CCFC 0 V 0 NEWCASTLE

So, here we go again. The Premier League. Flip! How did that happen? While most fans are still bruised and bloodied from a long summer pinching ourselves, the magician / messiah Neil Warnock (peace be upon him) has been busy attempting to turn the sow’s ear of a Championship squad into a silk purse, without conviction or resources. Mr Tan’s stubby fingers, severely singed last time out have remained resolutely in his deep pockets, occasionally offering up loose change while his manager’s contemporaries have been the joyful beneficiaries of their owners’ reckless largesse.

Our plight has much in common with the travelling Geordies as Mike Ashley, distracted by his acquisition of The House of Frazer prioritises the challenge of breathing life into a high street monolith in preference to reviving a moribund midfield; the sainted Rafa Benitez directed to the pick n mix while Ashley opts for a high end ego massage as the self-appointed saviour of the High Street. The Magpie fans have every right to ask ‘Are we being served?’

40 years ago this week I collected my A level results, which amounted to two half-decent passes and one indecent total flunk. Studying our team sheet today reminded me of turning over my Economics paper - the lack of preparation, attention to detail, investment of time and resources inducing a visceral sense of panic and hopelessness such that I seriously contemplated making my excuses and leaving. 

Without wishing to be overly pessimistic, it’s difficult to argue with the on-line betting companies who are offering odds on our survival similar to that of a cat in hell and a snowflake in the Sahara. 

So. The hour dawns, the band strikes up a tub-thumper and the gladiators emerge into the light, our team embracing the new era with their blue blue chests pumped out imploring the international audience to ‘Visit Malaysia’. Our opponents display this season’s chosen badge of dishonour on their striped shirts of shame, Asian betting agency Fun ’88, their most recent partner in the exploitation of the vulnerable (replacing pay-day penury peddlers Wonga) as Newcastle continues its unenviable  reputation as propagandists for reverse wealth distribution. 

A crowd of 30,720 rise as one to herald the new season and embrace all possibilities with unbridled enthusiasm. The whistle blows. And. The atmosphere is killed as we dutifully take our seats, perched in plastic passivity. Please see: https://news.sky.com/story/labour-back-safe-standing-at-english-football-league-stadiums-11398307

We make a confident start, showing few signs of nerves. The backbone of the team is familiar - the reliable Etheridge ably supported by an efficient back four. Manga playing at right back is a weakness for me and I think as the season evolves he’ll be found out, lacking the pace and guile to match the trickery and speed of some world class left wingers and wing backs. Peltier is the preferred alternative.

The midfield is a revelation, Harry Arter providing the experience and linking well with new boy Josh Murphy who looks very comfortable at this level, giving the Magpies’ right back Javier Manquillo a torrid time and forcing an early booking. Manquillo’s second half replacement Hayden lasts 20 minutes before frustration gets the better of him as he sees red following a frustrated studs-high lunge at Murphy. Loanee Camasara is influential on the right and looks the Real (Betis) deal. 

So far so good. But. It’s Cardiff butt. There’s always a but. Our ability to influence matters from midfield and pose a real threat from either flank was negated by a total failure to deliver the coup de gras from inside the box. During the long summer months management somehow neglected to address the one area that we all knew required attention. Warnock had spent £6m at the back end of last season on the misfiring Madine, stubbornly claiming that he was one of the best signings of the campaign despite not registering a single goal. During the close season the coaching staff issued him with a banjo with instructions to find a barn door. He’s still looking. Which leaves us with Kenneth Zahore as the main man.

I like our young Dane. But he really needs to hit the target with more frequency, Kenneth. His progress under Warnock has been spectacular but he’s very much a confidence player and it’s far from certain that he’s going to be capable of making further progress. We’ve had a few strikers in recent years - Earnie, Chopra, Bothroyd, who’ve excelled in the second tier but failed to make the grade at a higher level. Given a bigger stage today Kenneth fluffed his lines, failing to convert any of the three chances that a natural leading man would have executed with aplomb. The transfer window has now passed and given Warnock’s fondness for the long ball game the lack of a credible target man is a major concern.

There are probably three mini leagues within the PL. Newcastle are a middling team, neither contenders for a European slot or likely whipping boys, so a creditable performance and a well deserved point rescued by the Etheridge stoppage time penalty save gives reasonable grounds for hope that the very limited but realistic aim of survival is within our gift. While wins may be as rare as a Boris Johnson apology and the route as viable as a Brexit roadmap we’ll do our best to enjoy the journey, if not the destination.

