The toppermost of the poppermost

We have always associated being on top as something good. Being on top of the world is what an elated person might say. Being on top of a situation means being in control. Some would say the politics of the bedroom is about who is - and often who isn't - on top.

There was a famous conversation that The Beatles were reported to have had early in their career: John Lennon asked the other three, "Where are we going lads?"

They replied, "To the top, Johnny."
"How far on top?" asked John.
"To the toppermost of the poppermost," came the reply.

Arms, heads and spirits are starting to rise at Old Trafford

Three months ago I would have never thought my beloved Man Utd would be sitting on top of the table at this point of the season. As all Man Utd starts go, this season saw the Red Devils sprint off the blocks with a near perfect start. The draw against Reading and the loss against Arsenal notwithstanding, Man Utd certainly aren't doing as badly as I initially thought they would be.

The pre-season threw up all measure of doubt: I was cynical at first, then I started believing, then my faith faltered again... and again, then I suddenly started believing.

I'm starting to believe big time now. Watching them blow a hapless Liverpool out of the waters of Old Trafford - and make no mistake about it, Liverpool were thoroughly outclassed last Sunday - was certainly very, very easy on the eye.

If its true what they say that this Man Utd team are yet to hit their peak this season, then the fans have got much reason to be optimistic. The old boys like Scholes, Giggs, Solksjaer and Neville are remnants from seasons gone when this team know nothing but winning; it is deeply encouraging to see them lead the charge this year.

Rooney hasn't found his form yet, but despite this seeming 'crisis' people are scoring from almost every position. Ferdinand, Vidic, Fletcher, and even dear ol' Johnny O' Shea have pipped in with goals.

Contrast that with a Liverpool or Andrei Shevchenko, why don't you?

A Reebok pumping
Still, the true test for Premiership or Champions League aspirants awaits Man Utd this weekend: away to Bolton. Any team who wants to stand up and be counted must be able to come away from the Reebok with a result.

More than Old Trafford or Anfield, and certainly more than Stamford Bridge, it is a Bolton team at home which have scuppered the ambitions of probable league leaders before. They have been the bane / Archilles heel / banana skin of many a good team. This game will be no different.

Bolton Wanderers vs. Manchester United.

LIVE from the Reebok Stadium. Saturday, 28th October. 10pm. This is the match of the week.

An opportunity to focus

...not for the sportsmen who will hold my attention for the next few days, but rather for myself, since I'm planning to devoting much of my time over the next week's holidays tuning in to enjoy some very exciting sporting occasions:

1. Man Utd v Liverpool - here's hoping the table topping winning streak continues, or failing that, a bloody good game for all of us to savour;

2. The F1 Brazilian GP - I have profound respect for Michael Schumacher, but I'm not looking forward to seeing him on the top step of the podium this weekend. He's certainly good enough for it though, mind you... but I'd rather see him go off quietly, than bask in the a glow of glory that he has frankly overstayed. Statistically the best driver the sport as seen; whether he is the greatest is certainly up to debate, and I certainly count Senna, Prost and Fangio above him.

Ta-ra Mikey... I'll try not to miss you

Enjoy the festival of lights, and eid-ul-fitr!

Amster-damn!

Amsterdam, as expected, was a blast. It was a welcome difference watching a Champions League match over dinner, instead of waking up in the dead of the morning as we do over here.

The match in question was Liverpool v Galatasaray, and the Turkish and Greek community in Amsterdam turned up in full force to vent their worldly frustrations on the British team (any British team will do, I'm told). At 3-2 though, I thought Istanbul - Part Deux was on the cards. Sadly, Liverpool and Peter Crouch deeply disappointed us all that night.

There is obviously more to Amsterdam than the Red Light District, and the Noveau Hash Bars ("Hash is legal there, right?" "Yeah, it's legal, but it ain't a 100% legal..."). The cycling crowd, for example, is a sight to behold. It is estimated that 150,000 bicycles enter Amsterdam every day. Bank managers in their Italian suits cycle. Prada-wearing blondes off to their designer jobs cycle. Policemen, postmen and other Dutchmen cycle. Anyone heading within 5 miles of their destination cycle - daytime, or after sunset. It simply is the most efficient way of getting about town.

