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.

CCFC 2 V 4 WATFORD

Exactly 12 months ago today we were at home against Sunderland. In the Premier League. Then we were a club in crisis, the fans dazed and confused after a series of (self-inflicted) crises. We were a runaway train, driverless after the summary sacking of Malky Mackay, Fireman Tan continuing to stoke the furnace even as we headed for the buffers. Today the train wreck that is Cardiff City, derailed and demoralised, finally came to rest.

For a time - the first 40 minutes in fact - we looked capable of thriving. A Whitts free kick found the head of Le Fondre whose deft flick glanced past Gomis and into the top corner. It was the most exquisitely timed goal, coming as it did as the blue and white standards were being raised to acknowledge 19mins 27 seconds. 

With Adeyemi patrolling the midfield with panache and intent, Noone a constant menace and Jones  alert and continually searching for the main chance, we were controlling the game. We may even have doubled our lead after 25 minutes but Le Fondre’s good work was undone by the tamest of shots with the goal at his mercy. Never mind, we would surely be acknowledging a potentially significant return to form as the teams trotted off at half time. Far from it.

On 42 minutes Watford, who had played some neat football - crisp one touch passing, well drilled - but with no apparent cutting edge, benefited from a very charitable interpretation of the offside laws from the linesman to draw level. Our hearts sank just as the team’s heads collectively dropped. Belief took its leave as panic reacquainted itself with its brittle hosts. With a spring in their step the visitors moved at will around a leaden footed defence, easing into a 2-1 lead at the break as Ighalo strolled into space to head past Marshall.

The increasingly familiar sound of the Canton End half time boo boys accompanied the players as they disappeared into the tunnel. There’s little excuse for such self-defeating petulance, although they had been provoked by the goon squad who’d pounced on a ‘Tan Out’ sign thus drawing attention to the cause and attracting cries of ‘fascists’ from the most mild-mannered amongst the disaffected majority. 

When the game recommenced there was no indication that General Slade had been able to inspire and motivate his troops; that prospect had been all too briefly entertained and discounted during the half time autopsy and as Watford strolled around with training ground insouciance the outcome was beyond doubt.

The third goal arrived shortly after Slade had drawn hoots of derision from the home fans by replacing the workhorse Adeyemi and carthorse Gunnarsson in a misguided attempt to shore up the midfield, a change in formation evidently beyond his wit. The goal, a second of the afternoon for Guedioura was a 30 yard off-the-crossbar-over-the-line piledriver; a real gem. Many Bluebird fans rose to their feet to applaud the opposition for their efforts to brighten up a dull day and headed for the exit.

With 30 minutes still to play, Watford closed the game down by playing keep-ball and running into the wide open spaces for fun before consolidating their victory with a fourth towards the end. There was just enough time for the crowd to mock the official attendance of 22000. With echoes of derision bouncing around the Ninian Stand wastelands City conjured up a welcome but entirely unnecessary second when the blameless Noone and the persistent Jones combined to good effect.

So where does this leave us? Notwithstanding the Hornby dictum that “Life isn't, and has never been, a 2-0 home victory after a fish and chip lunch” it’s becoming increasingly difficult to remain philosophical about our plight and to believe in my ability as a mere mortal to influence events. My presence, superstition, the dark arts or a plea for divine intervention are no match for the perversity of Vincent Tan. 

Be in no doubt that our plight is a boardroom construct. Little blame can be attached to individual players - albeit cluelessness is relative - or necessarily to the blundering stooge that is Russell Slade whose post match insistence that ‘I have to be tunnel-visioned’ is an affecting insight into his limitations as a football visionary. 

Tan’s agenda has always been at odds with the fan’s notion of what a football club should be. With more astute less hubristic governance he might have stood a chance. The failure to convert debt into equity as promised suggests that Tan’s considering his position. He’s not alone. We’ve never felt so alienated. The increasing disconnect between club and fans has taken all the fun out of  the suffering. As we enter free-fall I’d rather we did it on our own terms with our blue blue chests pumped out and our heads held high.

‘Few of us have chosen our clubs, they have simply been presented to us; and so as they slip from Second Division to the Third…..we simply curse, go home, worry for a fortnight and then come back to suffer all over again.’ - Fever Pitch

Football fandom is a simple pastime for simple souls Mr Tan, and we’ll get by without you very well.

CCFC 2 V 3 BRENTFORD

Earlier this week I was facing the daunting prospect of root canal treatment. I approached this game with similar enthusiasm. 

