CCFC 2 V 4 WATFORD

Exactly 12 months ago today we were at home against Sunderland. In the Premier League. Then we were a club in crisis, the fans dazed and confused after a series of (self-inflicted) crises. We were a runaway train, driverless after the summary sacking of Malky Mackay, Fireman Tan continuing to stoke the furnace even as we headed for the buffers. Today the train wreck that is Cardiff City, derailed and demoralised, finally came to rest.

For a time - the first 40 minutes in fact - we looked capable of thriving. A Whitts free kick found the head of Le Fondre whose deft flick glanced past Gomis and into the top corner. It was the most exquisitely timed goal, coming as it did as the blue and white standards were being raised to acknowledge 19mins 27 seconds. 

With Adeyemi patrolling the midfield with panache and intent, Noone a constant menace and Jones  alert and continually searching for the main chance, we were controlling the game. We may even have doubled our lead after 25 minutes but Le Fondre’s good work was undone by the tamest of shots with the goal at his mercy. Never mind, we would surely be acknowledging a potentially significant return to form as the teams trotted off at half time. Far from it.

On 42 minutes Watford, who had played some neat football - crisp one touch passing, well drilled - but with no apparent cutting edge, benefited from a very charitable interpretation of the offside laws from the linesman to draw level. Our hearts sank just as the team’s heads collectively dropped. Belief took its leave as panic reacquainted itself with its brittle hosts. With a spring in their step the visitors moved at will around a leaden footed defence, easing into a 2-1 lead at the break as Ighalo strolled into space to head past Marshall.

The increasingly familiar sound of the Canton End half time boo boys accompanied the players as they disappeared into the tunnel. There’s little excuse for such self-defeating petulance, although they had been provoked by the goon squad who’d pounced on a ‘Tan Out’ sign thus drawing attention to the cause and attracting cries of ‘fascists’ from the most mild-mannered amongst the disaffected majority. 

When the game recommenced there was no indication that General Slade had been able to inspire and motivate his troops; that prospect had been all too briefly entertained and discounted during the half time autopsy and as Watford strolled around with training ground insouciance the outcome was beyond doubt.

The third goal arrived shortly after Slade had drawn hoots of derision from the home fans by replacing the workhorse Adeyemi and carthorse Gunnarsson in a misguided attempt to shore up the midfield, a change in formation evidently beyond his wit. The goal, a second of the afternoon for Guedioura was a 30 yard off-the-crossbar-over-the-line piledriver; a real gem. Many Bluebird fans rose to their feet to applaud the opposition for their efforts to brighten up a dull day and headed for the exit.

With 30 minutes still to play, Watford closed the game down by playing keep-ball and running into the wide open spaces for fun before consolidating their victory with a fourth towards the end. There was just enough time for the crowd to mock the official attendance of 22000. With echoes of derision bouncing around the Ninian Stand wastelands City conjured up a welcome but entirely unnecessary second when the blameless Noone and the persistent Jones combined to good effect.

So where does this leave us? Notwithstanding the Hornby dictum that “Life isn't, and has never been, a 2-0 home victory after a fish and chip lunch” it’s becoming increasingly difficult to remain philosophical about our plight and to believe in my ability as a mere mortal to influence events. My presence, superstition, the dark arts or a plea for divine intervention are no match for the perversity of Vincent Tan. 

Be in no doubt that our plight is a boardroom construct. Little blame can be attached to individual players - albeit cluelessness is relative - or necessarily to the blundering stooge that is Russell Slade whose post match insistence that ‘I have to be tunnel-visioned’ is an affecting insight into his limitations as a football visionary. 

Tan’s agenda has always been at odds with the fan’s notion of what a football club should be. With more astute less hubristic governance he might have stood a chance. The failure to convert debt into equity as promised suggests that Tan’s considering his position. He’s not alone. We’ve never felt so alienated. The increasing disconnect between club and fans has taken all the fun out of  the suffering. As we enter free-fall I’d rather we did it on our own terms with our blue blue chests pumped out and our heads held high.

‘Few of us have chosen our clubs, they have simply been presented to us; and so as they slip from Second Division to the Third…..we simply curse, go home, worry for a fortnight and then come back to suffer all over again.’ - Fever Pitch

Football fandom is a simple pastime for simple souls Mr Tan, and we’ll get by without you very well.

CCFC 2 V 3 BRENTFORD

Earlier this week I was facing the daunting prospect of root canal treatment. I approached this game with similar enthusiasm. 

After last week’s 3-5 south coast implosion today’s hosts promoted alongside Bournemouth last season and spearheading the unfathomable challenge of the unfashionable and the unfancied in this season’s Championship, were always likely to prove a challenge and give succour to the City sceptics. And so it proved.

The line up gave reasonable grounds for optimism with Manga restored in central defence, Fabio at left back and Kadeem Harris making a much anticipated home debut. We exerted some early pressure, forcing two corners but it was immediately apparent that a young and fleet-footed opposition were going to cause problems for our flat-footed back-tracking midfield as they broke at pace. 

The teams seemed reasonably evenly matched during the opening exchanges but after 10 minutes the City back four failed to close down the lively Pritchard, on loan from Spurs, as the ball fell to him on the edge of the box. His low strike  gave Marshall no chance. 0-1.

Spurred on by a surprisingly well-stocked and impressively vocal away section, the Bees continued to take the game to a wooden unimaginative home team and it was no surprise when they doubled their lead 10 minutes later as Turner was caught out of position and beaten for pace by the free scoring Andre Gray who latched onto a through ball from Pritchard to cleverly chip the advancing Marshall. 0-2. We should have pulled one back immediately but Le Fondre continued to excel at what he does best by spurning an excellent opportunity from inside the 6 yard box.

