MAY 5, 2012

It’s funny how, as we age, the words of our parents echo in our ears louder and louder. My father was  footballer, and he taught me a lot of tricks of the game, but also many life lessons. As a wee lad, he told me over and over again the key to success is not lying in your bed and visualizing success, but getting up each morning and looking at yourself in the mirror and asking: do I have the heart of a champion? Since I was little, I’ve done so. I like to think that I can answer “yes, daddy.” Or “yes, father.”

Of course, as a young boy, the message was a bit confused. I took things a bit too literal. I thought, well, I’m little and haven’t won anything yet, but there’s lots of other champions’ hearts that I could get. Me and a childhood friend, let’s call him Tommy, hatched a plan. We gathered a list of deceased Westminster dog show winners of UK descent and, one night, with shovel in hand, set out to find the nice posh pet cemetery in Hyde Park. We wanted to excavate some champion dog remains and see if we couldn’t find a decent heart to have as keepsake for good luck charm.

Sadly, most affluent owners cremate their pets. We sneaked into Hyde Park and snooped about with our flashlights, but only encountered elaborate mausoleums dedicated to championship terriers. You’d think they’d have been pharaohs with some of the fine marble used! After a few hours, we finally found a tombstone for legendary Fox Terrier “Warren Remedy”, unearthed the casket, but only found bones and a really nice diamond dollar. No heart. Not even the ashes of a heart.

I returned home empty-handed and heartbroken. However, it then dawned on me – my father was not asking me to exhume and collect the hearts of dead show dogs, but rather to mold myself into a champion. He wanted me to create a heart of a champion within my own chest and with little to no necrophilia involved. Since then, I’ve done my best day after day after day. I’ve done millions of reps of curls to ensure that my forearms will never be out-flexed and will be able to point for over 90 minutes. And today, the work paid off. We beat Liverpool to lift the FA Cup!

Afterwards, Drogba led an impromptu dance session and many of the lads sprayed each other with champagne. I posed shirtless for a few pics, chatted up JT, and sipped on a long-necked Pilsner. However, like any good Englishman, I didn’t read too much into winning the FA Cup. Instead, I immediately started to worry about the tax implications of my FA Cup bonus, the looming Champions League final, and the announcement in two weeks of the English national team roster. Who wouldn’t?

Still, later that night, I looked into the mirror and grinned. I pointed to my heart and nodded smugly to myself. I was no three-time Westminster winning Warren Remedy, but I was a champion. And a double this season remained a distinct possibility.

NOTE ADDED MAY 8, 2012

Today our B team lost to Liverpool 4:1. The manager decided to rest me and some of the other top players in anticipation of the Champions League final. However, the loss puts more pressure on us to perform: we now have no shot at placing fourth in the league. If’s win the Champions League or UEFA Cup football next season. Ugghh. Do I mind the added weight to my broad shoulders? Maybe a bit. However, I have you, lovely diary, to vent to. I feel you’ve been a blessing. You helped me through the Mr. Gopher Manager nightmare, and even that meanie Kalou has come to respect you. I can’t imagine this season without you, even if I feel, day by day, that I may not need you as much as I used to. 

I still dislike David Luiz, though. His hard-on for the former Porto Gopher has not softened. The other day, a few of us went swimming to work on cardio. Drogba called Luiz a “perm whale” and I just about pissed my pants from laughter. I really hope that Drogba stays on at Chelsea. I can’t imagine life without him. However, the money in China is quite good and Drog’s already given his heart and soul to the Blues. I’d miss him more than anything.

MAY 13, 2012

Once again, the manager astutely saved me from possible injury in a worthless game against Blackburn. I didn’t start or play a single minute. Despite my catastrophic absence, the team still won, with goals from JT and Meireles. I was sad that JT’s season came to an end and he can’t feature in the Champions League final, but that’s life. Sometimes things go your way, and other times you elbow a small Chilean man and get banned from participating in the subsequent professional soccer matches. Sale vi.

