West Ham, Leeds

[davieG]

From the Timesonline

Road to Wigan cheer

A fitting conclusion to a season of anarchy - Danny Kelly

Actually, Ken Bates has taken a bit of the fun out of the whole Leeds situation by pulling an injury-time swerve and putting the club into administration just in time to avoid starting life in Coca-Cola League One with a ten-point deduction (as well as clearing his business of £30 million of debt at a stroke). It is weaselly and against the spirit of the legislation, but I guess the old goat was emboldened in his dastardly plan (one emulated, incidentally, by the equally oleaginous Boston United) by the FA Premier League's jelly-spined reaction to the West Ham United thing.

Given that Eggert Magnússon could find £5.5 million in the turn-ups of his trousers after a night out and that membership of next year's Premiership is liable to be worth quite incalculable riches, that famous fine was – it goes without saying – a joke. But it also sent out a clear message. A precedent has been set; unless a player actually cuts off an opponent's head with a rusty hacksaw blade he'd concealed in his sock, or a club are caught on CCTV stealing the Crown Jewels to make an illegal payment to a player who, it turns out, is owned by Osama bin Laden, there will be no proper points deduction. Clubs now know that they can do what they like, and no one's gonna stop 'em.

Which is exactly why, on Sunday, the players and officials of Wigan Athletic and Sheffield United should make full use of this new, Premier League-endorsed Wild West disregard for the law. I write before Charlton Athletic's game against Tottenham Hotspur this evening, but it looks like (assuming the Hammers lose to Manchester United) a 1-0 win for Wigan at Sheffield United would save both clubs and consign the Londoners to the relegation their crimes (though not their army of passionate fans) so richly deserve.

There should be no shame about this; Wigan and the Blades have been shafted. Their players should make no effort to score, but waste time in every conceivable way, ensuring that the ref has to trowel on copious heaps of added minutes. That way, they can be sure that West Ham have come a cropper in Manchester. Then, armed with that knowledge, the Sheffield lads could lie in the spring sunshine while the Latics stroll up the pitch and nab the goal that ensures justice, however harshly obtained.

GOODBYE AND GOOD RIDDANCE

When the Second World War ended, bells rang out across the land, public buildings were swathed in bunting and total strangers attempted drunken sexual congress in shop doorways. It must have been a grand day. Now, with the exception of folk getting jiggy in the lobby of Kwik Save, a similar sense of relief and celebration has swept the land. Leeds United have been banished to the outer darkness . . .

Why? Why should the relegation of one football club be greeted with such glee? How have Leeds become so despised? Gawd, even their own fans hate the team. And the chairman. And the manager.

Some of the vitriol, of course, is historic. Leeds's famous (all right, infamous) team of the late 1960s/early 1970s were brilliant footballers but doubled as the sneering, snarling, studs-up kings of gamesmanship and violence, the original Little West Riding Hoods. It is no coincidence that, as Leeds reached their only European Cup final, in 1975, the most popular film of the summer was Rollerball.

More recently, the club that made the semi-finals of the Champions League were, for all the fizzing play of their actual team, the embodiment of the new greed-is-good business that was replacing traditional football. Peter Ridsdale and his puffed-up "living the dream" (with other people's money); David O'Leary and his smug, blame-shifting "my little babies" tosh; paying Seth Johnson wages that would have embarrassed J. K. Rowling; splashing out on feng shui goldfish (again using the cash of the poor bloody supporters). Oh, and Lee Bowyer. Has there been a more annoying bunch? Erm, no.

But truthfully, the present delight is to do with a quite remarkable confluence of horrible things. Leeds were already loathed; then they were taken over by football's very own abominable snowman. We all like to have a bit of a giggle about Ken Bates, but let's not forget the plans for electric fences, the describing of the Chelsea Independent Supporters Association as "parasites" (he settled out of court) and the description of Matthew Harding – Chelsea's preAbramovich saviour – as "an evil man". Any resemblance between Ken and Santa is purely coincidental.

And his gift to the Elland Road faithful was manager Dennis Wise, adored by old-school Chelsea fans, detested by most everyone else. Dennis affects a chirpy affability, but his track record (the conviction for violence against a 60-year-old taxi driver, the fracturing of Leicester teammate Callum Davidson's jaw, while the latter slept, and his suing of the cash-strapped Foxes for their temerity in sacking him for that assault) suggests something altogether different.

I probably shouldn't be saying all this. Wisey has already tried to sue me once. Some years ago, when I ran the Football365 website, we suggested that he might not be your No 1 choice for a dinner-party guest and that he was not the best-behaved gent in the burgh. Soon, an envelope from Dennis's learned friends was on my desk. For two weeks, with the help of a libel lawyer, I gathered together a massive pile of evidence to back up our assertions. I needn't have bothered; at that exact moment, Den's autobiography was unleashed on an indifferent public.

It was called Dennis The Menace. It traded openly on his bad-lad image. It made the idea of a court case ludicrous. In any event, I never had the slightest doubt that his action would be unsuccessful. Never mind all the evidence and ignore the book, my lawyer was called Jonathan Crusher!

So. Leeds, Bates and Wise. Tough on that club's genuine fans, but I think I've answered my own question. You'd have to be from another planet – one where football doesn't exist – not to understand exactly why the fall of one of the game's most prominent clubs has been the biggest excuse for a national knee-trembler since VEDay.