Talk about not getting the Poznan...
Posted: Sat May 28, 2011 3:00 pmGiles Smith May 28 2011 12:01AM
We know one thing for certain about tonight’s Champions League final: it’s going to end in jigging. Bank on it. Whatever transpires on the pitch: jigging.
Football finals always finish that way these days. The trophy will be handed over and the players will gather in a huddle and hotch up and down like infants in need of the lavatory. Jigging.
Where did it come from, this winsome baby-toothed pogo of victory? (If it were a fully fledged pogo, 1976-style, accompanied by incautious neck-twisting, gormless expressions and courageous expectoration, one would feel differently about it. But it isn’t.) And how did this poor man’s ballet come to exert such a clammy hold on the world’s favourite game? Consider, too, how the perniciousness of jigging seeps outwards. When Manchester City occupied the city centre this week to celebrate their first trophy in 35 years, the players were joined by past alumni — veterans of that 1976 League Cup win (and people who should recognise a decent pogo when they see one).
And what did these club legends do, in front of the fans, where everyone could see them? Jigging — that’s what they did. What were they playing at?
Here were players firmly from the pre-jig era — the years when men were men and tackles were thigh-high, and when if anyone had celebrated the acquisition of a cup by putting an arm around his neighbour and bouncing slightly from the knee, it would have been at the risk of permanent social exclusion.
Imagine if the likes of Joe Royle, Joe Corrigan, etc, had jigged in 1976. Wembley would have fallen silent. The finger of blame? Look no farther than the grim march of commercialisation across the game.
These days, upon receipt of the silverware, players are corralled in front of a set of hastily erected sponsors’ hoardings so that their joy can be photographed in the presence of the appropriate branding. This leaves the players with the option of standing still and posing (which hardly seems to suit the exuberance of the moment) or making just about the only motion possible within their containment — the jig. No wonder one instinctively reacts against this sheepish and fettered display.
It’s the dance of the commercial pawn. Plus it’s the first rule of common sense for the modern football watcher: be royally suspicious of anything that takes place in front of a sponsor’s hasty erection. What can be done? How can we be rid of the jig?
Fifa is no good to us here, obviously. The place is in political and moral disarray — one step away from appointing a horse to a position of significant responsibility. We need Uefa to lead the way, big guns blazing — and where better than at the Champions League final? And when better than tonight? It’s the club game’s showcase, after all, and the eyes of the world will be upon it.
Fines, point deductions, expulsions from the competition — whatever it takes. The jigging has to stop. Don’t get me started on manager tossing.
We know one thing for certain about tonight’s Champions League final: it’s going to end in jigging. Bank on it. Whatever transpires on the pitch: jigging.
Football finals always finish that way these days. The trophy will be handed over and the players will gather in a huddle and hotch up and down like infants in need of the lavatory. Jigging.
Where did it come from, this winsome baby-toothed pogo of victory? (If it were a fully fledged pogo, 1976-style, accompanied by incautious neck-twisting, gormless expressions and courageous expectoration, one would feel differently about it. But it isn’t.) And how did this poor man’s ballet come to exert such a clammy hold on the world’s favourite game? Consider, too, how the perniciousness of jigging seeps outwards. When Manchester City occupied the city centre this week to celebrate their first trophy in 35 years, the players were joined by past alumni — veterans of that 1976 League Cup win (and people who should recognise a decent pogo when they see one).
And what did these club legends do, in front of the fans, where everyone could see them? Jigging — that’s what they did. What were they playing at?
Here were players firmly from the pre-jig era — the years when men were men and tackles were thigh-high, and when if anyone had celebrated the acquisition of a cup by putting an arm around his neighbour and bouncing slightly from the knee, it would have been at the risk of permanent social exclusion.
Imagine if the likes of Joe Royle, Joe Corrigan, etc, had jigged in 1976. Wembley would have fallen silent. The finger of blame? Look no farther than the grim march of commercialisation across the game.
These days, upon receipt of the silverware, players are corralled in front of a set of hastily erected sponsors’ hoardings so that their joy can be photographed in the presence of the appropriate branding. This leaves the players with the option of standing still and posing (which hardly seems to suit the exuberance of the moment) or making just about the only motion possible within their containment — the jig. No wonder one instinctively reacts against this sheepish and fettered display.
It’s the dance of the commercial pawn. Plus it’s the first rule of common sense for the modern football watcher: be royally suspicious of anything that takes place in front of a sponsor’s hasty erection. What can be done? How can we be rid of the jig?
Fifa is no good to us here, obviously. The place is in political and moral disarray — one step away from appointing a horse to a position of significant responsibility. We need Uefa to lead the way, big guns blazing — and where better than at the Champions League final? And when better than tonight? It’s the club game’s showcase, after all, and the eyes of the world will be upon it.
Fines, point deductions, expulsions from the competition — whatever it takes. The jigging has to stop. Don’t get me started on manager tossing.