2013-14 A SEASON IN THE SUN

Timeline: 16.50 hours, Saturday 3rd May 2014

Scoreline: NEWCASTLE 3 V 0 CCFC

High above the Tenby North Beach I sit on the coffee house veranda absent-mindedly staring into my lukewarm melancholic cappacino, half-heartedly listening to the portentous syncopated crackling radio commentary, daring it to damn all hope and let the teary indulgence begin, readying an impotent rage at the shabby injustice of this oh so cruel denouement. Our Season In the Sun is over. Did we have joy? Did we have fun? Did we hell.

Before the season began, back when we could all afford to be generous, fans were able to reign in any fanciful notion that we might be a force in the Premier league and realistically limit their ambitions to survival, comforted by the knowledge that if it all went wrong 'at least we'll have had one season'. After a lifetime surviving on meagre rations we would willingly make do with these crumbs of comfort.

It's not the fact of failure that hurts so much but the manner in which it was achieved. And the frustration of knowing that it could and should have been so very different.

A campaign that began with frayed nerves, high excitement but low expectations had by the end of September and creditable home performances against Man City, Everton and Spurs plus a first away victory against Fulham, been elevated into one laced with genuine hope.

There was every reason to believe that we had the squad, the tactics and the right man at the helm to guide us through the troubled waters to come. We were not to know of the seismic shift taking place under the surface as Asian and Celtic tectonic plates were moving away from each other, forming a deep rift from which a tsunami would emerge, creating the perfect storm to drown our hopes and dreams.

For the protagonists there seems to have been a resolution of sorts based on cloak and dagger compromises and face-saving; for the muted fans, cheated and defeated there is only loss and resignation.

In the book 'I Am the Secret Footballer' the writer (Danny Murphy? Dave Kitson? Kevin Davies? - there are whole websites dedicated to outing him) writes about offending the chairman of his club by introducing him as the owner. 'I am not the owner; I am the custodian' he says, later explaining 'The football club belongs to the people of the town. I am simply looking after it in the best way I can and hope to hand it over to the next custodian in much better shape than when it was handed over to me'.  Read that again and weep.

Of course it may be as disingenuous as Barclays #youarefootball campaign (yes we are, and we don't need a bunch of complete bankers to tell us. Patronising gits) but, if only our 'custodian' might even hint at such a sensibility - quiet, understated, humble, perceptive, intuitive, self-aware Vincent Tan is certainly not.

And this goes to the root of the problem - a fundamental clash of cultures, of values. We've got your number Mr Tan; we know what motivates you, we don't resent your personal success and great wealth and are happy that you're prepared to share it with us in a common purpose. But a business model designed for a burger franchise, gambling or property investment isn't fit for our purpose here. A football club is a partnership between its temporary custodian, transient staff and the one constant, its fans. We're entrusting you with our club. You need our consent to make a success of it.

I've heard myself say in recent days that Malky would have kept us up. Really? We know that he was capable of setting up his team to do a job against the better teams. Unfortunately we reserved our worst performances against less fancied opposition - the Sunderland late show and the West Ham no-show were particularly damaging - but we had a solid base to work from; a group of players who knew what was being asked of them and were generally capable of putting it into practice.

Ole never stood a chance. As Spring approached we were playing pre-season football. Team selection was inconsistent, substitutions were counter-intuitive and we were tactically naive. The basics of a solid back four and a holding midfield were discarded in the flawed belief that playing 'positive, attractive' football would save us. Out of his depth, Ole looked like the promising kid at school pushed by a well-meaning teacher against his better judgement to take his GCSE's a year early. His time may come. It's not now.

And so to the players in all their maddening inconsistency. If I don't mention them by name it's because they didn't get a game or were anonymous when they did.

Number One in every sense, Scotland's finest keeper, statistically the busiest, our Player of the Season and the only reason we were still in with a shout in the final months, take a bow David Marshall. We don't deserve him. We won't keep him.

There were others who looked comfortable at this level to begin with but whose influence faded under the cloud of tactical confusion in the latter stages. 'El Pitbull' Gary Medal and his pedigree chum Steven Caulker were two Malky masterstrokes whose form dipped to the level of those around them. Their bright futures lie elsewhere.

Up front Frazer Campbell, whose tireless but mostly unproductive running will always be appreciated will prosper in the role as foil to a 20 goal a season centre forward. Unfortunately we didn't have one of those (Cornelius? Jones? Dear God!) and Frazer wasn't able to carry the burden.