After last week’s 3-5 south coast implosion today’s hosts promoted alongside Bournemouth last season and spearheading the unfathomable challenge of the unfashionable and the unfancied in this season’s Championship, were always likely to prove a challenge and give succour to the City sceptics. And so it proved.

The line up gave reasonable grounds for optimism with Manga restored in central defence, Fabio at left back and Kadeem Harris making a much anticipated home debut. We exerted some early pressure, forcing two corners but it was immediately apparent that a young and fleet-footed opposition were going to cause problems for our flat-footed back-tracking midfield as they broke at pace. 

The teams seemed reasonably evenly matched during the opening exchanges but after 10 minutes the City back four failed to close down the lively Pritchard, on loan from Spurs, as the ball fell to him on the edge of the box. His low strike  gave Marshall no chance. 0-1.

Spurred on by a surprisingly well-stocked and impressively vocal away section, the Bees continued to take the game to a wooden unimaginative home team and it was no surprise when they doubled their lead 10 minutes later as Turner was caught out of position and beaten for pace by the free scoring Andre Gray who latched onto a through ball from Pritchard to cleverly chip the advancing Marshall. 0-2. We should have pulled one back immediately but Le Fondre continued to excel at what he does best by spurning an excellent opportunity from inside the 6 yard box.

Brentford were now swarming all over the home team, the Bluebirds taking flight as the Bees continued to pollenate their fans’ Premier League ambition. It was no surprise when they stung us with a match-defining third after 30 minutes. Spanish winger Jota took the ball in space on the edge of the box, cut back inside and sent a perfectly executed curler out of Marshall’s reach into the top corner. I didn’t know whether to applaud or sob. John, the laconic Scot who sits beside me rose from his seat and announced ‘I’m off for a pint’. At half time Matt, a septuagenerian and a City fan from the age of nine, left for home.

It seemed reasonable to judge Slade on his ability to make personnel changes at half time to counter the threat from the opposition’s 4-3-3 ascendancy. Perhaps bring on Adeyemi to provide some pace in midfield or Jones upfront to replace the failing Le Fondre or the meagre Macheda. Or give them both the order of the hook and push up Whittingham in the hole behind a lone striker. Anything to give the fans a reason to believe. In the event, and all too predictably, the same players trotted out to take their place in an unimaginative, flaccid Four. Four. Two. 

The second 45 wasn’t quite the dispiriting morale sapper we had every right to expect. In fact we fought back well and might even have rescued a point. But an unmerited draw would achieved little more than papering over some significant cracks. More like chasms actually. We fielded the wrong team, playing in the wrong colour, selected by the wrong man, appointed by the wrong owner. 

To my great relief my dentist decided that there were still signs of life in my manky molar and thought it might be saved, offering the possibility that it might even regenerate and thrive. As we slide into mid-table mediocrity the prognosis for Slade, Tan and the risible red is much less certain.

CCFC 0 V 0 ROTHERHAM

Really? Rotherham? What a dreary proposition. Repeat it and despair. Break the word down into its constituent syllables and feel the spirits fall, the mood darken, enthusiasm wane. Roth-er-ham. Mis-er-y. Possibly the most culturally insignificant town in the UK, the list of ‘noteable people’ in the town’s wikipedia profile is headed by those creepy masters of mirth the Chuckle Brothers. Closely followed by David Seaman. And William Hague. In 2006 Rotherham was designated an EU Charisma Free Zone.

I imagine Mr Slade is all aquiver with excitement today anticipating a fixture that symbolises his ambition after a week in which he’s been able to commence his clear intention to cull the naturally gifted and marginalise all the talents. With Daehli, Fabio, Morrison (R), Guerra and to a lesser extent the recently departed Cala all sacrificed at the altar of 4-4-2 expediency it’s becoming increasingly apparent that Slade’s cheery avuncular demeanour conceals a dour grey risk-averse sensibility where inspiration is banished in favour of perspiration.

If Russell Slade had been managing The Beatles he’d have handed the songwriting duties to Ringo; cast as Che Guevara’s PR man he’d have had a quiet word with him about easing back on the revolutionary zeal, losing the beard and replacing the beret with a bobble hat. He is the John Major of football management, dreaming of being indiscreet with Edwina Currie over a mug of cocoa at his local Little Chef. He is a grey man, all 50 shades reimagined by the ghost of Mary Whitehouse. 