Cardiff 0 v 0 Reading

READING 

6.5.2018

A glorious day in Cardiff and all is set fair at the CCS. With the Premier League the prize our fate is in our own hands. Perhaps. Surely the footballing gods won't be exercised enough to load the dice for a final twist of fate? I imagine they’ve already convened:

So, who have we got today? Cardiff? Oh we’ve had some fun with them over the years. Hah! Remember 2013-14? Back in the top tier after 50 years and they’re playing in red! The ‘Bluebirds’. Priceless! Who’s in charge these days?Warnock? Oh now we like him. Yeah, we probably owe him one after the Tevez affair https://www.theguardian.com/football/2009/mar/16/sheffield-united-west-ham-carlos-tevez And removing his eyebrows was a tad mean. OK let’s go with Cardiff then. By the way, what happened to that old rogue Vincent Tan? He’s what? Still there? Ok boys get the dice out. And…..roll!

Let the gods have their fun. May fate have it’s day, But if it fancies the day off perhaps serendipity will seize its chance. Ooh look - lucky pants. And threadbare scarf, a veteran of previous successful campaigns. A sunny Bank Holiday weekend in May? Perhaps everything’s falling into place…

Arriving later than planned, providing a gratuitous extra edge to the day, we take our place in the longest queue at Gate 5. There are nervous, sweaty handshakes and unconvincing rictus grins all round before we take our seats, the pre-match banter unable to achieve a consensus other than ‘expect the unexpected’. There is an unspoken acceptance that ‘the natural state of the football fan is bitter disappointment’ (Hornby).

A nice touch as former players with a proven promotion pedigree Campbell, McNaughton and McPhail are paraded around the touchline. A rousing rendition of ‘Men Of Harlech’ morphs into ‘Right Here, Right Now’ as the gladiators ‘summoned all at Cambria’s call’ enter the arena.

An early glance to the Away End seemed to indicate that the Reading fans had been infiltrated by an excessive number of security goons in garish hi-vis lime green jackets. Its now apparent that this is the Royals away strip, a kind of radiation chic, a sartorial miscalculation which at least limits any defender’s excuse for being blind-sided. ‘I never saw him Guv’ isn’t going to pass muster. 

It’s apparent early on that Reading know they can’t compete in pure footballing terms and have come to secure a point, and their place in the Championship. They sit deep, slow the tempo and look for any excuse to waste time. A minor injury early on sees five or six players taking an extended drinks break before being shamed back into action by an exasperated crowd. 

A promising run from Mendez-Laing with a trademark step-over and inviting floating chip into the box to the towering Bamba confirms that the players are on top of their nerves and playing in lead-free boots. 

Up in the director’s box the invited south east Asian elite look down on proceedings with a stuffed shirt indifference that gives way to bemusement as events in the Midlands cause swells of relief around the ground. The word is out that Birmingham have taken an unlikely lead against Fulham whose result we need to at least match today. The contagion spreads to the pitch, lifting the players as we begin to dominate. Hoillet is taking control on the left side and shortly after a narrow miss past the near post he’s felled in the box, but the officials are unconvinced.

Zahore finds space in the 6 yard box after another Bennett - Hoillet link up but scuffs his shot. A succession of corners and free kicks whipped in by Ralls and long throws into the box fall kindly for the opposition and frustration is setting in.

Just before half time my radio commentary switches again to St Andrews. Another goal for Birmingham settles the nerves and with scores at the other end of the table assisting Reading’s cause, the half time whistle is welcomed with a renewed belief that the day will end well for both teams.

Half time entertainment is a combination of small boys in the park having a day to remember and ‘bubble football’ - a bubble-wrapped free-for-all for older, should-know-better boys having a day to forget, a kind of Jeux Sans Frontieres for millenials. All that’s missing is a faux hysteria commentary from a soon-to-be disgraced family favourite. 

The home team is first out for the second half, the reluctant Royals ambling onto the pitch in their own time. The game follows the template laid down in the first half. We have a number of half chances that might have been converted on another day but as each opportunity goes begging the normal frustrations and anxieties are pretty much absent on the pitch. It’s as if the players are waiting for a prompt from the crowd.

On 80 minutes, as the security heavies set themselves up around the pitch, news arrives from St Andrews that Fulham have pulled a goal back. There is a momentary shudder, a jolting reminder that a number of scenarios may yet be played out, that calamity, karma or kismet may have a say. Nah. 

On 90 minutes as the fourth official puts up his board showing 5 additional MPN Double Glazing ‘we’ll not be beaten on price’ sponsored minutes, Birmingham score a decisive third goal. Pandemonium breaks out as members of the Canton End cognoscenti think its all over…a decision that they may well live to regret when the mandatory lifetime ban kicks in. Eejits! 

After a farcical few moments of Reading playing uncontested keep-ball the referee makes his way  towards the touchline, blows his whistle and scarpers off down the tunnel. The security goons throw in the towel as thousands of rampant fans break free of the tensions that had held them back all afternoon and propel themselves onto the pitch. The scoundrel Tan is there to greet them, lofted high in all his misjudged Trumpian conceitedness. It’s not about you, you schmuck. 