There were others who showed glimpses - Craig Noone began as a fringe player but grabbed his chance when it came and we looked a far more potent force when he was on the pitch. If we can keep him he'll be a vital part of the new campaign. Daehli is the probably the most naturally gifted player in the squad with a low centre of gravity and quick feet reminiscent of Lionel Messi. Unfortunately the necessary sideways passing and the headless chicken impressions as he searched for a colleague on the same wavelength served to disabuse us of any Camp Nou conceit. Mutch strolled around with a nonchalant detached air but fluffed his lines in front of goal too often and Zaha tried too hard to impress.

At the back Fabio arrived clearly some way short of match fitness but adapted well after a less than convincing start. His natural Brazilian urge to get forward means that he can't play in the same team as Declan John or Cala who display similar impulses that need to be reined in. None of these have the temperament or the discipline required to form a cohesive impenetrable defence and if you add Theophile-Catherine, Turner, Taylor and McNaughton to the mix there is no conceivable combination that would see Tony Pulis nodding sagely.

And that leaves the fans. Well where does that leave the fans? Disappointed at the turn of events on the field and totally disillusioned by affairs off it. Are we culpable in any way? I can't see how. The sight and sound of a full CCS was outstanding and finally laid to rest the notion that the patch of prime real estate across Sloper Road was still our spiritual home.

From a fan's perspective the season can be divided into two halves with their own distinctive colours. When the season began the dominant colour was a blushing shamefaced reluctant red; post Malky the crowd turned as blue as the core of a match flame. The raising aloft of the scarves at 19.27 minutes gladdened the heart and tingled the spine. Proud and defiant, we were magnificent. The point was made; the point was lost. What price dignity and self respect Mr Tan?

So what's next? As a wise man once declared 'The only thing we know about the future is that it will be different'. So embrace it. With your picks and shovels make sure you'll be there.

CCFC 1 v 2 CHELSEA

CCFC 1 v 2 CHELSEA

Well that's that then. OK let's put the season to bed.

Not for the first time there was more intrigue and manoeuvring off the pitch than on it following the jaw-dropping public apology from Mackay and Moody to Vincent Tan. Quite understandable if it was a quid pro quo face-saver for Tan after a compensation package had been agreed, but reports seem to indicate that Mackay and Moody have walked away empty handed. So what exactly have they got from the arrangement? Tan's silence? The original 'quit or be sacked' letter was effectively Tan offering Malky the chance to walk away. From what? Perhaps there's more to this than the simplistic Bad Guy v Good Guy scenario that we've all readily accepted. Tan now claims to be more James Bond than a Bond villain and if he's not all bad that at least provides a quantum of solace.

Ali was on fine form today - perhaps it was that end-of-term feeling but he seemed to be let off the leash, mentioning the B word ('Bluebirds') on three separate occasions during his warm up, teasing the opposition with the rather obvious (I Don't Wanna Go To) Chelsea - chance would be a fine thing - and slipping in 'You Stole The Sun From My Heart' under the radar as Tan took his seat.

The game kicked off against a salvo of blue balloons and 20,000 blue and white scarves raised aloft as the dissenting hordes belted out their 'We'll always be blue' rebel yell. In the director's box the dedicated follower of fashion turned a pouty cheek and pulled his panties right up tight as down on the pitch the Kensington strollers eased into an early ascendancy.

Torres took advantage of a loose ball from Caulker to round Marshall and fire at an empty net only to be frustrated by Caulker's last ditch goal line clearance. Clearly nonplussed, the misfiring Madridian appeared to blame the balloons much to the amusement of the home crowd. There followed much petulant stamping of feet as players and officials alike determined to burst our balloons. Which was kind of symbolic.

Although on the back foot, City's defence held firm with Caulker and Turner snuffing out any danger and looking as solid a partnership as we've seen all season. We began to get forward, with full backs Fabio and John taking advanced positions down either flank. On 15 minutes Bellamy collected the ball about 25 yards out, the Chelsea defence failing to close him down as he fired past the stranded Schwarzer with the help of a deflection. 1-0 and a chance for the crowd to show their appreciation to the home-grown hero as he considers his future in the game. We celebrated with a heavily ironic and knowing chant of '1-0 to the Championship'.

Chelsea continued to dominate, looking dangerous in the final third and with plenty of options on the break particularly on the right wing. Salah had far too much space as John continues to struggle with his positional play, looking every inch the converted winger happier going forward than concentrating on the basics.

We weren't in any sense overawed by the opposition and considering our hopeless position there was a pleasing level of commitment which suggests that the spirits in the camp remain high and the players that stay on after the inevitable summer shuffle can form the basis of a decent challenge next season.

The pattern was much the same after the break and it was becoming less likely that we'd manage to hold out with Oscar and Hazard always a threat. When the equaliser came it was cruel on Marshall whose superb save from close range was followed up by a shot against the bar which rebounded and fell to Schurrle whose shot bounced tantalisingly just out of reach of the keeper.