Apologies for being unseasonably downbeat but approaching Christmas in a particularly poor Championship we should by now be Ding Dong Merrily On High not contemplating a Bleak mid-table Midwinter. 

Such was the lethargy and general lack of engagement in the crowd today that it couldn’t even be bothered to raise a mocking raspberry as the opposition team was announced. It didn’t help that their line-up contained players who weren’t even household names in their own homes. 

The hosts by contrast had a number of starry potential match winners. Predictably however they were all sitting on the bench. Fabio was sidelined to allow the right footed Brayford to take his place at left back, the imperative being that a place must be found for the plodding Connolly to keep the crowd’s enthusiasm in check. Daehli and Morrison (R) looked the part as usual as they stretched and ran tirelessly along the touchline only inches from the field of play.

Meanwhile, on the pitch their team mates were failing to impose themselves on a very ordinary opposition who were controlling midfield, Pringle looking dangerous in possession and dispatching a number of crisp balls into the box. The first corner of the half saw Marshall uncharacteristically flapping but the opposition front men didn’t have the wit to take advantage.

For most of the half we were playing like the away team - ponderous and unable to seize the initiative. It was 35 minutes before the crowd was sufficiently roused to offer a (ironic) cheer as Brayford took aim from 30 yards, an effort which might charitably be classed as the half’s only shot on target as it dribbled apologetically in the direction of the keeper.

The fourth official’s board mercifully showed just the one minute of added time as we excitedly anticipated the tear ’n’ share of the half time orange - or was it a tangerine? Possibly a mandarin or a minneola. Hmm…

The second half offered little more than the first. In fact I didn’t make a single note until the 65th minute. I spent far too long trying to contrive a line that emphasised just how colourless the game was and referencing the Miller’s Tale as the crowd at first just ghostly turned a whiter shade of pale. I didn’t manage it.

So after 65 minutes Slade decided to make the most conservative, uninspiring of changes to ensure that the balance of the team wasn't upset, the option of deploying a Plan B rejected in favour of a 4-4-2 tweak. This staggeringly uncreative cop out allowed the central defenders to continue to punt the ball aimlessly out of defence to Le Fondre as Jones’ replacement Macheda took on the hopeless task of scavenger. 

Finally after 80 minutes Fabio was given a run out receiving the biggest cheer of the afternoon after Connolly pulled up. Morrison was handed his chance to change the course of the game with 5 minutes left. Shocking.

At the final whistle the away fans celebrated by skipping the light fandango and turning cartwheels, acknowledging a drab draw that redefined drabness; a paler shader of drab in fact. 

Seasons Greetings.

CCFC 3 V 1 IPSWICH

There was a spring in the step tonight as we hurried purposefully along Ninian Way dazzled by the beguiling lights of the CCS, drawn like so many moths to its urgent flame, our gossamer spirits so recently lifted, our blue blue hearts quickened and newly emboldened to defy every new challenge. As Nina Simone might have sung: Bluebirds in the sky you know how I feel….it’s a new dawn, it’s a new day, it’s a new life for me  and I’m feeling good!

We were blessed again this evening by the continuing conspicuous absence of Vincent Tan as we welcomed The Muppetts’ Sam Eagle (aka Mick McCarthy) and his Tractor Boys. Unfortunately the Malayasian malingerer was far from the only absentee in a sparsely populated stadium. 

The official figure was 20,191 which included around 5,000 season tickets holders nominally present but in fact at home throwing back the lager and trying to get Live Champions League football to sync with the Radio Wales radio commentary. I’ve tried it - it doesn’t work. But the lager helps.

Slade made one change from the Forest victory, the fully fit Fabio happily restored to left back. He kept faith with the Macheda - Le Fondre combination upfront but worryingly there was no place even on the bench for Jones, a bold if questionable move considering the way our top scorer had begun the campaign. 

We started slowly and were on the back foot early on as a spirited Ipswich team took charge, Welsh international Jonny Williams, on loan from the Premier League, looking dangerous around  our box, occasionally making a fool of the ordinarily unflappable Manga.

Pilkington transparently had the best of the early chances getting keeper Gherkin in a right pickle with a tasty double effort to spice things up at the other end.

Difficult conditions during a spell of heavy rain and squally winds saw both teams struggle to retain the ball as the game drifted. On 30 minutes Fabio abandoned prudence in favour of a crowd-pleasing kamikaze burst out of defence, losing possession to Murphy who took full advantage of the Brazilian’s largesse to plant a 30 yard curler wide of Marshall. 0-1.

