SUNDERLAND

'Just when I thought I was out, they pulled me back in'

- Michael Corleone

‘Fish in aquariums…swim in circles

I pity their hopeless journey

Someone should tell them

It’s all a trick’

I made my debut as a Cardiff City fan at Ninian Park on Boxing Day 1967 in the Boys’ Enclosure on the Grange End. I was approaching my 8th birthday. City were hosts to Aston Villa. The record shows we won 3-0 but I was more impressed by the drama surrounding our striker Bobby Brown's broken leg. This incident ended the Scotsman’s career but fired my young imagination and set me on the path to an obsessive, irrational fandom from which I never really recovered.

My devotion to the Bluebirds in those early days was often painful, my physical health and mental well-being often profoundly affected. A few early incidents hint at my vulnerabilities:

• In 1969 City were drawn at home against the mighty Arsenal. 55,000 fans were shoe-horned into Ninian Park. In the crush to get through the totally inadequate Grange End turnstiles I fought for breath as panicked adults around me screamed ‘Give the kid some air!’ I thought I might die. I made it through to join Mike at our usual spot where he looked up briefly from busily swapping copies of ‘Commando’ and ‘Bulldog Breed’ war comics to enquire with the merest hint of sibling disquietude ‘Where have you been?’.

• Aged around 9, Dad who had been watching with his chums elsewhere in the ground failed to meet me after the game for the agreed rendezvous, leaving me wandering tearfully around the mean streets of Canton where an elderly chap took pity on me, dropping me off at Canton Police Station at around the same time Mum was suggesting to Dad that he might have forgotten something / someone.

• Around the time of my 10th birthday a Rover P5 3 litre Coupe driven by City favourite Ronnie Bird ran over my foot as I was making my way into the ground.

The mental torment of perennial under-achievement and thwarted ambition on the pitch was equally as painful. The 5-1 defeat away to Sheffield United in 1971, in the season John Toshack was sold to Liverpool, stands out as a defining moment condemning a generation to second, third and the ultimate indignity of fourth tier football. But before this descends any further into a footie fan’s pity memoir I should introduce a sense of perspective. 

On 14th April 1976 City beat Hereford Utd 2-0 in front of 35,549 fans as both teams secured promotion from Division 3. In the away end that day stood a young Rick Jolley. The 75/76 season was to prove the high point for the Rams, on a par with the FA Cup run just a few years earlier. Yes, Rick was at Edgar Street to witness THAT Ronnie Radford screamer and to join the pitch invasion following the win against Newcastle.

For City fans the subsequent decline in our fortunes is now a barely acknowledged precursor to a significant uplift. Twenty years of relative financial stability and ambition have made us complacent. For Hereford fans a similar fall from near-grace was to prove catastrophic. Relegated from the football league in 2012, the club was wound up in 2014. The ‘phoenix club’ Hereford FC currently play in the 6th tier of the EFL.

Fast-forward to today. Freya India Jolley is 8 years old. She’s a good kid. Life is all Ha-Ha-He and cartwheels. The time seems right to give her the chance to make terrible choices that will haunt her forever and give her gilded life some perspective. As a 5th generation Bluebird (verified) she claims her birthright. May the lord have mercy.

Optimism amongst the City faithful was high, buoyed by some eye-catching late summer transfer deals. Amongst the starters, former PL Gooner Callum Chambers was to prove a reassuringly composed presence at the heart of the defence, while former Gooner Junior Willock provided plenty of early indications that the midfield creative role so sadly lacking in recent times has been addressed. 

I was distracted early on by the need to explain some footie basics to the new signing in the Ninian Stand and to answer some peripheral questions: Who is the man in black? Who do you think will win the singing competition? Why are there so many empty seats?

Back on the pitch... the Bluebirds were enjoying a lively start, pressing well with every suggestion that their good pre-season form might be taken forward. Willock and O'Dowda were linking well on the left but the lack of a menacing presence in the box meant that we had nothing to show for the early domination.

The Black Cats (a nickname adopted after a fan took a kitten into Wembley Stadium for the 1937 Cup Final in his coat pocket at a time when it more de rigueur for chaps to arrive laden with Woodbines and Everton toffee mints) were quick on the break, spurred on by a large noisy following, and scored against the run of play after 18 minutes as the callow City defence followed the ball like so many school yard simpletons, allowing an unmarked O'Nien to head home unchallenged.

