Bent

Feel the hyperbole

Was anyone else slightly - maybe 5% - surprised Birmingham's winner was given in yesterday's Co-Op final?

There's something strange when the underdog wins these days. As REM put it, Leonard Bernstein. Or if you prefer, there's something going on that's not quite right.

This goes back to a theory I've long held, that officials are subconsciously (mostly) favouring certain teams.

The equation works thus: massive hyperbole surrounding football means everyone expects a certain outcome - why would officials be exempt from this? 

Add the natural human desire to want to make people happy and it's understandable that officials lean towards certain teams. Chuck in a home crowd and the effect, and with it the pressure on the officials, is magnified.

Because we're repeatedly told these teams will win, and lets have it right here it's Manchester United mainly, there's a certain feeling of the natural order when they do win. It feels right. When the powerful clubs are upset it feels wrong. As if someone somewhere has left the iron on. 

Another development caused by the media saturation of football is the creation of a bizarre conservatism in supporters. Where once we were punk rockers raging against The Man, now we're all 'investment' and shirt-sales-in-Asia.

Be honest, it feels weird that Chelsea are out of the top four currently. Nothing against Spurs, but it just feels wrong. Conversely, Manchester City for Liverpool feels 'right' as we have been told for a while now that nothing can stop City (except FULHAM - ha!). 

A fella I used to know once said of Everton's approaching top-four finish in 2005, 'we know who our Champions League teams are, and they're not one'. 

And certainly Everton's finish that season did provoke an odd amount of 'you'll embarrass the nation' jibes among the internet football community. Going back further, and again with Everton, when they stayed up after beating Wimbledon 3-2 on the final day of the 1993/4 season, Match of the Day had David Baddiel and Frank Skinner on as pundits.

Not Premier League

Skinner said something along the lines of 'it feels wrong if a club like Everton goes down'. And he was right. Remember that Barnsley fan screaming into the Grandstand cameras that the league was fixed so they went down in 1998? I'm not saying it was fixed but I know what he meant.

Coverage since then has blasted out of all proportion - there's an entire industry based around talking about football. It doesn't matter what you say. Just. Keep. Talking. 

So the expectation of certain things becomes greater and the pressure on those to deliver is greater. It's unavoidable that officials are affected.

How else do you explain the bizarre reaction to Wayne Rooney's assault on Wigan's James McCarthy on Saturday (and a couple of weeks ago the handball by Paul Sholes against Leeds and Ryan Giggs' foul on Kevin Doyle in the same match)? 

Even the Match of the Day commentator Jonathon Pearce bottled it, murmuring something like 'oh that's not nice'. As if he's scared to criticise and upset one of the cartel.

As of this morning referee Mark Clattenburg has told the FA he dealt with Rooney at the time, presumably by giving him a little cuddle. So that's that.
Bollocks. No way Clattenburg saw it, or if he did it was out of the corner of his eye. Either he saw something and bottled it (quite likely) or he saw nothing but heard the crowd (more likely) and gave, I don't know, something? 

Of the incident itself it's just another example of how football people clearly aren't governed by the same laws, both official and scientific, as the rest of us. That's why they fall over with their feet tucked under their arse and their backs arched, and can offer an excuse of 'self defence' when they get rumbled for smashing their arm into someone's grid.
They even use ridiculous phrases which are seeping into everyday speak: 'simulation', 'gone to ground', 'coming together' etc.

It's understandable Clattenburg didn't book Rooney if he didn't see what happened, but to then claim he dealt with it sufficiently is ridiculous. If that's his stance then he's clearly not up to the job and the FA or Premier League or whoever it is deals with this stuff has to give him the shove, or at least a major bollocking.

Clattenburg seems to be one of those refs who wants to be chums with the famous players, like that penis Graham 'hi Thierry' Poll. 

They see themselves as part of the firm now, as celebrities themselves. Perhaps they feel like they're the players' peers, or at least they're nearly there. And what better way for the bed-wetter at school to get in the hard kids' gang than doing everything they say, giving them their sweets and handing over their toys? That'll earn their respect. 

