Absolutely Fabio

By the BBC’s Derek ‘Robbo’ Robson

So Fabio it is. It’s a bit of a blow personally cos I thought I had a real chance once His Specialness turned it down. He’s not an idiot, is he, that fella?

Them that desperately wanted an English manager are going to be disappointed. With those European specs he couldn’t be more continental.

I’ve been to Specsavers meself but them fancy dan goggles always make me look like a German businessman who’s trying too hard.

You can’t argue with the appointment. Everything that’s being said about him fills with me with a sense of security.

He’s a brute in training? Good. Some of our lads need it straight between the eyes. McClaren was so blinking pally-pally it was embarrassing. Sometimes when he spoke dreamily of Stevie G or JT you got the impression he couldn’t believe his luck either.

Del Piero thought he was a tyrant. Yeah and there’s a lad who looks like he likes a sun-lounger and a singapore sling.

He lacks a human side? Fine by me. Probably means he won’t need a brolly.

His track record is brilliant. We have cast-iron proof that the bloke KNOWS WHAT HE’S DOING! Not such god news for the England boys. Cos this time we’re not going to be looking a the manager if things go T.U.

He can hardly speak a word of English. Good. He’ll fit in perfectly with the rest of the squad. I never have a clue what Rio Ferdinand’s on about either.

He’ll play effective, unexciting football. Fantastic. I dunno about you but England 2 Croatia 3 is about as exciting as I can stand.

He wants the job. Yeah, I know, what kind of fool is he? It’s about as beautiful a challenge as the one Stephen Ireland commited last weekend (After Nicky Hunt’s effort the previous week I’m beginning to wonder if Irish internationals need a lesson in the perfect slidey - or have they been busy reading the Keano autobiography?)

Clarence Seedorf said: “He would rather have less quality but committed players rather than quality players who are not committed.” Well that just fits the bill perfectly.

Me, I’m happy. The bloke’s about the best available. If Wenger and Fergie think so, then who are we to argue?

No Ordinary Joe

By the BBC’s Derek ‘Robbo’ Robson

Well a bit of justice was done on Sunday.

Not the Boro’s utter dismantling of them Arsenal boys that left Arsene Wenger with the usual gripes about teams doing their nasty hard tackles on his darling boys. (No mention of the happy-slapping Eboue, mind).

Nah, we gave the Sports Personality Award to the right person. He should’ve got in the top three last year at the very least, but the forelock-tugging numb-nuts of the British public decided to chuck it the way of a toff and her gee-gee.

Calzaghe has not lost for 10 years. Sports Personality of the Decade, then.

Now I’ve heard them that’s in the know banging on about how boxing shouldn’t really be recognised in this way. And I’ve heard some long-winded apologies from boxing fans on phone-ins and the like.

The issue comes up when a likeable sort of fella like Ricky ‘Hitman’ Hatton (or Rick-yyyyyyyyyyyyyyyuh Hitman H-aaaaaaaa-tuuuuuuuuuunnnn as he’s now known) gets dumped on the canvas by a sickening blow.

Your medical profession says people shouldn’t be paid to inflict brain damage on each other. It’s hard to argue against that.

Your pro-fight lobby reel off a string of cliches such as:

1. It keeps young men off the streets.
Right. So does footy training but you don’t have blokes bashing the hell out of each other (if we ignore Messrs Bowyer and Barton, allegedly)

Geordies should stick with the Dyce man

By the BBC’s Derek ‘Robbo’ Robson

The managerial merry-go-round seems worse than ever.

Geordie friends have been joking darkly about the ‘last roll of the Allardyce’ and calling a Sambulance to take him away.

The only medical attention the big man will need is the surgical removal of a job lot of Wrigley’s Spearmint gum. What a masticator he is. They say he’s not a good manager but then how does he manage to chew all that, eh?

Me and Big Sam have a lot in common. We’re big and ugly and we like our players to keep it simple.

Many’s the time the Blue Bell first XI have begged me to let them play football on the grass. The fact is our playing surface makes Wembley look like Centre Court. It’s got more bobbles on it than one of me Nan’s cardies.

I tell ‘em: “Just get it forward and we’ll start playing up their end.”