So what’s next? After the Tan-inspired anti-climactic 2013-14 campaign we all hope for better this time around. I’ll let the real figurehead, inspiration and principal pragmatist manager Neil Warnock provide a proper perspective: We’ll be odds-on for relegation…so we’re going to enjoy it…hey-ho, it’s better than playing in the Championship isn’t it?’

CCFC 3 V 2 BLACKPOOL

Pity the poor marketing people at CCFC. How to pitch this one? 

Is YOUR life going nowhere? Are YOU struggling to see the point? You’re sure to feel at home this afternoon at the Cardiff City Stadium.

Hey Guys! Is masochism YOUR bag?

Is YOUR life an unmitigated success? Born on the RIGHT side of the tracks? If YOU’RE bored with the good life why not visit us at the CCS to get your life permanently derailed. 20,000 basket cases can’t be wrong!

In the event they took the easy way out giving 5,000 tickets away to local schools. Which did wonders for the atmosphere. It was like being at a live recording of a Kris Akabusi - era ‘Record Breakers’ - all inappropriate cheering and ill-judged enthusiasm. At least the club had the good sense to confine the brats to the new stand well away from the peevish majority. 

For an exercise in futility it wasn’t a bad game really. And 3 (three) goals at home. Blimey! Considering we’d only scored 6 at home in 11 attempts since Christmas this was quite a return. Mind you Blackpool gifted us two of them with soft penalties, Doyle stepping up in the absence of penalty-taker-in-chief Whittingham and sending the keeper the wrong way on both occasions. 

Doyle was also instrumental in our goal from open play, winning the ball in midfield and finding space down the wing to cross for Mason to find the net with the help of a deflection which wrong-footed the helpless Parish. I like the look of Doyle. He’s a tireless runner with an exemplary goal-scoring record in the lower leagues and combined well with Mason today. Assuming that Kenwynne doesn’t return from his loan spell with Bournemouth and with little prospect of Tan spending big in the summer he’ll get a decent run next season.

Despite a comfortable win (an injury time second for Blackpool flattered them) six months into the Slade regime the fundamentals are still not in place. A woeful opposition was there for the taking but we conspired to make hard work of it. Time and again we got into good positions but the final delivery lacked precision. We don’t play as a cohesive unit. There is no indication that players have been assigned roles that they understand, that suit their abilities, and that they are putting into practice moves that have been worked on endlessly in training. What do they DO during the week?!

Throughout this season of uncertainty and mediocrity the effort and commitment of (most of) the players has been impeccable. Men of lesser character might reasonably have been consumed by apathy. The lack of leadership on the pitch is a problem - goalkeeper Marshall and the pathologically diffident Whittingham are never going to effectively direct matters on the pitch - but the leadership deficit is a fault line running through the club from boardroom to dug-out. 

There were isolated shouts of ‘Slade Out’ towards the end of the game and it’s generally accepted that the man is out of his depth. He seems a nice chap but his job here is done. The ship has been steadied, its assets stripped. We’ve got a decent squad - albeit one that has been emptied of genuine quality - and one with which we might even be able to compete next season. What we need now is a masterstroke in the boardroom to take us to the next level. Quite.

No season tickets for us next season. What a glum sentence that is, poignancy shooting from the neck downwards. Easy to write, not so easy to read back. Not giving up just yet, rather, with a heavy heart and cement in our boots we’ll be playing the percentage game, taking each game as it comes.

Well that’s it. The muse has gone. No more barrel-scraping shabby scribblings from me. Ta-ra.

BLACKPOOL Preview

It’s 5 years since we returned home from Wembley, our dreams shattered, hearts broken, pride dented, despondent, wretched, sick as the proverbial parrot after the play-off final defeat against Ollie’s Tangerines. To throw one of his quotes back at Mr Holloway “Every dog has its day, and today is woof day! Today I just want to bark!”. Well things didn’t quite work out for the old dog or his team after their one shot at the big time and after a succession of imprudent managerial appointments made by a despised owner with the unhappy tendency to take aim at his own pedal extremities a once proud club is now in free fall. Any bells ringing?

It’s reasonable to feel dispirited in the wake of a such a fateful defeat in 2010 but I can’t honestly recall feeling so deflated before a game. A season that began with the realistic prospect of challenging for an early return to the top flight quickly imploded under Solskjaer’s brief and bewildered cameo role. Looking as lost and panicked as a chief mourner leading a cortege into the wrong funeral parlour his subsequent replacement by Slade was as effective as changing the pall bearers on the inexorable procession to mediocrity. 

