CCFC V ASTON VILLA

BIG MATCH PREVIEW

One Saturday morning some months ago - I can't recall when exactly but I was digging the allotment in the sunshine so clearly it's only just within living memory - I was listening to Danny Baker discussing football in Victorian times with Paul Brown, the author of 'Victorian Football Miscellany' (http://www.victorianfootball.co.uk/) described by Football Book Reviews as 'a veritable cornucopia of eclectic Victorian footballing splendour!'

Prior to the formation of The Football Association in 1863 there were no common rules. Teams would meet before a game to thrash out which rules they would use. The industrial north played to the Sheffield Rules whereas in the south, the Cambridge Rules were used by the public schools at Eton, Harrow, Rugby, Shrewsbury and Winchester. Rugby School, in a typical display of public school elitist petulance and arrogance refused to compromise and formed their own game, the name of which escapes me.

The roots of the game of course go back to medieval times when neighbouring villages would play each other in games that would last for days. Shockingly, and difficult to comprehend today, the history of 'foteball' is littered with references to violent behaviour, gambling and controversy.

In 1280 in a game played near Ashington in Northumberland (that'll be Newcastle v Sunderland territory then...) it's recorded that a player was killed by 'running against an opposing player's dagger'.

In 1314 the game was banned in London following a decree by the Mayor that '...there is great noise in the city caused by hustling over large foot balls in the fields of the public from which many evils might arise which God forbid'. The language of the establishment at the time was French so that the declaration fell mostly upon deaf ears. It did however have the unintended benefit of clearing the capital of French players, most of whom found their way to Newcastle.

In 1409 King Henry IV, who famously put down a rebellion by Sir Harry Hotspur - the war hero who inspired Tottenham to adopt his name due to his ability lose heroically and gallantly, a tradition which continues to the current day - issued a proclamation forbidding the levying of money on the game of foteball. This seriously hit the profits of Lord Uther Pendragon Betfair and Sir Galahad 32Red as well as The Camelot Group.

The modern game began with the inaugural Football League in 1888 which comprised of 12 teams, including today's opponents whose chairman William McGregor was the league's founder. Aston Villa had been formed by four players from the Villa Cross Wesleyan Chapel cricket team who were looking for something to do in the winter.

Similarly, 'Riverside AFC' the forerunner of Cardiff City was formed by Riverside Cricket Club in an attempt to keep the players fit during the winter months. Many of the teams in today's PL had humble beginnings with names that reflect their origins.

It's hard to believe that today's bloated global game evolved from these curious and quaint parochial clashes - if all teams had retained their original names the midweek fixture list would read:

Riverside AFC v Aston Villa

Hull City v St Mary's Church of England Young Men's Association (Southampton)

Thames Ironworks (West Ham) v Norwich Church of England's Young Men's Society

West Bromwich Strollers v Chelsea

Royal Arsenal v Newton Heath Lancashire and Yorkshire Railways FC (Man Utd)

St Domingo's (Everton) v Crystal Palace

St Marks West Gorton (Man City) v Sunderland & District Teachers AFC

Newcastle East End FC v Hotspur FC

Stoke Ramblers v Swansea Town

Fulham St Andrews Church Sunday School FC v Everton FC & Athletics Grounds (Liverpool)

All of which is a complete distraction in the hope that taking the long view will help to put our present plight into proper perspective. After all, it's just a game. Isn't it?

CCFC 0 v 0 ASTON VILLA

After the morale-sapping capitulation to our seaside cousins on Saturday it was essential for tonight's game to provide some reasons to believe. The line-up looked more balanced and more threatening on paper, with Campbell brought in to partner Jones up front, spearheading a 4-4-2 which included a fully fit Noone playing alongside Mutch in midfield - Bellamy having decided not to appeal against a three match ban for cuffing de Guzman in an incident missed by the referee and dismissed by most objective viewers as nothing more than a little good natured tease. Whitts and the not-so-Fabio were deemed culpable and left out.

Under a new Michael Gove-inspired initiative Whitts was told to sit in the stands with his back to the game and write one hundred times 'I am an over-paid under-achieving half-engaged footballing enigma who has brought shame upon my adopted city'. Fabio was handed detention and a letter for his Mum.

We made a reassuringly confident start, seizing the initiative with Noone in particular causing consternation with some mesmerising mazy dribbles against a bewildered Villa defence. How we missed him on Saturday.

The first real chances of the game came early on when Campbell was left frustrated by a shot parried onto the post by Villa's keeper Guzan following good work from Zaha. The defence failed to clear and Noone lashed a deflected shot onto the bar from 20 yards. It was pretty much one way traffic at this point and if Jones had been awarded a penalty when clearly hauled back in the box (well it looked nailed-on from where we were sitting, a mere 100 yards away) we might have taken a well-deserved nerve-settling lead.