The day I made my own hash brown (only one which was massive)

Mere spud and onion

Lets get one thing straight from what the yanks (and British people who talk like yanks) call 'the get-go' - until today I was worthless.
And you know why? Because I never made my own hash browns. Shame. Deep shame.
Well those days are gone! And not only did I make my own hash brown, it was one so big it was an affront to god himself. And here's how I did it.
The recipe's off the BBC site. Only thing I didn't do was wring the water out the spuds in a tea towel because I forgot but it was still ace.

All you do is peel two spuds (the recipe says four but I halved it) and a small onion, grate them into  bowl. Beat an egg into a big bowl, pour the spud and onion into the egg, add a inch of salt and pepper, mix it all up right good like.

Mmm, brown

Then heat some oil in a frying pan, dollop some of the stuff in, flatten it down, cook for about three minutes then flip and cook the same again.
If you're doing a big massive one like mine because you're the sort of bloke who makes women froth with a mere raised eyebrow, put a big plate over the pan before the flip stage, then whip it straight over so the pan's atop the plate.
The mega hash brown will be sat there all golden on top, now slide it back into the pan to brown the bottom for three minutes.

Ta-daaa

When it's done, put it on the plate and place your other grub items on it because, and this is key, YOUR MEGA HASH BROWN WILL ACT AS THE PLATE. You heard.

Something's gone wrong again - nerd wars

Up for t'cup

Wembley! 

I've not done many Ev-related posts on here, which you may have seen was in the Guardian's top 20 most influential blogs the other week (at number 9,000,006). But stuff it, here's one.
One of the surprises of Saturday's FA Cup win at Chelsea, aside from me shouting 'FUCKING YES!' in the bar at London's swanky Ivy restaurant when Leighton Baines equalised (a diary error prevented me from attending both, and grub's always going to win out over football these days), is the lack of noise from Everton's notoriously media-shy owner Bill Kenwright.
I might have missed it but I haven't seen anything of him, which is unusual following a notable Everton win. Perhaps he's just mindful that, to many, the overall Everton curve is still trundling down.
Unless there's dough to spend, even a cup final win probably won't be enough to keep David Moyes at Goodison now - if anything it would strengthen his hand with future employers. All very depressing.
Anyway the point of all this? We'll fuck up against Reading just as we're all getting carried away. And you know why? Because that's what we do. So here in no particular order are five memorable fuck ups in a little feature I like to call:

Five-we-did-the-hard-part-then-ballsed-it-up-next-round Everton defeats of recent vintage


1: Lost 2-1 v West Ham United (FA Cup 6 round, 11/3/91)
This of course coming after we beat Liverpool 1-0 (Dave Watson) in the second replay. The first replay was the 4-4 at Goodison - a game remembered as the one where I foolishly wore a new pair of jeans which hadn't nearly been broken in enough so I spent a fair amount of it whimpering to myself in discomfort.
I think the first game at Anfield was the one where Pat Nevin was denied a clear penalty at the Anfield Road end. It might not have been - do your own checking, lazy-arse.
From memory - I watched this in the Fusilier in Prescot with a lot of angry Evertonians (was it on Sky or maybe the mythical 'Norwegian'?) - we were just shit. Goals from Colin Foster and Stuart Slater (I mean, come on) put West Ham, who I think were in the I Zingari that season, through to a semi against Nottingham fucking Forest who beat them 4-0 before losing the final 2-1 to Spurs.

2: Lost 2-1 v Aston Villa, FA Cup 6 round, 20/2/2000
It wasn't so much that we'd done the hard work before this one - Exeter, Birmingham and Preston were our earlier opponents - as much as what lay ahead that marked this out as a fuck up.
If we'd have got through this we'd have faced either Newcastle, Bolton or pre-Ambramovic (but still a good side) Chelsea in the semis.
I was living in New York at the time and there were a few blues used to go in this bar on Queen's Boulevard (Flynn's, run by two Evertonian brothers) and all the talk was of flying back for the cup final if we got there - really doing it in style: champagne, limos, the whole schmere.
Got beat 2-1 in an appalling performance. Villa beat Bolton in the semi before rolling over against Chelsea.