A common denominator of all things Amsterdam is that most everything is narrow - houses, streets, buildings, walkways, alleys... everything but their state of mind(which is evidently very broad). Buildings that look no more than 50 feet in breadth look like this on the inside:

Still, spending afternoons strolling parts of Amsterdam with its canals, churches, bicycles and windows aplenty was an experience indeed. The A1 GP race at Zandvoort was a real blast, with 85,000 Dutchmen in their orange garb adding a bit of tangy zest into the atmosphere. And to top it all off, we had invites to the swankiest club in town on one of the nights, to watch folks like Danni Minogue, Jay Kay of Jamiroquai, and Ruud Gullit shimmer by (with their 6'6" Dutch bodyguards).

So all in all, it was a 'Dam' nice trip. Of course, no post is complete without a cursory reference ti my beloved Manchester United, and boy, isn't it awesome to see this fella scoring again!

The life and times of the annoying Ashley Cole

I don't know about you, but this Ashley Cole is seriously starting to get on my nerves. Someone once told told me I look very much like him - I disagree, of course - which naturally made me resent the bugger even more.

Add to that the fact that he played for Arsenal at the time of the said comment, which is really no big problem with me, except that I associate him with a period of swashbuckling, breath-taking football wizardry at Highbury that many of us Man Utd fans (and some lesser others) were grossly envious of, even of many of us don't have the heart to admit it.

Also, he is a total and utterly shameless brat. Just like almost that entire Arsenal team (above) were a bunch of first-rate, thorough-bred whiners, whingers, and w***ers (7 letters, rhymes with anchors).

The guys in charge of the Chelsea kit couldn't tell the difference between their Cs and the Hs

But what really gets my goat these days is the continuing footage and print real estate given to his so-called illustrious career, all neatly put together in a ridiculous periodical otherwise refered to as a 'biography'.

Somebody should tell these youngsters it's usually fit to release a biography having achieved a lifetime of success, and having accumulated a certain measure of wisdom, lessons and even regrets.

Not something people like Ashley Cole know anything about, certainly. As it is, I am highly doubtful that he might even know the real meaning of several words quoted so eloquently in the book in question, such as:

1. camaraderie
2. duplicitous
3. loyalty
4. the

Biographies for people like the great Matt Busby and Bill Shankly are warranted, welcomed and bring absolute joy to the downtrodden masses. So too stalwarts like Sirs Alex Ferguson and Bobby Robson.

Even stuff on other Brits like Neil Kinnock, Jeremy Clarkson, George Harrison, or Sting. Certainly for giants of the game like Roy Keane and Kenny Daglish. Even Ian Wright (both the former Gunner and the Discovery Travel & Adventure host - he's the bomb!). And I'm definitely on the look-out for those on retiring geniuses like Agassi, Schumacher and the late Steve Irwin @ Crocodile Hunter.

But Ashley Cole? WTF?

Your thoughts, please. Discuss.

Amster-DAMN!
I know recent updates on *Dish* *Bish* have been quite slow. Apologies, I've just been saddled with a truckload of work.

As it is, I'm off next week to Amsterdam, to attend the season-opening race of the A1 GP in the famous beach circuit of Zandvoort, that sadly took the life of the great Gilles Villenueve (Jacques' daddy). Coming along with me are two good guys from The Star and New Straits Times.

Look out for updates in 15 days.

A city, a punk, and a crazy guy

The trip to London may have been short, but rewarding nonetheless. I have returned safely to my beloved Kuala Lumpur with:

One... A sudden surge of enthusiasm for the work that I do, knowing that there new opportunities opening up right at my doorstep, and the fact that I work with some really nice people;

Two... A new-found respect for Alex Yoong and team Malaysia at the A1 GP;

Three... Very fond memories of Silverstone. To be honest, it was a bit overwhelming standing on the same piece of tarmac where greats like Senna, Mansell, Hakkinen, Schumacher and some of the older buggers did the ‘bees-knees’ (business)... but I did try conceal my excitement, just so my colleagues from the other offices around the world wouldn’t see what a total nerd I was.

The trip reminded me that there are many beautiful places in the world, as much as there are beautiful people. The folks in London do a pretty good job of selling the metropolitan-ness of the city: Heathrow is manned by whites, blacks, browns, yellows and some other colours in between (please spare me the grief / stares / spankings on this non-PC comment).

There are ‘brothers’ there who sound like they’ve been around since the Victorian times, but who look like they’ve just stepped out after a good meal of home-cooked rice, curd and fish curry.

Right round the corner from our hotel was this eatery proudly advertising their ‘Penang and Oriental Cuisine’. Vans transporting frozen kebabs here. A tandoori outlet there. Everyone and their brother from every corner of the globe, all trying to make a buck or a million, riding the underground, Daily Mirror tucked under arm, looking uninterested / unshaven / like Bob Geldof.