As it stands, I believe we are the only team in the Premier League this season not to be awarded a penalty. There have been enough blatant calls denied by a succession of referees that you don't have to be a crazed conspiracy theorist to wonder if they're not all in thrall to some shady Asian spread betting syndicate in league with a Colombian drugs cartel directing operations from a Taliban-held enclave just outside Kabul who may or may not be linked to the great 9/11 cover up and faked moon landings. But I suppose it helps if you are.

Villa looked occasionally dangerous on the break but the central defence partnership of Caulker and Turner held firm against the eminent pairing of Belgium's World Cup-bound Benteke and England's Agbonlahor.

Worryingly with 30 minutes on the clock the impressive Mutch pulled up with an assumed hamstring injury and was replaced by Wolff Eikrem who leapt off the bench, fell to his hind legs and barked at the moon before scampering off into midfield.

Zaha had the ball in the back of the net before the break but was ruled offside and half time arrived with nothing to show for our clear dominance.

Inevitably Aston Villa regrouped at the break and started the stronger. Noone was shackled and the supply to Zaha was cut off as the away team responded to a half time rollicking. Buoyed by an impressive turn out from their vociferous fans they came more and more into the game and the sense of regret at not having converted our early advantage was gaining traction.

Although we created chances of our own - Campbell latching onto a Jones header but scuffing wide and Jones himself not taking advantage of half-chances - the definitive moments of the game were played out in our 6 yard box. Agbonlahor and Benteke were guilty of passing up opportunities to take the lead, either through their own indecision, last-ditch interventions by Turner and T-C or frustrated by some spectacular saves from Marshall. The final action of the game witnessed one of the greatest saves of this or any other season - worth staying up way past the witching hour tonight for the midweek MOTD highlights.

There was a promising cameo appearance late on from Daehli as the ref's soft melting stopwatch subconsciously signified the relativity of space and time in a surrealist meditation on the collapse of our notions of a fixed cosmic order. Really, you had to be there.

The last time City and Villa drew 0-0 was the year we won the FA Cup. Our next home game is against the current cup holders Wigan in the 5th Round. On the way to Wembley in 1927 we beat the holders Bolton at the same stage. Wow! Conspiracy? Divine providence? Destiny? Fate? Kismet? Hardly.

CCFC v NORWICH

 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.

CCFC V WEST HAM

BIG MATCH PREVIEW

So a New Year has dawned but nothing much has changed, with a club in crisis playing at the CCS. The big surprise though is it's not us! Tomorrow we welcome the Hammers on the back of a morale-sapping disastrous set of results that has left scribes interrogating the footie lexicon to adequately describe their predicament following a 5-0 'trouncing' by Forest in the FA Cup and their 6-0 'drubbing' at the hands of Man City in the League Cup. Time then to 'concentrate on the league' where a run of one win out of 13 has seen them drop into the relegation zone with Big Sam 'on borrowed time' should the buoyant Bluebirds beat the blubbering bubble-blowers.

Allardyce is of course one of the games more 'colourful' characters - a much travelled manager whose career has seen more hastily abandoned clubs than Tiger Woods in flight from his missus.

The larger-than-life masticating maverick is a controversial character infamous for his starring role in the Panorama expose Undercover: Football's Dirty Secret, during which two agents separately claimed to have paid bungs to Allardyce for arranging transfers. Allardyce's outrage at this libellous slur on his reputation upset him so much that he was quite unable to follow up his threat to take his accusers to court, preferring instead to defend his integrity by poutily refusing to talk to the BBC. From which some people inferred his guilt. As guilty in fact 'as a puppy sitting next to a pile of poo' (Blackadder)

Which brings us to our own young pup, a pedigree pooch, the Norwegian Molde Hound they call 'Ole' whose doe-eyed demeanour belies a steely resolve and a bite worse than his bark, as befitting a man given the moniker 'The Baby-Faced Assassin'.

The opposition are in disarray and although we've had problems of our own in recent weeks these have resulted from circumstances beyond the control of the players who've responded well and can hold their heads high. There's no reason to think that the fans and players won't quickly get behind the new man, notwithstanding the debt owed to his proud predecessor who will always command respect for the dignified way he dealt with the fall-out from Tan's ego-driven idiocy.

Solskjaer has started well, controlling his early exchanges with the press with a disarming affability and an eloquence that would put most premiership managers to shame. This and an unlikely victory at Newcastle in his first game in charge have already endeared him to the fans who sense a wind of change blowing around Sloper Road as we enter a new era with renewed hope.

Ole has been quick to take advantage of Tan the Cantankerous' newly rediscovered largesse, having already secured funding for three names that look like winning lines from the World Scrabble Championship for the Partially Sighted - Magnus Wolf Eikrem, Mama Biram Diouf and in view of recent events the appropriately named Mats Moeller Daehli - a signing bordering on the surreal.