The appointment of Slade last October was accompanied by the sound of jaws dropping and heads being scratched as bemused Bluebirds wondered ‘just who is Russell Slade?’ Six months on we’re none the wiser so I took the initiative to try to get behind the enigmatic pot-bellied inveterate trainer-gazer for a Q & A session I call ‘Slade Uncapped.’ I caught up with him at the Hadfield Rd branch of B&Q where he was being introduced as the new face of Armitage Shanks.

Name: Russell Marmaduke St John Slade

Marital Status: Very much so

Children: Russell Junior and Leonard Nimoy Slade

Hobbies: Needlepoint and Extreme Draughts

Tiswas or Swap Shop?: It’s the man Edmonds every time for me. Consummate family entertainer. Lovely hair.

Noakes or Purves?: Ooh tricky one. More of a Lesley Judd man myself. Did you know she was once married to Derek Fowlds who used to play the straight man to Basil Brush? Boom! Boom! Ha-ha! No. Really. Loved Noakes for all his madcap nuttiness but if pushed it’s got to be The Purves for me. Lovely hair. Lustrous. Very Pat Jennings.

Marilyn or Diana?: Ah, Some Like It Hot. Bracknell Boys. Christmas 1974. Read for the Tony Curtis part but my long blond curls got me the Marilyn gig. Fell across my shoulders like a Nun’s veil. (Stares into the middle distance…) But, no. The Princess of Hearts it is. Still have the commemorative Royal Engagement mug. Keep my toothbrush in it. Like to ponder her gorgeousness as I complete my morning ablutions. 

Who will be getting your vote in the forthcoming General Election?: Well I’m a natural Conservative. Staunch. But I’m considering going over to the UKIPs. Too many foreigners in the game. No regards for our traditions. Three at the back? Diamond formation? Total football? What is THAT? Wenger, Mourinho, Pellegrini. Spoiling our game with their fancy tactics and their…hair.

And with that he was gone, a man out of time, cap pulled down and collar raised against the cruel winds of change, contemplating the fateful tarmacadam as he prepared for the most anti-climactic futile fixture in modern times against already relegated Blackpool, a game he was to describe in his press conference as ‘a difficult game and we have to be up for that and we will be up for that’. Eh?

Match Report to follow...

CCFC 1 v 1 BOURNEMOUTH

A ‘demonym’ is the word used to describe where somebody comes from, so that people from Cardiff are called ‘Cardiffians’, natives of Liverpool are ‘Liverpudlians’ or ‘Scousers’ and people from Swansea are annoying. So what is the Bournemouth demonym? ‘Blue-rinsers’? UKIPians? Bewildered? My research suggests there doesn’t appear to be one. It’s not a place that has any obvious identity. A seaside town where sheds of grey slowly rot under vanilla skies, the people who live in Bournemouth or to use the official demonym ‘People Who Live In Bournemouth’ seem to hate living in Bournemouth. 

Here are some reasons why, listed in a website dedicated to ‘The Worst Things In Bournemouth’:

• General ugliness
• Junkies and drunken loonies
• Singing tramps
• Summer tourists
• Winter tourists
• Boscombe
• Chavs, snobs and old people
• Parking meters
• Glitz-Veneered mediocrity
• Townies on the number 5 bus

I hope that hasn’t changed your retirement plans. On the plus side famous People Who Live in Bournemouth include Tony Blackburn, Gordon The Tramp, the woman who wrote Lark Rise To Candleford and the drummer from seminal 70’s band Spontaneous Combustion. No, nor me.

But there is no doubt who most People Who Live In Bournemouth would choose as the Cherry on top of their Victoria Sponge. Eddie Howe has taken the most unfashionable team in England from a position 17 points adrift in the fourth tier to the top of the Championship. This is quite impressive. If the Bluebirds have long been considered a ‘sleeping giant’ of British football then AFC Bournemouth has been the dozing OAP dribbling into the Cat Kisdston quilt of twee ambition. 

Along with most People Who Live In Bournemouth their team seems to thrive when away from the town. Their away form this season has been nothing short of sensational and includes a 4-0 win at Huddersfield, a 6-1 victory at Blackpool and the record-breaking 8-0 thumping of Birmingham. Last time out they beat Fulham 5-1. Cripes! 

On paper this game was a mismatch. Based on recent away form Bournemouth are ranked No.1 while City’s home form over the same period puts them down in 22nd. Every outfield Bournemouth player has scored this season; tonight’s strike force has contributed 30 goals between them and their midfield has chipped in with 25. In contrast we rely heavily on Kenwynne Jones who’s netted 13 times. His partner upfront tonight, Revell, has scored just twice since joining us in January. The next best contributor after Jones is defender Morrison with 6.