NOTE ADDED MAY 17, 2012

I’m ever so excited! Roy Hogson, the new manager of England, has named me AND Steven Gerrard in the team! The dynamic duo ride again! We’re for sure a lock for the round of sixteen now! Maybe even the quarterfinals if we’re lucky! I also fancy my chances of starting. No offense to Downing and Henderson, but my big game experience speaks for itself. After all, if my goal against Germany had been correctly allowed at the last World Cup, we’d have rode the momentum to a win and at least a third place finish. An eventual semi-final against Spain would’ve been tough, but a certain somebody we’ll call Rankfay Ampardlay nicked a winning goal against them at Wembley, didn’t he?

Regardless, the past is the past is not the present, but the present is exciting and so’s the future! I’m keeping my focus on the upcoming Champions League final, but my heart skips a beat each time the Three Lions call my name.

MAY 20, 2012

The tears. The cheers. Even the jeers. Today was unforgettable. After years of training and games and more training and more games, I’ve climbed the mountain. Chelsea FC won the Champions League! And the view from up top is magnificent. Of course, the ascent wasn’t easy.

For starters, we lost John Terry and that Serbian guy to suspension. Thus, David Luiz-er started in defense. I pulled him aside and I said, “Perm-whale, don’t go floating about back there, munching on plankton or whatever. We need you to be a shark.” My words mattered little. Luiz-er put in a typically bad performance. Luckily, Gary Cahill played marvelously. Even Bosingwa channeled the spirit of Paolo Ferreira and looked competent. Who knew that he was defender? I was my usual brilliant “regista” self. I followed Di Matteo’s orders to the t: I rarely walked past the halfway line and used my finally sculpted forearms to tug the jerseys of Kroos and Schweinsteger all over the pitch. Still, despite amazing me, this night belonged to Petr Cech. He influenced the match in obvious and not so obvious ways.

Yes, he saved some penalties. However, he also calmed me down before my essential-even-if-not-winning penalty. Before I lined up to take my perfect shot, Cech came to me and he said in his broken English, “time to pile on the ma-Neur.” At first, I was confused. Surely there was no horse manure to be found at the lovely Allianz Arena. Germans aren’t known to be friends of horses or horse-racing. I also didn’t have the proper gloves nor wheelbarrow to properly load and transport horse shit. Then, I got it. He was joking about the Bayern goalie with the last name “Neur.” He was insinuating the Neur was in fact ma-Neur, aka, poop. I chuckled and relaxed.

Then I blasted home my penalty kick, a Bayern player hit the post, and Drogba really piled on the ma-Neur!!!!!! LMAO!!! ROFL !!!!

I have never been so proud to wear the captain’s armband for Chelsea. Normally, at the end of a game, a player is gassed and tries to pass around the trophy due to fatigue. Who has the strength to lift a trophy after 90 minutes, extra time, and penalty kicks? A certain Rankfay Ampardlay, that’s who! Thanks to Di Matteo’s emphasis on jersey clutching and strength training, my forearms flexed with ease and comfort while I held up the trophy. No risk of a Sergio Ramos “cup dropping” due to inferior diet or exercise regimen. No sir. I could have held that trophy for at least another twenty minutes, if not a half hour.

Immediately after the win, I went out with the lads and enjoyed myself handsomely. The next day, we flew back to London and I scurried home to open you up. However, I paused. You’ve been so good to me, diary. You’ve been my outlet all season, a place to express my feelings as they ebbed and flowed. But I couldn’t quite think of a thing to say. For the first time in ages, I’m just blissful. No need to vent. No need to rant. Blissful. I appreciate all you’ve done, but I think this is my last entry. Assuming, of course, we don’t re-hire Andres Villas-Boas. Ugggh.

I don’t want to think about that. I just want to bask in the moment and sip my long-neck beer with JT and stuff my face a bit.

So, I guess it’s like my father said when I was a lad. For my birthday, he’d buy a nice cake and he’d tell me “Frankie, close your eyes, make a wish, and then blow out the candles as quickly as you can.” Life is a series of moments. For some of these moments, we close and open our eyes, aka blink. But in the blink of an eye, a blink of an eye passes. Never stop blinking. Ever.

AL FIN

Elliott is kickstartering for his second book, “Real Madrid & Barcelona: the Making of a Rivalry.” Check out the project and how you can help here.

Image: Luigi

Song: “Philosophy” by Ben Folds Five

Image: Sky Sports

With these can’t miss Champions League predictions.

1 ) A team that is not a champion of its domestic league will win the Champions League.

