LET’S BE FAIR to Sam Allardyce: it’s probably not completely accurate to label him ‘the England manager that Brexit made’.
I mean, however much his appointment might seem to chime with the prevailing Little Englander climate, he’s far from the football equivalent of real ale pubs and Spitfire appreciation societies.
For instance, there’s his groundbreaking use of statistical analysis, his ability to man-manage the full gamut of players from Kevin Nolan to Nicolas Anelka and his love of transcendental meditation (admittedly he described the latter in a recent press conference as ‘trans-dental meditation’, making the search for higher consciousness sound like a toothache remedy).
Associated Press
Associated Press
But the notion of Sam Allardyce: England Manager still feels very much of the times in which we now live. Think about it: is there any other point in recent history when this could have been remotely possible?
This may be completely the wrong idea, but at just the right time.
While Allardyce has survived and, to an extent, thrived in the multi-cultural bazaar of the Premier League, he remains quintessentially of English football. But more than just that, he evokes a sense of well-made Britishness that harks back to their glorious industrial past. Strong, proud, solid; Big Sam is an engineering marvel, as if designed by Isambard Kingdom Brunel, trussed together with steel girders and powered by steam. It’s a wonder that Danny Boyle didn’t order a 40 foot animatronic Allardyce to be wheeled in as part of the London Olympics opening ceremony.
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Like the aspirations of the Leave campaign, Allardyce has been carried to victory on the belief that time can be turned back. The blame for England’s miserable Euro 2016 campaign has been placed squarely at the pedicured feet of the molly-coddled academy generation. The current batch of players, it’s claimed, have none of the spunk and manly vigour of previous generations, responsible for 50 years of unbroken success up to 2016′s shame.
Claude Paris
Claude Paris
Allardyce’s main rival for the England job, Steve Bruce, explained the philosophy of the movement in a recent interview. “We go to tournaments now and we’re wrapped up in fear. I see the players arrive, tracksuits, washbags, headphones, in their own world.”
England’s John The Baptist figure goes on: “Call me old fashioned, but we’re now holding umbrellas up as our players get off a plane. Do they need that? It’s a few spots of rain. OK, they might get wet. Well, let them get wet. That’s what happens when it rains.”
Yearning for a time before washbags and umbrellas aside, it’s hard to argue with this kind of worldview, just as its hard to disagree with statements like “Let’s Get Out Country Back” and ”Honk If You Love Sovereignty!”. But reversing the course of history to an idealised English past is easier said than done, as Allardyce and Theresa May may both shortly find out.
If it is English virtues that the FA want, then it may as well be Allardyce. Other than Harry Redknapp (sorry Harry, you’re just not the right ‘type’, old bean), he’s the most successful Englishman currently working in the game.
But Sam’s is a certain kind of ‘success’. Not the ‘success’ of actual trophies, unless you count his League of Ireland First Division title with Limerick City in 1992 and his Third Division crown with Notts County in 1998. Sam is more of a shelter in the storm; he’s the lump of driftwood on the ocean that the drowning man clings gratefully to. But the trouble with driftwood is that the man eventually yearns for more salubrious sea-going transport.
If you are football club down on its luck, then Big Sam is a man you want to see. He’ll get you promoted or save you from relegation, and you’ll be so grateful that you won’t mind the kind of football he’s playing or that’s he’s irritatingly smug in press conferences. For a while at least. But then suddenly you’re hanging up banners saying ‘Fat Sam Out’ and everyone’s wondering what the hell is wrong with you.
The question which will decide whether Allardyce is a success in his new job is this: Are England now in the international football equivalent of a relegation battle?
If they are, then Sam could indeed be the man. As Bruce put it, in his anti-washbag polemic: “We’ve got to find our humility again because, frankly — we ain’t that great.”
If England’s players, post-Iceland, have accepted that sobering fact, then Allardyce’s methods may be just what they need. Like the English electorate, they may feel that things have gotten so bad, that they might as well go along with this previously unthinkable idea.
But it’s more likely that, re-galvanised by a return to the comforting bosom of their Premier League employers, England’s best and brightest might think themselves too good to be a Sam Allardyce team, and may prefer to keep the headphones on.
If that’s the case, like Brexit, Big Sam might prove that there’s never a right time to have the wrong idea.