We regrouped and a spell of pressure from the home side produced a poorly defended corner, the ball arriving at the favoured left foot of Whittingham just outside the box. Inexplicably the rustic muttonheaded Tractor Boys failed to close him down as Whitts swung his cultured left peg. Before you could say “leave Norfolk and hope’ the ball was nestling in the back of the Ipswich net.

So 1-1 at the break. A disjointed first half ending with a flourish and promising much for the second 45. Within two minutes of the restart Noone collected the ball in the box, drifted wide and pulled back a floated cross to the far post. The ball was knocked down into the path of Macheda who slotted the ball in from close distance to give us the lead.

On 48 minutes the crowd rose as one and applauded for a full minute to acknowledge the 48th anniversary of the Aberfan disaster( http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Aberfan_disaster ) Full credit to the Ipswich fans for participating.

With Fabio, Noone and Pilkington storming down the flanks and chasing back just as assiduously, an aggressive midfield holding sway and a no-nonsense-none-shall-pass central defensive partnership, the side was hardly recognisable from Solskjaer’s dispirited disengaged shapeless dog’s dinner of team. 

On 70 minutes Gunnarsson, gratifyingly restored to his role as long throw supremo, collected the towel just below us and buffed up his charge ready to deliver a Scandanavian slug into enemy territory. Le Fondre reacted first and beguiled the opposition defence with a tame scuff which rolled apologetically past a flattened Gherkin. 3-1.

There were a rash of substitutions with 15 minutes left on the clock, the most noteworthy being the withdrawal of playmaker Williams who received an ovation from all sides of the ground. Expect the boy to be a permanent fixture in the national team as Bale and Ramsey lead us to a brighter day…

To finish, a word for the referee: shocking. And another: Inept. Why stop there, I’m on a roll now: bungling, incompetent, maddening, infuriating, English.

Well that’s it for me for a while, I’m off scouting for talent in South America. I leave my team in rude good health, 3 points away from the Play-offs, only 7 shy of the summit. Who’d have thought eh…?

‘Bluebirds having fun you know what I mean

Sleep in peace when the day is done

And this old world is a new world and a bold world for me

And I feel good.’

CCFC 2 V 1 FOREST

CCFC 2 V 1 FOREST

I spent the hours before our lunchtime kick off listening nostalgically to Jarvis Cocker’s R4 Extra tribute to John Peel, a barely believable 10 years after the great man’s untimely death. For my generation and for all of those who tend to favour the iconoclast over the populist icons of the age this is as close as we’ve got to a ‘Diana Moment’. Without the mawkish faux grief. And mercifully free of a Tony Blair figure artfully claiming him as ‘The People’s DJ’.

Ten years ago we were in our second season back in the Championship and approaching the end of Lennie Lawrence’s reign. The team that beat Rotherham 2-0 in front of 11,004 fans on 16th Oct 2004 included such luminaries as Tony Warner, the on-loan Gary O’Neill and coming off the bench to make his home debut a 17 year old Joe Ledley. A brace from Peter Thorne’s magic hat saw us rise up the table that day. To 21st. 

We were to finish 16th in a season that saw Rotherham condemned to the third tier alongside Gillingham. And Forest. If we’re still wounded after our one failed shot at glory, imagine how desperate Forest must be to regain their glory days which brought them successive European Cups and saw them as top tier regulars for two decades.

Under Stuart Pearce they’ve started well this season, enter the game undefeated and sit comfortably in 2nd place behind pace-setters Norwich. The contrast with our faltering start to the season could hardly be greater; likewise the managers. One an experienced former England international captain with 78 caps - 76 as a Forest player - who’s managed the England under 21 side as well as the British Olympic team, the other a former P.E. teacher pushed into the limelight after a 20 year career standing in the wings.

The new man made a few changes, some forced on him by illness and injury - the most significant being Fabio’s late withdrawal - which meant a another stopgap full back solution with Ralls slotting in. Disappointingly Ravel Morrison was out injured and Kenwynne Jones started from the bench, Slade preferring a Le Fondre - Macheda partnership up front. 