3: Lost 1-0 v Liverpool, fifth round, 21/2/88
I seem to have blocked this one from my memory but it came after the titanic struggle against the mighty Middlesbrough, where a Tony Mowbray oggy eventually put Everton through against - I dunno, div two? - opposition in the second replay.
Trevor Steven equalised in injury time in extra time in the first replay - the latest goal I can remember us scoring - at Ayresome Park, after the initial 1-1 draw at Goodison. What an oddly-constructed sentence.
Anyway I have no idea what happened but we got beat and Liverpool slithered through to the last eight where they were joined by: Luton, Portsmouth, Manchester City, Watford, Arsenal, Nottingham Forest, Garston Woodcutters, and me and my mum. Liverpool went on to stuff City 4-0 in the quarters, then beat Forest in the semis before playing Wimbledon in the final. Ha!

4: Drew 1-1 (out on pens) v Sunderland, League Cup 5th round, 11/11/98 
Heady days for Evertonians these and I must confess I have no memory of this game either but it's all there on wikipedia so must be true.
After shrugging aside Huddersfield and Middlesbrough an Everton squad boasting John O Kane and Peter Degn in its ranks drew 1-1 with Sunderland before going out on pens.
Sunderland went on to face Luton Town in the quarters before being knocked out by Leicester City 3-2 over two legs (Tony Cottee got all three) in the semis.
The last eight that year was: Sunderland, Luton, Wimbledon, Chelsea,  Leicester, Blackburn, Spurs and Manchester United. Spurs beat Leicester, managed by that jumpity little prick Martin O'Neill I think, 1-0 in the final.

5: Lost 3-2 v Bradford City, FA Cup 4th round, 25/1/97
Fuck me as shit goes this was real base level crud - and it's to Everton's credit that in a time of unmitigated awfulness they could still manage some remarkable performances.
Everton were terrible in a game that saw Andrei Kanchelskis hand in his notice on the pitch. Three goals in 10 minutes for City did the damage, including a Chris Waddle lob from the halfway line.
Gary Speed got one in the 90th minute (Andy O'Brien's oggy was Everton's other) and, typically, Everton made a great chance right at the death as the ball was moved out wide to Duncan Ferguson who, seemingly in slow motion, missed. Or the keeper saved - who the fuck cares? The picture's hopeless here but the commentary is ace (Waddle's goal is 1min 43 sec in - superb stuff).
City went on to a home fifth round tie with Sheffield Wednesday, who beat them 1-0. The teams in the quarters that year were: Chesterfield (who were famously robbed in the semi against Boro), Wrexham, Portsmouth, Chelsea, Sheffield Wednesday, Wimbledon, Derby County and Middlesbrough. Chelsea beat Boro 2-0 in the final.

Still, you can't beat a cup match can you - especially at night.

'Sliding scale of cuntery' stuns fans, dickheads (normals un-moved)

Nob central

Football is reeling after Uefa announced its staggering new policy for buying Champions shouldn't-there-be-an-apostrophe-in-there-somewhere? League final tickets.
European football's governing body - no doubt egged on by those maniacs in Brussels - has introduced a 'sliding scale of cuntery' to determine  fans' worthiness of entry to the Wembley showpiece.
A Uefa spokesman said: 'In partnership with the Premier League, we've been working towards the total cunting up of football for many years.
'We're not about to miss this opportunity to ram home what a holy cunting mess top-level football is today. And where better than the home of football, Wembley Stadium, to finally put Old Football out of its misery and piss in its wounds while dancing around in a suit made of money and eating a big massive fuck off money pie?'
This is how the ticket scheme breaks down, with the most important people at the top and their ticket entitlement in brackets.

Champions League final tickets entitlement (most cuntish at the top):

1. People who 'only go on corporates now' (up to 10 tickets)
2. People who wave at the big screen when they're on it (8)
3. Women (7)
4. Adrian fucking Chiles (6)
5. Blokes who cry (5)
6. People who phone in 606 and expect the host to remember their previous call (4)
7. 'Phil from Clapham' (3)
8. Alan Biley (2)
9. People who spend the whole game pointing a camera/phone at the pitch (1)
10. You (just fuck off)

Fans' representatives have condemned the move - well they have time to be bothered about this stuff seeing as they've NEVER EVEN SPOKE TO A WOMAN.
Arsenal fan Jools Consultant blasted Uefa, saying: 'Facilities, there was contact, can't raise your hands, the game's changed, who are ya?'
Spurs supporter Sylvia Hardbucket added: 'Which way is the ground?'