The Toon Army are not happy with this rustic approach, asking for something a bit more sophisticated, like.

Of course Tynesiders are very sophisticated fellas. Your average fans at St James’s spend the half-time interval discussing Wittgenstein over a bottle of Merlot and some artisan foccacia.

Joey Barton has called the Magpie crowd ‘vicious’, which is laughable. I’d like to know what Joey’s definition of vicious is. Perhaps Ousmane Dabo has a definition too.

If the team churns out abject performances like the ones chucked up against Liverpool and Pompey, you’d have to be an imbecile not to expect some angry supporters.

Mr Ashley aside, the Toon Army go and watch people on vastly superior wages to themselves and for too long too many of them have not been earning it.

It all starts with results of course - and 1-1 against the Arse is not a bad start. It was great that the Evening Chronicle encouraged the fans to get behind the team on Wednesday night. They were rewarded with a bit of oomph for a change.

But when Barton or some other overpaid dimwit starts slagging the fans for getting hacked off then you have to wonder what these players are on. It’s not up to the Gallowgate to make the players do better.

To his credit, Allardyce has not tried spreading the blame around the terraces. The team have been crap against Pompey and Liverpool especially. But the man’s been there for how long? Four months? It’s not like they’re rock-bottom.

There are a few football clubs whose fans seem to exist in a bubble of total self-delusion: Newcastle, Spurs, Villa - your supporters still dwell in some romantic never-never-land where Jackie Milburn, Danny Blanchflower and Dennis Mortimer never got any older and are still just waiting for a first-team call-up even today.

Then there’s the clubs whose fans are realists/miserabilists: Man City, Everton, Boro. We’re just happy to be competing.

Newcastle aren’t very good. Allardyce has as good a chance as any - and certainly a better chance than the scowling Sourness or the droning Roeder - of getting the team winning summat.

If not him, then who? Shearer continues to be an obvious candidate but how can they afford him? Not the wages so much as the celebration.

They’ll fly him in dangling from a black and white helicopter, pump dry ice into the Gallowgate end and every step on the terrace will light up beneath his feet as he puts his foot down, like Michael Jackson doing Billie Jean.

Small children with gather in heavenly choruses on the pitch and coo “There’s no one quite like Shearer!” with Ant ‘n’ Dec and Bryan Ferry accompanying.

Tony Blair’ll embrace him like a brother. And finally a giant hand will pass through the grey murk of the Tyneside sky and gently place his index finger on Sir Alan’s forehead, officially anointing him “The Geordie Saviour, like”.

My advice would be to stick with Sam. There are too many glowering chairmen sitting on managers’ chests like some monstrous millionaire demons. They need to get out of the bleeding way for a while and let the managers manage.

Arsenal Song

Not as good as the Mcclaren tribute but very funny nonetheless. This guy is brilliant.

Hailing the slog in the bog

By the BBC’s Derek ‘Robbo’ Robson

If the Beeb has done one thing to improve its sports coverage in the last few years it’s definitely been their visits to footballing outposts like Harrogate for Rounds 1 and 2 of the FA Cup.

While the trophy itself has become the property of the Big Four - in fact why not just give them one each and have done with it - the tournament still grips me like it did when I were a kiddy.

Just seeing them balls drop out of that sack - bad image but hear me out - and rattle around while dimly remembered stars of yesteryear fumble around for the big numbers like spotty lads in a lass’s bra, well it still has me on the edge of my seat.

I know the whole point of Cup draws is that they are random but there must be a higher power at work sometimes cos you guarantee a few things:

One, Chelsea always get a cushy home draw against some poverty-stricken triers who might even grab an early lead at the Bridge before Lampard starts filling his boots. (Frank is what cricketers would call a flat-track bully).

Two, Man U - and I’m not saying it doesn’t make me hold me sides with glee - Man U always get a tricky draw. Ha’way, Villa, man!

Third, Boro always get the classic third round disaster in waiting. Bristol City away means we’ll be Lawro’s top tip for a giant-killing - although giant is putting it a bit strong. Still we’re fresh from an away point at Reading. ‘COULD THAT BE THE GOAL THAT SAVES GARETH SOUTHGATE!?’ yelled the radio commentator.
Well, no - it’s a draw at bloomin Reading! No disrespect intended but it’s not like Southgate’s just walked across water whilst turning it into wine.

