip alone and completed a memorable day, although I'll avoid expanding as to why. Consecutive day trips to the landlocked countries of Swaziland and Lesotho followed. Not that we progressed far in either nation, as there was the little matter of not having the correct hire car insurance. So we only spent a day in each nation, just to be cautious. Swaziland presented more related problems, whose streets had more potholes than Luke Chadwick's face. Both places proved well worth the investment in time and risk however. As the last remaining absolute monarchy in Africa, Swaziland is a nation embedded between Mozambique and South Africa and felt culturally distinct from both. We exchanged waves and smiles with everyone we saw, the colour of our skin, and selection of attire promoting amused response from locals. Lesotho, known as 'Africa's Kingdom in the Sky' was breathtaking in both the metaphorical and the literal sense. The people of this mountainous nation were similarly friendly, although we were lucky to escape with our football after a group of kids who had joined us for a kick around seemed determined to keep hold of it. They settled for 50 Rand instead. The following morning we set off in the direction of our own slice of history, an event hidden in the excess of events South Africa has experienced. After bribing our way out of an early morning speeding fine, we headed for Ladysmith. The town is littered with memorials to battlefields from several conflicts, notably the Boer Wars. With British involvement a notable feature, one particular site has close connections with our hometown of Liverpool. Prepare yourself for a brief history lesson - stay with me. During an early period of success with league title wins in 1901 and 1906, Liverpool FC constructed a new single-tier stand at the traditionally working class end of Anfield stadium, which would eventually house up to 27,000 supporters. Liverpool Echo sports editor Ernest Jones suggested it should be named the Spion Kop , after the hill site of a famous Boer battle in January 1900, which claimed the lives of 322 men mainly from Liverpool. The Kop in Liverpool was the first of its kind, as a platform for large numbers of supporters to collectively and innovatively express loyalties and opinions relating to football and various socio-political and cultural elements. The Kop became a scarf-waving celebration of civic solidarity, providing fans of other clubs with a football education. Numerous clubs in England and abroad have since adopted the term Kop as the name of one of their own stands. But it all started at Liverpool, and that in turn has its roots in South African history. A visit to the impressively kept site and a picture with the 'THOSE SCOUSERS GET EVERYWHERE' banner seemed inevitable. That visit left us about 1200km from our next point of interest, the capital city and world renowned metropolis of Cape Town. Next up is a welcome re-acquaintance with World Cup football, starting with Portugal against North Korea at Green Point Stadium - if we survive the drive. © Dr Joel Rookwood & Soccerphile.com Tags World Cup Pens World Cup Posters World Cup football

The three amigos landed in Johannesburg, amidst the familiar fusion of exhaustion and anticipation. Mick had travelled to South Africa with what can only be described as a fringe, Danny had come with a desire to talk to every fan, man, woman, child and animal he encountered, and I had entered with a vague itinerary, sketched out and shaped by the in-flight perusal of the guide book purchased en route to the airport. From the moment we stepped off the plane the sun shone with relentless consistency, and the enthusiasm on the streets was palpable. Early evidence suggested that the gracious hosts were even more excited than their visitors, the (in)famous Vuvuzela serving as the definitive mode of expression. 13th June - our first day in South Africa - signalled a painful farewell to my twenties. I was keen to commiserate with football and beer, and the Ghana v Serbia match in nearby Pretoria provided the likeliest opportunity. The only congratulations were due to FIFA, both for sanctioning the sale of ale in World Cup stadia, and for inadvertently shaping the black market by offering the cheapest tickets to South Africans. Wedged into an embarrassingly undersized hire car, we headed north in search of tickets. After a futile trip to the nonsensical centrally located ticket office, we progressed towards the Loftus Versfeld stadium, where we effortlessly secured a trio of adjacent seats at near face value. It was a promising start to the tournament. The Serbians had been tipped to go far in the competition, but on the evidence of their first game they are unlikely to qualify from Group D . The Ghanaians were not particularly impressive either, although they undoubtedly deserved their goal with which they secured victory. A certain banner proclaiming ‘THOSE SCOUSERS GET EVERYWHERE’ provided the backdrop to the decisive penalty kick. Slow motion repeats were beamed around the world to emphasise the point. In the stands the Serbs were few in number and unwavering in their collective refusal to smile. By contrast the Ghanaians were the polar opposite, plentiful, colourful, vocal and cheerful. Having spent a memorable fortnight following Ghana around the African Nations tournament they hosted in 2008, it was a pleasure to re-acquaint myself with both the impressive and the senseless elements of West African fandom. Spanning both categories, the fan with a smoking pot the size of a football resting on his head unsurprisingly drew some confused gazes. After the game we stumbled upon a fan fest, where Mick proudly displayed his Tony and Gay haircut, asking everyone he saw for their opinion – in incomprehensible Scouse. Meanwhile Danny spoke to representatives of a dozen countries from Mexico to Australia. None of them understood Mick and none of them liked his haircut. The following day we headed back to Jo’burg, intent on seeing Holland play Denmark at the impressive World Cup final venue. We arrived at Soccer City a minute before kick off, but were still confident of picking up another triplet of face value