The FA Cup does not count.

2 ) The EPL will vote this year’s Champions League as the best ever.

Then the EPL will vote the EPL voting record as the best ever. What a fucking amazing year.

3 ) The champion of the Champions League will be decided by a playoff, not a league format.

Regular season? Ha.

4 ) Players suspended for misbehavior in a prior match will not play key roles.

Stop holding your breath.

5 ) If the first half is different from the second half, a match report titled “A Tale of Two Halves” will appear.

You will vomit.

6 ) If the game is decided by penalty kicks, a pundit will say the word “cruel.”

You will feel a vomit reflex.

7 ) You may hear the Champions League anthem more than once.

You will feel a very strong vomit reflex.

8 ) Phillip Lahm is not going to grow any taller.

I hate to break the bad news.

9 ) Players and coaches for at least two Spanish clubs will think “I could have won that.”

Even though, in fact, they did not.

10 ) Pele will predict that this year’s Champions League final will win the World Cup.

And who can fault him?

Elliott is kickstartering for his second book, Real Madrid & Barcelona: the Making of a Rivalry. Help him raise $1,000 by June 6 by visiting here.

Video: “Put the Green Cape On” by Jedward (aka “Why Joyce Left Ireland”)

Spotted by Footie and Music.

We also would like to take the time to reflect upon the oft overlooked underdog story at City. We speak, of course, about Sheikh Mansour.

Make no bones about it – before buying Manchester City, the Sheikh was an unknown quantity in the EPL and the world of soccer. His proper name is Mansour bin Zayed Al Nahyan, and his past guaranteed no success for City. Yes, he was born into the ruling family of Abu Dhabi, but he was the fifth son of Emir Zayed II and Fatima. Fifth. Not first. Not eldest. Fifth. A baby of the bunch. Last in line at the family dinner table. His huckleberry hound face left City fans skeptical – could this equestrian even do the minimum amount of pushups to pass the incredibly demanding EPL ownership “fit & proper” test?

Neutrals were even more doubtful. Few expected this Arabian stallion to be little more than a dark horse. We scoffed at his emaciated wrists, more befitting a heroin addicted ballerina. Gary Neville rightly asked: did he have the hand stamina to cut enough checks? Could his middle school girl thumbs grip the pen as he signed off on million dollar transfers? Yeah, he’d cut some serious checks while Head of I.P.I.C. and Chairman of the Emirates Investment Authority, but those for-profits ostensibly produced returns & results. Could he send check after check into a black hole? Would he have the courage to sign Sergio Aguero and Samir Nasri after signing both Emmanuel Adebayor and Roque Santa Cruz?

In sum, did City have at the helm a MANsour Sheikh or a Sheikh-boy that would sour after a year or two?

That question has been answered. We cynics must now shut up. Pundits point to the consistency of Nasri and the goalscoring reliability of Aguero. However, few forget the untested boy from the Emirates. Despite rumors of carpal tunnel syndrome and endless speculation in regards to his two (!) wives, the Sheikh has overcome physical limitations and the English tabloids to consistently cut checks that would make Roman Abramovich revise his monthly bank statement. Before our eyes, Sheikh Mansour has grown into the Kobe Bryant of EPL owners – only a stray bullet could take him down. He has earned the right to wear the smug grin of a champion.

Of course, the boo birds grasp at straws and paint a different picture. They believe Financial Fair Play will reign in the Sheikh’s all mighty power. Me? Ha. A man who is the head, CEO, President, and board member of several billion dollar businesses and million dollar charities can find a way, nay, will find a way to fudge five figures in the half-assed UEFA audit. Expect lots of gulf-tied sponsorships. I doubted the Sheikh before, and I won’t make the same mistake twice. The fifth son has finally made good, and made a lot of Eastlands fans happy.

So, congrats City. Me, like many others, lacked faith in your untested and underdog owner. We doubted he could adapt to the Isles’ unique rough-and-tumble league of owners, but Mr. Mansour laughs last. And he may laugh a long time, barring no wrist injury or dislocated fingers.

Elliott is kickstartering for his 2nd eBook- “Real Madrid & Barcelona: the Making of a Rivalry.” Snag an advanced copy and help him raise $1,000 by June 6 by clicking here

However, just like with Alan Thicke, jealousy, suspicion, and incredulity cloud the public’s image of Manager W. So, we humbly ask you, please leave him alone.

