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Prophet and loss, with fewer points than Derby

Well, it’s all over bar the shouting and the still faintly curious spectacle of Cardiff coming to the FA Cup rather than vice versa. So that means once again it’s time for me to open the Phill Jupitus 2007-08 Premier League Predictions envelope to see how “on the money” I was. Every July

I spend three days in a hyperbaric chamber living on macadamia nuts and drinking distilled rainwater to clear my head for this daunting task. Prepare to be dazzled . . .

Steve McClaren to be replaced by Harry Redknapp (half a point). We all knew that he wouldn’t go the distance. However, I was a little wide of the mark imagining that the geniuses in Soho Square would bring Harry’s “half-time bacon sandwiches” approach to the No 1 job. Not when they could hire someone for whom English is a distant third language. Come on, it’s only Harry’s second.

Planet Jupitus: Cowdenbeath more than just a passing fancy

Yesterday I was pulled up by a burly Scot over the comments I made about Cowdenbeath last week. Apparently using them as grist for my mill of whimsy was “nae funny”. I don’t want any of you thinking that I meant any disrespect to the Blue Brazil. They are my Scottish team. For goodness sake, I bought a scarf! Why? In 1990 I was making my debut appearance at the Edinburgh Fringe. One Saturday I craved the distraction of football. Hibs and Hearts being elsewhere, me and my mate Mike discovered Cowdenbeath were at home to Stenhousemuir and it was only a 45-minute drive.

The ground had all the beloved icons of the lower reaches of football: corrugated iron, hand-written signage, tiny plastic cups of volcanic tea melting your fingerprints off and a sparse but loyal attendance. We bought two terrace tickets for a fiver and wandered in. A bloke standing at the gate with a Tupperware box for the tickets and change saw us approaching in our rock star-esque bohemian finery. We showed him our tickets but he ushered us towards the stands with a wink. “Yer all right, lads, nae bother.”

He didn’t charge us the 50p supplement either. We climbed the stairs to pick ourselves a couple of seats from the 4,000-odd empty ones. Behind us we heard the bloke loudly whisper to the tea lady: “Ah thenk they’re scouts!”

The game was a long-ball fiesta of fun. It looked like net-free volleyball. At one point, a beautiful cross bounced perfectly for Cowdenbeath’s striker to take on the half-volley about 20 yards out with an open goal. His leg scythed wildly through the air and he punted the ball completely out of the stadium.

Mike and I expected the hapless bloke to get a barrage of abuse but there was silence. After a pause we heard a cough behind us, a frail-looking man in his sixties slowly stood up, took the pipe out of his mouth and shouted: “Can ye no keep the ball in the ground, Willie?” They won 3-2 and it turned out to be the funniest thing I saw at the festival. That’s why I own a Cowdenbeath scarf ...

PHILL JUPITUS

Planet Jupitus: Universal language brings us together

On arriving in Tennessee last Saturday night, I got to my hotel room, grabbed the phone and ordered several bottles of powerful local beer. My theory is that you make the hangover worse than the jet lag, thereby eclipsing it. It’s just a theory.

The next day it was your bleary-eyed and surly correspondent slumped against the car hire counter. “You like Jeep?” a helper barked. He jabbed at a wallchart indicating various panzer-like vehicles, with carbon footprints the size of the Isle of Wight. I waved lazy assent and started on the paperwork in front of me.

Upon seeing my passport, a light filled his eyes. “What football you support? Chelsea, yes?” To me, such a statement is a mental espresso. This was a hangover cure. I shot upright as my eyes snapped wide open. “No, no, no. West Ham! East London?” He gave me a vacant if friendly stare.

Obviously the form of Alan Curbishley’s men had failed to penetrate the United States car rental staff demographic. “I like Keegan!” he blurted. Did he think that Kev was involved with the Irons, or was this just a polite conversational helper?

I opted for the latter and entered into the stuttering Esperanto of football. How many times have we found ourselves in some far-flung corner of the globe, unable to communicate with the locals until somebody dredges up a name from the sporting past and, as if by magic, it’s all smiles and beers.

