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.
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