So when after 5 minutes our ponderous defence stood back and allowed the opposition to fire against the bar from outside the box, a subdued home crowd could see the writing on the wall. On 15 minutes our worst fears were realised as our repeat offender defenders offered Harry Arter the chance to take aim, Moore’s positioning and anticipation perhaps suspect as the ball flew and dipped over him from 30 yards. 0-1. Bournemouth continued to dominate possession looking every inch a settled, confident, organised well-drilled outfit capable of performing well on a bigger stage. 

In recent months we’ve grown accustomed to abandoning hope at this point. But results at the CCS haven’t necessarily always reflected the balance of play, happenstance and blunder often combining to frustrate us. Tonight after an unpromising start the back four tightened up, the midfield competed and we performed well against superior opposition, displaying a spirit and belief that has been absent, drained by reverses on the field and distracted by events off it.

We were also blessed by the presence of Lady Luck, making her debut at the CCS this season and lending a helping hand in the battle against the previously undeniable dead hand of dubious decisions. Lee Mason a PL regular proved to be a soft touch, easily swayed by an opposition schooled in the dark arts but crucially making the wrong call on the big decisions. Each one to our advantage.

In the first half Charlie Daniels turned in the box and as The Devil Went Down For Bournemouth (unavoidable gratuitous reference to 70’s bluegrass crossover hit) we held our collective breaths before releasing a triumphant ‘yee-hah!’ 

Later in the game, after Bruno had levelled with a powerful header ghosting into the box to meet a Whitts corner, and with the opposition searching for the winner, Mason chose discretion and his own PL ambition over valour by ruling out a perfectly legitimate if unconventional Bournemouth winner. Moore blasted a clearance against the back of Callum Wilson which rebounded off the bar into the path of Wilson to poke the ball over the line. There was no infringement, no obstruction and to compound his misery Wilson was shown a yellow card. Hey ho…and thank you Mr Mason.

The match stats suggest that with 66% possession Bournemouth will consider they did enough to return home with three points, and a couple of months ago they surely would have run out comfortable winners. But there’s evidence of a renewed determination and belief in recent performances as our squad adjusts to the new management regime, suggesting that while we’re some way off being contenders we’re no longer the whipping boys.

As for The Cherries, part-owned by an ambitious but discreet Russian billionaire who rarely ventures out of his Sandbanks mansion, and managed by an engaging fresh-faced nice guy, they may well sneak into the Premier League, quietly, without making a fuss. And The People Who Live In Bournemouth will surely find that most agreeable.

CCFC 1 V 2 CHARLTON

Buoyed by a convincing midweek victory we approached this game with a renewed sense of optimism. 

I know, I know, but ’an acquired sense of indifference’ doesn’t quite cut it. After all we’re not here not to give a damn. Of all the many gestures associated with being a footie fan the Gallic shrug isn’t one. Our allegiance is absolute and unconditional or it is nothing. Doubts and misgivings should lead to despair and existential crises not mealy-mouthed reticence. We are black or white. Red or blue. Either we’re up or we’re down. The Grand Old Duke of York should not be welcome here. And Robin, if you’re halfway up the stairs you dozy frog you’re loitering and you’re going to feel my boot.

If football has a disease it’s not hooliganism, it’s mania - our support is bi-polar. Psychotic. Hopeless. Incurable. So ‘C’mon support the boys. And. Make. Some. Nooooooise’. Or else. Don’t.

Unfortunately there was indifference aplenty and apathy in abundance at the CCS this afternoon. A sparse crowd seemed content to bask in the early spring sun and contemplate brighter days ahead when the winter burdens can finally be offloaded. Which is a shame really. With just a little more commitment from all concerned and on the back of improved performances we might have been able to put a run together. To what end though? A few more miles on the clock on the road to nowhere? For most the end of the season can’t come soon enough. 

It wasn’t a bad performance all things considered but a couple of defensive lapses and our inability to turn possession and territorial advantage into genuine chances proved our undoing. Again. Trollope has got the players working to a plan based on a slow build up and short passes with plenty of movement. If he can work out which pairing upfront is most likely to unlock defences he might be onto something. For me it’s got to be Jones + a significant other. That other is not Macheda (although a goal here will probably secure him a run until the next inevitable drought) and it’s certainly not the plodding Revell. Doyle may make some kind of impact if given an extended run, but of the current crop a fully fit Joe Mason might best be suited to feed off the big man. It would also help to have someone on the pitch with the ability to run at defences from an advanced midfield position. 

Defensively, Manga is the only stand-out player and he put in another assured performance today. Morrison can’t cut it as his partner - ponderous in his decision making (his clumsy challenge in the box lost us the game today) and wayward in distribution. Connolly did well getting forward today but remains fallible and Peltier’s contribution would be more effective if playing in his natural position at right back. Fabio’s continued exclusion is mystifying, maddening and inexcusable.