tickets. Supply vastly outstrips demand at this World Cup. Minutes later, we sauntered into the ground that Mick described as ‘the spaceship from District 9’, in time to see Liverpool duo Daniel Agger and Dirk Kuyt head in the game’s only goals. Unfortunately for the Dane, his landed in his own net, and with that the Dutch took the points. With the characteristically balanced British media representation of South Africa’s alleged social problems seeping through our consciousness, we were keen to minimise the risk-taking during the rest of the day in Jo’burg. So we headed to a shopping mall to purchase something vaguely edible, and of course, a football. Four yards later Danny was in deep conversation with two Argentineans, and a South African lady had put a smile on Mick’s face with false claims of liking his hair. When he returned from cloud nine an impromptu game of piggy in the middle started. Once Mick had realised the limitations of the game as a two-player event, he encouraged the involvement of various intrigued bystanders. Two hours later we finally lost the ball thanks to a misguided header from Mick’s quiff, signalling the end of a memorable experience. Players from five continents representing various levels of inebriation, ability, hairstyles and political persuasions had completely taken over a corner of the shopping mall. When new players asked where we were from we simply replied ‘the United Nations’. The chances of the game being stopped were limited by the exuberant participation of the mall’s two security guards, whose brief probably included preventing such activities. This was South Africa at its best. We headed to Rustenburg on our third day to see the site of Robert Green’s finest hour; expecting a game poor both in quality and attendance. Armed with this attitude, the New Zealand v Slovakia contest did not fail to disappoint. The tournament organisers had been widely advertising the availability of tickets for this highly forgettable encounter. Neither country is used to football at this level – indeed it was Slovakia’s first ever appearance in the tournament – and it showed. A painfully poor standard of football did little to lift the spirits of the paltry crowd. We suppressed our boredom by walking around the ground to see if the view improved from different sides of the pitch. It didn’t. Although the Slovaks took the lead and look set to lead Group F after the first round of matches, Liverpool’s Martin Skrtel could not prevent a late Kiwi goal which earned New Zealand a share of the spoils. Continuing the theme of questionable decisions we decided to leave the ground a minute prior to the equaliser, before heading to neighbouring Botswana for tea. That sounded very Rhodesian, but in reality it was only Coke and Pringles. At 10pm we were unsure of which country we would be sleeping in that night, never mind which hotel. Just the way it should be. The following morning we woke somewhere near an international border, in a suspect B&B which refused to serve us breakfast. The morbidly obese lady at the reception did not appreciate my suggestion that her establishment-cum-service should be renamed ‘bed’, although we cleared the air over a chat about Mick’s hair, which by this stage was spiralling out of control. Danny came over for a ‘quick’ chat but eventually we shut him up and were on the road again, heading east. The general aim was to head for Kruger Park , but the closer our position came to the Mozambique border, the greater the possibility of adding another World Cup fixture to the collection. We arrived at the distinctive and distinctly impressive Mbombala Stadium in Nelspruit just before kick off. At that point I paid a local the equivalent of ten English pounds for a ticket to the most entertaining game we had seen. The skilful Chileans comfortably overcame the Hondurans 1-0, although that margin did not accurately reflect the gulf in ability between the two teams. With Chile completing the quintet of impressive South American teams, expect the World Cup’s most successful continent to produce another winner in South Africa. Day four, game four – not a bad start to the World Cup. Now Kruger calls, as we head towards the legendary wildlife national park that has a larger land mass than Holland. Allegedly there is a monkey there with a bigger mouth than Danny and more hair than Mick, but I’ll have to meet him to believe it. That aside, in a temporary break from football fever, day five is all about the big five. © Joel Rookwood & Soccerphile.com Tags World Cup Pens World Cup Posters World Cup football

With the club finishing a mere four points off the Premier League summit in 2009, succumbing to only two league defeats in the process, this campaign was supposed to be full of promise for Liverpool. In reality however, it is proving a nightmare season for Rafael Benitez and his team. In truth the Rafa Regime has always maintained ‘on the brink’ status. In his first seasons, Champions League and FA Cup finals were won on penalties in 2005 and 2006 respectively, with the following seasons culminating in a narrow defeat in the European Cup final, and then semi-final. With the Anfield title famine an ongoing source of suffering, 2009 was all about the obligation that is the Premier League title. The club were ultimately denied the coveted prize, although once again, in circumstances that could easily have been reversed. Love him or loathe him, Benitez is right about one thing, the difference between success and defeat is all about ‘the small details’. The devil it seems, is in the detail. One thing that does seem certain is that this season will produce the least convincing champions in Premier league history. Whichever club lifts the crown in May will likely do so despite a sultry points tally and a string of defeats – a record that in other seasons would no doubt barely have warranted a top four finish and subsequent Champions League qualification. But the challenge of the second quadruple of teams – Man City, Spurs, Aston Villa and Everton – below the ‘big four’ is collectively stronger than it has previously been, and the performances and results of those above them have hardly been the stuff of