I knew it the second Taylor went for his pocket. That sinking feeling, like seeing your boss in Tesco when you’ve got four crates of cheap lager, two bags of crisps, and despair in your eyes. Gravenberch goes in, the Etihad crowd makes more noise than they’ve managed all season, and out comes the red. Next thing, the Premier League’s so-called Key Match Incidents Panel – which, as far as I can tell, is just a WhatsApp group full of ex-refs with dodgy knees and even dodgier eyesight – has declared: No mistake, la.
Honestly, if you ever needed proof football’s lost its sense. Somehow, a gentle breeze against Phil Foden is enough to turn the game on its head, but a two-footed reducer from Roy Keane back in the 90s was ‘strong play’. Kids today wouldn’t have lasted half an hour on Stanley Park on a Sunday morning, never mind against Dunga or Vinnie bloody Jones. Gravenberch barely brushed him, but bring out the panel and they’ll tell you he’s a danger to society.
If this is what passes for a red now, I’m checking me own garden for panic buttons – you never know when you’ll get a straight red for stepping on a snail. I saw worse tackles getting ignored down the park by our Sunday League ref, who only ever showed a red because he wanted to get back to his sausage butty. Anthony Taylor’s probably never cleaned mud off his boots in his life.
Panel? Wouldn’t Trust ’Em to Make the Brew
So, it goes to the secret panel. Not the police, not the FA. Some panel. Who picks these people? Last time I was on a panel, it was a karaoke night in the Swan, and at least there you get to boo. Here, all you get is Foden rolling on the floor and a dodgy statement hours later. Apparently, according to BBC Sport, the panel have officially backed the decision. I was shocked. Honestly. Absolutely shocked. About as shocked as when Everton miss an open goal.
Meanwhile, City fans act like they’ve survived the Blitz because someone brushed Foden’s laces. Give your head a wobble. Gravenberch will get a ban, the manager will moan, and Pep’ll be on about respect. Football these days: nobody can tackle but everyone can moan. Boss, that.
Where’s the Justice?
Do me a favour. We had proper tackles once. Graeme Souness would hand out free acupuncture with his studs and wouldn’t even get a booking. But now, show one stud and the panel’s downloading panic alarms. Absolute shambles. I want to see a panel for the panel. Put ’em in refs’ shirts, stick ’em on Lower Breck Rec, and see if any of them last ten minutes.
I’ll tell you this: if they keep this up, soon you’ll get a red for giving your opponent a dirty look. Till then, I’ll stay in me chair, shouting at people who can’t hear me, and pretending the 90s are coming back. They’re not. But I’ll always have me remote.