For all our possession (an uncustomary 65%) Sunderland's high line and banks of four were comfortably snuffing out any danger. The hope pre-season was that the the all-too-obvious failings last year upfront had been addressed but it was clear that the lack of an aerial threat in the box was likely to be our undoing. It wasn't until the hour mark with the introduction of Meite and new boy Wilfried Kanga that the Sunderland defence looked remotely unsettled. Questions might be raised about the starting line-up as Kanga in particular looked sharp, with every indication that he is far more than a lumbering target man.

The match was a well-balanced contest, with no little skill on display. Unfortunately it was the opposition that was most likely to provide the decisive moments of flair that would turn the game. Well-equipped to take advantage of the loose ball, Sunderland were capable of breaking out of defence at pace with PL transfer target Jack Clarke and Jobe (brother of Jude) Bellingham to the fore.

After a period of intense pressure from the home team but no end product, Clarke took the ball to the edge of the box, dropped a shoulder and struck an unequivocal curler through a sparsely populated defence beyond Horvath. And that was decisively that as the home support headed for the exits, much to Freya's consternation as she observed 'Pops, I think there are more Seagulls in the ground than people!' and the opposition was proclaimed comfortable winners of the singing competition.

We're used to morale-sapping season openers, having won only two of the last eleven, but there was plenty to suggest today that Bulut can mould this new squad into a team potentially capable of challenging for a top six finish. Not a great start to the trainee Bluebird's career, but as Erol Bulut said at the post-match press conference 'Today we can speak about more positive things than negative things'.

 

CCFC 2 v 3 CRYSTAL PALACE

LDDLLLLLWLLWLWLWLLDWLDLLWWLLLWLLLWLL is an ancient Celtic settlement, an example of doubtful Brittonic, roughly translating as ‘The blighted citadel in the parish in the town by the sea where the sad men who should know better waste their lives in a hopeless pursuit of sporting dreams’. An alternative extended spelling adds a double ‘L’ which has the effect of emphasising the futility of the endeavour. To long-suffering Bluebirds it also represents the most demoralising apparently random combination of letters since TANSRIDATOSERIVINCENTTAN.

TWTSTW That Was The Season That Was.

So that would appear to be that. As we struggle with the near inevitability of crushing disappointment and bewilderment it might be time to ask, well, what exactly does a fan want from his/her team? What does she/he have a right to expect? We’re often told how important our role is in inspiring the team on the pitch but most of us will have felt impotent and frustrated that our apparently unrealistic demands and expectations are not met, our ambitions not shared by those bound to realise them. The rational fan (possibly the minority…) will accept its teams limitations but has every right to expect ambition and enterprise in pursuit of unlikely triumphs; to hold out the prospect of brighter days. We want to be in a position where we’re stirred by events, where everything is rising - hope, despair, ambition, fear, success and the prospect of failure followed by a swift redemption.

Neil Warnock’s regime has generally succeeded in meeting these criteria, gifting us the opportunity to see our team compete against the very best. Warnock is affectionately described as ‘old school’, someone whose expertise is in stabilising a club by deploying disciplined ‘back-to-basics’ methods combined with a tenacity that demands full commitment from all. Grateful fans, starved of success have bought into his philosophy and relished the experiences that have come our way. And yet. 

The limited resources at his disposal have perhaps forced his hand, and Warnock has candidly  admitted that he’s been trying in vain to turn a squad of Championship-level players into Premier League contenders, but our chances have been hampered rather than helped by his acceptance of our limitations. He’s too often displayed a wilful acquiescence, talking down our chances at press conferences, and on the pitch granting the opposition 75% possession. His conservative approach has ensured that however well we’ve been able to set up at the back - and few would deny that a solid defence is fundamental - his distrust of any natural creative urges has contributed significantly to our downfall. 

There have been countless opportunities to take the game to a weak opposition but a lack of initiative has seen us drop vital points. Early draws to Newcastle at home and against 10-man Huddersfield away were surely signs that a more expansive approach against the lesser teams would pay dividends. Unfortunately the manager stubbornly held to Plan A, seemingly unwilling or unable to adapt. 

The ultimate indictment of this failed approach is without doubt last week’s absolutely-must-win game against Fulham when he inexplicably threw away our last realistic hope of survival in failing to take the game to an already doomed opposition with one of the worst ever defensive records in the PL who even we managed to trounce 4-2 back in October. It’s inexcusable that only after falling behind with ten minutes left did he make the necessary changes. As the clock ticked down we recorded 8 attempts at goal out of a total of 10 for the game, but to no avail.