We grinned like goons, spewing player and team names at each other. But mischief got the better of me and after he had waxed lyrical about Nani. (“Nani . . . Good . . . Yes?”) I nodded then beckoned him closer to whisper; “Cowdenbeath . . . Very good!”

He looked puzzled. How had these giants eluded him? “Dougie Hill . . . superb!” I winked, with both thumbs aloft. He absorbed this information as I slid into the driver’s seat and sped off towards Nashville. On the car’s radio I lucked on to World Soccer Daily just in time to hear Steve Cohen, the presenter, describe Robbie Earle’s commentating as being “like a fine wine”. I love my life.

PHILL JUPITUS

United make mark in winter wonderland

I want you to imagine the scene. Last week, I was participating in the delightful Altitude Festival in the ski resort of Méribel and had just taken a 20-minute ride in a snug fibreglass bubble almost vertically up a mountain. Now, I have a problem with skiing. My view is that if you take my nervous, if prepossessing, physical mass and strap it to two slippery planks then release it three miles above sea level in eastern France, it won’t stop until Bruges. So I was simply there for the view.

The word “view” does the awe-inspiring sight that greeted me a massive disservice. Jagged, ice-glazed ebony peaks thrust violently into the sky, vast swaths of blinding white snow stung my eyes. I was on the roof of the world. The thin, fresh, cold air bit into my lungs and the sun slowly burnt my numb cheeks. It was simply one of the most beautiful things I have ever seen. Then somebody said: “We’d better get back down if we want to make the Man United game . . .”

Planet Jupitus: Stuff all the cards for the bolshy brigade

I don’t know if you were watching Sporting Lisbon play Rangers in the Uefa Cup on Thursday, but I was fascinated by one particular incident. Rangers had taken the lead on the hour with a beautifully worked goal by Steven Davis and Jean-Claude Darcheville that went against the run of the game. Then, during a flurry of open play, my screen was filled with Rangers’ assistant manager, Ally McCoist.

Planet Jupitus

I have a question this week. It has been rattling around for a bit and I thought that this would be a good spot to purge myself, so here we go. What does the FA actually do?

I only ask because I opened my paper a few days ago to see that its latest tip-top selection for the England hotseat was about to be called as a witness in a corruption trial. Upon seeing this, my head spun round like a Warner Brothers cartoon character, my eyes shot out of my skull on springs and a klaxon went off.

I went on to read that this story broke almost two years ago, just before the 2006 World Cup finals. Now Fabio Capello maintains he is being called only because his name would bring the prosecuting attorney, Luca Palamara, some kudos. OK, let’s say that’s true. I’m willing to give him the benefit of the doubt, which after the France game I think is pretty bloody generous. He has just been caught up in all this nonsense like a John Grisham character (in a novel in my head I shall call “Key Witless”). So what we have is an ongoing case involving a football agency and unless I am very much mistaken, the “F” in FA stands for. . . football.

So when these administrative giants of the game, these organisational titans, these guiding lights of the sport were seeking a replacement for the panicky strawberry blond, Steve McClaren, I was just wondering: did they Google applicants first? Just in case, you know, something like this might come up. Perhaps it’s not the most obvious question to ask at the interview. After all, it’s a bit rude and would spoil the atmosphere.

But shouldn’t “any chance of you being called as a witness in any major court proceedings?” be considered?I know the maxim is innocent until proven guilty. But it’s not about that. In the past decade four England managers have departed for the following reasons, in no particular order: failure, failure, failure and spiritual meltdown. The time has come that we’d all like to see somebody doing the job without any distractions.

Right, now, about these referees . . .

PHILL JUPITUS

Beery inquisitor and lady of the lampshade

It was with some reluctance that I decided to partake of the international football experience in a London pub during England’s friendly against France. I am not reluctant without good reason. Many a time, massive tattooed individuals have turned on me just before a vital free kick and slurred, “So whassat Stephen Fry really like, then?” or the ever popular “I bet you practise them introductions, don’cha!”

To ignore these innocent questions is not only rude, but potentially fatal, so I always engage directly with my beery inquisitor and give my answer with a cheery grin, looking straight into his oscillating pupils. Nine times out of ten while this is occurring, the crowd explodes with a scream of “YESSSS!!” Consequently, I don’t think I’ve ever seen a goal in a pub in anything but slow motion. (By the way, he’s lovely and yes we do.)