Gerard Depardieu. Scott Baio. Society gobbles and spits out our TV and sport celebrities whole. When Growing Pains first aired, nobody knew what to make of this dashing Jason Seaver. Was he really a hard-ass? Or a softy on the inside? For a so called psychologist, he used some pretty stern words with his three mischievous kids. And his alleged journalist wife really didn’t seem to travel all that much to cover major stories. Even in the pre-internet days, fictional TV show newsroom budgets were tight. Still, Dr. Seaver soon found himself thick in the heart of a prosperous TV series run – lasting a glorious seven years. Yes, the 2004 Return of the Seavers disappointed, but they at least killed the series before Ben or Mike Seaver had to ride a surfboard and jump over a shark.

Sadly, though, not everybody recalls fondly Dr. Seaver. The vitriol for Alan, though, pails to the verbal assaults launched at Manager W.

Foreign dandy? Not quite. Yes, Manager W has enjoyed his share of time on the continent. In fact, he’s hauled a few trophies from the land of land-locked and multilingual mini-countries. On the Isles, not so much. Still, far away from the UK press and the gossip hounds, Manager W placidly led teams to championships in various different countries. ‘Tis a renaissance man in every respect of the word. Yet still you don’t respect him.

Sure, Manager W coached a mid-tier team to unreached heights. Manager W acquits himself publicly quite well and never seems to ruffle his players’ feathers. However, Manager W gets alot of flak for his brief stint at troubled & past its prime big club. The weight of history. Unrealistic expectations. Uncertain ownership. Aging roster. Manager W’s only mistake was accepting the job. He didn’t see the iceberg before buying his Titanic ticket. Still, that’s not exactly a mortal sin.

Now Manager W finds himself in an odd place: where he wants to be. Near the end of his managerial prime, he must grasp at half-chances to coach major teams. Nobody pities him. Big club fans merely point to his lack of “big club” experience, whatever that means. Pep Guardiola had reserve team experience before taking over Barcelona. Should Manager W wear more dapper outfits? Probably. Should he also take a serious look at rosters before signing a deal? Maybe. However, the clock is ticking on Manager W’s legacy. He knows it. He may never get another half-chance. One fell on his plate, and he’s taking a bite. Much to your dismay.

Manager W’s greatest crime is probably his manner of speaking. At every press conference, he provokes the 2nd grade bully in all of us. Some find his spoken word endearing, like an under-oiled engine trying to start really really hard. Others, of course, prey on his words in an infantile manner. They write blog posts and Guardian comments that would make a kindergartner blush. The internet’s anonymity brings out the worst in them.

Yet Manager W tries to stay above the slings of his managerial career. And we, the Alan Thicke Historical Legacy Society, ask you to be less of a d-bag. At least for the next three months.

Want an advanced copy of Elliott’s 2nd eBook, “Real Madrid & Barcelona: the Making of a Rivalry”? There’s only 1 way to make it happen: go here.

Ebooks do not magically appear. When I first started to write “An Illustrated Guide,” the novelty and fun of self-publishing filled me with energy. All the little setbacks were miniature hurdles for me to jump with ease. Then, last month, I filed my taxes. What did I find out? Well, after adding up a few too many 1099-miscs, it dawned on me: I am being way too straight with Uncle Sam. Also, publishing a soccer eBook takes some cash. Sadly, with a modest paying real life job and two kids, the upfront cash for this second eBook is not available. I was going to sell blood and potentially other, more lucrative, bodily fluids, but my better half put her foot down. Turner plasma shall stay within the Turner family. Needy blood transfusion patients be damned!

There is, however, still hope.

Here’s where you come in. I am Kickstartering for the $1,000 that an eBook needs to exist. Yes, I need your help to raise $1,000 by June 6. These funds will cover original artwork by Erik Ebeling, tech stuff (ePub/Mobi conversion), legal stuff (ISBN & Copyright), and other necessary & boring publishing crap that adds up. We’ve crafted some pretty cool rewards, including an Advanced Copy of the book for $15, a PDF-ePub-MOBI bundle of An Illustrated Guide for $10, a Real Madrid jersey SIGNED BY JUNITO for big spenders, and some signed original prints for ballers. Unfortunately, Dr. Dre was on tour with a hologram and unable to donate any custom Ferenc Puskas “Ghostface Playa” signature headphones. We are just as disappointed as you are.