It’s no coincidence that the master tactician at the second level has never succeeded in keeping any of his teams in the top tier. But the blame is not his alone. The obvious deficiencies that were overcome with such tenacity and perseverance in achieving promotion were brushed aside by a complacent penurious board seemingly content to rely on the manager’s happy knack of pulling rabbits out of hats. Unfortunately this year’s rabbit has turned out to be a bit of a Flopsy.

It’s true that we’ve suffered an extraordinary amount of misfortune both on and off the pitch. A number of big decisions in vital games have gone against us and the incomparable tragedy of Emiliano Sala’s death has cast a long dark shadow. But frustratingly it’s likely that we’ll fall short by just a couple of results over the season. At one time there were up to seven teams fighting to avoid the last relegation spot and each one has been able to pull away even though you’d struggle to argue that Brighton, Southampton or Burnley  are better teams. Perhaps they were just better prepared.

So, our slim survival hopes rest on maximum returns both today and in the final game of the season away at Man Utd; and that’s assuming Brighton fail to get anything from their last two fixtures against Arsenal and Man City. A long shot indeed, but one which the people at BT Sport evidently believe is capable of capturing the imagination of the public as we’re pushed back to an inconvenient tea-time kick-off.

With former England manager Roy Hodgson sitting in the away dug-out, today’s match features the most experienced gaffers in the game, with a total of 82 years’ experience in management between them. The urbane Hodgson speaks fluent Norwegian, Swedish, German and Italian and can order a Long Macchiato in French, Danish and Finnish. Sheffield’s Warnock, a bluff Yorkshireman drinks ‘is proper bloody Yorkshire brew out of bloody big mug and speaks as ‘e finds; no fan of the EU, the stalwart of the West Riding Popular Front reckons ‘we’ll be far better out of the bloody thing…to hell with the rest of the world!’ Oh dear.

It was a good open game, both sides committed. But our need was greater than theirs and whereas our tenacity was born of desperation, theirs was rooted in innate ability and a desire to entertain. Wilfred Zaha, a former City loanee who failed to perform in his eleven games at the end of our last Premier league campaign, returned today the finished article, fleet of foot, mesmerising, against a willing but compliant flat-footed back four. 

The partnership upfront with a revitalised Andros Townsend and the impressive Batshuyai who mystifyingly was sent out on loan by Chelsea and showed the full range of his prodigious ability, demonstrated that Palace have the ability to be a dominant force. They were cultured, confident, self-possessed, in control of events generally and assured in front of goal. We showed plenty of grit, determination and tried desperately to impress but were hesitant when presented with opportunities, lacking the experience and sophistication to convince.

It would be churlish to be too critical of any of our players who again played to the best of their abilities, but we were found wanting. Of course we were. It was a performance that epitomised our strengths and weaknesses and ultimately served to emphasise that this squad is not able to cut it at the top level. This much we already knew.

As the early evening sun slowly sank behind the Canton stand, leaving the visiting fans bathed in dusky contentment, the rest of us huddled against the evening chill, diminished, going gently into that good night, we were left to reflect on the end another great adventure, a hugely entertaining diversion that might have been so much more - a new beginning rather a point of departure. 

So that’s me done; I doubt you’ll be hearing from me again. Best to keep my incoherent fixations to myself, no more washing my mud-splattered tear-stained shorts in public. I’m already signed up for the next campaign; don’t ask me why, I don’t have the answer but in mitigation I leave you with Nick Hornby’s vindication of fandom.

‘What else can we do when we're so weak? We invest hours each day, months each year, years each lifetime in something over which we have no control; it is any wonder then, that we are reduced to creating ingenious but bizarre liturgies designed to give us the illusion that we are powerful after all, just as every other primitive community has done when faced with a deep and apparently impenetrable mystery?”. Ta ra.

CCFC 0 V 2 LIVERPOOL

This report might have been the first instalment of a season review / post mortem reflecting the hopelessness of our current plight. Well hold your horses you doom mongers, naysayers and worry warts. While you might discern an element of feeble-minded wishful thinking, I give you the case for the defence: 

BRIGHTON 0 v 2 CARDIFF. To quote the Guardian report ‘This was the kind of result to stoke Cardiff’s bid for survival with conviction rather than wildly optimistic hope. The gap to safety and Brighton has been whittled to two tantalising points. Given everything the Welsh club have endured this term, on and off the pitch, to be in such close contention with four games to play would already have seemed miraculous. Now, remarkably, the momentum may actually be with them.’ A Brighton fan responded by rating his team’s chances of escaping relegation as ‘thinner than a steam-rollered After Eight’. 