champions. Liverpool serve as the most compelling case in this respect. In a campaign that is amounting to the definition of underachievement, virtually the same team as that which came so close to the title last year, is languishing in the melancholy of its own mediocrity this season. The defeat at Wigan on Monday night was Liverpool’s ninth in the league, and the tough fixtures are far from over. It was such form that Liverpool took to Lille in northern France for the Europa League last sixteen clash on Thursday night. Having been present at 49 consecutive Liverpool European away fixtures heading into 2010, stretching back to a match against Galatasaray in 2002, I could be forgiven for considering my opinion on Liverpool’s European plight a qualified one. However, with work commitments being what they are, I was unable to attend the recent Europa League fixture against Unirea in Bucharest. (Ironically I was instead presenting a lecture at a sport politics conference in Leeds on fan participation and social movements at Liverpool Football Club). The second leg of the tie against the Romanian minnows followed a painfully uneventful 1-0 home victory at Anfield. In the return leg, Liverpool ended up strolling into the second knock-out round of the competition, despite conceding an early goal which briefly levelled the aggregate score. After surviving the brief scare against the Romanian champions, most Liverpool fans seemed content at the prospect of a tie against Lille. PSV, Barcelona, and Marseille have all been repeat visits in my almost-half-century of trips to the continent, and Lille was at least a break from the norm. In addition, despite our horrendous form, lowly Lille were surely not destined to offer much competition over two legs, particularly with the latter fixture set to be played at Anfield. The short journey across the Channel appeared ideal preparation for the quarter-final, and we were grateful to avoid the long trip to the over familiar Istanbul that would have been on the cards had Lille lost to Fenerbahce in the previous round. Sixteen lads met at an exclusive Huyton alehouse the night before the match, ready and suitably intoxicated for the ridiculous departure time of 22:50. I can only imagine the driver of the minibus, the ageless Pops, was merely trying to get us accustomed to the farcical Europa League match kick-off times. The game was an 18:00 start (GMT) at Stadium Lille-Metropole, with the return leg set to commence at the still more absurd time of 20:05 next Thursday. Football is for the fans, apparently. Such pathetic organisation – not to mention the lowly status of the competition – contributed little to Liverpool’s sense of connection to a trophy that the club is apparently looking to secure for a record fourth time in Hamburg in May. Judging by the performance of the away team, and the atmosphere generated by the visiting support in the stands, no one in the Liverpool corner appeared committed to anything but a sharp European exit. The 1100 away fans that managed to secure a ticket, in a stadium with a capacity roughly twenty-times that number, appeared largely disinterested in the tie. The only action of note off the pitch was the lighting of a flare by an unnamed Kopite a quarter of an hour into the second half. It rose the collective spirit, but only temporarily. As Belgian teenager Eden Hazard shot Lille into an unlikely but ultimately decisive one-goal lead in the concluding stages of the second half, I looked down at the succession of ‘Europa League’ advertisement boards and noticed that each was interspersed with others containing the word ‘respect’ – representing UEFA’s latest blood-sucking political campaign, I mean, value-laden mission ‘for the good of the game’. But given the calibre of opposition, unsociable kick-off times, and multiple redundant tracksuited officials, together with the dominance of the continent's premier tournament, it is becoming increasingly difficult to ‘Respect Europa League’. In reflection, the pressure that Benitez is under is partly a consequence of results and performances this year – including fifteen defeats thus far in all competitions – and of the six years of failure to win the league title. However, the regime that functions on the brink has also unquestionably produced some notable achievements, and it is also the difficulty of living up to and reproducing these considerable highs that Benitez is currently struggling with. Burdened by the weight of Anfield expectation, he has simultaneously become the victim of his own success, and the reputation he has forged. However, in addition to Liverpool’s results this year, his recent public statements – pledging a fourth place finish, refusing to state where he will be employed next season, and drawing on his past achievements – are also worrying signs. Yet as concerning as the first two are, the latter development is particularly alarming. Benitez has argued in no uncertain terms that he has restored Liverpool pride, which is undeniably the case. It was only nine years ago that victory in the UEFA Cup (admittedly as part of a quintet of trophies secured that season) under Gerard Houllier saw a frenzied response from Liverpool supporters. Now, mere involvement in the newly branded version comes closer to representing a source of shame. However, publicly reminding the footballing world of one’s own achievements is not an act undertaken by a self-assured man who confidently expects to achieve more of the same. The image of Jose Mourinho’s six-fingered salute as Chelsea secured the 2007 FA Cup serves as a notable contemporary example. His record of a half dozen trophies in three years was impressive, yet his fingers were not seen clasping another trophy in West London blue, and within the year he was managing in Italy. For Benitez, a similar threat has now entered the frame of possibility. There are cracks in this regime, and the only mechanism of repair begins with satisfying those three concerns: Secure a top four finish, win the Europa League and remain in charge next season to rectify the errors in judgement. To that end, dispatching Lille next Thursday night has simply become an obligation.