THE ENGLISH DISEASE AND HOW TO CURE IT.

Sampdoria against Cagliari was no classic. The two sides were tired after midweek matches and it showed. The game ended 1-1 and was notable only for the number of youngsters fielded by the visitors.

There was a sending off too but Nene's tangle with a Samp defender late on would have hardly warranted a booking in the Premier League.

The day before this working stiff had attended another unremarkable game in which Tottenham beat Portsmouth 2-0.

The game at White Hart Lane was marginally quicker but the intensity of both games was about the same (Spurs and Samp are competing for places in the Champions League; Cagliari and Portsmouth were playing for little but pride) but there was one noticeable difference.

At the Stadio Luigi Ferraris both sets of defenders did their utmost to stay on their feet. They jockeyed the man in possession rather than dived in and, as every football coach knows, if you go to ground you are out of the game.

In the rough and tumble of the Premier League the tackles go flying in. It is a feature that has helped it become the most prominent league in the world.

Brutal tackling has long been a part of our football culture. The sort of challenge where the centre half takes off from yards away and clatters man and ball. The crowd holler their approval and the referee waves play on.

Occasionally the tackle is mistimed and the victim is seriously injured. Most fans and former players feel it is a price worth paying. It is, after all, a contact sport.

The most recent example was at the Britannia stadium where Ryan Shawcross broke Aaron Ramsey's leg with just such a challenge.

Television, radio and print wheeled out the usual suspects who all parroted each other.

There was no malice in the tackle; no player ever set out to hurt a fellow professional; and tackling is a part of the game.

Not one agreed with the Arsenal manager Arsene Wenger that Shawcross should be banned for more than three matches.

Not one suggested that Shawcross is a thug who cannot tackle properly.

And all of them who said no pro ever intentionally hurt another are liars.

Wenger was disgusted with the reaction but what did he expect from a group who, collectively, have played thousands of football matches but can hardly muster an 'A' level between them?

English football has come a long way since Wimbledon terrorised the First Division in the late eighties and early nineties but the only players who defend on their feet are internationals and the only sides who do so are those that regularly play in Europe.

So here is the question: Can you take the brutality out of the English game without destroying what made it so popular?

Yes is the answer.

First of all managers like Tony Pulis, Sam Allardyce and Mark Hughes (in his Blackburn days) have to take responsibility for sending out their teams in a heightened state of aggression. Players like Shawcross are only carrying out orders to hit' em hard and hit 'em early.

Suspend them or fine them but do something that leaves them in no doubt that their teams can play hard and fair but cannot intimidate and maim.

Increase the punishment for players who make these tackles and hurt people - up to and including a ten match ban. Each case should be treated on its merit.

And instruct referees to send off any player who jumps into a tackle - regardless of whether or not he gets the ball.

(What about the sliding tackle? Executed properly it is not a jump but a slide. It is legitimate and should remain so.)

It is highly unlikely the Football Association views these tackles as a problem and even if it did it would be niave to hope they would do anything about it.

After all, this is the same FA that still refuses to do anything (nearly 18 months on) about Chris Morgan’s disgraceful, disgusting and criminal assault with his elbow on Iain Hume which put the Barnsley forward into a high dependency unit with a fractured skull.

THE DEFINITION OF BAD LUCK

Roberto Martinez sighed and said, “ We were just a victim of bad luck. ”

The Wigan Athletic manager had seen his team play well and lose to a dubious penalty. The opposition should also have had a man sent off but another incident distracted the inexperienced referee.

Martinez is one of the most promising managers in the Premier League. He comes across as a top bloke. Even in defeat he answered questions with grace and humour. Few losing managers do that.

Shrewder judges than this one believe, and hope, he will go a long way.

But his concluding comment to the radio interview produced a wry smile from his questioner.

No, Roberto, he thought, I know who was a real victim of bad luck.

38 years ago the questioner’s father had taken him to a football match as a birthday treat. Arsenal had performed well but lost by a single goal and had seemed to be playing against 12 men.

The reporter-to-be was worked up and becoming even more so as he moaned about bad luck, a bent ref and the oppo’s dirty bastard of a centre half.

“Let me tell you about bad luck,” said the father.

It is September 25th 1945. The war is over. The Japanese have surrendered and the guards have fled the prisoner of war camp where Frank Lennard Payne had been incarcerated for three and a half years.

But the Allied forces had yet to reach Borneo and the inmates of Batu Lintang had to stay put in their huts on stilts. The Royal Australian Air Force were flying daily sorties over the camp parachuting in food, newspapers and other basic necessities in torpedo shaped containers.

Frank, like most of the inmates, was a civilian working in a quiet corner of the Empire when the Japanese invaded Borneo in 1942.

He had survived malnutrition, disease and beatings from the, mostly Korean, guards.

Despite their impending freedom the mood among the survivors on that September morning was sombre. Too many had died for it to be anything else.