So against all expectations we approach this match in good heart. Back last summer when the fixtures came out I did a rough mental calculation that a realistic return for the season would be 28 points, and yet, here we are with 4 games remaining, the 30 point barrier broken and still battling away. We will of course get completely turned over by them there Scousers, but calm down, calm down soft lad we got two belters coming up against Fulham and Palace so nice one, well in. 

I wouldn’t normally resort to lazy cliches. I’ve been to Liverpool many times over the last 30 years. It’s a proud city with an industrial and cultural heritage similar to our own and its renaissance since the 1980’s has been remarkable. And yet. I’m not convinced Liverpudlians are much bothered about casting off stereotypes and trite perceptions. My research led me to the Liverpool Echo which on the day in question included the following headlines: 

‘Dogging at beauty spot is putting people off their fish and chips’

‘Dad knifed in testicles after confronting scallies outside his home’

‘Brawl at wedding sparks dramatic police response’ See video.

Today’s game is a bit of a sideshow. It’s fanciful to think that we might have a meaningful impact on the destiny of this year’s title. Liverpool may have shown signs during recent games that the battle with Man City for the 2019 Chuckle Brothers Premier League title - ‘To me, to you, to me, to you’ - is taxing them, but they’ve proved more than capable of to rising to the challenge and are currently in frightening form. We may escape a rout (officially 5 goals or more) or a drubbing (up to 5 goals) and I’ll settle for a dusting (2 goals or less). There’s surely no debate about who will take the honours. 

I’d like to see Liverpool win the title. How could any neutral live with Man City winning it again? We know that money buys success, and it would be hypocritical not to acknowledge that our relative ascendancy in recent times has been predicated on a massive ego-massaging punt by a foreign investor with no previous connections to the city, prepared to appropriate its history, culture and sense of itself to bolster his business empire and more importantly his self-esteem.

Money talks but ambiguity thrives on a wink, a nod and selective hearing. That Vincent Tan is deemed a ‘fit and proper person’ by the Premier League might raise a few eyebrows, but the threshold is so low that Lucifer himself would be given the nod if he could prove that his fall from grace was not the result of false accounting. Common decency, generally accepted morality and an acknowledgement of basic human rights are not under scrutiny and this lack of due diligence  is hugely to Man City’s advantage. The club is 86% owned by a United Arab Emirates private equity company owned by Sheik Mansour bin Zayed Al Nahyan, deputy prime minister of the United Arab Emirates and half brother to the President.

Flogging and stoning are legal punishments in Sheik Mansour’s Emirates. Kidnappings, torture, forced disappearances, slave labour, denial of freedom of association, censorship all effectively condoned by the Premier League.

Scousers would be wise to steer clear of the UAE. I’m not sure if dogging is a thing in downtown Abu Dhabi, but putting others off their fish and chips is a capital offence. Fair do’s عادل بما يكفي

Man City will be rattled, suffering the Sheiks after their VAR capitulation to Tottenham in the Champions League quarters, an injury-time reversal that gave rise to howls of chirpy derision across the land, dreams of an intolerable quadruple gratifyingly dashed. Oh, كيف ضحكنا!! On balance, the momentum is now with The Reds after their imperious league form and impressive run to the Champions League semis where Barcelona await them. 

In the corresponding fixture five years ago we led twice before succumbing 3-6, Liverpool ultimately taking full advantage of Solskjaer’s naive adventurism in a crazy, hugely entertaining game. Warnock’s default tactic of containment will surely be tested today by an opposition overseen by a master tactician with the nous and the resources to adapt to any challenge. 

Brighton’s point at Wolves and our inferior goal difference means that we need to pick up a minimum of 4 points from our remaining fixtures. A point today, however unlikely, would be very welcome.

The CCS today was a cauldron, a pot boiling over with anticipation and anxiety on a steaming hot Easter Sunday afternoon. While those of us in the Ninian Stand were sweltering, the grandstand opposite was in shade but for the occasional blinding flash of Jurgen Klopp’s snap-on gnashers. 

His charges eased into a controlled, confident, if pedestrian start, showing none of the urgency and intent of the other Top 6 teams we’ve had the dubious pleasure of welcoming to our stadium, the authoritative van Dijk in particular strolling around like he owned the place.

When Liverpool did decide to up the pace, our back-peddling wing-backs contributed to an effective back six. But in addition to containing the opposition Warnock had clearly decided that full back Alexander-Arnold was susceptible to the pace and strength of Mendez-Laing who had swapped wings to take advantage. Unfortunately the weakness in the final third that has dogged us all season was apparent again today and when we did get round the back we were typically short of options in and around the box.