I wish I could have spent a few more days there. Maybe soon.

*****

"The scoreboard says I have lost but what it doesn't say is what I have found... you have given me your shoulders to stand on to reach for my dreams. In my last 21 years I have found you and will take the memory of you for the rest of my life."

So goes Andre Agassi, in a retirement speech that much of Hollywood would envy.

I remember first watching Agassi win Wimbledon many years ago. Up until that point, the worst a tennis player looked like was Bjorn Borg, Boris Becker or Martina Navratilova (if not for her first name, I wouldn’t have guessed the gender; even now I’m not too sure).

Then comes this dude, looking like a blend between a junkie, a surfer, and a tomcat, and he totally blew the Tennis world away.

Blew. Them. Away.

Along the way, he helped himself to 8 Grand Slam titles, and still found a few minutes to bag a pin-up babe like Steffi Graf.

Ta-ta Andre, thanks for the memories.

*****

And it’s goodbye too to Steve Irwin @ Crocodile Hunter, who single-handedly made the Animal Planet channel watch-able for thousands of folks around the world.

I was chatting with an Aussie friend this morning, and he told me that most of Australia feels the same way the British people felt when they heard of Princess Di’s death, and pretty much the way the whole world felt when Mother Teresa passed on.

Because he was such an ‘out-there' person, with so much life and energy, it’s even a double blow that he won’t around anymore. Surreal. Bizarre. Even dream-like.

What I will remember most about him is that he was probably the sort of man most chldren will want for a dad – fearless, witty, up for it, and so generously endowed with a sense of ‘can-do’. His heart was exactly where he said it was, and that makes him pretty tall in my book.

Crickey, mate... It’s been really good, innit?

All right, luv? Isn't she just bee-yoo-tiful!

An unlikely hundred percent

My goodness!

I would have never expected this from even my beloved Manchester United... but what the heck, you take what you can get, I guess. My instinct tells me never to gloat, because I know from years of experience - especially in recent years - that karma is a bitch that bites your bollocks bloody hard (fellow MU fans, please say this enthusiastically, emphasising the Bs - and mean it!).

So, we're a bit rough around the edges, but with a bit more growing up, and a little less f**king up, we might just see the end of the season with a bit more optimism than we did before we started it.

Good luck, fellas!

***

Allow me to welcome and old friend and fellow colleague who has just joined us in blog-o-land. Boys and girls, say hello to Senor Sreejit - a "tell-it-like-it-is", "keepin-it-real" kinda dude. And he writes a good tale.

Those who know Sreejit know what a top bloke this guy is, except for two very pertinent points:

1. His obsession with fitness, (and I believe that fitness is a serious impediment to a social life); and

2. He's a Spurs fan. Only 1 of 4 that I know of. In the world.

***

I'm off to London, England tomorrow. Some glam autosports project, which includes a day at the famous Silverstone, in the pits, paddock, observing a test, and a possibly elaborate attempt on my part to plant a kiss on the famous tarmac where the greats of the sports laid rubber.

If I should return with charred lips, don't ask why.

Will I kiss the hallowed tarmac?

There's your lot, Fergie

Quite a bit you can do with Powerpoint, innit?

So then, are they good enough to keep pace with the likes of Chelsea, Liverpool and Arsenal, and keep the likes of Spurs, Newcastle and Blackburn well behind you?

Can you toss 'em up, week in-week out, and still drum up the right results? Can you sustain it the entire season through?

Are these boys capable of being motivated? Do you still have it in you to still motivate them?

I don't mean any disrespect, Sir Alex - but frankly you have become a victim of your own success. This whole club has become a victim of its own success. We the fans expect a lot, even those of us shirt-grabbers in the Far East who have never been through an Old Trafford turnstile...

The way I see it, you'll have fans who will chin up and say, "Thanks for the memories, Fergie... now please bugger off!", or fans (like myself) who are impatient as hell simply because we give a damn, and who are more likely to want to see you fix this problem, enjoy one last moment in the sun, they wish you well as you head off to yer wee village in Govan with yer grandchildren.

Many will be watching the game against Fulham, already resigned to the fact that we'll at least be challenging for the last Champions' League spot. Can we even make it there, Fergie? We would like to believe we could, and perhaps nick a cup or two somewhere.

But things are really not good as far as fan-fidence is concerned. And I do mean not good. There are too many questions Fergie. So you be sure you get the answers out on the field.