It was a lively start from both teams and there were early opportunities at either end. Former Canton End darling Chris Burke was finding far too much space, giving Ralls a torrid time. After some trickery in the box left the dazzled City defence requiring an unlikely goal line clearance from Craig Noone, the ball broke and Macheda was put through on the edge of the penalty area, jinked past a defender and cooly passed the ball wide of Forest keeper Darlow who might have done better. 1-0 after 22 minutes and the former Man Utd striker’s first Championship goal of the season. 

Five minutes later Whittingham found himself in space to slot the ball home at the near post. 2-0 and just the start the new manager was hoping for. The team was looking leaner, meaner and  more committed than any time under Solskjaer. Apparently those that were not on international duty in the week were called in for double fitness sessions (whatever that entails…) and it showed. The new mood was epitomised by one Craig Noone chase back and sliding tackle and a general no nonsense ‘no-one passes me’ approach from the magnificent M.O.M. Manga, apparently jet-lagged having arrived back from Gabon in the early hours.

The midfield was dominant, Gunnarsson controlling it and Whittingham playing with a swagger and poise that has been absent for some time. The home fans were loving it, taunting the opposition with antagonistic and anachronistic ‘Nottingham Scab’ chants, no doubt drawing a malevolent smirk from the face of Thatcher’s ghost as the enemies within grant her the right to divide and conquer from beyond the grave.

The half-time tributes acknowledged the passing of Welsh poet and lifelong City fan Dannie Abse 

who attended his first game in 1934 and, as one eulogy acknowledged, ‘wrote of sweat and woodbines on the cloth-capped Bob Bank’.

Forest came out refreshed for the second half and forced the pace. They may have pulled a goal back early on but the extravagantly, rhythmically named Assombalonga was adjudged offside. At the other end a curving Whittingham free kick evaded the Forest line, bouncing into the path of Morrison who, arriving late at the far post was unable to direct the ball past Darlow.

Jones was introduced on the hour mark, replacing Macheda, and Adeyemi was brought on for the tiring Gunnarsson but pulled up after less than 3 minutes to be replaced by Daehli. Ralls was brought into midfield and Noone pushed back to take over left side defensive duties. The enforced rejig didn’t work. Forest took advantage and slowly began to take control. 

The central defence held firm and the tireless Brayford dealt with the right side threat but we were always likely to be vulnerable on the left wing and it was no great surprise when Antonio got behind Noone to send a fizzing cross into the path of Assombalonga to reduce the deficit with 89 minutes on the clock.

We survived a panicky 4 minutes of time added on to take all three points and make the perfect start for the new regime. The result was hugely welcome: the performance more so. For those of us nostalgic for the recent past this represented a reassuring return to the solid workmanlike approach of Mackay and Jones. The new manager seems hewn from the same stone; solid, unfussy, down to earth. Tan may have inadvertently uncovered a real gem in Slade. Next up at the CCS are Ipswich on Tuesday night - a chance for the Tractor Boyz to Cum on Feel The Noize…

CCFC 2 v 1 SHEFF WED

A bloke’s relationship with his team is like no other he’s likely to experience. It’s one we enter into willingly and enthusiastically - usually at a vulnerable age - with unreasonably high expectations. We soon learn that it’s one love we’ll never have any control over and it’s not necessarily reciprocal. It’s a strange dynamic - our opinions don’t count and our complaints go unheeded but we sense that the other party is desperate for our approval and responds well to encouragement. 

We’re frequently left frustrated and astonished at her capacity to make bad decisions and wrong choices which we know will ultimately harm us both. We could turn or backs and walk away; many of us have done so from time to time but the ties that blind us pull us back in spite ourselves as the power of the memory of shared ecstatic highs and abject lows defeats all reason and proposition. 

Recent events would challenge the most solid of relationships and the walk to the ground today was full of anxiety and self doubt. I’ve done no wrong but there’s a part of me that feels somehow  responsible and I want to do the right thing. I’m giving her another chance. It may be her last.

The heir to my misgivings was apparently in the grandstand as the beleaguered back room boys   Scott & Gabbidon (that aspiring firm of gentlemen’s outfitters) took charge for their third and final game. After the wretched display in midweek losing to Bournemouth in the Capital Cup this was always going to be their swan song, assuming the lawyers can agree on a form of words that will grant Russell Slade, former P.E. teacher (think Brian Glover in ‘Kes’ with a baseball cap…) a chance the lower league journeyman coach no doubt thought had passed him by. And with an array of starry no-nonsense-get-the-job-done managers awaiting the call to arms, why would he think he was in with a shout?!