But there was tinned fruit and condensed milk for breakfast and all the talk was of how quickly they could get out of the wretched place.

On hearing the planes overhead Frank made his way to the door, started down the steps and was decapitated by one of the torpedos whose parachute had failed to open.

My father was just behind his friend when it happened and told the story to stop my rant.

For someone who is now paid to watch grown men play games it sometimes helps to think of Frank.

WHY THE MASTERS BUNCHES AUNTIE’S KNICKERS

On Thursday April 8 the golf season starts for real.

The Masters at Augusta National is a televisual treat with the best golfers playing a wonderful course in full bloom. This year there is also the return of the Great Swordsman.

Broadcasting rights for the United Kingdom belong to the BBC and have done for 24 years.

They, like the other broadcasters, have to tiptoe through the many rules and regulations imposed by a conservative and wealthy private club which has a history of racism and bigotry.

Public opinion forced the acceptance of a black member in 1990 but membership remains closed to women although they are permitted to play as guests.

The tournament is a jewel in the crown for BBC Sport so year after year they hand over hundreds of thousands of our pounds to an institution that discriminates against women.

In 2007 BBC Sport introduced a female football commentator to its flagship football programme Match of the Day.

The then head of BBC Sport Roger Mosey said,

"Jacqui (Oatley) was selected on merit....we want to reflect the nation.. it's daft that we've had so few women commentators. It's something we want to put right."

If BBC Sport is so keen on promoting women and ‘reflecting the nation’ why then does it have anything to do with Augusta National?

It is seven years since Martha Burk and the National Council of Women's Organizations challenged Augusta National's refusal to admit women. She raised awareness but changed nothing.

Augusta National is a private club and the Masters is an independently run tournament. They are allowed to exclude women but should a public service broadcaster endorse that policy?

It is a question the new (since April 2009) head of BBC Sport Barbara Slater should but won’t consider when the contract runs out this year.

And there is another curious element of the BBC’s relationship with the Masters.

It is the only event in BBC Sport’s portfolio where the commentators promote sponsors.

It is the American way of advertising and is a contractual obligation.

During the four days of broadcasting you will hear Peter Alliss, Ken Brown, Wayne Grady and Sam Torrance mention IBM, AT&T, and Exxon Mobil.

There is no other output across the BBC where this is allowed.

Funny that.

NO MORE CROWING FROM THE NEST

Jimmy Connors is still smiling.

Three times he was assigned Court Two and three times he had to slink back through the crowd to the locker room and contemplate defeat.

Pete Sampras, Serena and Venus Williams, Andre Agassi and John McEnroe have all walked that walk.

But the Graveyard of Champions has been laid to rest. The All England Club ripped it up last year and has started again for the 2012 Olympics.

And with it went another slice of Wimbledon history.

The hand operated scoreboard overlooking courts two, three, six and seven has also been demolished and with it the best place in the world to watch tennis.

The camera position on top of the old wooden box was a tennis penthouse where privileged visitors had a high angle view of magic moments and epic matches and were still close enough to hear players muttering and doubles partners talking tactics.

The Crows Nest was a place to watch tennis until it was too dark to play and to take in the sights, sounds and smells of the world’s oldest tournament..

Not that cameraman Chris Coles noticed much of that. His regular gig for years had been what he liked to call ‘a fortnight’s holiday on the Crows Nest’.

Little disturbed him - least of all the tennis. Very occasionally he stopped reading the newspaper, snoozing or hanging out by the pool to stand up and point the camera at someone.

The heatwave last year prompted Colesy to invest in a paddling pool. He filled it with bottled water and kept his feet cool while perusing the paper or catching forty winks even though he was connected via headphones and a camera to some major voltage.

Most kept their distance.

Despite the tendency to loaf Colesy had good footwork when required.

He and a Radio Wimbledon reporter were perched there late one torrid evening two years ago and had a bird’s eye view of the electrical storm rolling in. They left it as late as possible before fleeing the Nest.

At the first flash of lightning they were off. Colesy had headphones on, was furthest from the ladder and smoking a cigar. He still beat me.

FRENCH OFFICIAL CAUGHT CHANNEL HOPPING

In the early noughties Italy’s rugby team were frequently hammered as the five established nations ran up big scores on the newcomers.

Away from home Italy were especially vulnerable and at Twickenham in 2001 England racked up more than 80 points.

The game was so one sided it became boring and some in the crowd began to lose interest.

That is all very well if you have had a couple of glasses of Chablis and some smoked salmon in the car park beforehand but it hardly becomes one of the match officials.

In the second half England went over for yet another try. It appeared clear cut but because it was in one of the corners the referee wanted to check the score with the television match official (TMO).

The replay showed the touch down was good. The (largely English) crowd roared their approval. But they, and the referee, were kept waiting and waiting and waiting.

Why was there a delay in awarding a straightforward score? What could the TMO have seen?

Not much.

It transpired that French TMO had become so bored with the one way traffic on the pitch that he had switched channels and was watching The Simpsons.