Brentford were now swarming all over the home team, the Bluebirds taking flight as the Bees continued to pollenate their fans’ Premier League ambition. It was no surprise when they stung us with a match-defining third after 30 minutes. Spanish winger Jota took the ball in space on the edge of the box, cut back inside and sent a perfectly executed curler out of Marshall’s reach into the top corner. I didn’t know whether to applaud or sob. John, the laconic Scot who sits beside me rose from his seat and announced ‘I’m off for a pint’. At half time Matt, a septuagenerian and a City fan from the age of nine, left for home.

It seemed reasonable to judge Slade on his ability to make personnel changes at half time to counter the threat from the opposition’s 4-3-3 ascendancy. Perhaps bring on Adeyemi to provide some pace in midfield or Jones upfront to replace the failing Le Fondre or the meagre Macheda. Or give them both the order of the hook and push up Whittingham in the hole behind a lone striker. Anything to give the fans a reason to believe. In the event, and all too predictably, the same players trotted out to take their place in an unimaginative, flaccid Four. Four. Two. 

The second 45 wasn’t quite the dispiriting morale sapper we had every right to expect. In fact we fought back well and might even have rescued a point. But an unmerited draw would achieved little more than papering over some significant cracks. More like chasms actually. We fielded the wrong team, playing in the wrong colour, selected by the wrong man, appointed by the wrong owner. 

To my great relief my dentist decided that there were still signs of life in my manky molar and thought it might be saved, offering the possibility that it might even regenerate and thrive. As we slide into mid-table mediocrity the prognosis for Slade, Tan and the risible red is much less certain.

CCFC 0 V 0 ROTHERHAM

Really? Rotherham? What a dreary proposition. Repeat it and despair. Break the word down into its constituent syllables and feel the spirits fall, the mood darken, enthusiasm wane. Roth-er-ham. Mis-er-y. Possibly the most culturally insignificant town in the UK, the list of ‘noteable people’ in the town’s wikipedia profile is headed by those creepy masters of mirth the Chuckle Brothers. Closely followed by David Seaman. And William Hague. In 2006 Rotherham was designated an EU Charisma Free Zone.

I imagine Mr Slade is all aquiver with excitement today anticipating a fixture that symbolises his ambition after a week in which he’s been able to commence his clear intention to cull the naturally gifted and marginalise all the talents. With Daehli, Fabio, Morrison (R), Guerra and to a lesser extent the recently departed Cala all sacrificed at the altar of 4-4-2 expediency it’s becoming increasingly apparent that Slade’s cheery avuncular demeanour conceals a dour grey risk-averse sensibility where inspiration is banished in favour of perspiration.

If Russell Slade had been managing The Beatles he’d have handed the songwriting duties to Ringo; cast as Che Guevara’s PR man he’d have had a quiet word with him about easing back on the revolutionary zeal, losing the beard and replacing the beret with a bobble hat. He is the John Major of football management, dreaming of being indiscreet with Edwina Currie over a mug of cocoa at his local Little Chef. He is a grey man, all 50 shades reimagined by the ghost of Mary Whitehouse. 

Apologies for being unseasonably downbeat but approaching Christmas in a particularly poor Championship we should by now be Ding Dong Merrily On High not contemplating a Bleak mid-table Midwinter. 

Such was the lethargy and general lack of engagement in the crowd today that it couldn’t even be bothered to raise a mocking raspberry as the opposition team was announced. It didn’t help that their line-up contained players who weren’t even household names in their own homes. 

The hosts by contrast had a number of starry potential match winners. Predictably however they were all sitting on the bench. Fabio was sidelined to allow the right footed Brayford to take his place at left back, the imperative being that a place must be found for the plodding Connolly to keep the crowd’s enthusiasm in check. Daehli and Morrison (R) looked the part as usual as they stretched and ran tirelessly along the touchline only inches from the field of play.

Meanwhile, on the pitch their team mates were failing to impose themselves on a very ordinary opposition who were controlling midfield, Pringle looking dangerous in possession and dispatching a number of crisp balls into the box. The first corner of the half saw Marshall uncharacteristically flapping but the opposition front men didn’t have the wit to take advantage.

For most of the half we were playing like the away team - ponderous and unable to seize the initiative. It was 35 minutes before the crowd was sufficiently roused to offer a (ironic) cheer as Brayford took aim from 30 yards, an effort which might charitably be classed as the half’s only shot on target as it dribbled apologetically in the direction of the keeper.

The fourth official’s board mercifully showed just the one minute of added time as we excitedly anticipated the tear ’n’ share of the half time orange - or was it a tangerine? Possibly a mandarin or a minneola. Hmm…

The second half offered little more than the first. In fact I didn’t make a single note until the 65th minute. I spent far too long trying to contrive a line that emphasised just how colourless the game was and referencing the Miller’s Tale as the crowd at first just ghostly turned a whiter shade of pale. I didn’t manage it.

So after 65 minutes Slade decided to make the most conservative, uninspiring of changes to ensure that the balance of the team wasn't upset, the option of deploying a Plan B rejected in favour of a 4-4-2 tweak. This staggeringly uncreative cop out allowed the central defenders to continue to punt the ball aimlessly out of defence to Le Fondre as Jones’ replacement Macheda took on the hopeless task of scavenger. 

Finally after 80 minutes Fabio was given a run out receiving the biggest cheer of the afternoon after Connolly pulled up. Morrison was handed his chance to change the course of the game with 5 minutes left. Shocking.

At the final whistle the away fans celebrated by skipping the light fandango and turning cartwheels, acknowledging a drab draw that redefined drabness; a paler shader of drab in fact. 

Seasons Greetings.