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'Like Brexit, Big Sam has been carried to victory on the belief time can be turned back'
LET’S BE FAIR to Sam Allardyce: it’s probably not completely accurate to label him ‘the England manager that Brexit made’.
I mean, however much his appointment might seem to chime with the prevailing Little Englander climate, he’s far from the football equivalent of real ale pubs and Spitfire appreciation societies.
For instance, there’s his groundbreaking use of statistical analysis, his ability to man-manage the full gamut of players from Kevin Nolan to Nicolas Anelka and his love of transcendental meditation (admittedly he described the latter in a recent press conference as ‘trans-dental meditation’, making the search for higher consciousness sound like a toothache remedy).
But the notion of Sam Allardyce: England Manager still feels very much of the times in which we now live. Think about it: is there any other point in recent history when this could have been remotely possible?
This may be completely the wrong idea, but at just the right time.
While Allardyce has survived and, to an extent, thrived in the multi-cultural bazaar of the Premier League, he remains quintessentially of English football. But more than just that, he evokes a sense of well-made Britishness that harks back to their glorious industrial past. Strong, proud, solid; Big Sam is an engineering marvel, as if designed by Isambard Kingdom Brunel, trussed together with steel girders and powered by steam. It’s a wonder that Danny Boyle didn’t order a 40 foot animatronic Allardyce to be wheeled in as part of the London Olympics opening ceremony.
Like the aspirations of the Leave campaign, Allardyce has been carried to victory on the belief that time can be turned back. The blame for England’s miserable Euro 2016 campaign has been placed squarely at the pedicured feet of the molly-coddled academy generation. The current batch of players, it’s claimed, have none of the spunk and manly vigour of previous generations, responsible for 50 years of unbroken success up to 2016′s shame.
Allardyce’s main rival for the England job, Steve Bruce, explained the philosophy of the movement in a recent interview. “We go to tournaments now and we’re wrapped up in fear. I see the players arrive, tracksuits, washbags, headphones, in their own world.”
England’s John The Baptist figure goes on: “Call me old fashioned, but we’re now holding umbrellas up as our players get off a plane. Do they need that? It’s a few spots of rain. OK, they might get wet. Well, let them get wet. That’s what happens when it rains.”
Yearning for a time before washbags and umbrellas aside, it’s hard to argue with this kind of worldview, just as its hard to disagree with statements like “Let’s Get Out Country Back” and ”Honk If You Love Sovereignty!”. But reversing the course of history to an idealised English past is easier said than done, as Allardyce and Theresa May may both shortly find out.
If it is English virtues that the FA want, then it may as well be Allardyce. Other than Harry Redknapp (sorry Harry, you’re just not the right ‘type’, old bean), he’s the most successful Englishman currently working in the game.
But Sam’s is a certain kind of ‘success’. Not the ‘success’ of actual trophies, unless you count his League of Ireland First Division title with Limerick City in 1992 and his Third Division crown with Notts County in 1998. Sam is more of a shelter in the storm; he’s the lump of driftwood on the ocean that the drowning man clings gratefully to. But the trouble with driftwood is that the man eventually yearns for more salubrious sea-going transport.
If you are football club down on its luck, then Big Sam is a man you want to see. He’ll get you promoted or save you from relegation, and you’ll be so grateful that you won’t mind the kind of football he’s playing or that’s he’s irritatingly smug in press conferences. For a while at least. But then suddenly you’re hanging up banners saying ‘Fat Sam Out’ and everyone’s wondering what the hell is wrong with you.
The question which will decide whether Allardyce is a success in his new job is this: Are England now in the international football equivalent of a relegation battle?
If they are, then Sam could indeed be the man. As Bruce put it, in his anti-washbag polemic: “We’ve got to find our humility again because, frankly — we ain’t that great.”
If England’s players, post-Iceland, have accepted that sobering fact, then Allardyce’s methods may be just what they need. Like the English electorate, they may feel that things have gotten so bad, that they might as well go along with this previously unthinkable idea.
But it’s more likely that, re-galvanised by a return to the comforting bosom of their Premier League employers, England’s best and brightest might think themselves too good to be a Sam Allardyce team, and may prefer to keep the headphones on.
If that’s the case, like Brexit, Big Sam might prove that there’s never a right time to have the wrong idea.
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