A couple of minutes later Torres struck from close range to give Chelsea the advantage, pointedly refusing to celebrate as he had done against former club Atletico Madrid in the Champions League semi-final recently. Was he declaring his respect for our team? Perhaps he was a bit queasy at dancing on the grave of a dead man? Sensitive soul. Or was he ingratiating himself with the home fans ahead of a summer move??

The only other events of note concern the substitutions. Daehli was removed after 65 minutes having proved himself against one of Europe's top teams, drawing an appreciative applause from the away fans. I can only assume that Ole withdrew him to avoid a potential speculative bid. Shortly afterwards Bellamy left to be substituted by debutant Rhys Healey. Was the wave to the crowd as he departed significant?

Young Tom James came on for Campbell as the goon squad were lining the pitch to prevent the Canton End mourners from joining the wake. All that was left was for the contrite first team cortege to wind its around the pitch perimeter to the sound of Stevie Wonder's 'For Once In My Life' - a celebratory love song re-imagined as a lament to lost opportunities.

So that's it. I guess it's back to half empty stadiums and the ever present threat of extinction. And the opportunity to drop off during the last game on MOTD, waking up to hear Manish announce 'and so to the dogfight at the bottom of the League Two'. Would we really want it any other way? Yes actually.

CCFC 1 v 1 STOKE

The weather this afternoon was as indecisive and unresolved as our immediate future. Our collars were turned up against the harsh winds of doubt as we queued at the turnstiles but by the time we'd taken our seats in the cocooned comfort of the CCS three layers of apprehension has been cast aside as the springtime sun warmed our spirits and steadied our troubled hearts.

On the back of an unlikely win at Southampton last time out Ole chose to stick with the same starting eleven, which might indicate - a tad late in the day - that he not only has a plan but also the personnel to put it into effect. Well it's a start.

With a hammering for Fulham in the early game, Sunderland facing Chelsea in the late game and Norwich up against champions-elect Liverpool tomorrow, suddenly the race for survival looks wide open albeit with a narrowing field.

Stoke set up in their charcoal blue tops and irradiated fluorescent yellow hooped socks looking like the product of an industrial design student focus group in search of a rave. In the early exchanges it was the boys in red who appeared super-charged, producing waves of belief and hope to settle the home crowd which, blessed by the absence today of Vincent Tan, was transmitting 27,686 particles of radiant energy from the terraces.

Within minutes the busy Daehli had put Mutch through but with just the keeper to beat he scuffed his shot tamely into the grateful arms of Bosnian international Begovic. Stoke looked unsettled and surprisingly disorganised as we continued to seek an early advantage. Fabio was driving forward and linking well with Daehli whose quick feet were throwing the Stoke defence off balance.

The away team, safe from harm but some distance from challenging for a European slot, have nothing to spur them on at this point of the campaign other than the chance of a best ever Premier League finish. Under Mark Hughes they've evolved from dowdy utilitarians into plodding also-rans, progressing from route one specialists to keep-ball obsessives. It's not pretty, it's hardly revolutionary, but it is effective.

It will keep the Stokies happy for now but it's not going to thrill the faithful for long. It's more than the unpleasant Potters with their less than empathic pro-Tan mocking chants deserve. A hateful bunch. The worst visitors this season. May they rot in mid-table purgatory.

Anyway, back to the game. There were two potential game-changers as the half progressed, both teams frustrated by some excellent work from two of the best shot-stoppers around. Marshall denied Odemwingie with an excellent acrobatic parry, and soon after Begovic propelled himself through the air to get an unlikely touch on Whittingham's precise free kick.

I think I may have bemoaned our luck once or twice this season and occasionally berated one or two of the officials, having made the artless assumption that the world's best league would be blessed with some top-notch refereeing. I've been shocked and disappointed at how the most furtive forwards have been able to 'buy' a decision by cynically and instinctively manipulating a situation to hoodwink the man in charge. Surely today's ref with a World Cup Final on his CV would be immune to such blatant trickery? Nah.

As the half neared to a close Odemwingie collected the ball on the edge of the box with his back to goal, directly in our line of vision. Minimal pressure from Kim saw the recent Cardiff reject theatrically lunge forward as Howard Webb, blindsided through a melee of players, hesitated for a moment's consideration before pointing to the spot for the first penalty to be awarded at the CCS all season. It looked a particularly poor decision and one that surely wouldn't have concentrated the ref's mind if it had taken place anywhere else on the field. Arntoutavic stepped up to send Marshall the wrong way and the half closed to the justifiably indignant chorus of '1-0 to the referee'.

