CCFC 0 v 3 PALACE

As we approached the ground, in good humour and with plausible grounds for optimism after the drama of the plucky performance last week at West Brom, the new Ninian Stand extension was boldly silhouetted against the grey sky, its freshly painted pristine white metal framework hinting at a bright future. After this abject performance it resembled nothing so much as a vanity project and a potentially massive white elephant.

This was pivotal game - the most important game of the season against rivals in the race for survival; an absolute 'must-win'. And we were wretched.

Short on belief and desire we were disorganised on the ball, chasing shadows off it. Team selection was problematic. The performance of fringe players such as Zaha was questionable at best and no one was able to impose themselves on the game. In a performance calling out for leadership, inspiration and commitment it took the manager 60 minutes and the shock of a second goal before he introduced the motivational Bellamy. By then it was too late.

Before elaborating on the sorry way that the game unfolded, let me provide some context. Palace have a record of being top flight one-season wonders and earlier in the season after a dreadful start they had no right to expect any better this time round. That was before the change of manager and the Pulis Bounce. And there's the rub. A cool-headed logical appointment followed a crisis on the pitch.

Our crisis has been entirely self-made, conceived in the boardroom. Our steady if unspectacular, and yes, occasionally misfiring start to our campaign was completely derailed by the fall-out from the dispute between manager and owner. What's followed has been rash and illogical. An inexperienced hopelessly out of depth board made a naive headline-grabbing appointment of an inexperienced, hopelessly out of his depth manager. The chaos was encapsulated in today's performance.

The first twenty minutes dragged as two edgy, tentative sides failed to impose themselves. Palace were as expected muscular and well organised without any signs of verve or dash going forward. Former Bluebirds Ledley and Jerome were prominent, the former receiving an appreciative reception from the crowd, the latter - unforgiven for his parting shot about 'leaving for a bigger club' (Birmingham) - less so.

At 19.27 minutes the crowd rose in defiance once more to hold their blue and white scarves aloft as the Red Devil stood in isolated sartorial garishness, his back and deaf ear turned against the impressive and implacable blue masses. The empathic Palace fans, no strangers themselves to the slings and arrows of outrageous boardroom shenanigans, duly applauded.

After 24 minutes we had our only attempt on target as Campbell's powerful header saw Speroni in the Palace goal scramble to push the ball clear. Shortly afterwards a Palace break put us on the back foot, scurrying back in disorganised retreat as Ledley found an unmarked Puncheon inside the box to slot the ball home past Marshall. 0-1. Schoolboy defending. An easy-peasy-lemon-squeezy capitulation.

The half time whistle blew heralding 15 minutes of discontented shuffling and surly shoe-gazing, broken only by a successful Guinness World Record attempt in the centre circle as a City fan beat his own record for keepy-uppy on the soles of his feet (imagine the last desperate moments of an electrocuted bluebottle). The record was validated before he was presented with his certificate and there was hardly a dry eye in the house as he completed his lap of honour before surrealism gave way to black comedy gold and the teams took to the pitch for the second half.

The absurdist theme continued to evolve and develop through the second half as our version of football's nauseous parrot, the Norwegian Blue, finally fell off its perch, ran down the curtain and joined the choir invisible, leaving our manager stunned (mind you he's stuns easily) and looking like he was pining for the fjords. 'Pining for the fjords? What kind of talk is that?!'

Call it gallows humour, borne of a contagious indifference emanating from the field of play as the inevitability of our ultimate demise could no longer be denied. To reflect this lethargy the second went a like this:

Blah-blah-Za-ha subbed - boo - blah-blah Ledley -0-2 - no celebration - blah-blah-blah -zzzzzzz - Puncheon - 0-3 - blah-blah - half-empty stadium - blah-blah - final whistle - yeah whatever.

So there we are. Bye-bye full stadiums, world class opposition and the dream of a brighter future. Welcome back to the numbing echoey doubt, desperation and bewilderment of second tier ambition. As predictable as it was avoidable but nonetheless bloody sickening.

One final word in Tan's hubristic shell-like from footies favourite filosopher, the great tragedian and wing back for FC Athens Acropolis, Sophocles: “All men make mistakes, but a good man yields when he knows his course is wrong, and repairs the evil. The only crime is pride.”

We could have told you Vincent.