In the lead up to Christmas I made my usual mistake of visiting the Club Shop in the search for some reliably tacky stocking fillers. This year was particularly difficult as I’d exhausted the unintentionally ironic and the retro (ie. blue) goodies previously. I plumped for a couple of Cardiff City Fire & Passion Shower Gels which promised an ‘invigorating’ experience but included a warning to use sparingly, to keep out of reach of children, and beware of irritation. Sound advice you might think, and applicable to any transaction between CCFC and its fans.
In the event the items were discretely and not unreasonably left behind and will no doubt feature in future ‘most pointless Xmas gifts of all time’ alongside The Plastic Dog Moustache, The Russell Brand Guide To Humility, and iPants.
A while back Gerald Ratner famously described his company’s jewellery as ‘total c**p’ in an endearing but commercially suicidal admission. Vincent Tan might as well do the same as the sparkling jewels in his shop window disappear in the January sales to be replaced by cut price cut glass pretenders in a deceit that no-one’s buying. Like the shower gel, the squad is diluted, ineffective, disappoints expectations and leaves the user feeling cheated and resentful.
With a £20m wage bill reduced to £12m, the age of austerity has arrived at the CCS. (Austerity is of course a relative concept and to truly appreciate its connection with the world of sport it might be an idea to ‘stay humble’ and tweet Stuart Broad http://www.theguardian.com/sport/2015/jan/28/stuart-broad-minimum-wage-comments-innocent A graduate from the Tim Nice But Dim Sports Academy and apparently all round ruddy decent chap, perhaps he should learn to walk, before trying to run with the great unwashed).
‘Shopping at Poundland’ or standing in line at the post Transfer Deadline Day food bank represents a return to the natural state of things for those of us who can remember getting excited at the arrival of Fowler (Jason). There is however a heavy cloud of doubt hanging over the prospect of Slade making a silk purse out of a sow’s ear in the manner of, say, Sean Dyche at Burnley or Bournemouth’s Eddie Howe. The signings of Malone, Peltier, O’Keefe & Revell suggest that we really are back to feeding off scraps. This might be just about acceptable to the pathologically disillusioned but not so to the generation of bandwagon-jumping opportunists and returnees who have become accustomed to stopping off at Harrods en route to Wembley.
Today’s line up included debutants Peltier and O’Keefe in a diamond formation with Whittingham pushed forward to loiter around the box and support frontman Revell. Signs of progress then. Blimey! The first patient build up out of defence, the darting runs down the wing from Harris and Noone, the decoy runs across the box from Whitts - surely it couldn’t last? It couldn’t. It didn’t.
After the dust had settled and the opposition had re-calibrated their response to a perplexingly imaginative approach from the home team, the shock of the new was to prove no more effective than the discredited conventional long ball game. With no signs of leadership on or off the pitch and playing like the strangers they were, this was to prove a performance of ineptitude on a grand scale.
The game was a disjointed affair not helped by some wretched refereeing. Ninety minutes of frustration unrest and despondency for the taciturn crowd was punctuated with regular and justifiable ’You don’t know what you’re doing’ chants. These might fairly have been directed at the players though not in a vindictive way, more an observation - they clearly didn’t know what was being asked of them. To a man they were committed but confused, lions led by donkeys - one in the boardroom braying his vacuous decrees to the other, his dug-out stooge.
The game had its moments I suppose, but only one of rare quality. The Moore penalty save was a supreme example of the goalkeeper’s art - anticipatory, instinctive with studied feline grace, he propelled himself to the right and with one steady outstretched hand pushed the ball dismissively around the post.
Unfortunately the lift that this provided was soon undone as Malone wrong footed Moore with a lunge at Ward’s low cross to deflect the ball into his own net. If the opening goal was hapless the second, on the stroke of half time effectively killing the game, was simplicity itself as the opposition collected the ball, pushed it around neatly, pulling the defence out of position before finding Martin who rose unchallenged in the box to head past Moore.
The second half was about as entertaining as a game of foosball as the ball pinged around a wooden midfield with neither team showing any initiative to bother the keepers. At 0-2 down Slade’s only option was to give his fringe players a spin.
The City bench included at least four players who might have started the game. Jones may not be a 90 minute option but if he’s fit and willing must surely be given a start. His 30 minutes upfront with the tireless but lightweight Ravell at least presented a challenge to a composed and rarely bothered defence, hinting at what might have been. Fabio lifted the spirits momentarily with a Duracell bunny runaround and Adeyemi was solid if unspectacular.
A fanciful 22,000 attendance was announced to snorts of derision echoing around the emptying stadium as I studied the recently released payment options for next season’s ticket. ‘Free’ finance is available but at the moment this is nowhere near as tempting as the cheapest option - the one that involves walking away and not looking back.
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