Jamming with the oldies

Let's roll

I spent a month working at an old folks' day centre in south London in about 2004. I drove the ambulance and did the meals-on-wheels round. 

I was doing some freelance writing and sent this story on spec to the sadly defunct but great Jack magazine. They didn't fancy it at the time - I think I punted it out to a few places to no avail.

On re-reading it I think the last bit comes across as a little bit nasty but presumably I meant it at the time. Anyway here it is: 

What do old people do all day? What can possibly fill the chasm between breakfast and Fifteen to One? They can’t all sit indoors waiting for next door’s kids to boot the ball into their yard. Well, a lot of them go to day centres.  

So grab a sarsaparilla and set a spell as our skilled operative says “Ello love!” to a world
of boiled bacon, seniors’ singles nights and psychotic pooches to bring you five days with Britain’s golden oldies.

Monday
“Yeah, I had a very relaxing weekend, as it goes. I cleaned my dogs. I’ve got about 300 now – porcelain ones they are – models, like.” Bert, one of the centre’s volunteers, is chatting away as the scenery slides by. He’s escorting today – basically helping the old dears (women really do outlive their men – especially round here) in to the ambulance.

Even by the centre's alternate universe standards, Bert’s a bit odd. With his shaving brush goatee, facial piercings, beads and leathery skin he looks like Mr Potato Head’s demented half-brother.

“There’s a three-legged greyhound lives there,” he points towards Rockstone old people’s home as we drive past. “A little cracker he is, a trier – and you have to admire that.” We drive to the next pick up. Bert is now in full flow: “I was out this morning – walking my dog – three o’clock it was…”

“Three…” I interrupt, despite myself, “…am?”

“Yeah. Got to. He’s nuts. And when I say my dog’s nuts – I mean nuts. It’s a pit bull/mastiff cross – he’ll attack anything. Even with the muzzle on he goes for other dogs.” Bert reflects on this for a moment: “And black people.”

“Sorry?”

“Yeah, black people. He hates ‘em. Can smell ‘em – smells their arrogance, I think. Now, Asians he’s fine with. Had one stay with us once – no bother. I can’t explain it. I got a £200 fine once when he attacked a six-foot African. Had to get him muzzled, neutered,the lot.”

We drive back in silence.

Overheard in the ambulance: “She had her breast off on Thursday. Marvellous woman.”

Tuesday
My first go at Meals on Wheels. I’m carrying the food while Pam drives and shows me the round. A couple of drops in and things are going fine. We stop at the next one. I get out to get the food. Pam seems troubled. Something’s on her mind but she can’t quite work out what. I get the food and walk towards the front door. 

Then she twigs: “He’s incontinent!”

Too late – I press the bell. The door opens. At first, nothing. Then it hits me - the stench is incredible – my eyeballs start to peel. He’s covered in it – it’s in his clothes, his hair, everywhere. 

Breathing through my ears I place the food on his tray – disaster – he has to pay. He fishes in his pocket and brings out a sodden five-pound note. This is a logistical nightmare. I hold the change-bag at him and nod into the bag. He’s talking but I can’t hear – I nod at the bag again. He doesn’t understand and puts the fiver in my not-offered hand. 

Time stands still.

I’ve held my breath so long my brain is changing shape, I’m rummaging for change and all the while the sodden fiver is nuzzling against my hand – spreading its vileness on to me – I will never be clean again. Therapy is founded on less.

I give him his change and walk slowly back to the car. I have a nagging fear that this is just the kind of
thing that’ll rear up and haunt me mid-coitus or, worse still, mid-masturbation.

We drive off with me muttering “that’s just not right,” while dangling my hand out the window.

Back at the centre, Frances - one of the helpers - sits down. She’s friendly, in her sixties and not shy.
There was a singles night at the club last night (all old people go to “the club”).  She leans over and, in
a conspiratorial whisper, says: “I had a right result. I’m not after anything serious though. You should come down,” she looks straight at me. “We get a right mix down there.”

“Erm.”

“Well, think about it – we’re going on Thursday.”