One last gripe. The lack of an authority figure, a leader on the pitch. Captain Marshall was absent today and I believe Gunnarsson was nominally in charge for the 30 minutes he was on the pitch. But I doubt if anyone in the crowd was able to work out who relieved him of the armband. I heard mention that it was handed to Noone. As enthusiastic as the little wide man is, he clearly lacks the gravitas for the role. It’s great to see General Trollope directing events from the sidelines but he needs a trusted lieutenant on the pitch. 

As for Slade, he combines the tactical nous of Melchett with the strategic thinking of Baldrick. Of late he’s had the public profile of a Borrower. It can’t be long before fans are asking ‘What is he for?’

So another half-decent performance produces an ill-deserved defeat against run-of-the-mill opposition. The commitment of the players can’t be faulted and there are reasons to concentrate on that rather than the result, but there remains a disconnect between the team and fans. The very limited ambition of survival has been achieved. Ho-hum. Fire and Passion indeed.

CCFC 0 V 1 WOLVES

‘If you hadn’t flunked math you’d have been set by now’   Willy Loman, Death Of A Salesman

CCFC 2013-14 PL Income     £80m

PlayerTransfer costs (- £44m)

Player Salaries             (- £46m)

One Stunned Norwegian Blue  (-  £2m)

                                                    
                                                =  - £12m

As hard as it is to stomach, having botched the one chance of securing the club’s future through a deadly combination of petulance and hubris, Vincent Tan, the man who put the ‘sin’ in business, the ‘mug’ in smug and continues to take the ‘p’ out of propriety, is to all intents and purposes our last hope. The debt to VT now stands at £130m. And this may not include a new loan of £7.5m set at 8% interest through another shady off shore finance company which shares a director with the club’s holding company. (8%?! I’ve done the research and you can get a 0% balance transfer rate on Barclaycard…)

Now it may be the case that despite our (not unreasonable) misgivings we’ve got Mr Tan wrong; that none of this is his doing and he’s not the flawed calculating crazed scheming megalomaniac that he’s sometimes made out to be. Isn’t it just possible that really he’s terribly misunderstood, has our best interests at heart and our present plight results from incompetence not malevolence? Nah. It’s personal. After all, to quote the recently departed Mr Spock ‘once you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth’

Due to the ongoing and perhaps terminal indifference that a City home fixture now produces we arrived to take our seats unfashionably early, fairly flying down the uncluttered apathetic roads. The echoey stadium and the overwhelming sense of futility at least allowed for nostalgia, a last refuge for the disheartened. We stopped on the way in to read some old team sheets posted on a kiosk selling ‘retro’ shirts, the names of Likely Lads ‘Davies’ ‘Carver’ ‘Bell’ ‘Toshack’ ‘Clark’ ‘Sayer’ ‘Alston’ ‘Evans’ etc. producing an involuntary wistfulness for lost youth and thwarted ambition. ‘Ooh what happened to you? Whatever happened to me? 

Anyway, moving on…

We’d heard a rumour that The Scoundrel was planning to make his first appearance of the season. (I steadied myself with a pathological disregard, the news dispatched direct to the junk folder of my consciousness). Ten minutes before kick-off a discordant ripple of applause drifted across from the grandstand as in the distance in some half revealed hinterland where chronic self regard meets the  cult of personality Tan glad-handed and invited selfies, swaggering his way around the edge of the pitch. Fickle fans ran down to pose with their occasional nemesis, all animosity lost in a haze of psychotic fawning as the charismatic authority of the bogeyman won over the feeble minded. 

Somewhere above the ground - Star Date 2015  - Leonard Nimoy raised a pointed eyebrow at the illogicality of the scene. Star Trek series 3 episode 4 ‘Without followers, evil cannot spread’ - Spock

We started brightly against one of the outside bets for promotion. Wolves, well-drilled by the experienced and able Kenny Jackett and supported by a well stocked and vocal away section, were always likely to present a challenge to a home team who despite a fortuitous away win in the week at Malky Mackay’s doomed Wigan have been struggling to adapt to the Slade / Trollope regime.

An early booking for Wolves fullback Iorfa as he lunged at the rampaging Noone promised a fun day out for the diminutive wideman and he didn’t disappoint. Up front Jones was winning the aerial battles and with the lively Doyle looking to feed off the knock-downs there were reasons for early optimism. We were generally better organised and while clearly some way off the finished article the process of assimilation is progressing, the players at last looking generally motivated and confident.

Having had the better of the early exchanges it was a real blow to go behind after 25 minutes. A smart rapid break out of defence had our central defenders on the back foot and pulled out of position, the ball finally breaking to Malian international Bakary Sako who side-footed past the stranded Marshall.

Inevitably with the team’s belief brittle, heads dropped as the early energy dissipated. The opposition began to take control, sitting back and dealing confidently with any threat.

