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.

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.’