PREVIEW
Let's face it. The table doesn't
lie. We're bottom of the table for two good reasons:
1. We can't score goals (0.74 per game) and
2. We can't stop the opposition
scoring (1.74 per game).
Do the math! We deserve to be
bottom. Our early season form has sagged like a despondent middle-aged man's
paunchy midriff. You can stand in front of the mirror, breathe in, pump out
your chest and tense your muscles as much as you like but your flabby bloated
frame is a harbinger of ruin; look behind you - the Grim Reaper is closing in
and he will not be denied. Some things are certain in this life - death, taxes
and a relegation scrap.
'We're all doomed' - Private James Frazer, comedy war hero and wing
half for Tannochbrae Trossachs
The blindly optimistic claim that
all is not lost, that it will end well, even that 'we're too good to go down'.
They are the climate change deniers standing naked in a field in the Somerset Levels
waving a Union Jack and waiting for the sun to come out; they are Monty
Python's Black Knight, two arms down and hopping around on one leg claiming to
be 'invincible'. They say we must have faith in the new manager, that he will
save us and lead us onto greater glory as if the sainted Solskjaer walked
around in sandals and began his team talk with 'I am the resurrection...though
he were dead, yet shall he live'. Well for 'Lazurus' read 'Andreas Cornelius'.
Jesus wept.
But wait. The transfer window is
still open. There's still time to turn things around. Mmmm, our record of
transfer window signings in recent times has not been great. The word
'Cornelius' has now taken its place in the footie lexicon, eg 'It looks like
Tottenham have done a Cornelius by signing Soldano'. (The disaster of City's
continental drift that gave us the Andreas Fault has even vindicated Chairman
Tan in some fan's eyes).
We have an unfortunate habit of bringing
in unproven players who show a bit of promise which turns to dust as soon as
they put on City shirt. Trotters International Traders must have branched out
and are passing off duds as Premier League players - 'ere, I
can do you a Cornelius for 8 mill and two pony grands a week. Cushty!'.
On
top of that we've occasionally been persuaded to take on players who are well
past their prime and desperate for one last hurrah / one last pay-day (hang
your head in shame Robbie Fowler), or to take a punt on journeymen players on
the back of a purple patch in an otherwise undistinguished career.
In January 2006 Dave Jones signed
the prolific (10 goals in 21 games) Darlington forward Guylain Ndumbu-Nsungu,
affectionately known as 'Dave', a sobriquet he objected to. He might have got a
fairer hearing if, one, he hadn't actually said 'Please don't call me Dave'
and, two, he'd been any good. He made 11 appearances, 7 as sub and failed to
record a single goal. So 'Dave' it was.
Until Cornelius, all other window
signings could be measured against this folly. The 'Dave Scale' has a spread of
1-5, so that the signing of Ndumbu-Nsungu scores a maximum 5 Daves. Other window
signings in the recent past include:
2002 Fan Zhiyi 4 Daves
2006 Iwan Redan 4 Daves
2006 Malvin Kamara 4 Daves
2007 Robbie Fowler 5 Daves
2008 Eddie Johnson 4 Daves
2008 Quincy Owusu-Abeyie 4 Daves
2008 Dimi Dropalttashots 4 Daves
2010 Jon Parkin 3 Daves
2012 Etien Velikonja 6 Daves
So what can we expect from the
latest crop?
I was reassured by Sir Alex
Ferguson's comment that 'Da Silva
has all the attributes to become one of the best full-backs in the world'. Unfortunately
he was talking about Fabio's twin brother Rafael.
Kenwynne Jones has an interesting back story. A foundling, discovered in a forest clearing
in Mynydd Hiraethog in deepest darkest Denbighshire in 1984 by two local
schoolboys, Ken and Wynne Jones, he comes with a half-decent scoring record and
a fearsome reputation. For sulking. Having previously gone on strike at
Southampton until granted a transfer, he recently texted Mark Hughes that he
would not be available for their game against Liverpool. Committed to the cause
then.
Wilfred Za-ha, son of an Alan Partridge tribute act with a fondness
for the poetry of the First World War is a fully fledged England international,
currently unable to force his way into the Man Utd first team who has never
tried it on with David Moyes' daughter.
Norway's Magnus Wolf Eikrem Jo Inge Berget Matts Moller Daehli has joined us
from Solskjaer's former club Molde and is renowned for his defensive midfield
attacking tracking back qualities and for being an anagram of
Mswfemojiebtmsmrdiagnuolngeergeattolleaehl which is Norwegian for 'blond haired
blue eyed pure bred fleet footed footballing genius'. Which is promising.
They say the past is another
country. It looks like our future is Norway. Whatever happens 'Jeg skal
vaere der ed min lille pick og shovel jeg skal være der...'
CCFC 2 v 1 NORWICH
After the tedium of the transfer
window anti-climax - will it be Pappis Cisse? Le Fondre? the return of the
Mack?? (well actually none of the above despite a last minute panicked - and
pretty demeaning - 'come and get me' plea from McCormack) it was a relief to be
able to redirect attention to matters on
the pitch. In fact the only bit of business on the day was concluded after the faux deadline, signing Juan
Cala from Sevilla to provide some much needed reinforcement in central defence.
