the dreaded vote of confidence
I hve a confession to make. I have an addiction. I am a Football Manager addict. And I have gone cold turkey.
From two occasionally overlapping points of view, Football Manager is the greatest game in the history of civilisation. For football fans, you can build fantasy teams, indulge your wildest prejudices (my brother-in-law, a fellow addict, always managed Manchester United in every version, and always sold the Neville brothers immediately upon taking over), and get passionate about the preliminary rounds of the Johnstone's Paint Trophy. From a simply male point of view, it's fucking full of lists, and it is a scientifically demonstrable fact that all men love lists. ALL MEN.
I've had to stop, though. Enough is enough. In the most recent iteration in my possession (the 2010 edition - 2011 came out a few weeks ago), I went to the dark side, and found myself managing Arsenal as Arsene Wenger's successor, a position I was offered after returning Leeds United to the Premier League. I managed Arsenal brilliantly, bettering Arsene by winning three titles in a row, winning the Champion's League, finding the correct usage for Alex Song, and actually buying a fucking goalkeeper. I turned Federico Macheda into a dead-eyed goal maniac, refused to buy into the hype and sold Theo Walcott immediately for oodles of cash, and eventually went a bit doo-lally by shredding a reputation for shrewdness and value-seeking in the transfer market by spunking almost forty million quid on Mario Balotelli. I revelled - revelled! - in administering a frighteningly comprehensive series of absolute twattings to my beloved Tottenham Hotspur.
Like Alexander the Great, I wept because there were no more worlds to conquer. In earlier versions, I had won the World Cup with Ireland, won the Champions League with Huddersfield Town, discovered the well-hidden brilliant striker deep within Ched Evans, went unbeaten for over six years as England manager (resigning on a point of principle when I failed to retain the European Championships), and realised the key for making Newcastle a jaw-dropping attacking force was making Joey Barton captain of a team that had Michael Owen and Jermain Defoe up front.
It wasn't always good - I used to be ridiculously pants, frequently fired after fans organised pressure groups calling for my hanging. Accordingly, I never managed under my own name (seeing headlines that read "Fans call for Aidan McCarthy to be sacked" are just a bit too personal), managing under a variety of alter egos snatched from modern culture: eclectic DJ Tom Middleton at Spurs, techno legend Derrick May at Newcastle, lead singer of the Dubliners Ronnie Drew on a peripatetic career that took in Swindon, Brighton, Norwich, Leeds and Blackburn, and foul-mouthed fictional spin doctor Malcolm Tucker at Arsenal.
But it takes over, to the extent that my brother-in-law and I used to refer to it simply as The Game, and could happily talk for hours about football that wasn't real. When I was touring between 2006-2008, I used to run back to my dressing room mid-show to keep The Game running (and I wasn't the only one!). When I was touring this year, I would run my laptop battery down in the tour car by sneaking a few extra minutes of The Game before getting to our hotel. I started interviewing myself in the bath.
Cold turkey hasn't been easy - Mrs Guru is away this weekend, and I can hear The Game calling to me for a 48-hour, caffeine-fuelled session, possibly resigning as Arsenal manager and using Malcolm Tucker's commitment to width and attacking flair to bring a small team up through the divisions...I could do it. I really could. But I've stopped now. Time to move on.
Time to play Grand Theft Auto...
xxx.
From two occasionally overlapping points of view, Football Manager is the greatest game in the history of civilisation. For football fans, you can build fantasy teams, indulge your wildest prejudices (my brother-in-law, a fellow addict, always managed Manchester United in every version, and always sold the Neville brothers immediately upon taking over), and get passionate about the preliminary rounds of the Johnstone's Paint Trophy. From a simply male point of view, it's fucking full of lists, and it is a scientifically demonstrable fact that all men love lists. ALL MEN.
I've had to stop, though. Enough is enough. In the most recent iteration in my possession (the 2010 edition - 2011 came out a few weeks ago), I went to the dark side, and found myself managing Arsenal as Arsene Wenger's successor, a position I was offered after returning Leeds United to the Premier League. I managed Arsenal brilliantly, bettering Arsene by winning three titles in a row, winning the Champion's League, finding the correct usage for Alex Song, and actually buying a fucking goalkeeper. I turned Federico Macheda into a dead-eyed goal maniac, refused to buy into the hype and sold Theo Walcott immediately for oodles of cash, and eventually went a bit doo-lally by shredding a reputation for shrewdness and value-seeking in the transfer market by spunking almost forty million quid on Mario Balotelli. I revelled - revelled! - in administering a frighteningly comprehensive series of absolute twattings to my beloved Tottenham Hotspur.
Like Alexander the Great, I wept because there were no more worlds to conquer. In earlier versions, I had won the World Cup with Ireland, won the Champions League with Huddersfield Town, discovered the well-hidden brilliant striker deep within Ched Evans, went unbeaten for over six years as England manager (resigning on a point of principle when I failed to retain the European Championships), and realised the key for making Newcastle a jaw-dropping attacking force was making Joey Barton captain of a team that had Michael Owen and Jermain Defoe up front.
It wasn't always good - I used to be ridiculously pants, frequently fired after fans organised pressure groups calling for my hanging. Accordingly, I never managed under my own name (seeing headlines that read "Fans call for Aidan McCarthy to be sacked" are just a bit too personal), managing under a variety of alter egos snatched from modern culture: eclectic DJ Tom Middleton at Spurs, techno legend Derrick May at Newcastle, lead singer of the Dubliners Ronnie Drew on a peripatetic career that took in Swindon, Brighton, Norwich, Leeds and Blackburn, and foul-mouthed fictional spin doctor Malcolm Tucker at Arsenal.
But it takes over, to the extent that my brother-in-law and I used to refer to it simply as The Game, and could happily talk for hours about football that wasn't real. When I was touring between 2006-2008, I used to run back to my dressing room mid-show to keep The Game running (and I wasn't the only one!). When I was touring this year, I would run my laptop battery down in the tour car by sneaking a few extra minutes of The Game before getting to our hotel. I started interviewing myself in the bath.
Cold turkey hasn't been easy - Mrs Guru is away this weekend, and I can hear The Game calling to me for a 48-hour, caffeine-fuelled session, possibly resigning as Arsenal manager and using Malcolm Tucker's commitment to width and attacking flair to bring a small team up through the divisions...I could do it. I really could. But I've stopped now. Time to move on.
Time to play Grand Theft Auto...
xxx.