***

Previous musings on my beloved Manchester United:

The Lord giveth, and the Lord taketh away

A stump for the chumps of England

Saviour Mascherano

See, the emperor is naked

The Lord giveth, and the Lord taketh away

This quick photoshop job means there surely will be new jerseys next season

With all the flak that Manchester United has had to take lately, surely, the last thing the club needs are its own fans turning up the volume on them.

But let's face it, this is a club in serious trouble. After a dozen or so years of glory (the treble, doubles, and thophies and titles aplenty), this is an institution coming apart at the seams.

Roy Keane is gone. Never to return. And we have replaced this legend with caricatures, at best (Neville as captian, Carrick in the midfield role).

Alex Ferguson will never be at his tactical and strategic best again. He is even polite to journalists these days, much less to Jose Mourinho.

David Gill is no fit top-hat for a club this big. We have become impotent on the transfer market, and unwittingly have let good players go for far less than we we're willing to pay for mediocre replacements. He belongs in a Malaysian GLC.

The team is is shambles. Rooney and Ronaldo. A questionable defence. A unsorted midfield. An almost toothless attack. No depth on the bench.

All that record season-ticket sales will only mean that the fans are expecting much of the club. An expectation that sadly doesn't look close to being met.

Instead, we gaze enviously at Chelsea, Liverpool, Arsenal, and even Spurs, as we dream about the stuff we could do if we could just pinch player from each of those clubs.

***

Yes, I know I am one fickle minded bugger. First I said the emperor was naked. Then I thought I saw his clothes. Then I realised it was a fig leaf after all.

I can now see all his wringkly bits. Ain't that a sight!

A stump for the chumps of England

When I started this blog, I had an idea of I could talk extensively about football and sports in general, meet and greet some other like-minded bloggers and friends alike, and wax lyrical about my beloved Manchester United.

I wanted to keep this spot clean, clever, informative and discussive, and steer clear of trivial gossip and rants.

But things have not gone the way I thought it would, and if I may paraphrase my favourite cartoon character Popeye: "I has taken all I can takes, and I can't takes it no more!"

What the fuck is up at Old Trafford?
We have become impotent on the transfer market. All hope rekindled last week has fizzled out like the last hiss on a soggy twig in the furnace. Hiss 1. Hiss 2. And Hiss 3.

No Gatusso signing, in spite of more than a year's worth of romancing. No pride-swallowing Vieira. No Ballack. No Obi Mikel. Not even Kuszczak from West Bromwich bloody-Albion! And now certainly no Javier Mascherano.

Instead, we get this near-retirement geriatric.

Alex... WTF?

Saviour Mascherano

It has been all busy, busy, busy these days, but in the midst of all the excitement, a colleague sent me an SMS yesterday, which simply said: “Dude, you got your wish. REUTERS just reported United’s bid for Mascherano.”

Oh boy! That was news indeed. Even the recent newsbreak on United's Michael Carrick signing doesn't top it, and all indications are that SAF believes Carrick alone may not suffice.

Make no mistake about it: midfield names do not get any bigger than Javier Mascherano these days, the pivot on which the entire Argentine team swiveled at this year’s World Cup, and whose named was making the rounds all over Europe even before he signed with Corinthians from River Plate barely a couple of seasons ago.

Maradona calls him a "monster of a player, destined for great things."

I rate JM very, very highly. Here is a defensive midfielder who seems to know his job very well, and sticks to it. He probably sleeps with a copy of The Midfielder’s Manual under his arm.

You hardly see JM away from the middle third of the field when his team is in possession. He has the solid discipline to orchestrate play from within the centre circle while his more adventurous colleagues foray upfront, but capably buckles down to defensive duties when possession is conceded. Efficiency with a capital E.

Word has it that the company that backed his signing to Corinthians for 10 million pounds simply have an agenda of maximising their return on investment. That is good news for United indeed.

Now that Ruud is out, and monies seem to be available from the potential sale of C. Ronaldo (plus the acquisition of Simao from Valencia), it is not just possible, but very probable.

With Alan Smith healing well (and I know this fler can really be fired up when he wants to be), with Scholes and Giggs back in some scintillating form, without distractions of national duties (ditto Smith), and with the potential signing of Michael Carrick on the cards, the midfield looks pretty decent and sorted.

But the point of this post – and my premature awakening from a self-induced stupor – is to celebrate the possibility of Javier Mascherano. Perhaps the emperor has nice clothes after all.

I so want this guy in the red shirt. Get me his signature, Alex!