Flail to the chief: an ode to Marouane Fellaini

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Vitruvian Marouane

Certain players are possessed of a unique physicality. A signature style of motion which is entirely their own. Thierry Henry, for instance, used to glide across the grass with a whisper-light elegance that was almost balletic. Roy Keane would charge, driving his bootheels into the turf as though stomping the guts of his enemies on some ancient battlefield. Wayne Rooney – in his heavy-footed, ham-faced dotage – may fairly be said to chunter.

Marouane Fellaini flails. He’s a flailer. Chief among his many, many failings is his flailing.

Watching Fellaini ‘run’ is like watching an Ent go to war. Seeing him make a tackle is like witnessing a ‘whacky, waving inflatable arm-flailing tube man’ committing sexual assault. He engulfs opposition players like an avalanche of hockey sticks erupting from some inopportunely opened sports equipment cupboard. His touch is heavier than hopelessness. His turning circle is fractionally tighter than the Titanic. And he’s really, really bad at football.

When someone passes Marouane Fellaini a football, one of the following seven things will invariably happen:

  1. He’ll pass it too short and force a teammate to risk career-ending injury to retrieve possession.

  2. He’ll pass it too long and make them sprint 50 yards to get it back.

  3. He’ll hoof it out of play and sabotage any semblance of fluency or momentum his team might have been building.

  4. He’ll cut out the middle-man and just give it straight to the opposition.

  5. He’ll miscontrol it, get dispossessed and be too slow to win it back.

  6. He’ll miscontrol it, get dispossessed and give away a free kick trying to win it back.

  7. He’ll control it perfectly and be so surprised that he gets dispossessed…you get the idea.

And if he has to turn with the ball, you may as well go put the kettle on. Because United’s strikers aren’t going to see it until the opposition defenders have all sauntered back into place, taken on some energy drink and had a little huddle to discuss why Groot traded guarding the galaxy for stinking up the Theatre of Dreams.

At his best (when he has the good grace to touch the ball as little as possible), picking Fellaini is like playing with 10 men. At his worst, it’s like playing against 12.

Yet it’s become almost unfashionable to criticise Marouane Fellaini. And not because he’s getting any better. But because his shitness is so eye-gougingly obvious (to everyone, it would seem, except three consecutive United managers) that it barely even merits pointing out. It’s now apparently considered unsporting* – crass, even – to criticise a man of such demonstrably limited abilities who’s just doing his best for goodness sake and dammit all.

In fact, so well-cast is Fellaini as a walking, talking metaphor for the meagre-minded mid-table mediocrity of Moyes’s reign and the soporific ponderousness of Van Gaal’s that some have decried what they see as his unfair scapegoating** for all United’s shortcomings since the departure of Sir Alex (blessed be he).

Fans and journalists alike are now coming out with self-justifying post-match paeans like:

Oh, I think he did ok, actually.”

Actually, he put a real shift in.”

You know, he actually wasn’t that bad.”

As if criticising him has now become such an instinctive thing to do that the criticism itself can remain unspoken – an implied, preemptive denunciation which commentators then feel the need to counterbalance: “For an iredeemably shit player,” they mentally intone, “he did ok. ACTUALLY.

The upshot is that, far from being scapegoated, Fellaini is actually judged by a far more charitable standard than every other player on the pitch, let alone in a Manchester United shirt. The bar of expectation for Marouane Fellaini is so low that literally all he has to do is not score an own goal, concede a penalty or get sent off and he’ll have “done ok, actually.

Never mind that he conceded possession every time he got the ball, gave three different players concussion (two of them, his own teammates) and generally slowed the game down so much that anyone watching online would be forgiven for thinking their stream had crashed. Nope, all in a day’s work for plucky Marouane, battling valiantly to master the dimensions of his inexplicable body. We’ll save our righteous abuse for Paul Pogba, who only managed to beat 16 players, hit the bar five times and achieve a parlous 85% accuracy rate with his raking 60-yard through balls.

Don’t get me wrong, criticising Pogba is entirely justified because he can clearly achieve so much more. But is criticising Fellaini unjustified just because he can’t? Is it wrong to criticise Donald Trump’s foreign policy because, for a racist mandrill with Cheez Whiz on his head, it’s actually pretty progressive? Exactly.

And, in any case, it’s not really Fellaini I’m criticising here, it’s his continued selection. Because I’ve got nothing against the guy personally – it’s not his fault that he is calamity made corporeal. Havoc in human form. Armageddon with an afro. It’s not his fault that he’s basically an autonomous tumbleweed of thrashing limbs, each seemingly possessed of more knees and elbows than an all-Peter Crouch can-can line. It’s not his fault that he flails. It’s just…why in god’s name does he keep getting picked?

I mean I know why he keeps getting picked.

He keeps getting picked because he’s a monument to managerial hubris. First a function of Van Gaal’s (literally) pig-headed inability to look facts in the face and then of Mourinho’s self-image as the type of man manager who, by sheer strength of will and charisma, can transform a no-hoper into a world-beater.