Liverpool carved out the best chance of the first half after a smart 1-2 between the generally underwhelming Salah and Mane, Firmino running from deep only to hook over from the penalty spot.

The contrast between the teams on the break was clear - when Liverpool broke out, they did so with pace and purpose, whereas we tended to move out with muddled ambition, handing back the initiative with misplaced passes and hopeful punts.

As we passed all our first half Top 6 capitulation landmarks - the fluky early goal, the suspect penalty decision, the time-added-on submission - confidence grew and when the half time whistle blew the team was cheered to the rafters and beyond for a job well (half) done.

Reality soon dawned in the second half as an optimistic ‘can we hang on?’ evolved into the limited  aspiration of embracing the inevitable defeat with our heads held high. Liverpool’s opener came from a well worked corner as decoys ran off to allow Wijnaldum space on the edge of the box to plant a thunderous half-volley past Etheridge.

There were pockets of disturbance around the ground as the occasional stealthy Soft Lad Scouser revealed themselves amongst the home fans with rash celebrations and had to be removed for their own protection. An incident near us revealed a hate-filled herd mentality as the local tribe turned on an away fan. I’m no anthropologist so l’ll leave it to others to explain why.

We continued to compete well and might have equalised, the opportunities to level scores inevitably coming from dead ball situations with Morrison again the main threat in the opposition box; how he missed when inexplicably mis-timing his header from one yard out only he will know. 

But it was our captain’s intervention in his own box that finally closed the game down in Liverpool’s favour when his challenge on Salah - recently named as one of Time magazine’s 100 most influential people and an annoying little cheat to boot - allowed the Egyptian to hoodwink  the biddable Atkinson who feebly pointed to the spot. James Milner does not miss penalties. 

2-0 was a fair reflection of Liverpool’s clear but understated superiority. Their performance was solid, workmanlike and efficient without ever reaching the level of the masterclass provided by Man City. The much-anticipated defeat changes little for us but at least the performance holds out some hope that in our quest for survival we can fulfil our side of the bargain. We just need the free-falling Seagulls to keep to theirs.

‘Good things are associated with blue, like clear days, more than singing the blues. The word ‘blue’ is full of optimism’ - David Carson, Designer

CCFC 1 V 2 CHELSEA

Recently The Observer asked PL fans to assess the season to date and to look at the run-in, predicting the finish for their own teams as well as the final top 4 and the relegation spots. Our representative observed that the Bluebirds are the only team in the bottom three with a reasonable chance of avoiding the drop, we’re staying positive, the fans are behind the team, we’re hoping that results go our way and that we have to go for it. Well, yes, quite, and thanks for the insight cardiffcity-mad.co.uk 

After the West Ham win, drawing from the sporting lexicon of preserve-based analogies we’d progressed from being in a pickle to merely in a jam, albeit a quality pulp suffused with the finest hand-picked fruits in a light delicate jelly but with seal broken, the lid slightly askew. This is still at the higher end of pre-season expectations. Huddersfield had long since assumed the role of ‘no-hopers’ and relegation by the end of March is a sad end to their brief stay in the top flight. Fulham’s inexorable demise has been all the more painful for failing to carry the burden of expectation. It is encouraging to read that there’s no consensus amongst other fans that we’re doomed, and our relegation rivals are more than a little jittery, describing their teams’ form as ‘desperate’ ‘abysmal’ ‘inconsistent’ etc. 

But by far the most savage and witty assessment of their team comes from the Chelsea Supporters Group who characterise their season as one of ‘boring predictable dross’ with fans ‘wincing their way through 90 minutes then heading straight to the pub to make us forget’. They brutally characterise their manager Maurizio Sarri as ‘dressed like a car park attendant chewing on a cigarette butt’ before having a snipe at the club’s penchant for vegan pies: ‘It used to be that you bought a pie and knew it contained vague meat in a gloop. We knew where we were with that. Now it’s all butternut squash, tofu and spinach…’ All good fun but I detect a sense of entitlement amongst the drollery.

You won’t find many resentful Bluebirds taking a break from the boring predictable dross munching on their half-time Grazing Shed Super Tidy, Spicy Uncle Pedro or Vegan Wah Wah locally sourced sustainable eco-friendly artisanal burger washed down with a skinny frappuccino harking back all misty-eyed at the memory of a soggy half-time gristle ’n’ gravy Ninian Park  Clarksie and a thermonuclear Bovril still capable of cauterising the oesophagus 20 minutes into the second half. Nope, all’s just fine and dandy at the CCS, no complaints, we’d just like to keep this going for as long as possible please.