Four, how the blooming hell do Germany get these woofty draws in major tournaments?! Poland, Austria and Croatia? It’s like Asafa Powell gettting on the starting blocks alongside well, any three British sprinters. Bilic reckoned it was a toughie but the bloke’s tongue’s never left his cheek since he went into management.

The N Word

Wilmore and Oliver investigation. One of the funniest ever clips from the Daily Show.

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?

Steve McClaren - A Tribute Song

This was so hilarious I couldn’t help putting it up.

Robbo for England!

By the BBC’s Derek ’Robbo’ Robson. 

The speculation is rife in the Blue Bell. Who’s going to fill the shoes of Steve Mclaren

Not that he didn’t fill them and everything else he was wearing last Wednesday when Carson waved the Croat’s first past.

Capello could be grabbed right away, but is he tarnished by the Juve experience? And is he ready to work with British numbskulls?

Benitez seems to be packing his bags, but could he resist a rotation or several? And frankly, I don’t understand Rafa.

Harry Redknapp could do a job, but could you look at them forlorn chops if things, much like his own comely visage, started to fall apart?

O’Neill’s ruled himself out, Klinsmann might listen to offers and must have been impressed with Bentley’s swallow-dive at Fulham yesterday.

Shearer? It’s got to be a bit cosier in that studio than it is under an umbrella in the pouring rain.

Mourinho? Yes, of course, especially if the FA gets sacked and replaced by a bunch of ladies.
Anyway, so we’re chewing all this over when Tony Thompson, five pints down but still coherent said what all drunks say at a moment like this. ‘All right, Robbo, if you’re so bleeding clever, you do it!’

Yep. ME.

Now before you all say you’re not taking this seriously, Robbo, let’s look at the evidence.

I’ve got no experience. This brings a fresh perspective. You know, ‘no fear’ and all that.

I’ve never won owt as a coach, but that didn’t stop Keegan, Taylor and Hoddle.

I’m from Teesside so I won’t take no s***, and I won’t be in a hurry to go back there either.

The name’s Robson which worked OK in 1990.

I’m English.
I’m cheap.
I’d be honoured.

So let’s go for it, eh? Here’s my manifesto pledges. I admit it’s unlikely I’ll get the post so these commitments will have all the sincerity that the Lib Dems can afford to give.

You don’t know what you’re doing!

The BBC’s Derek ‘Robbo’ Robson on England’s failure to qualify for Euro 2008 after a pitiful performance against the croats.

Are there any excuses? Some mild ones maybe.

McClaren had almost a third-choice back four out there, plus a second-choice front two. But I knew he’d go 4-5-1!

I knew Lamps’d be back in. I knew the players, Englishmen with all the flexibility of polystyrene, would snap under the pressure of a new formation!

You know what? I withdraw comments about too many foreigners in the Premier League. There’s just too few Englishmen in Serie A and La Liga.

Becks, unfit, ponderous and playing Mickey Mouse footie in the most artificial place on God’s green earth, was the only bloke to deliver a geunine pass in the whole game (Croats aside).

I’m not going to batter Carson. Robinson should have been replaced games ago, then the lad wouldn’t have had to be given a Bonetti of a job to do on Wednesday night. As for Peter Crouch, well by gum, lad, you’re the first name in the next squad.

At half-time I felt, well, relieved. The wife’s head is on me shoulder and she’s saying: “So, can we go somewhere warm for our summer holidays now, then?”

And I’m saying: “I still want to watch all the games, pet.” And she’s saying: “I know, but you won’t mind those funny foreign commentators if there’s no Brits involved.”

And suddenly I’m free! Free from the tyranny of supporting a bunch of pampered, overpaid plonkers who couldn’t successfully make a pass at a speed-dating session for 40-year old virgins.

But then comes the comeback, dammit. And we’re back believing again, until the lad Petric, closely marked by the Ghosts of England Past but left alone by the clueless pillocks on the pitch, finishes it once and for all…

We’re off to Crete, apparently.

But before I scare the infant population of Teesside by throwing toys out of every pram in Middlesbrough, let’s just take a deep breath and count to ten… four, four, two.