I had a pre-election funding call this week from the local Tory candidate Boris Snoutsintrovski, an invitation to a black tie fundraiser in the company of distinguished party donors including assorted merchant bankers and a world renowned expert on cockney rhyming slang. The top table consisted of prominent members of the Surbiton Cosa Nostra, a defrocked 1970’s disk jockey and assorted North African ferry boat entrepreneurs. Fundraising activities included the opportunity to contribute to Michael Gove’s humility implant which NICE apparently refused to fund, placing a bid for a Bavarian maize-based lager drinking competition with party chairman Grant Schnapps, entry to the James Naughtie Front Bench Freudian Slipfest and a shoe shopping trip with the Home Secretary. (That last bit was at least true…)
The event entitled ‘We’re All In This Together’ was held in the England Is Mine And It Owes Me A Living Banqueting Hall at HSBC House in the City of London. All contributions tax deductible. When asked by Snoutinstrovski how I evaded my taxes I replied indignantly that I was PAYE enrolled. Boris looked at me quizzically ‘Nope. New one on me. Cayman Islands?’
The BBC recently produced an online calculator aimed at contributing to the well-being of the nation by helpfully allowing you to compare your salary with a top footballer of your choice. I decided to keep it local and pitted myself against Gareth Bale. I learned that based on my current salary it will take me just 509 years to earn the annual salary of the extravagantly lugged one. This is what we call ‘a very long time indeed’. To provide some historical context, imagine replacing the Beeb’s adaptation of Wolf Hall with a live Hilary Mantell blow-by-blow commentary.
But in this Age Of Austerity it’s churlish to resort to the politics of envy, and divisive to talk in terms of the deserving and undeserving rich, so I’ll continue to make my own small contribution to the maintaining the equality gap by donating to my local football club squillionaires, purely out of habit and self-loathing.
This week saw the arrival of Paul Trollope, journeyman player at Swindon, Torquay, Northampton, Bristol Rovers etc as the club continued to help us reign in our aspirations and acclimatise to life in the lower leagues. Check wikipedia under ‘Notable Trollopes’ - you’ll find him sandwiched between Barchester chronicler Anthony (no relation) and aga saga novelist Joanna (Mum. citation pending).
Continuing the nod to impending nostalgia, Ali spun a few Ninian Park pre-match favourites including 70’s mod revivalists Secret Affair’s ‘Time For Action’ (sample lyric ‘take me to your leader cos it’s time you realised this is the time for action’. Quite.)
The returning Rudy Gestede and Craig Conway, City PL misfits sold for a combined sum of ‘undisclosed’ (ie ‘embarrassingly cheap’) and currently in a rich vein of form having helped to dispatch Swansea and Stoke from the FA Cup in recent weeks, served to emphasise the sense of lost opportunities and decline. Gestede remember was forced out by £8m dud Cornelius. Ouch. Both received a generous round of applause from the home fans.
After the Brighton snore draw last time out and Slade’s recent candid interview in which his only defence seemed to be that he’s perhaps on balance and taking all things into consideration possibly not quite as cr*p as we think he is but given time he will leave us in no doubt, expectations were low bordering on the subterranean.
The adventurous(!) 4-4-2 line up had Doyle partnering Jones up front with new boy Kennedy, signed from Everton last month starting on the right side of midfield. Encouragingly the team began well, playing with an unanticipated confidence and air of authority and there were clear early indications that the new coaching set up has revitalised the team.
The problem of lack of leadership both on and off the pitch has been highlighted during the recent decline and while there's still no obvious principal on the pitch, the site of the involved Trollope gesticulating, ordering, making notes and generally engaging with the team (as the inert Slade stood with arms folded, trainer-gazing) was heartening.
We might have taken the lead on 15 minutes, a last ditch intervention denying the busy Kennedy. The tempo was a huge improvement on recent games, Blackburn contributing to a lively encounter, unlucky themselves as Malone and Gunnarsson combined to effect a goal line clearance with Marshall beaten.
The possession stats show a 50/50 split but we did dominate the game for long spells and continued to chase back and harry the opposition, not allowing them to settle and forcing them into retreat as they undermined their expected authority with a succession of misplaced passes.
Kennedy was at the heart of everything good, a tireless runner with a number of crowd pleasing tricks in his armoury. A solid and creative presence in midfield, capable of taking on defenders down the flanks but more at home cutting back inside, he linked up well tonight with a revitalised Whitingham. Noone on the other wing was disappointing, running up blind alleys and failing to deliver the incisive crosses that Jones craves, his threat snuffed out by a shrewd Blackburn defence.
As the game wore on it was increasingly difficult to see the stalemate being broken in open play as both defences dealt competently with any threat. The dead ball areas gave us hope as the defenders joined the offensive line to take advantage of Whittingham’s accurate anxiety-inducing swinging free kicks and it was no surprise when the breakthrough came that it was from a corner, Morrison rising above the far post defenders to head powerfully past Blackburn’s Steele with 84 minutes on the clock.
The footballing gods have long since ordained that returning favourites shall spoil the party; any fanciful notion that we would comfortably see out the few remaining minutes was rebuffed as a defensive lapse allowed the ball to run free to Gestede who slotted home from close range as the 90 minutes drew to a close.
So, disappointing to see victory snatched from our grasp at the death but on this occasion the performance was far more significant than the result. We are still in an age of austerity at the CCS but perhaps, just perhaps, we are seeing the green shoots of recovery and we can look forward to a brighter day.
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