Wednesday
Bert’s been missing most of the day, but turns up as we start taking people home. He’s very quiet and, to nick a line from Only Fools and Horses, I don’t know what’s wrong with him but he stinks of booze. He’s staring at Frances.

She walks past. “I wanna stick my tongue…” Bert slurs – he’s unsure, but committed to making a tit of himself. He leans forward – his eyes loll unattractively: “Nah, I’m not gonna get involved,” he breathes in. “Come here… You’re just so…eatable.” 

There’s a flurry of activity and he’s led away by one of the carers. “This is serious ruin, serious ruin,”
is the last we hear of him for the day. 

Back on the ambulance, Mary is last to be dropped. She has a zimmer frame and has to use the tail-lift to get out. The tail-lift moves slowly. She’s booked in to get her hip sorted soon: “I’m waiting to have it replaced. It takes a while,” she says. She may have said more but it’s hard to concentrate when someone’s nappy is showing.

Overheard on the ambulance: 

“Are there any men going on this trip (to Anglesey)?”

-Long pause, with the sound of boiled sweets being opened –

 
“Well, there’s them two 90-year-olds.”

Thursday
I’m out with John today. He’s driving and I’m chucking them on the bus. We head down to Sydenham High Street, a car wriggles past us: “That’s a left turn lane!” John shouts. “I tell you – 90 per cent of them that do that are black. They just can’t wait can they?”

I study my sleeve.

Another car pulls the same trick, we pull alongside. “Here we go. Let’s see what colour it is. There you
are!” he shouts triumphantly.” The rest of the trip is spent with John seething at everything the other side of the windscreen and me wondering if he’s the sort of bloke who’d happily die as long as he could take total strangers with him. I buckle my seatbelt.

Back at base Frances makes a cup of tea. Her glasses peek out from a maelstrom of hair – she was out last night. There’s a problem.

“I can’t have this,” she points at the milk. “Where’s the soya stuff? I’m not supposed to eat dairy. You
know - eggs, butter, milk, ice cream – all that.” 

She looks at me: “It’s ‘cos of my clitoral.”

“What?”

“My clitoral – sorry, clist’rel. It was eight-point-summink. It’s down to four point four now.”

The singles night goes, mercifully, unmentioned.

She drinks the tea anyway. 

Friday
I’m let out on my own for meals on wheels. Not being a local, the route is a bit of a puzzler so Allan, a lad who goes to the nearby drop-in centre, is navigating. Allan has slight learning disabilities. The first drop is just round the corner. We buzz the man’s flat and he lets us in.

“Up here, mate.” We plod up the stairs and prod the door open. There, in the kitchen, is Mr Johnson. In his skids. 

There’s a gasp from somewhere.

“Sorry mate,” he explains. “It’s more comfortable in the heat.” Nonetheless it’s an image that just won’t
quit. The rest of the round goes badly. The sudden heat wave – accompanied, as ever, by fat women appropriating the dress of their thinner pals - has left the area buckling under the strain of mid-90s temperatures.

The food – in a ‘hot box’ in the back of the van – is actually getting hotter. It also becomes clear that,
while Allan’s knowledge of the area is indeed vast, he can’t tell the difference between left and right – or rather, he can’t express the difference. Either way, it’s bad.

The other problem is he can’t count very well. So each drop repeats a pattern: I remain in the van, from where I watch Allan drop the food off, come back to get the change purse (which he’s forgotten), walk back to the punter, stand in the doorway looking puzzled, look over at me sitting in the van, grin at me, grin at the punter, then run back to the van saying: “He’s got to pay £3.20 and he’s given me a tenner,” – huge, vast pause at this point, moon shots are done quicker – “so he wants…” 

When we get back to the centre I tell Pam, who’s in charge of meals-on-wheels, that Allan, while being a nice lad, is in fact useless. He has no use. At least not when there’s money to be collected.

Pam says: “We have to use people with learning difficulties – that’s how it is.” But my patience reserves are empty: “Yes, but where does learning difficulties stop and stupid begin?’ I ask.

Where indeed? Not a good day. 

The Biff Show

'This is gold!'

