Please, Brian, we want some Mour!

From the BBC’s Derek ‘Robbo’ Robson

Brian Barwick looks the picture, doesn’t he? He’s like a ginger version of Marlon Brando in The Godfather. And he’s going to make someone an offer he can’t refuse.

The FA are barking…. sorry, embarking on a search for a world-class manager. Surely that was their objective last time?

I’ve already put myself forward as the only English alternative. Redknapp might still be in the frame but the FA get pretty twitchy if a candidate lives anywhere near a police station, let alone sees the inside of one.

I can understand Harry being upset at the arrest. Sounds like the fuzz gave his missus a gentle reveille at six in the morning. About as subtle as a Nicky Hunt tackle.

My campaign to be the top man is gathering momentum. We have regular meetings and have set up an office - in the Blue Bell - which will be up and running as soon as Tony Thompson sets up some sort of wi-fi doo-dah in the saloon bar.

We’ve also received donations from a local secretary called Jenny Whatsit. No one’s ever met this woman, she might not even exist, but we’ve decided to just be grateful and not question it. Incidentally, contrary to gossip, I am not a proxy candidate for someone else.

Of course there are those who ask me: “If you were Barwick, who would you choose?”

Well, first of all, I’d step aside and let someone who knows a bit about the game make the decision. It’s all very well talking to every Tom, Dick and Harry (all right maybe not Harry at the moment) but frankly it all suggests that next time he’s going to share the blame around a bit.

Sven-Goran Eriksson says it’s the ‘biggest job in football’. He adds: “You must win every game, not do anything in your private life and hopefully not earn too much money.” Who knew the bloke had a sense of humour?

This villain (Christine Ohuruogu) has served her time – now let’s catch the real cheats

From The Times Simon Barnes

She is the most reviled British gold medal-winner to have run on the track. And that’s rum, really, because normally we are as soppy as hell about our golden girls. But when Christine Ohuruogu won the 400 metres at the World Championships in Osaka, Japan, in August, she was promoted to the company of those who can do no right.

“Please don’t let this be the face of our London Olympics,” The Sun, our emotional sister, begged. The face in question is strong, female and black: never a good combination for red-top editors. Ohuruogu made admirable casting as villain of the week.

Well, now the way has been cleared for her to run at the Olympic Games in Beijing next year and, if we are all saved, in London four years on. No doubt the ranters will have their say again. And they’ll be wrong.

Ohuruogu did not test positive for drugs. Nor did she swerve a test when she knew that the testers were waiting for her, which was the offence of Rio Ferdinand, the England footballer. Her error was all to do with the complexities of out-of-competition drugs testing.

An athlete has to be available at certain agreed places and times in case the testers show up. The whole point is the random nature of the business. There is a certain tolerance in the system and it works like the high jump and baseball. Third failure and you’re out.

Ohuruogu failed to show up at the right place and time three times in 18 months and, frankly, that’s pretty bloody stupid. It’s also a sporting crime; it has to be if we want drug-free sport. Ohuruogu was banned for a year, and so she should have been. Grow up, get your act together, try to behave like a professional.

She will always have this crime on her CV. Again, quite right. Every time we write about her, no matter what she has just achieved, the missed tests will have to be mentioned. That’s only right. The consensus in athletics is that Ohuruogu was guilty of bad diary-keeping rather than evil practice, but, hey, nobody takes anything about drugs on trust these days, not from anybody.