So why not stay indoors? There is something faintly dissatisfying about lying on a sofa on your own watching football. A modern-day Caligula, you stare impassive, occasionally leaning over for a grape. In the unlikely event that you are forced suddenly to leap up hooting with delight, three things will happen. One, you’ll spill your drink; two, the cat shoots out of the flap; and three, a member of the family runs into the room shouting “What’s happened?”, assuming that you’d stabbed yourself in the groin with a kitchen knife.

Also, if I’m alone watching England, every negative thought I ever had about them comes flooding back. Games grind out like Shakespearian tragedies. But in a pub, hearing the odd positive remark — the occasional “Come on, England!” — my half-empty glass begins to look half-full. Oh, and I get drunk.

Having said that, the most exciting thing that happened on Wednesday was in the middle of the first half when a barmaid smashed a glass lampshade with a mop handle. After the France penalty I left and sat in my car and listened to Alan Green being ridiculed for his French diction by David Ginola on Radio 5 Live. Now that was entertainment ...

Planet Jupitus: Not exactly the finest raconteurs in sport

Many years ago I made a pilot show for Radio 5 Live, which necessitated an interview with Vinnie Jones. On the day, he hunkered down at the green baize studio table looking up at me from under his brow. It was a look that said, “If you try and turn me over, I, the massive and powerful Vinnie Jones, will hurt you, Phillip Jupitus.”

I wondered how many young midfield players must have seen those same cold eyes in the tunnel at Wimbledon before staggering out on to the field with their heart hammering against their ribcage. The result of this imagined threat was that my anodyne whimsy bounced off him like ping-pong balls off a rhinoceros. He wasn’t exactly charismatic, but he did come across as a character — and that seems all too rare these days.

Footballers now have seemingly been so firmly coached on what to say, that they might as well be reading a press release. Why don’t we ever get to see their passion for the game articulated anywhere but on the pitch?

For example, I miss Ian Wright on my telly. Like a toddler jacked up on tartrazine, he would bounce around and say exactly what he thought with scant regard for accuracy or, indeed, grammar. His jokes were awful and his clothes spectacular. It comes to something when you’re watching Match Of The Day and you realise that Alan Hansen is the lively one now.

Once in a while, I find myself in close proximity to a footballer, and I would now like to pass on what little I have gleaned from these encounters. First, stand still, their vision is based on movement. Also try not to talk about football straight away, that’s like going up to Buzz Aldrin and saying, “So . . . the moon, eh!” Strike up some gentle banter about cars and music and then see what happens. It’s absurd to imagine that in addition to their physical prowess, they’re going to turn out to be sparkling raconteurs, too.

That said, once your footballer has warmed up, he may well surprise you with a lengthy diatribe on the sub-prime credit scandal or an in-depth knowledge of the films of John Cassavetes. But, in all likelihood, that probably won’t happen. Remember, at the end of the day, these men are the same boys who were good at PE, got all the girls and copied your maths homework.

PHILL JUPITUS

Planet Jupitus: Let's hear it for the hip Welsh underdog

Phill Jupitus, a team captain on Never Mind The Buzzcocks and a panellist on QI, is a West Ham United fan and a comedian. There is no connection between the last two facts.

The lack of Premier League attendance in the semi-finals of the FA Cup has sent commentators into a tailspin. Yes, yes I know Portsmouth (or Africa B) are there, but now, writing about football in a quality daily, surely I have carte blanche to bang on about the “big four”. (As a Hammer I can assure you it’s actually the “big 11”.)

The ignominious departure of the multimillion-pound generating clubs led to gales of Schadenfreude-based laughs up and down the land. For we who don’t much care for Manchester United, the only thing more gratifying than seeing them tanked by lesser opposition is watching them lose while having dozens of clear chances and a penalty claim turned down. And the only thing even yummier than that is the spectacle of a glowering Sir Alex Ferguson chewing like a bovine on amphetamines, selecting his angry words carefully during the post-match telly interview.