CCFC 4 v 2 FULHAM

The Preamble Ramble

I have a soft spot for Fulham. OK, they’re the opposition today and obviously any sense of kinship is put aside, I mean, clearly, if it boosts our meagre chances of survival I hope we can put them to the sword and they continue their own miserable run, let themselves, their devoted fans and their billionaire owner down and fade once again into Championship oblivion. But I’m glad we were promoted together and would be tickled pink if we could both consolidate our Premier League status. This is not inconceivable, it’s just that, well, while there might be only one F in Fulham, there’s more than one F in iffy. And the prospect of both teams surviving is double effing iffy.

**Dodgy wikipedia facts alert. 

Fulham - nicknamed either The Cottagers, The Whites, or still worse The Lily Whites (probably the most sissyish set of non de plume outside Ernest Hemingway’s Wussy Van Milksop) were formed in 1879 as Fulham St Andrew’s Church Sunday School FC before becoming Fulham Excelsior and  have been playing at Craven Cottage since 1896. Uniquely for a Premier League team their boardroom does not contain a trophy cabinet. 

My earliest memories of Fulham date back to the early seventies when they were managed by Alec Stock, the inspiration behind The Fast Show’s Ron Manager. Self-effacing with bags of old-school charm, reflective and misty-eyed, the phrase ‘small boys in the park, jumpers for goal-posts’ might easily been a Stock throwaway line. Fulham back then were an average Division Two side with no obvious pedigree but Stock managed to entice thoroughbreds Bobby Moore and Alan Mullery to join their ranks and lead them to their only FA Cup final in 1975. This opened up the way for the likes of George Best and Rodney Marsh to loiter with the craven cottagers. 

City’s game against Fulham on New Year’s Day 1977 attracted - from memory - in excess of 26,000, the numbers swelled by the expected appearance of George Best. Typically, Best had a long-standing appointment with Oddbins and was unable to appear but this paved the way for a new legend to take to the stage. For this was the day that the ’Greatest Footballer You Never Saw’ made his debut for The Bluebirds. 

It was said that if George Best was the first pop star, then Robin Friday was its first rock star. Outrageously gifted, troubled and wonderfully off script, Friday began his all-too-short career at Ninian Park (he only played 22 games) by scoring twice, giving Bobby Moore the runaround and showing his contempt of the World Cup winning captain’s reputation as National Treasure by administering a trademark tweak of the testicles.

Friday was a folk (anti) hero as much for his exploits off the field as his skills on it. While at Reading having been told not to drink 48 hours before a game he took the order on board and instead dropped an LSD tablet. He celebrated scoring the late winner against Rochdale by kissing a policeman behind the goal because ‘he looked so cold and fed up I decided to cheer him up a bit’. That summer he disappeared, neglecting to tell the club that he’d joined a travelling hippy commune and had begun a new career as an itinerant asphalter.

Although he was voted ‘Player of the Season’ by the Reading fans, the club was desperate to offload him and we picked him up for a bargain £28,000. From the start he was unmanageable, erratic and unpredictable. He was arrested at Cardiff Central Station for travelling down on a platform ticket. His other transport trick was to wait until a passenger disappeared into the Gents, knock the door claiming to be a ticket inspector and demand that the occupant pass their ticket under the door for inspection. These jolly japes might have endeared him to his public, but ultimately no-one could save him from himself. He suffered a drugs-induced heart attack and died aged 38. Once told by a manager that he was wasting his god-given talents he replied ‘I’m half your age but I’ve lived twice your life’. The suspicion is that he was content with that.

Our last Premiership game against Fulham saw us achieve a rare victory under the short-lived reign of Ole Gunnar Solskjaer, briefly providing hope that we might avoid the drop. Ultimately both teams fell out of the top flight, and while we might have been sceptical about Solskjaer’s squad rotation policy, at least we didn’t have to suffer the indignity of explaining our manager’s instruction to his captain to treat an injury by placing a block of cheese on his strained thigh. Take a bow Felix Magath.