Tan’s crimson handsomely upholstered seat up in the director’s box was spared its owner’s facile flatulence again today, one of many empty seats in a crowd officially put at 21,000 - an implausible figure boosted by a strong away following and ghosted season ticket holders. 

I passed a group of twentysomethings outside the ground debating where exactly ‘the old ground, you knows, that Ninian Park’ used to be. The clouds parted and the ghost of Jimmy Scoular struck them down before I could summon up a glance of sufficient disdain. There was a nod to the more recent past as former central defender and current Wednesday captain Glenn Loovens was introduced to the crowd, temporarily bringing to mind the days of glorious cup runs and credible promotion campaigns.

Our line up included a brace of Morrisons - one restored to centre back alongside Manga, the other   in the unusual position for him of sitting on the bench rather than appearing before it. The biggest plus was seeing Fabio restored at left back. It’s seems hardly credible that so much could have happened since he left the field at half time against Norwich with the home fans purring after witnessing a revitalised City coming good at last, anticipating the great times to come under Solskjaer. Hmmm…

Wednesday started the stronger looking more organised and confident, unbothered by the distraction of a  7-0 midweek thumping at The Etihad. They passed up an early opportunity to take the lead as May found space in the box and rounded Marshall, the central defence’s blushes saved by a last ditch goal line clearance by the ever alert Fabio.

Two main areas of concern under Ole were the team’s fitness levels and the ability of eleven talented individuals (in many and varied combinations) to play as one cohesive unit employing a system that all were comfortable with and which reflected their individual strengths. 

The lack of time together on the pitch was again evident in the first half today as options were limited for the man on the ball and passes went astray. Upfront the towering, tireless Kenwynne Jones was imperious winning every ball, but noone - least of all Noone - seemed capable of anticipating the flick on or the knock down into space.

There were promising signs that all is not lost just yet as the previously unconvincing Pilkington and the effervescent Daehli combined well, with the restored but not fully match fit Noone showing flashes. The best move of the first half saw Daehli and Pilkington turn the Wednesday defence inside out as a floated ball into the box was met by Gunnarsson, his powerful header parried into the path of Jones arriving late at the far post but unable to direct the ball goalwards. 

Shortly afterwards on 38 minutes more good work in midfield resulted in a free kick and a booking for left back Mattock 30 yards out. It was the perfect angle but a bit distant for a Whitts special. No problem. After all, The Mercurial One ‘does what he wants’. He chose to send in a perfectly weighted cross, met powerfully by defender Morrison for City to take a hard fought, but on the balance of play perhaps unexpected, half time lead. 

The Owls started the second 45 worryingly well and were rewarded for their pressure when Morrison restored the balance, deflecting a whippy cross from Maguire past his own keeper. Wednesday now really stepped up the pace sensing an opportunity to capitalise on the home team’s flaky self-belief. After recent events it didn’t seem unreasonable to fear the worst. 

It was a huge boost then to see the team soak up the pressure and hold its nerve before launching a succession of counter attacks. Whittingham and Gunnarsson both went close with efforts from distance before the game turned as Jones rose in the box to head powerfully down, the ball taking an age to settle at a height for Pilkington to dispatch a powerful volley into the net.

Young Morrison was immediately introduced, replacing the tiring Noone, and easily distinguishable from his namesake not least by size, ethnicity, natural ability and ego, but playing under the moniker ‘Ravel’ to avoid any unlikely confusion. 

As a 16 year old Man Utd wunderkind Ravel Morrison was described by none other than Sir Alex Ferguson as ‘the best player I’ve seen at that age’ (don’t forget he signed Ryan Giggs at 14…). on his untimely dispatch to West Ham, Sam Allardyce called him ‘a brilliant footballer. Brilliant ability. Top class ability’ before adding with some ambiguity ‘He needs to get away from Manchester and start a new life’ 

It didn’t take Big Sam long to decide that he also needed to get away from the East End, sending him on a season-long loan to Birmingham and last season to QPR. His colourful life off the pitch has been as troubling and inconsistent as his career on it. The phrases ‘witness intimidation’ ‘homophobic threats’ and ‘common assault’ are a jarring and unwelcome intrusion into any 21 year old’s Wikipedia biog.