And yes, very occasionally, during the sort of grinding, agricultural slog you’re almost guaranteed by picking Fellaini, he will make the only ‘positive’ contribution he’s capable of – lolloping into the box like some sort of stampeding swing set, draping himself over the nearest ill-starred fullback, letting a speculatively-lofted 40-yard cross bounce off him into the six yard box and hoping that, in the ensuing chaos, someone in a red shirt can lash the ball into the net.

Cue shudders of orgiastic self-satisfaction from the ‘actually’ brigade, who climax to their own clever contrarianism instead of wondering whether the two or three occasions a season on which darling Marouane’s graceless pratfalling leads to a bargain-basement, blooper-reel goal are really a fair return for the odyssey of squandered opportunities, the sclerotic attacking play, the stylistic vapidity and the terminal ebbing of belief other players must experience having to play tethered to this towering totem of talentlessness.

Look, there’s really no need to feel sorry for the guy. As a fig leaf covering one manager’s tactical ineptitude and coasting on the wind of another’s blustering ego, he’s doing pretty well for himself. He’s playing for a far more prestigious club in a far better side among far more gifted players and for far higher wages than his scant, circus sideshow skills deserve. Who else has ever been awarded the captaincy of Manchester United FC for being quite good at chesting a football***?

No, Marouane Fellaini has no need of our sympathy.

So, while criticising him may be clichéd, while it might often be lazy, and why it can sometimes even be cruel, it’s also right and fair and necessary.

He’s just not very good at football. Actually.

*An adjective which could be reasonably applied to Fellaini’s prowess.

** And again, he does look like a goat trying to escape…something.

***Oh, and while we’re on the subject, chest control is the easiest and most pointless skill in the game. The chest – a flat, broad tract of torso – is almost preternaturally designed to cushion the descent of a football. The only reason players so rarely use it to do so is because, at that height and at the top level, a marauding defender is far more likely to get his head in the way first. The only reason Fellaini does it so often is because his chest is about six feet above the heads of most marauding defenders. Bra-fucking-vo.

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Manuel Pellegrini

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Dunno why I decided to draw this crinkle-faced clown right after his team potentially gifted the league title to Liverpool and made it the worst season in living memory to be a United fan. But there we are.

Perhaps I actually drew him a few weeks ago at my girlfriend’s family’s house in Normandy because I was bored and they don’t have a telly.

Or perhaps it’s because he has a pair of the most hopelessly forlorn eyes I’ve ever seen. If Battersea Dogs Home could clone those eyes and transplant them into the head of every animal in their care, those hounds would find homes quicker than you can say ‘stop lunging in, Vincent Kompany, you hammer-headed cretin.’

When I see those pitiful peepers peering pensively across the press-conference…pulpit, I just think: ‘awwwww, I can’t stay mad at you, Manuel.’

But fuck off anyway.

Steve Bruce

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Whenever I watch that episode of the Simpsons in which Principal Skinner describes his beef burgers as ‘steamed hams’, I immediately think of Steve Bruce.

His face is a sprawling estate of rubicund, sweat-glazed gammon. His eyes like raisins in raw cookie dough. Nose like a chewed sausage. Thin lips girt by flesh – copious and chaotic – like an isthmus of land hemmed in by a raging sea or the rim of a cupcake tin engulfed by erupting cake batter.

You wouldn’t know it to look at him but, back in his pomp, Brucie was a player with considerable aerial prowess.

Yet with that memory-foam mattress of a face, it was always a wonder to me that he could head the ball at all. I imagined that at the moment of contact, his face would instantly sap every joule of the ball’s kinetic energy like some sort of gurning airbag.

I felt his kisser should be drawn without edges since, like a liquid, it probably alters to fill the shape of whatever container it’s poured into. Indeed, these days, it appears to be held together by little more than surface tension and an industrially starched tracksuit collar.

Roy Keane

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Anyone catch that Keane v Vieira documentary the other week?

If you’ve watched any football on ITV recently, you’ll have seen national village idiot Adrian Chiles repeatedly flatulating over it like some sort of gammon whoopee cushion, each time turning to simper at sweet-tempered Roy with the distinct air of a man doing everything in his meagre powers to avoid having his intestines used to hoist the boom.

Well if you haven’t watched it, watch it.

The format is all very ‘Guy Ritchie’ but don’t let that put you off. Full-time philanthropist and jobbing babysitter Roy and the other bloke (who is actually rather charming) sit across the table from one another in an underground car park for an hour and a half and, between gratuitous squits of the Lock Stock soundtrack, exchange reminiscences about how sportingly they used to test the durability of one another’s shin pads. Apart from a nagging anxiety that Ray Winstone is going to lumber out from behind the nearest cack-smeared pillar at any moment to belch ‘My old man’s a dustman’, it’s a thoroughly bloody good watch.

Naturally, kindly Samaritan and nurser of injured animals back to health Roy steals the show.

Not least when the clever, clever interviewer broaches the subject of Sir Alex Ferguson.