It’s no understatement to describe the Chelsea squad as an embarrassment of riches and it boggles the mind (and gladdens the heart, lifts the soul) that an experienced manager seems incapable of inspiring the likes of Hazard, Kante, Willian et al to challenge for a top trophy just two years after Antonio Conte was discarded for ‘underachieving’ in winning the Premier League with the second highest points tally in PL history. 

Backing up their stellar squad Chelsea have used their financial clout to eschew a youth development programme in favour of cynically buying up young talent and then farming them out to clubs mostly in lower leagues away the clutches of their rivals. They currently have 44 players out on loan. In any other area of business this practice would be regarded as anti-competitive and appropriate legislation would be introduced. But when did FIFA ever do ‘the right thing?’

It seems only reasonable to be resentful of Chelsea’s rise from near bankruptcy to the 7th most valuable football club in the world based on the laundering of its owner’s dubious acquisition of former Soviet state assets, but some of us were none too keen on them before Abramovich. An uneasy mix of self-regarding Kings Road Dandies (their ‘frilly nylon panties pulled right up tight’) and tooled-up skinheads, they were a stain on the game throughout the seventies and eighties when the local council declined chairman Ken Bates’ plan to erect electric fencing around the pitch to keep his fans in. The recent vile abuse directed at Raheem Sterling confirms that the club retains an odious hardcore of unreconstructed thugs.

It’s no surprise that in a recent fans’ poll ‘Chelsea’ was the top answer to the question ‘Which club do you dislike the most?’. So many reasons then for putting in a good performance today.

In the event the quality of the performance, although heartening and showing full commitment to the cause was frustrated by a display of calculated cack-handedness by referee Craig Pawson that is almost impossible to describe. Remember that name. You’re likely to hear it a lot over the coming years, context: ‘The ref had a ‘mare, a real Pawson’. How bad was he? To give you an idea of the scale of his incompetency, as a decision maker of historical ineptitude he’d have been advising Napoleon to invade Russia in winter, or driving the Archduke Franz Ferdinand through the backstreets of Sarajevo, navigating the Titanic’s path through the North Atlantic, barbering Chris Waddle’s 80’s mullet. 

It’s a common default position of the blinkered narrow-minded partial fan driven by irrationalities and psychological inadequacies to claim that sinister forces are at play after a disappointing defeat, but, but, and but again, I’ve never left a game so indignant. What appeared at the time to be mystifying decisions have now been clarified as nothing short of outrageous. 

I’m not a conspiracy theorist - that way madness lies - but it’s clear that certain officials are unable to detach themselves from being starry-eyed fans. The referee today betrayed a mindset that was fixed on giving the benefit of any possible doubt to the visiting luminaries, deferring to their celebrity status. The role of his assistants must also be questioned, in particular the linesman who refused to flag for the Chelsea equaliser claiming that his view was obscured ‘and anyway, Azpilicueta is in my fantasy football team’.

The result was all the more galling for our solid performance against a Chelsea team that was for much of the game lethargic, almost indifferent to the necessity to maintain a top four challenge. The bare facts might imply that they dominated the game, but their 75% possession was based primarily on lateral passing around the halfway line, their shots at goal mostly speculative or achieved out of desperation when the game seemed lost.

They came to life after the introduction of Hazard soon after City had taken the lead with a well worked Camarasa goal less than a minute into the second half which allowed us to seize the initiative, and which we looked more than capable of defending until the decisive non-intervention of officials. 

Hazard, inexplicably left on the bench along with Kante, Giroud, Loftus-Cheek and Smacked-Arse, sorry, Hudson-Odoi threatened to change the balance of the game but was effectively shackled by a tireless Peltier who stuck to him limpet-like. Shout-outs also to Gunnarsson, Arter and captain Morrison who controlled the back line and was a constant threat from set pieces in the opposition box, cheated out of two unequivocal penalty shouts.

I’ve really seen a more deflated player than Sean Morrison in his post-match MOTD interview. Looking understandably bewildered after the sequence of events that turned a magnificent  potentially season-defining victory into a defeat laden with dire implications for not only the season but the long term viability of the club, he was admirably restrained when describing being hauled down and having his shirt almost ripped from his chest in full view of the referee. 

We draw no comfort from the TV analysis that concluded our misfortune was a test case for the merits of VAR technology. These decisions - clear penalties, an offside goal and the yellow card for Rudiger’s hauling down of Zahore when bearing down on goal - were not borderline, requiring the appliance of science to determine what is imperceptible to the human eye; neither did they require, in the words of Basil Fawlty ‘a degree in the bleedin’ obvious’. All that was needed was for the man in charge to perform with a modicum of competency.