Putting all that to one side, if he can continue the form he showed in his brief but conspicuous  cameo appearance today he could change not only his own fortunes but that of his temporary club.  You sense there’s always the potential for a 2am Chippy Lane Incident but be in no doubt this boy is a player. A genuine talent capable of lighting up the stadium and our season. His time on the pitch witnessed a step change in our composure and belief. We were now winning second balls, looking sharp and hungry as The Troubled One panicked a tired Wednesday defence. 

We were unlucky not to increase our advantage in injury time as a neat move put Macheda in the clear, only to be ruled narrowly offside.

A timely boost then to put the off-the-pitch shenanigans in the shade for a while; and to rekindle the love. Walk away? Who am I kidding? In the words of Michael Corleone ‘Just when I thought I was out….they pulled me back in’. Again.

CCFC 0 V 1 MIDDLESBORO

After the second half capitulation to Norwich the manager called for more consistency. The man is clearly determined to lead by example. He’s played not only the same no.9 but also the same goalkeeper for each of the seven games played. And he’s turned up in the same suit. And worn the same socks. And he’s used the same tea leaves to determine the remainder of his line up.

The back four today included new boy Bruno Ecuele Manga in a new central defensive partnership with Cala, with former central defender Connolly - a converted right back - slotting in at left back. Brayford was kept on at right back so that Marshall could confidently feed the ball to someone he recognised.

In midfield Whittingham and Pilkington were joined by Adeyemi and Daehli and after a round of introductory handshakes, bashful half-grins and diffident hobnobbing they settled in just behind Jones and Mecheda in an innovative 4-4-2 formation.

For 60 seconds everything was going swimmingly. Then the ball broke from a Whittingham free kick and was fed out to Boro’s Adomah who eased past Connolly and crossed for the unmarked *Kike, former frog puppet and nemesis of Hector The Dog, to head past Marshall. 0-1 after 90 seconds.

*Apologies to anyone under 45 for the gratuitous reference to a 70’s French surrealist children’s TV programme.

Boro, under new manager Aitor Karanka, former assistant to Jose Mourinho at Real Madrid, were organised, compact; insipid. They were dominant but without suggesting that they’ll be a real force this season. Their creativity was limited to feeding the ball to Adomah to do his stuff down the right wing on the correct assumption that Connolly would be hopelessly out of position. Fortunately for us the redoubtable Manga and Cala were dealing with the central threat. This was one of the only positives to come from a night of fear and loathing in CF11.

Tactically we were all over the shop. At the back Marshall was looking for outlets to play the ball short, but if the full backs were briefed to build up slowly no-one had told a midfield which was playing with its back to defence awaiting the inevitable long punt. The consequence was speculative passes to absentee wingers or a panicked back pass to Marshall to play the default hit-and-hope. The midfield itself was as slick and well-oiled as a puffin caught up in the Sea Empress oil spill.

Upfront Jones and Macheda were slowly forming an intuitive understanding that at times bordered on the mystical. On one occasion Macheda fed the ball through to a position where Jones had been standing only five minutes earlier. After 45 minutes Macheda mysteriously disappeared. 

Half time arrived without a shot on target from the home team, the crowd showing its displeasure with a morale-sapping but well earned chorus of disapproval. 

There was a welcome and heart-warming debut appearance on the stadium mega-screen during the break from a young couple in the first flush of youth celebrating 3 years of conjugal entrapment. The crowd rose as one. And went for a beer. LOL arf, arf…

Ole brought on Gunnarsson at half time, rejecting the attacking imperative for the time being in favour of shoring up the midfield. Guerra and Le Fondre were introduced later on, replacing Daehli and Pilkington. This left us with an embarrassment of riches in the middle of the park but with no width.

We huffed and puffed up and down the crowded centre of the park but the most damning stat of the night - the number ‘1’ in the Shots On Target column - confirms how ineffective we were.

Before the game we were promised that there was ‘no panic’ in the board room. After the game the manager admitted ‘I’m responsible’. He can expect ‘the full backing of the Board’ after next Saturday’s inevitable defeat at Derby. His successor will inherit a deflated squad of gifted individuals in desperate need of a system they believe in and are comfortable with. The fans want to see a starting eleven they can believe in and an end to the tinkering. Ole might take some advice before it’s too late from Douglas Adams. Your squad might look ‘insanely complicated’ but DONT PANIC. Try this:

Marshall, 

Brayford, Manga, Cala, Fabio

Daehli, Adeyemi, Whittingham, Noone

Guerra

Jones

QED. 

Goodbye Ole and thanks for all the fish…