This pattern continued into the second half as Wolves dominated possession without ever really threatening to take advantage. When they did threaten it usually resulted from the generosity of a flaky back four as we invited their front men forward with some wayward clearances. Following one Connolly gift Whittingham was obliged to calculatedly take one for the team, scything down Sako and earning a booking. Apart from the outstanding and ever-consistent Manga the defence was  again problematic with the right-sided Peltier playing on the left, allowing Connolly whose more assured  performances have come in central defence, to play right back. 

There’s been nothing settled about the back four during Slade’s time and this needs to be addressed by ditching the out of sorts Morrison, bringing Connolly inside and giving the right and left sided berths to defenders whose brains are wired accordingly! Easy really. 

On 65 minutes Whittingham was dispatched from the field of play for the first time in his (occasionally) illustrious career after an inexplicable touchline lunge. The great enigma is rarely piqued but with his creative powers severely diminished perhaps he could see the writing on the wall. A long spell on the sidelines awaits. Time for the criminally under-deployed Adeyemi to be given the chance to provide some grit to an underwhelming midfield.

The sending off although deserved was particularly galling after referee Madley had bottled it, failing to red card Iorfa for a tackle on Noone that was at least as severe as the one that merited his early yellow one. That old sage Jackett read the runes, immediately giving Iorfa the order of the hook to save him from himself

The sending off seemed to galvanise the team, as it so often does, and we enjoyed our best period of play. But ultimately the narrow misses, goal-line clearances and a half-decent shout for a penalty counted for nothing as we slumped to another, albeit undeserved, home defeat. Up in the handsomely up holstered director’s box the blue-shirted bizarrely upholstered owner surveyed the mess of his own making with malign equanimity, apparently ‘very happy with what he’d seen’. Highly illogical indeed.

‘The needs of the many outweigh the needs of the few, or the one Mr Tan.’ 

- Spock, The Wrath of Khan (adapted)

CCFC 1 v 1 BLACKBURN

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.

CCFC 0 V 0 BRIGHTON

The new Premier League deal for TV rights values each broadcast game at around £10m, or £2000 per second. I’m sure everyone involved is very happy. 

Televised games can entertain but there’s nothing that quite matches the experience of watching live football in a veritable cauldron of visceral engagement with your team whilst enjoying the camaraderie and knowing banter of your fellow fans. The experience is priceless. 

How might one evaluate such a profound life-affirming interaction? It would surely be crass to try. I think it is however possible to place a value on the experience of watching The Bluebirds currently. How does ‘bu***r all sound?’

At around 11.30 last night Sky Sports News rounded up the highlights from the night’s games in The Championship. Thrills and spills galore, an abundance of goalmouth action, free flowing football on a night when the top two battled it out an incident-packed 2-2 draw as they fight for the right to party and take their share of the PL largesse in the seasons to come. 

I sat uneasily anticipating the humiliation of the inevitably truncated summary of my evening’s entertainment. Accompanying footage of a 5 second goalmouth melee the commentary ran ‘This goalmouth scramble was the closest either team came to breaking the deadlock’ as the banner at the foot of the page confirming the night’s PL results served as a roll call of starry teams forever beyond our narrowing horizons.

Make no mistake, on this performance our invitation to return to the top table will never arrive. We had our chance 12 months ago and proved to be the worst kind of social misfits - out of their depth argumentative vulgar upstarts who were forced to leave the party early by the back door, a flute of Tizer in one hand, a caviar and tomato sauce sarnie in the other.

Tan’s cut-price ambition was on display for all to see tonight. The new bargain bucket recruits, for all their endeavours, are cheap Woolworth imitations of their extravagantly gifted predecessors. Peltier, Morrison, Malone, O’Keefe, Doyle, Revell etc are lower league journeymen, squeezing the creativity out of their artisan teammates.

The blame for this shambolic display must surely be laid at the feet of Tan’s representative on turf. Slade set the team up with a lone striker against weak opposition, with a mishmash of a midfield which included a hopelessly out of form Gunnarsson, out of sorts Whitingham and out of position new boy Mc Aleny alongside out of his depth O’Keefe.

Brighton were there for the taking - a particularly poor opposition under new management and clearly floundering. Yet they managed to secure 68% of the first half possession. They did nothing with it mind, failing to register a single shot on target. The biggest cheer of the night was reserved for the fourth official holding aloft his board confirming that the torpor was to be advanced by just a minute.

The tumbleweed second half came and went in a blaze of indifference, punctuated with some gallows humour chanting, and then it was time to leave.

I was reminded that my parting shot leaving the office last night was a dismissive ‘I’m off to enjoy a 0-0 bore draw’. I hate being predictable so that’s it from me for now. I’ll clock back in in the unlikely event that I have something to say.

CCFC 0 V 2 DERBY

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. 