For the curious at heart, the new book, titled “Real Madrid & Barcelona: the Making of a Rivalry,” will cover the history of Real Madrid & Barcelona from 1899 until 1999. It will go decade by decade and analyze important players, coaches, games, moments, and developments. It will also add political and economic background to illuminate the motives and actions of key individuals. Erik Ebeling has agreed to do the artwork, while (phonetically) Ell-e-o-t-t Turner, me, shall pen the words. No, I don’t actually use a pen. I type on an ergonomic keyboard. But you know what I mean. I’m a lifelong Real Madrid fan, but have loads of respect for Barcelona. I promise balance and honesty in addressing both teams. The Cules have a great history as both a sporting and political institution. I even waxed about recent board room brawls at the Run of Play.

Here’s the ubiquitous “get pumped about this project” video that I made for Kickstarter. I’m pretty confident that my use of a sample from Massive Attack qualifies as fair use under US law, but put the video on Youtube in case Kickstarter doesn’t share my expansive legal perspective:

So, check out the Kickstarter page here and, if you dare, pre-order a copy to support the cause, get your hands on a Real Madrid jersey signed by Junito, or splash the cash to get a full deck of playing cards of the forthcoming illustrations. And you thought your beta MTG Black Lotus was hot shit! Neerrrrrd alerrrrrrrt.

Once again, get more details and/or show your support here. Pretty please. You know it’s more productive than trolling Pottermore and tracking down Dark Knight Rises plot spoilers.

Images: Real Madrid, Barcelona

Song: Massive Attack, “Teardrop”

And you? Well, North American ostrich, I have bad news. You belong to a very confused, defensive, and at times reprehensible nativist community. Allow me to explain why myself and European soccer are better than you and MLS. The evidence will astound you.

Most European soccer snobs never give MLS a chance. I acknowledge this. Those folks are either total fools or have incredibly good supernatural instincts. However, I have given MLS more than a hundred chances to win over my heart. I have gone to games. I have followed teams. I have followed entire seasons. However, every time MLS starts to find a place in my heart, it trips over its own two feet. Each time MLS approaches respectability, a hideous adolescent error undoes all the prior smoothness.

For example, about a year ago, I took my son to see a Sporting KC game at the new Livestrong Park. Without a doubt, the accommodations were quite posh. However, about ten minutes into the game, a serious snafu happened. I called over the roaming vendor and asked for a simple food item that is a staple in all world class European venues: a banana. To my shock, he said: “Sorry sir, we don’t sell bananas.” I was flabbergasted. Pretzels. Peanuts. Popcorn. Hotdogs. Hamburgers. They were all for sale. But no bananas.

“What are we supposed to throw at the minority players when they touch the ball,” I inquired. He offered no response. Red-faced, I insisted on speaking with his manager. I tried to give Sporting KC the benefit of the doubt: perhaps a supplier had played hardball on banana prices in the offseason. Maybe they had freezer problems and the recent batch went bad. None. Of. The. Above. The manager said Sporting KC never offered bananas, but he would take our suggestion into account. Tsk tsk.

I’m still shocked that they simply do not sell bananas at Sporting KC games. However, Sporting KC is not alone. I did some digging, and I’ve heard they don’t sell any bananas at any MLS games. Not even the stray plantain or two. Nor much fruit for that matter. No wonder childhood obesity ravages North America. This would never happen in Europe, were ultras basically place a banana in your hand and guide you arm as you throw it at a player. So much for “credibility.”

Slightly changing topics to atrocities of the beverage kind, I did like the variety of beers being sold at the Livestrong Park. However, the wine offered was appalling both in terms of quantity and quality. Based on a sniff test, the house wine was a Merlot of the cheap Australian variety (not even California!). I dared not take a sip, and the vendor couldn’t even tell me the year of the Cabernet Sauvignon. Sacre bleu! In the apparel store, they did offer a nice range of scarves, but had no size small berets. Can you believe it? As if all fans of soccer had Neanderthal-sized North American skulls. Uff. The fabric also felt of cheap acrylic fiber, not crocheted cotton (as used in berets sold at most upper tier European grounds).