One segment in particular shows just how blissfully unburdened tender-hearted Roy is by the least vestige of rancour or regret. He wouldn’t know a grudge if it put on a Leeds United kit, snapped his cruciate ligament and then told him to stop faking injury. No doubt in search of an approving pat on the head, our interviewer quotes an excerpt from Sir Alex’s first book in which the grand old man describes Keane’s awe-inspiring performance in the 1999 Champions League semi against Juventus:

“Pounding over every blade of grass, competing if he would rather die of exhaustion than lose, he inspired all around him. I felt as though it was an honour to be associated with such a player.”

The fucking nerve of that man. Does he kiss his wife with that mouth, d’you think? As you’d expect, this unprovoked tirade of blind hostility isn’t lost on gentle Roy who looks like someone has just shat in his leaf-blower.

“To be honest with you, I almost get offended when people throw quotes like that at me as if I’m supposed to be honoured by it,” he quite reasonably responds. “It’s like praising the postman for delivering your letters. He’s supposed to, isn’t he? That’s his job. My job is to try and win games for Manchester United.”

Then, of a particular dressing room confrontation, Sir Alex is said to observe: “his eyes started to narrow almost to wee, black beads. It was frightening to watch.”

Kindly Roy’s eyes instantly narrow to wee, black beads.

“Well, if you believe that,” he growls, choking out a sigh which one immediately clocks as the withered fruit of a FA-mandated anger-management course, “you’ll believe anything.”

Well alright, Roy. But only cos you’ve got an honest face.

Here’s a drawing of Roy’s honest face.

Robin Van Persie – sexy volley

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Manchester United vs Aston Villa, 22 April 2013. Boom goes the dynamite.

To be honest, I think I over-egged this one a little. The simplicity of the lines in the initial sketch below convey the efficiency and elegance of RVP’s movement which I may have lost by adding all the shiny things. Slightly overwrought perhaps.

Thoughts will be gratefully received, sullenly pondered over and then completely ignored.

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Ferguson to Moyes – the hair dryer changes hands

David Moyes

I imagine thousands of you are inconsolable on this point but nonetheless I’d like to apologise for the lack of posts recently and try to explain. On Wednesday 8 May 2013, Sir Alex Ferguson – terroriser of fourth officials, menace of the media, scourge of silverware and manager of Manchester United Football Club for longer than I’ve been capable of going to the toilet unaided – announced that at the end of this season, he would be hanging up his hair-dryer for good.

As you can imagine, this news played merry havoc with my chakras. For as long as I’ve been able to make sense of the world, Sir Alex Ferguson has been the boss. His presence at the helm has been such an immutable constant in my comprehension of what life is that hearing the news of his departure a fortnight hence was tantamount to being told that two and two make five and the sun will cease to rise in the East. In other words and in a quite literal sense the world as I knew it ended that day.

I remember sitting at my peanut butter-smeared desk and staring in abject despair at my peanut butter-smeared stapler as my entire being was engulfed by a vision of apocalyptic awfulness. Geri Halliwell. She’d be the first to die. But then bad stuff would happen. There would be a run on the banks and people would begin hoarding food. Then they would become food. In a matter of minutes, aircraft would begin falling from the sky and dashing themselves upon the earth’s rapidly toxifying crust. The air would sour and the rivers would run dry. I felt drunk. I looked round the office in a daze at my mild-mannered colleagues, each one saying words and typing bollocks and blissfully unaware of what sort of a place the world was about to become all around them. How long until the poor fools would be vaulting over desks and trying to wear one another’s faces like hockey masks? How long before the windows of this unassuming office block and every other like it were frescoed with human blood and excreta? ANSWER ME, STAPLER! CAN YOU STAPLE THE WORLD BACK TOGETHER, STAPLER!?

All these thoughts occupied about 3 pre-retirement seconds but it seemed longer. Perhaps the shock waves generated by this announcement had caused the earth to skitter off its axis and go hurtling off into the cruel, motherless void of space. How long was a day? Perhaps the very fabric of time had unravelled. After all, without Sir Alex wheezing sclerotically on life’s touchline and telling the clocks how much to add, what did a second even mean? If 90 minutes could be extended arbitrarily until Fergie’s team scored more goals than the opposition and Fergie no longer had a team, then who was to say one of our best and most handsome dimensions hadn’t taken its ball and gone home?

Anyway, for what seemed like an unfathomable abyss of time, I sat agape wondering how I – how anything – could possibly go on.

Then, after only 2 weeks, I pulled my shit together.

This was supposed to be about David Moyes because I drew a picture of David Moyes. Apparently though, that plaintive howl of despond was up in there waiting to be evacuated first and probably would’ve come out no matter what I was writing about. Speaking of which, I should double-check that article I wrote the other day about how Business Process Outsourcing can ease the burden of the modern CFO; the one which, in an unusual move, I entitled “OH VENGEFUL JAH, WHY!?” Might need a slight tweak.

Anyway, for those of you with the insatiable morbidity necessary to have read this far, I don’t propose to tax your limited attention spans any further by embarking on a new subject. So instead, I’ll sum up the gist of what I had intended to write in one sentence:

We gon’ be aaiight wiv Moyes.

Also posted on Huffington Post.