I'm writing a sitcom pilot and every day I'll put a bit of it on this blog. Although probably not every day as I play football on Mondays and have to clean the bathroom on Thursdays and the weekends are pretty much out. The formatting doesn't translate to this website too well but you get the idea:

The Biff Show

"Trouble"

FADE IN.

INT. LOCATION #1 - DAY

Three white men, early 30s, of varying levels of fatness are sitting in the front room of a flat watching Countdown on TV. The 'do-do-do-do' tune finishes.

BIFF

Four

MARK

Six

DAVE

Five. What's your six?

MARK

Seldom.

BIFF

What's your five?

DAVE

Moulds. What did you have?

BIFF

Mull.

MARK

Your round then.

                                                                                                CUT TO:

INT. LOCATION #2 – DAY

Biff is in a corner shop. Three mint Cornettos are on the counter in front of him. The Egyptian shop assistant is on the phone, ignoring biff. Eventually he speaks, without looking.

SHOP ASSISTANT
£3.20.

BIFF
Sorry?

SHOP ASSISTANT
£3.20.

BIFF
But it can’t be. There’s three of them. That’d make them £1.0666 each. (BEAT) I think.

SHOP ASSISTANT
(EMOTIONLESS) £3.20.

BIFF
That can’t be right. Can you check please?

SHOP ASSISTANT
(SHOUTS) £4.20.

BIFF
But...

SHOP ASSISTANT

(SHOUTS) £4.20.

Biff looks behind him at the other shoppers for support. None is forthcoming. They stare blankly at him.

SHOP ASSISTANT
(LOOKS AT BIFF FOR FIRST TIME. BELLOWS) £4.50.

BIFF
But it can’t be...

SHOP ASSISTANT
(SHOUTS) £3.70.

BIFF
But you just said...

SHOP ASSISTANT
Do you want them or not?

Biff turns to look at the shoppers. There are more there now. All staring at Biff, wishing him dead.

BIFF
These have melted a bit now. I’ll just swap them for some new ones.

Biff turns. There are even more shoppers there now, all staring at him. He looks back at the shop assistant. There are shoppers surrounding him as well, all staring blankly at Biff.

                       

                                                                        CUT TO:

INT. LOCATION #1 – DAY

Biff, Mark and Dave are sitting in the front room eating Cornettos.

                        DAVE
                        How much?

                        BIFF
                        £7.89

MARK
Nice. Hang on...

                                                                                                CUT TO:

                         

                       

                        

Alan Nixon says so - the result

Representing a meat market or bullshit? Your choice

Right me hearties, Nixon watch has reached its conclusion. We’ve tracked each of Alan ‘on my life mate’ Nixon’s transfer stories over the last seven weeks. It’s been a wild ride and we’ve seen some crazy things, but mostly I’ll remember the laughter.

This is a mixture of players Nixon has linked with other clubs in a fairly vague way and things he has said will happen. The language of football writing is such that the two tend to merge.

It's a long list so the headlines are: In the seven weeks covered I saw 88 Nixon-penned transfer (players or managers) stories on the Mirror or People websites (I didn't see any elsewhere so there may be a few I've missed). Of these, he got 25 right, 61 wrong and two are pending (apologies if the maths is messed up. I've got a hangover.) 

These are only stories with Nixon's byline on - they don't include any uncredited ones, say the Mirror's Football Spy, so there could be tons I've missed. He got off to a stinking start with only one right in the first two weeks but got stronger towards the end of the window. This may reflect the more concrete nature of Nixon's information at a time when clubs are actually looking to do business. Rather than just making up shite.

A number of players pop up repeatedly – like Blackpool's Charlie Adam - as do a number of the same clubs. Blackburn Rovers are particularly well covered. It’s almost as if Nixon is willing these moves. But why? On an unconnected note does he still have shares in that player agency?