However, none of these sins stack up to the worst stadium experience yet. The restrooms. At halftime, my young son had to go to the bathroom. However, he had the urge for number two, so naturally we looked for a properly equipped restroom. We walked the entire length of the stadium, but did not find a single bathroom…with a properly enclosed bidet. Not one.Granted, I understand that bidets are a bit expensive. However, surely one or two wouldn’t break the bank. Thus, my little boy had to resort to cleaning himself with paper like an orphan. Shameful.

To make matters worse, we soon thereafter did find a most unusual bidet. It was elevated much too high, even for an adult! It also shot out cold water with no handle to adjust the temperature! And, the worst part, it was very much in the public. Still, I tried to stay positive. My little boy dropped his strousers, I lifted him up with one arm and turned on the bidet with the other, and….the police arrived. Stadium security tried to tell me that the bidet was actually a fountain! A fountain? Where’s the statute of Adonis or at least Ananke? This a Dikembe Mutombo vanity bidet that needs a layer of paint, I protested. Eventually, my little boy and I returned to our seats. I promised that as soon as we got home, he could sit on the bidet as long as he wanted. Still, the little bugger squirmed in his seat uncomfortably. I can’t blame him.

So, there you have it. MLS is the total backwaters of the soccer world. It certainly has its charms, just as the Congo River offers brilliant panoramic views when guerrilla forces aren’t shooting AK-47′s at one another. I could definitely see myself watching and enjoying some sort of “MLS: Survivor” TV program, at least for a half a season. However, until they provide nutritious projectiles and resolve the outstanding issues with the beret, cabernet, and bidet, don’t expect to see me or my son at a game anytime soon. I’ll just stick to Piers Morgan most Saturday mornings, thank you very much.

Hopefully.

Q: Habermaster, you’ve written extensively about the concept of “communicative rationalty.” Basically, you posit that human rationality is the fruit of successful communication. You take a microscope to the norms of argumentation and focus on the phenomena communicated between entities capable of speech and action. Thus, we have to ask – was Jose just being irrational when he stopped communicating with the press? What was up with that?

A: Perhaps the greatest challenge of any philosophy is escaping the pull of relativity on the one hand and indeterminate deconstruction on the other. My theory rests on the concept of reconstructive science – namely, that reason itself is malleable, and thus in constant flux. It is not relative, but rather evolving. Thus, Jose evolved from the big mouthed and arrogant “Special One” to the quiet yet successful La Liga champion. While his capacity for speech disappeared, his actions spoke as loud as words.

Q. Habity-hab-hab, if I may be so informal, you are well known as the last voice of the Enlightenment, the only philosopher left who is willing to spar with postmodern critics. Just as the PoMos love to poopoo John Dewey, it seems that everybody smokes effeminate cigarettes, wears tight jeans, and dumps on Real Madrid because they are successful, popular, and arguably profitable. At least according to Cristiano Ronaldo. Are they just a bunch of designer v neck sweater Foucault acolytes that are also sore losers?

A: Well, my first and foremost criticism of postmodernity is that their scholars’ works of literature and art are equivocal as to the seriousness of their enterprise – we must ask, do they take their philosophy serious, or is it simply a wink & nod attempt to deconstruct with no desire to reconstruct? While Barcelona has long espoused a theory of “possession soccer”, they recently have started to play a traditional run-and-cross winger in Cristian Tello. Also, two years ago, they signed Zlatan Ibrahimovic, a target forward. This year, they lost and many ascribe the failure to the lack of a “direct Plan B.” Thus, is their attempt to deconstruct the run-and-kick approach a genuine endeavor, or will they try to sign Fernando Llorente in the off-season?  I do not describe them as sore losers, but rather believe they are in the midst of an existential metaphysical identity crisis.

Q: Haber-master of the universe, one of your most famous historical debates revolved around revisionist German historians. To make a long story short, some academics tried to recast the Nazis as an isolated and elitist element, detached from the German public and thus, in your opinion, those historians tried to shift the moral blame from the public to an amorphous fringe. In terms of guilt-shifting and Madrid, should anybody be blamed for the loss to Bayern in the Champions League semi-finals? The defense? Mourinho? Pepe? Can Madrid even dream of winning that trophy if they can’t keep a clean sheet at home? In sum, would a Modernist moral scholar impose an imperative on Real Madrid to sign a real center back?