It would be a crass slur to claim that we were cheated out of victory today. So, frustrated, thwarted, baffled, swindled, double-crossed and defeated we must pick ourselves up ready to face the next challenge hoping for fair play and divine intervention against champions Man City. Let us pray…

CCFC 2 V 0 WEST HAM

Thames Ironworks FC was formed in 1895 by platers and riveters working for the ironworks and shipbuilding company in Canning Town on the banks of the Thames. It evolved into West Ham Utd FC owned, managed and supported by a succession of geezers and chancers. 

Although it is only one of eight clubs not to have played outside the top two divisions, West ‘aaam Oi! has never achieved the success or popularity of the others in that elite group which includes Arsenal, Chelsea, Liverpool, Man Utd and Tottenham. They were of course briefly fashionable in the summer of 1966 when the England team captained by Bobby Moore won a game against Germany in the days before goal-line technology and qualified linesmen. 

West Ham’s greatest achievement was winning the inaugural Football League War Cup in 1940. The squads of most of the top teams had been depleted by players patriotically responding to the call to arms in defence of the realm. Fortunately for the ‘ammers the majority of their squad were exempt from military service due to their reserved occupations as purveyors of jellied eels, whelk stall artisans and owners of pie ’n’ mash emporia. Oi!

A few years ago the current owners, those charmless titans of top-shelf titillation Gold and Sullivan (the Waldorf and Statler of football club chairmen, albeit without the insight and self-awareness) tried to gentrify the club by moving it from the East End to the former Olympic Stadium. The locals couldn’t Adam ’n’ Eve it, thought they was taking the Gypsy’s kiss, they was in a right two ’n’ eight, out of the frying pan into the Danny Dyer, and heading for some proper Barney Rubble. Oi!

It didn’t go well. Fans complained that their enjoyment was compromised by the distance of the seating from the field of play resulting in a less intimate match day experience. Worse, the opposing fans were so far away they were forced to scrap amongst themselves. Oi!

Prior to the move, Gold and Sullivan had struggled for some time through a deadly combination of incompetence, hubris and bad luck to attract top players to the club. Soon after assuming control they tried to ingratiate themselves with the fans by making a marquee signing. They failed to entice the out of contract Ruud Van Nistelrooy despite offering him £100k a week, were turned down by Didier Drogba when he was playing for unfashionable French club EA Guingamp, and they missed out on an 18 year old Brazilian kid by the name of Neymar and a teenaged Petr Cech. 

Best of all (sorry, most regrettably) in 2012 they withdrew their interest in Spain’s Euro 2012 -winning striker Negredo in favour of pursuing a permanent deal for on-loan striker Andy Carroll. Negredo signed for Man City. He scored 23 goals in his one season there, including a hat-trick against The Hammers. Carroll managed 23 goals in four seasons. Oi!

It really is hard to sympathise for a club that lists Sam Allardyce, Harry Redknapp and a long list of wrong ‘uns on its club Roll of Dishonour. In particular, and Without Prejudice, appointing Harry Redhanded probably seemed like a good idea at the time - a former player with a solid track record as manager, a good list of contacts and a ready supply of brown paper bags, apparently. But suspicions will always remain that his relatively successful spell at the club (a 37% win ratio and joint winners of the UEFA Intertoto Cup) was predicated on deals that might have made the craftiest of cockneys blush. Oi!

After being caught on camera definitely not negotiating a bung, Harry declared himself emphatically and impressively to be ‘one hundred million percent innocent’. Subsequently acquitted on a separate charge of conspiracy to defraud and false accounting, Rednabbed clarified his earlier claim, stating that given that the radius of his innocence had been independently verified as 42, the full circle of his good character when multiplied by Pi (3.141593654…) was 5,538.96. 

After a police raid on his home an outraged Harry declared ‘If this is justice I’m a hypotenuse’. Subsequently cleared of two charges of cheating the public revenue, a fully vindicated Redknapp declared that his blamelessness was so vast that it had been referenced in Wiles’s proof of Fermat’s Last Theorem.

Recently crowned ‘King of the Jungle’ after winning the latest series of ‘I’m A Celebrity Get Me Out Of Here’ seeing off the challenge of Noel Edmonds, that bloke from the Dr Who spin-off, and a tally of telly Z-listers, Redknapp was taken to the hearts of a TV audience who warmed to his tales of domestic indolence and anecdotes about accidentally running over his wife. Oi!