Taking each week’s predictions with a simple right or wrong, here are the results of the man with  the 'inside scoop' - the man the Mirror call their 'transfer gossip specialist':

11/12/10-18/12/10

Blackpool's Charlie Adam to Blackburn Rovers for £3 million – WRONG (still at Blackpool)

Bolton to sign Swansea’s Darren Pratley (free in the summer) - PENDING

Diego Maradona to be next Blackburn Rovers manager – WRONG

Alan Shearer to manage Blackburn (joint byline with David Anderson) - WRONG 

Everton's Leighton Baines to Bayern Munich for £10 million – WRONG

Martin Jol or Chris Hughton to West Ham (joint byline with Alan Oliver) - WRONG

19/12/10 - 24/12/10

Daniel Sturridge from Chelsea to Liverpool – WRONG (Bolton on loan)

Jay Bothroyd (Cardiff) to Chelsea – WRONG (still at Cardiff)

Zolton Gera from Fulham to Wolfsburg (joint byline with Dave Kidd) – WRONG (still at Fulham)

Ivan Rakitic (Schalke) to Fulham on a free in the summer – WRONG (signed for Sevilla in January)

Blackpool's Charlie Adam to Blackburn Rovers or Stoke City – STILL WRONG

Blackburn to name Steve Kean as manager - RIGHT

Steve Sidwell (Villa) to West Ham – WRONG (went to Fulham)

Steven Ireland leaving Villa for a loan spell at Celtic – WRONG (went to Newcastle on loan)

Dieumerci Mbokani from Monaco to West Ham – WRONG (on loan at Wolfsburg)

25/12/10 to 31/12/10

Sam Allardyce to be the next Burnley manager (joint byline with David Anderson) – WRONG (Eddie Howe is Clarets boss)

Owen Coyle (Bolton) 'to one of English football`s major powers'. Nixon mentions Liverpool – WRONG (still at Bolton)

Eidur Gudjohnsen (Stoke) wants out, to anywhere -  RIGHT (sort of, on loan at Fulham)

Stephen Ireland and Richard Dunne (Aston Villa) to Celtic (probably loans) – WRONG (Ireland to Newcastle on loan, Dunne still at Villa)

Blackburn's Chris Samba to Aston Villa (WRONG – signed a new contract) 

Wayne Bridge from Manchester City to West Ham (loan or full transfer) – RIGHT (loan)

Demba Ba (Hoffenheim) to West Ham - RIGHT

David Luiz (Benfica) to Chelsea or City for £35m – RIGHT (but for less than that)

Kevin Wilson (Forest) to Celtic (pre contract) – RIGHT

Barcelona's Oriol Romeu to Blackburn or Villa (WRONG – still at Barca)

Sergio Roberto to Chelsea (WRONG, still at Barca ‘B’

Emile Heskey (Villa) to Leicester on loan (WRONG – still at Villa)

Doncaster manager to Nottingham Forest (WRONG, still at Rovers, Billy Davies still at Forest.

Neil Sullivan to be the new Doncaster boss (WRONG – see above)

1/1/11 -7/1/11

Ronaldinho (AC MIlan) to Blackburn Rovers – WRONG (went to Flamengo)

Preston North End's Adam Barton to Liverpool – WRONG (still at Preston)

Malky Mackay (Watford) to boss Burnley if Sam Allardyce turns it down – WRONG (Mackay still at Hornets, Allardyce still eating pizza off his t-shirt while watching his box set of A Fine Romance)

Brad Guzan (Villa) to Hull City on loan - RIGHT

Carlos Vela (Arsenal) to Bolton on loan – WRONG (went to West Brom on loan)

Roque Santa Cruz (Manchester City) to Blackburn on loan - RIGHT

Chris Samba (Blackburn) to Villa for James Collins/cash – WRONG (Samba signed new deal, Collins still at Villa)

Charlie Adam (Blackpool) to Blackburn – WRONG (still at Blackpool)

Le Havre midfielder Gueida Fofana to Villa – WRONG (Still at Le Havre)

Spurs full back Kyle Walker to Villa on loan - RIGHT

Steve Sidwell from Villa to West Ham – WRONG (went to Fulham)

Victor Caceres (Libertad) to Sunderland – WRONG (still there)

Birmingham's Seb Larsson to Newcastle – WRONG (still there)

Brann Bergen’s Rodolph Austin to QPR – WRONG (still there)

Rodrigo Moreno (Benfica) to make current loan at Bolton permanent – WRONG (still on loan)

8/1/11 - 14/1/11

David Wheater (Middlesbrough) to Bolton Wanderers – RIGHT

Stephen Pienaar (Everton) to Spurs – RIGHT

Robbie Keane to Everton (part of Pienaar deal) – WRONG (Keane at West Ham on loan)