THE LIVERPOOL ARGUMENT DALGLISH ALWAYS WINS

Dalglish, Souness, Hansen, Lawrenson, Rush, Whelan, Kennedy, Neal, Fairclough, Grobelaar, Nichol, Johnston.......

They are Liverpool heroes who won everything. Even today they are a tight knit bunch and when they get together the drink and memories flow.

The two heavyweights are Dalglish and Souness. Both were world class players and both went on to manage the club.

Dalglish was the more successful. He won three League titles and two FA Cups during his six years in charge at Anfield. Souness, who succeeded Dalglish, only managed an FA Cup in his four years. Dalglish also beats Souness at international level: 102 Scotland caps to 54.

Late last year the old teammates were planning another re-union in the north west where most of them still live.

But one of their number was reluctant.

“It’s always the same,” he said, “ it’s a good craic but everyone has one too many and that’s when it starts.”

“When what starts?”

“The argument between Kenny Dalglish and Graeme Souness.”

Apparently these get-together’s always end up with Dalglish and Souness arguing over who signed the worst player for Liverpool.

Like all managers, they both signed some turkeys but Dalglish always wins because his trump card is Jimmy Carter.

Dalglish signed the right winger from Millwall for £800,000 in January 1991. He only played five games in eight months and was then off loaded to Arsenal.

As Dalglish likes to point out Souness inherited Carter from Dalglish and early on in his tenure used him as a substitute at Chelsea but was so unimpressed with Carter’s contribution that he hauled him off. It is football’s ultimate indignity the substitute substituted.

Cue knowing nods all around: Kenny is even the king of the turkeys.

LIFE WITHOUT FABREGAS

According to a teddy bear with Bell’s palsy* Francesc Fabregas is staying.

Piers Morgan bumped into Fabregas at a fashion show and asked him three times if he was leaving. And three times our playmaker told him he was going nowhere.

But, as we know, a week let alone six months is a long time in football.

What would Arsenal do without Fabregas and, more to the point, how would they play?

Assuming Wenger manages to keep hold of Andrei Arshavin he might consider playing a 4-3-1-2 formation.

It is a popular system in Italy where the support striker invariably finds space in the channel of uncertainty between the midfield and last third.

In recent weeks I have seen Javier Pastore (Palermo), Marek Hamsik (Napoli) and Wesley Sneijder (Inter Milan) all excel in this role.

And it would suit the little Russian. His awareness, dribbling and passing and shooting are largely wasted out wide and he is certainly no centre forward.

Perhaps in the long term (thanks to Ryan Shawcross) Aaron Ramsey maybe even better suited to the withdrawn role.

The three midfielders have to work hard and shuttle across the pitch to cover the lack of width a four or a front three give.

And it would mean adding to the midfield platoon. Felipe Melo of Juventus and Udinese’s Gokhan Inler both fit the bill and Wenger is a known admirer of both.

It would also mean the full backs would once again be released to go forward and provide width. Maybe that would help Gael Clichy and Bacary Sagna rediscover the form they showed a couple of seasons ago.

Mind you, it matters little what formation Wenger deploys if he insists on staying loyal to the Spanish waiter in goal.

*With thanks to the Guardian’s Charlie Brooker.

THE REAL REASON BERGKAMP WANTS ARSENAL RETURN

Coaching badges in hand Dennis Bergkamp is waiting, itching even, for Arsene Wenger to call.

If and when the Frenchman does summon the Dutchman we will hear plenty about returning to the club he loves, giving something back to the people who helped him rebuild his career and wanting to help the players achieve great things.

All true of course but Dennis really wants to come back so he can play golf.

Amsterdam has a couple of decent clubs but nothing on north London for the quality and quantity of challenging courses.

Bergkamp is wealthy and time-rich enough to play anywhere in the world but it would mean an awful lot of driving for a man who likes to keep his feet on the ground.

Ray Parlour and Arsenal’s kit man Vic Akers introduced Bergkamp to golf and they soon learned he was as competitive tee to green as between the white lines.

“We played on Wednesday afternoons and Dennis must have heard us talking about it and asked whether he could play.” said Parlour.

“He was not very good when he started. He turned up with all the gear; he looked like Tiger Woods but he didn’t play like him and I reckon he must have shot 174.

“But he really enjoyed it and as the weeks went by he got better and better. He always counted every one of his shots. Now he’s an absolute golf fanatic and I think his wife plays as well. They enjoy the social side of the game too.”

One day Bergkamp turned up on the first tee with some noticeable changes to his swing.

Parlour laughs as he recalls Bergkamp denying he’d had lessons.

“Dennis would tell us he’s an 18 handicapper but I reckon he’s single figures.

He’s an absolute bandit.”

A couple of hours on the training ground of a morning and then head out to any one of a number of clubs close to London Colney. He also has lots of old mates to play with.

The Iceman as golfnut.