Meanwhile Big Sam has been given the dreaded vote of confidence from the West Ham board which is about as reassuring as a handshake from Albert Pierrepoint. Mind the trap-door Sam.

CCFC 0 v 2 WEST HAM

Today's must-win game was billed as a battle of styles - of two teams fashioned by the personalities of the managers; the young innocents with the choirboy looks, easy on the eye and eager to please versus the gnarled cynical old hacks with all the endearing qualities of a bull mastiff chewing a wasp. The good guys against the bad guys. And the good guys always win. Don't they?

Against all expectation and hope it was the away team that came out of the blocks with real purpose and intent. Within 5 minutes they had Marshall beaten by a low curling cross-cum-shot that evaded everyone to rebound back off the post.

The away fans were purring, prompting the Canton End to taunt them with 'You've only got one song, you've only got one song'. Actually it turns out that they've got at least two in their repertoire. There's the one we all know about - the old musical hall number dating from the 1920's when the tune was used to advertise Pear's Soap. At the time a West Ham player, Billy J 'Bubbles' Murray apparently bore a strong resemblance to the girl on the Pear's poster (It probably doesn't pay to speculate too much on how the lyrics inspired dressing room antics involving 'pretty Bubbles'...)

And the latest addition to the cockney's canon is bizarrely enough the soft boy new romantic Spandau Ballet standard 'Gold' in praise of their co-owner, the tittilator-in-chief, the fornicator's friend David 'Knickerbox Glory' Gold. Gotta hand it them lemon squeezers they do like an ol' ding-dong. Oi!

The first half was a stop-start affair that struggled to gain any momentum after the ten minute delay for the injury to the Hammers' Guy Demel who was to spend the night in hospital following a suspected broken elbow after falling awkwardly when shoving Fraizer Campbell to the ground in what looked to me like a clear penalty shout. (Limited sympathies then...)

The first hint of any quality was a mazy run by Odemwingie after 25 minutes which came to nothing. Noone threatened occasionally but the deep-set Hammers' defence stood firm. The nearest we came to a breakthrough was Kim's deflected shot which hit the underside of the bar and bounced on, but not over, the line. I've worn out the rewind button on my digibox and after a couple of glasses of wine at some point past midnight last night I can confirm that it definitely looked over the line to me.

On 42 minutes (which represented little more than half an hour of play) Carlton Cole anticipated a cross from the right catching T-C cold to blast past Marshall from close range. For all his industry and commitment our French right back has been guilty of stupefiant naivete at times this season which has cost us dear.

Our first half performance was strangely flat. We had plenty of possession but lacked any initiative around the box, sending passes laterally and losing ground when in good positions. Kim, Noone, Whiitingham, Odemwingie, Campbell are all similar in stature and temperament. We were missing someone capable of dictating play in dangerous positions. Enter Bellamy.

The Tremorfa Terrier took to the field for the second half, replacing the ineffective Odemwingie whose contributions to date have been incommensurate with expectations and reputation and I'll be surprised if he's not marked down in the new manager's January Sales catalogue. Bellamy dictated play immediately and typically galvanised those around him, going close himself with a free kick and creating the sort of incisive runs that had been absent previously.

It was turning into one of those games where we weren't quite getting the rub of the green. All the critical moments - goal line incidents, penalty shouts, offside calls, contentious challenges, were resolved in the opposition's favour. The stats show that the 63% possession yielded 19 shots, 7 on target, each one finding the goalkeeper's midriff. The clearest opportunity fell to Campbell whose instinctive shot from the six yard box was aimed at the 10% of the goal that Adrian had covered.

Solskjaer made some enterprising substitutions, bringing on new boy Wolff Eikrem for El Pitbull in order to comply with the Premier League's quota of only one feral beast per team, and then replacing Hudson with Cornelius, leaving just three at the back.

It looked as though Lady Luck had belatedly turned up, flustered, apologetic and brandishing a red card when the unlucky Tomkins was given his marching orders with about ten minutes left but this allowed the opposition to reinforce their defence, drop deeper in midfield and indulge in the dark arts of groin-grabbing, dead-legging, ankle-stomping, calf-scraping and time-wasting so beloved of the Bungmeister General. It was no real surprise - but a sickening blow all the same - when they broke out of defence on 90 minutes to seal their victory.

This time next week we'll be completing the double against Man City at the City of Manchester Stadium. By then Etihad Airways will have replaced their Airbus A380s with a fleet of pigs. We follow that with a visit to Old Trafford. By the end of the month I imagine we will have consolidated our position in the drop-zone. An achievement of sorts.

After the game we went to see the film Gravity in which Sandra Bullock and George Clooney are cut loose from base and drift off into deep space. SPOILER ALERT!! Bullock manages to survive against the odds. Clooney doesn't. If there's a cute analogy it must be Bullock's.