Avram Grant to become Chelsea's director of football if he gets the boot from West Ham United (PENDING)

Shane Lowry (Aston Villa) is off to Charlton on loan for the rest of the season – WRONG (at Sheff Utd on loan for season)

Sunderland ­midfielder Jordan Henderson and Newcastle full-back Jose Enrique to Manchester United (joint byline with Alan Oliver) – WRONG (neither have left)

Charlie Adam (Blackpool) to Birmingham, Sunderland or Blackburn – WRONG (still at Blackpool)

Stephen Warnock and James Collins (both Villa) swap for Chris Samba (Blackburn) – WRONG (all three at same clubs)

Nick Powell to Blackburn or Arsenal – WRONG (still at Crewe)

Southampton winger Jason Puncheon, currently on loan at Millwall, to Blackpool – RIGHT (although it’s a loan not permanent as Nixon said)

Jason Banton to Liverpool from Blackburn – RIGHT

Birmingham winger Sebastian Larsson to Blackburn – WRONG (still at Brum)

Bournemouth boss Eddie Howe to Burnley – RIGHT

15/1/11 - 21/1/11

Charles N’Zogbia (Wigan) off to Liverpool or Sunderland (joint byline with Darren 'kopite' Lewis) – WRONG (still at Wigan)

Ipswich midfielder Grant Leadbitter to Wigan, Wolves or West Brom – WRONG (still at Ipswich)

Michael Owen (Manchester United and Ladbrokes) is to Sunderland – WRONG (Still at Manchester United)

Manchester City's Shaun Wright-Phillips to Bolton – WRONG (still at City)

Benfica's Rodrigo Moreno to Bolton – RIGHT (loan)

El Hadji Diouf leaving Blackburn - doesn't say where - with Birmingham's Seb Larsson replacing him – RIGHT in that Diouf left (Rangers on loan), WRONG on Larsson (still at Brum)

Barnsley's Adam Hammill to Wolves – RIGHT

Everton's James Vaughan to Celtic on loan – WRONG (went to Palace on loan)

Stephen Ireland (Villa) on loan to Newcastle – RIGHT

Blackpool's Charlie Adam to Villa – WRONG (still at Blackpool)

Emmanuel Adebayor (Manchester City) to Monaco – WRONG (went to Real Madrid on loan)

David Healy on loan to Rangers from Sunderland – RIGHT (although it’s a permanent move)

Exeter's Ryan Harley to Swansea – RIGHT

22/1/11 to whatever day the transfer window shut

El Hadji Diouf (Blackburn) to West Ham – WRONG (went to Rangers on loan)

Charlie Adam (Blackpool) to Liverpool (joint byline with David Maddock) – WRONG (still at Blackpool)

Patrice Evra (Manchester United) to Real Madrid – WRONG (still at United)

Benfica full-back Fabio Coentrao, Jose Enrique (Newcastle) or Celtic’s Emilio Izaguirre to replace Evra (joint byline with Tom Hopkinson) – WRONG (none have moved clubs)

Manchester City’s Emmanuel Adebayor to Monaco for £9m – WRONG (at Real Madrid on loan)

Shaun Wright-Phillips (Manchester City) to Bolton – WRONG (still at City)

Carlos Vela (Arsenal) to Bolton on loan – WRONG (went to West Brom on loan)

Ruben Rochina (Barcelona), Sao Paolo's Ronieli dos Santos, and Mauro Formica (Newell's Old Boys) to Blackburn – RIGHT, WRONG, RIGHT (dos Santos went to Karşıyaka on loan)

West Ham’s Freddie Piquionne to Sunderland - WRONG (still at West Ham)

Obafemi Martins (Rubin Kazan) on loan to Birmingham on loan – RIGHT

Aston Villa's Stephen Ireland to Newcastle - RIGHT

Spurs' Niko Kranjcar to Werder Bremen – WRONG (still at Spurs)

Christian Poulsen (Liverpool) to Monaco – WRONG (still there)

Everton's James Vaughan to Crystal Palace – RIGHT (but on loan, not the £850k Nixon said)

Swindon striker Charlie Austin to Ipswich for £1.2m – WRONG (he went to Burnley)