The new boys on the team sheet
today were Fabio at right back, with Kenwyne Jones donning the iconic Number 9
shirt and loanee Zaha surprisingly sitting it out on the bench. It's been a
busy time for Solskjaer as he begins the task of rebuilding the squad inherited
from Malky and looks to fashion a team that can adapt to his adventurous
approach.
In a case of seven by Sjefen
(Norwegian for 'gaffer' - thank you Google Translate) out went Mackay bad buys
Cornelius, Odemwingie, Velikonja and Brayford - a total of 13 million pounds of
folly lolly spent, but probably nearly as much saved in wages over the term of
calamity Cornelius' contract - with fringe players like Simon Moore (a
neighbour, with the cringe-making personalised number plate '51MON GK') Craig
Conway and Joe Mason moving on. At first glance the Class of '14 should prove to
be more educated signings than the dunces and duffers making way.
This match was not unreasonably
billed as a 'must win' against one of the sides that make up the
league-within-a-league that is the bottom half of the table. The early signs
were good as an inspired move within minutes of the kick off saw Mutch narrowly
miss with a well executed bicycle kick after good work from Noone. The promise
and enthusiasm at the start of the 'New Era' quickly dissipated however as
Fabio was found wanting, allowing Olsson to get behind him and cross for
Snodgrass to score. 0-1 after only 5 minutes.
The mood of the crowd matched the
dark clouds gathering above as a squall of confusion, doubt and frustration
swirled around the stadium. It was clear that the players had been briefed by
the new boss to be more positive but the short sharp passing and movement off
the ball was being poorly executed, most moves breaking down with a misplaced
pass allowing the opposition to break dangerously.
The midfield was bunching up,
with no width on the left, full back Declan John ignored when in good positions
getting forward. If this had been a training game Solskjaer would been
constantly stopping play to reinforce what he was expecting of his players.
Soon after a woeful free kick from the edge of the box which he ballooned 10 feet
over the bar Whittingham was removed. There were less than 40 minutes on the
clock.
In an ideal world the entire
crowd would have stood as one to welcome his replacement with an Alan
Partridge-inspired 'Za-Haaa!' but it wasn't to be. Shame. Norwich's very own Alpha Papa would surely have enjoyed the
moment.
There was a desperate sense of
relief that the manager had made a decisive intervention at such an early
stage. With plenty of midfield options in the squad you sense that Whitts may
struggle to command a place from this point on. The shape of the team improved
immediately on his departure and half time arrived with no further damage done
and the hope of a second half revival. With the half time scores confirming
that all our rivals were picking up points there was a very real threat of
being cut adrift at the bottom of the table by the end of the afternoon. A good
start to the second half was essential.
The new boss doesn't seem like
the sort of bloke who's likely to resort to the hairdryer treatment but he must
have picked up a trick or two from Sir Alex as the team returned to the pitch
inspired, with Zaha central to the transformation. With only four minutes gone
he picked the ball up in a central position and deftly stroked a ball into the
box for Bellamy to scuff it past the advancing keeper. 'Eat my goal! That was liquid football!' as Partridge might say.
From the restart we were
immediately back on the attack, forcing a corner which Norwich failed to clear.
Mutch returned the ball back into a confused Norwich box, big Kenwynne the
first to react as the ball pinged around, turning deftly to hammer it high into
the net. 'Yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes,
yes! That. Was a Goal!'
It was a moment to savour as
Jones, six foot silly tall and with the wing span of a golden eagle flew off
towards the corner flag before executing a celebratory somersault of
Earnshaw-esque audacity.
The mood was now transformed, the
crowd suddenly in good heart, belief coursing through its very being as half
time pies were abandoned and rivers of upset Bovril dregs cascaded down the
Ninian Stand, casualties of the sudden exuberance.
Inevitably the pace slackened as
the stunned opposition slowly gathered themselves and forced their way back
into the game. But chances continued to be carved out at both ends. Just after
Marshall had deflected a long range effort onto the bar Jones almost added a
third as Mutch's misdirected shot deflected off him and agonisingly brushed the
post with the keeper stranded.
A rash of substitutions on 75
minutes reinvigorated the opposition who launched wave after wave of attack.
Norwich now forced the pace as City held the line far too deep and struggled to
move out of defence. The match stats show evenly distributed possession over
the 90 minutes. The 12 corners forced by Norwich in the second half indicates
just how much they dominated the latter stages as City failed to close the game
down. The opposition hit the woodwork and had the ball in the net twice but were
denied by an astute linesman's flag on both occasions.
The defence completely lost its
shape as panic set in and it seemed inevitable that the opposition was going to
nick an equaliser, or worse. That they failed was down to the acrobatic
commitment of one man, David Marshall. Scotland's Number One pulled off three
world class saves. If we do manage to survive this season it will be as much
down to his heroics as any tactical masterstroke that the new manager can pull.
Can we do it? It's very much in
the balance. But knowing me, knowing you,
knowing the City we won't do it the easy way.
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