CCFC 1 V 0 FULHAM

So, what to make of the Tan u-turn / climbdown / retreat / flip-floppy backpedal? The instinct to celebrate and submit to the joy and the relief of a hard won victory is mitigated by the knowledge that the scoundrel entirely responsible for the debacle doesn’t have the good grace to hold his hands up, admit that he was wrong and apologise. 

His press statement amounted to an artless obfuscation, referencing his Mum, the Buddha and quoting JFK in an attempt to appear magnanimous and wise. Are we expected to be grateful? Ultimately the ditching of the despised rebrand was a hard-headed business decision. The product was no longer attractive to the loyal customer and the business model unsustainable. Simply Mr Tan, in the words of the chant ‘We’re Cardiff City - we’ll always be blue’. Got that? Excellent. Perhaps we can now move on.

As we entered the stadium it was immediately clear that Ali was off the leash and indulging in his favourite pastime of playful sarcasm, his pre-match playlist consisting of ‘Bluebird’, ‘Singin’ the Blues’, ‘Blue Monday’ and ‘Mr Blue Sky’ (‘Hey there Mr Blue, we’re so pleased to be with you’). Possibly the widest grin was on the face of Chairman Mehmet Dalman as he strolled around glad-handing the crowd in a questionable display of triumphalism. 

If the potential end to hostilities is to amount to anything the fans need reasons to believe that matters on the pitch are in hand; recent performances and a couple of headline-averse signings have done little to restore faith. The line up today included a debut at left back for new signing Malone - inevitably and shamefully consigning Fabio to the January Sales bargain bucket - with a new goal-shy lower league journeyman striker on the bench as Premier League profligacy gives way to penny-pinching. In goal Simon Moore was handed a chance to stake his claim as Marshall was wrapped in cotton wool and placed in the departure lounge.

Fulham playing with a rump of Premier League talent looked useful early on with Scott Parker a shadow of the player who commanded the England midfield not so long ago but still capable of making a difference at this level and Rodellega in attack, former Bluebird McCormack playing in an unfamiliar advanced midfield role. If this solid spine gave them a platform, then their undoing was to be a total lack of cutting edge in our box and a tendency to panic in their own.

This was a day when, through accident or design (I’ll be charitable and admit that Slade probably made the correct call) route one football was to prove decisive. The laser-like accuracy of Moore’s boot in finding Big Kenwynne’s head was as unerring and panic-inducing as Gunnarsson’s long throws into the box. Quite simply the flappable Bettinelli in the Fulham goal and his weaselly vertically-challenged defenders couldn’t cope. It wasn’t pretty but as long as the gifted but frustrated Cottagers’ midfield craned their necks as mere spectators we were in with a shout.

The decisive break came on 15 minutes as the third of five early touchline sidewinders from the Icelander was launched into the box, finding the head of defender Morrison who rose to head the ball goalwards, crossing the line before pin-balling back into the path of Adeyemi who made sure. The confusion book-ended the era of red-shirted bewilderment two years and 10 months since Joe Mason’s last strike in a blue shirt at the CCS against Leeds in March 2012. 

The first half made for comfortable if uninspiring viewing. We were workmanlike; competent, without ever threatening the prevailing conviction that we’re a middling team easing into the mid-table shadows. I suspect the Fulham fans share similar ambitions.

At half time the talismanic Jones was replaced by new boy Ravel, an unannounced injury surely the only possible reason. The long ball soon gave way to a more creative approach, the hard-running debutant unable to provide the same physical threat. Moore rolled the ball out to his full backs for the first time a full 60 minutes into the game. This brought the disappointingly anonymous Adeyemi and Whittingham into the fray at last and we settled back to watch a game that occasionally threatened to be a contest embracing the finer points. Although it opened up, neither team remotely reached the heights that both sets of fans had become accustomed to in recent times. 

The attendance was announced as 22,515 almost identical to the previous home game, the shambles against Watford. The contrast however could hardly have been greater, the atmosphere and goodwill generated by the full compliment of season ticket holders and excitable returnees reminding the faithful of that sense of being part of something worthwhile and deserving of their support. Tan’s mum would surely have appreciated the ‘togetherness, unity and harmony’.

So a half-decent win and perhaps the fans have played their part in steadying the ship for now. As the Buddha said ‘A jug fills drop by drop’. 

At times today the crowd was able to summon up an exhilaration that almost matched the early days of the Premier League campaign, but that’s probably as good as it gets. Excuse my cynicism but to quote JFK ‘Efforts and courage are not enough without purpose and direction.’ 

At the end of the game the blue and white was held aloft as ‘Talking ‘bout a Revolution’ reverberated around the stadium. Revolution? Hardly. But in the absence of an anthem extolling the virtues of pragmatism it will have to do.