A: Society always seeks to narrow the scope and range of guilty individuals in past atrocities. The familiar “I was only following orders” helps the accomplices sleep at night. However, society must accept responsibility in various layers and at all layers. For example, Pepe stamped on Messi’s hand. However, Mourinho played Pepe. And Perez hired Mourinho. And Real Madrid’s socios voted to elect Perez. In that sense, every Madrid socio was guilty of stamping on Messi’s hand. They should all apologize. Immediately. And stop trying to just blame Pepe.

Q: Now Habercrombie & Fitch, you and Jacques Derrida engaged in a series of heated debates in which you questioned whether he had reduced philosophy to little more than literature and logic. You boldly asked whether Derrida’s thoughts could even provide a foundation for social critique, or if it was just a temporal philosophy of origins with the lasting power of a mayfly. In La Liga last season, Pep Guardiola called Jose Mourinho his puto amo (f’ing master). Jose Mourinho also wetwillied the assistant coach for Barcelona during a SuperCup brawl. What causes grown men, either philosophers or football managers, to act like petty children?

A: One of the most fundamental questions in our life is morality. We must always ask – is something immoral or moral? For me, the relativists such as Derrida manipulate reason to tear down societal structures, but leave us with no house, no roof, no basement, just a crater of uncertainty. Hence, for me, reason is both context-dependent and must be evaluated alongside history. Only by looking at the validity of everyday communication and presuppositions can we both analyze, criticize, and still have a framework from which to make moral conclusions. Jose and Pep had a serious breakdown in communication, and indirectly mocking one another via press conferences is probably not the healthiest way to form a bond.

Q: Habermastercard, you must either have a bulletproof vest or an iron cast of confidence. By that, I mean you take slug after slug after slug in the academic world. Foucault criticized your theory as utopian, Cohen criticized it as not including the lens of oppressed minorities, and Kompridis says its too procedural. Do you ever get tired of being attacked? Are you exhausted? Do you think Mou feels the same way with Marca and Jorge Valdano spitting bs his way once a day? If Foucault was still alive, would you feel the urge to wet-willy him out of anger? Should you?

A: It is standard for postmodernists to claim that any theory resting on the enlightenment is utopian – they’re a bunch of cynical downers, buzzkills, and rarely get invited to any of the good post-academic conference parties or happy hours. Cohen and Kompridis just don’t get my theory – minorities are definitely one of the specific contexts of reason. However, something universal can and does unite the oppression of say, females by males, and the oppression of say, blacks by white. The relativists, however, can’t even get close to this question because the very foundation of “oppression” is deconstructed. So yes, it gets tiring and I’m sure Mou is exhausted. However, if he reads Marca and actually cares then it’s his own fault. Most of their articles would not pass peer-review academic journal muster.

Q: We appreciate your time, and now we’ll cut to the chase: nobody likes Richard Rorty, he’s just this little wiener that runs around, starts debates, and then cites you when things heat up. What happens when you’re not around? Who will put him in timeout? On a related note, we’re also worried about succession at Madrid. If Mou goes, who could replace him? Is there another Special One somewhere? If not, then can we ethically clone Jose? What if we promise to really really carefully and morally handle the situation?

A: Postmodernists often attempt to paint technological change as novel and the impetus for a rejection of modernity and its notion of categorical morality. However, technology has always changed. Since Frankenstein and before, we have grappled with the notions of science, life, and values. I am flattered by Mr. Rorty’s citations to my works, even if he sometimes twists my theories in unexpected ways. I’d really advise against cloning Jose just for one simple reason: both the real life Jose and the clone would probably become restless and stop at nothing to try and kill one another. And this would distract them from coaching.

Q: Lastly, and perhaps a little off topic, if your last name was not Habermas, but rather Kopf, do you think children would have mocked you incessantly during middle school and well into high school for the name Jurgen Kopf? What if your name had been Jurgen Kopf N. Klosit?

A: …….

Song Credit: “The Conductor” by The Faint

Image Credit: IMGUR (via Reddit)