He has taken advantage of his new status as National Treasure by expanding his media profile, joining the Alan Partridge radio show as family finance guru in a regular slot called ‘Tighten Your Belts, Losers’ and appearing on Melvin Bragg’s ‘In Our Time’ to discuss the life of Greek philosopher and mathematician Thales of Miletus.

But enough of the opposition. Let’s be fair, after recent results we’re in a bit of a pickle. Actually it’s worse than that. If the late English character actor Wilfred Pickles had been walking Pickles, the terrier who discovered the stolen World Cup, through the Branston’s World of Pickles visitor centre and had accidentally fallen into a viscous vat of diced vegetables, vinegar and spices, his final words as he turned to the dog might well have been ‘We’re in a bit of a pickle, Pickles, but we’re better off than Cardiff….’ 

And with only three homes games left after today - Chelsea, Liverpool and Palace, and away fixtures against both Manchester clubs to come, I’m not sure that Warnock’s insistence that today’s game is not a ‘must win’ cuts the mustard. 

We took our seats at the usual time and looked around at all the empty seats wondering if the majority of fans had already thrown the towel in, but the clash with the Scotland v Wales game meant that at 2.30 the majority were sensibly still in the pub. I spent the first half tuned into the rugby desperate for a feel-good victory at Murrayfield to offset the sombre mood at the CCS. In the event the Welsh victory was but a very welcome hors d‘oeuvre to settle the gut and cleanse the palate for a mouthwatering plate served up by ‘les cordon Bleus’.

On the back of three successive defeats, rumours of a troubled dressing room and a season-ending injury to the talismanic Sol Bamba this was so much more than we had any right to expect. Although Manga is a ready replacement, playing in his preferred central defensive role, Bamba’s influence as motivator-in-chief and Warnock’s proxy is not a role that anyone else can easily assume. This was the day for all to take personal responsibility, and contrary to all expectations to a man they proved that they were up for the challenge.

Murphy and Hoilett were given starts and with Camerasa returning for his first home game in a while the balance looked good, notwithstanding any reservations about playing Niasse as a lone striker. The midfield immediately took control and had the opposition on the back foot in a lively start. After just four minutes a sweeping move involving the pivotal Camerasa-Murphy-Hoilett attacking force provided an initiative that we never looked like surrendering.

A ponderous West Ham were being outfought, particularly in midfield with the outstanding heel-snapping energy-sapping Arter aggressively closing down any options. The home fans, starved for so long of a performance of this quality were getting a bit cocky, teasing the away fans with ‘You’re just a bus stop in Millwall’ and offering advice about where they might place their celebrated bubbles. When, with one of the few sorties into our penalty area in the first half Hernandez fell under the challenge of Manga only to be rewarded with a yellow card for diving right in front of the Canton End, you sensed that for some the afternoon was already complete.

At the start of the second half £36m record signing Brazilian international Felipe Anderson was replaced by the hateful Arnautovic, back in the squad having failed with his agent brother to manoeuvre a £35m move to Shanghai and seeing no irony in pledging his future to the club, beating his chest and kissing the badge. 

His introduction made little difference as we continued where we left off, full of intent going forward and stedfast in defence. Just 7 minutes into the second half the Hoilett-Murphy-Camarasa axis delivered again as Junior broke down the left and put in a perfect cross for Josh to nod down to Victor who bundled the ball over the line. 2-0.

We were now rampant and had a number of chances to increase the lead. Gunnarsson put Niasse through and bearing down on goal with his customary turn of speed leaving two defenders in his wake, but he somehow conspired to loop his shot wide of the post as Fabianski closed him down. For all his enthusiasm and tireless running Niasse lacks finesse, not looking remotely like a natural goalscorer. He’s a provider. This is the role that he was expected to perform for Emiliano Sala.

A Fabianski double save from Niasse and Camerasa meant a potentially nervy last 30 minutes as the midfield tired and West Ham found more space, particularly after Samir Nasri was introduced. But apart from a speculative shot from Rice which beat Etheridge and ricocheted off the inside of the post, the opposition rarely threatened. 

This was certainly the most complete performance of the season and with results elsewhere not working in our favour, a very timely return to form. Events have conspired to leave us without a game for three weeks when we will welcome Chelsea. Three of the next four games are against top four sides, with a vital relegation clash against Burnley sandwiched between. 

There were many encouraging signs today; survival is still improbable but anything is possible if we can replicate this form in the coming weeks. Or as Harry would say ‘the empirical probability of success will converge to the theoretical probability’. Oi!