There have been many fancy assumptions about the 'psychological importance' of a goal just before the interval but on this occasion it was the piqued victims who used the injustice of the situation to their advantage. We returned to the fray as if on a mission to right all wrongs.

In a crazy, intense 10 minutes (the precise details of which you'll have to rely on TV highlights to make sense of) we forced four consecutive corners, claimed our penalty - the first of the season, coolly dispatched by Whittingham - and had a second disallowed, Cala's header being ruled out for offside. We were rampant, showing a spirit and a belief beyond imagination. The crowd loved it.

The disallowed goal was cruel, the celebrating players slowly disentangling from their celebratory smother to turn towards the linesman's wretched raised flag. The goal would have been a just reward for our supremacy but the heat was suddenly taken out of the game. Stoke eased their way slowly back into the game and had chances themselves later on as City pushed for a winner.

  

We exerted plenty of midfield authority but again lacked the killer pass or the guile to outwit a solid Stoke defence. Turning quality possession into threats on goal has ultimately has been our downfall this season and despite Ole mixing things up towards the end by bringing on big Kenwynne to outmuscle his former colleagues we rarely threatened.

One point instead of three has failed to calm the nerves as we approach the final three games of our tempestuous season, and after Sunderland's shock win at Chelsea, next week's game at the Stadium of Light may well see the sun setting on our Premier League campaign.

'It's not dark yet (but it's getting there)' - Bob Dylan

CCFC v STOKE Big Match Preview

Clutching At Straws

Incredibly, the average tenure of a PL manager (if you take the superannuated Arsene Wenger out of the equation) is now barely 12 months. The managerial merry-go-round at the bottom of the table this season has produced seven changes at the helm of the clubs occupying the last six places, as owners with skins as thick as rhinoceros hides and afflicted with the bloated egos of the terminally deluded tumble unwittingly into Brian Clough's rank of 'know-nowts', scratching around for a new saviour to replace the latest scapegoat.

The facts confirm it's a strategy that rarely works. In recent times for every Tony Pulis there's been a Harry Redknapp (relegated), a Gus Poyet (pending), a Rene Mulensteen (the scapegoat's scapegoat) and, yes, Ole Gunnar Solskjaer (tbc).

Sitting uneasily in the PL departure lounge awaiting deportation from the land of milk and money, reluctantly grasping a one way ticket to the land of the lost, the know-nowt owners have only themselves to blame.

With very few exceptions the ownership of a Premier League football club has become a rich man's conceit and a validation of the age-old proverb that 'a fool and his money are soon parted'. The naive and fanciful notion amongst that motley crew of on-line gamblers, top-shelf titillators, off-shore embezzlers and shabby sheiks that they might easily buy into the affections of the undemanding adoring masses and cement their places in footie folklore more than hints at a swollen sense of self and a life spent prioritising the accumulation of wealth over common sense.

Autocratic and temperamentally incapable of delegating other than to appointed flunkies, their considered judgement extends only as far as the knee can jerk. But for the few that have 'managed to keep their heads while all about are losing theirs' the rewards have been obvious.

The prime example of the benefits of loyalty to one manager is of course Sir Alex Ferguson at Man Utd. A patient and considered board gave him the time to turn things around after a pretty disastrous start. Trophies and riches followed.

Easy then to stick with a successful manager when huge expectations and ambitions are realised. At Stoke where the board has been realistic enough to limit the scope of their short-medium term ambitions to survival and consolidation they kept faith with the spectacularly pragmatic Tony Pulis, only ditching him when all parties agreed that after eight seasons it was right to consider a more adventurous approach. The next phase has progressed well and Stoke are now within reach of their best ever finish in the PL.

The Stoke model is one that we should have adopted but one that Tan is inherently incapable of recognising. Unfortunately Tan has a Georgio Armani ambition predicated on a Primark aesthetic.

The tendency to press the panic button is rife across Europe. Last season Palermo changed their manager 5 times, at one point bringing back a man they had already fired just three games into the season. Their President has been responsible for 28 sackings in 12 years. One manager was replaced before he'd been given a game in charge!

The disconnect between owner and manager can be profound. In Bosnia at FK Sarajevo, their manager Robert Jarni, a veteran of the Croatian team that finished third in the 1998 World Cup and only recently overtaken as their most capped player, has been dismissed after just 9 games with his team a healthy 4th in the table. He expressed surprise at his sacking and complained that he'd 'never even met the owner' one Vincent Tan.

Oh, and the Palace 'textgate' hooh-hah? Classy.

clutching at straws(idiom): to pursue even the slightest hope or possibility out of desperation