Fulham returned to the top flight after a season full of flair and panache and have spent heavily (more than £100m) so far to little effect. We stumbled over the line after a dogged campaign full of honest endeavour and decided to stay within budget with predictable results. So both teams need the 3 points, it’s just that our need is more desperate so we deserve them. That’s how it works isn’t it?

Driving to the game, radio on, coverage of the Chelsea v Man Utd game is interrupted to announce the line ups for our game. Which is nice. Changes in personnel today include a welcome return for Aron Gunarsson, slotting in for the suspended Joe Ralls, with Reid’s pace preferred upfront to an obvious target man. Ominously for the Cottagers their back four includes one ’T Ream’ presumably in the recognition that for them ‘Things Can Only Get Better’. Ouch!

So far this season although we’ve competed well and there’s been no lack of effort we’ve failed to adapt sufficiently to the pace of the game against the better teams and not taken the rare opportunities that have come our way. There will be no excuses today against an opposition that we know well and who beat us 4-2 in the corresponding Championship fixture last season.

From the start tactically the game is a revelation. Out with the indecisive long ball from the back, conceding possession, the ponderous build up, the static front line. Today we find the confidence and the belief that we can play pacy, intricate, dare I say ‘sexy’ football (a phrase I just googled to confirm its provenance. Blimey, that was a mistake… It was Ruud Gullit by the way). With Gunarsson to the fore we are a dominant, creative midfield force, dictating the tempo of the game for the first time this season.

Within 5 minutes we have our first real chance as Murphy skips around Chambers, firing to the left of the diving England squad keeper Bettinelli who palms his shot away for a corner. Fulham’s defence is looking shaky, Warnock’s decision to go with pace upfront immediately vindicated as we continue to press.

Then a real sucker blow on 10 minutes as out of nowhere (I’m making notes and miss the shot. There was no obvious danger) a Schurrle curler finds the top corner. 0-1 against the run of play and considering the pattern of previous games this season, a reason to feel utterly demoralised.

It’s testament to the team’s vitality, and hugely encouraging, that they’re able to hit back immediately, the excellent Murphy finishing well with a precision shot past Bettinelli. And it’s about to get a whole lot better.

Murphy turns Chambers again, securing a free kick on the edge of the box and a booking for the hapless on-loan Gooner. We make a complete Horlicks of the free kick but it breaks free to Reid who keeps his cool to put us ahead. Cue wild celebrations and a conviction that today is our day.

This is the Premier League and whatever the opposition even if you’ve been granted your laurels it’s not feasible to rest on them. In a frenetic finale to a frenzied first forty five Sessegnon draws the Lily Whites level taking advantage of a defensive line temporarily losing its bearings and (**Not Very Interesting Stat Alert) becomes the first player born this millennium to score a goal in the PL.

Fulham finish the half the stronger and almost take the lead before half time as following a botched clearance by Etheridge he charges out of his area, successfully throwing his torso at the ball with an attacker bearing down on goal. Games are won or lost by small margins and if Etheridge’s timing had been out or the angle of his body one or two degrees askew it’s a clear red card offence. 

After a physical first half with three bookings and plenty of action for the medics an additional 5 minutes is allowed before the teams march off to well-merited thunderous applause in recognition of one of the most entertaining halves in recent memory at the CCS.

Former Swansea centre back Mawson is brought on to shore up the Fulham defence at half time and receives the anticipated generous appreciation from the fair-minded impartial free-thinkers behind the opposition goal.

Reassuringly, the same levels of commitment and determination to get the desperately needed first win are maintained throughout a scintillating second half. With more neat passing, quality possession and some clever work off the ball this is an anxiety-free performance finally delivering the belief that, whilst we will need to work hard to get any return against the aristocrats we can hold our own against our fellow riffraff.

Paterson finds himself free after finding space to latch onto a neat ball played over the top of the Fulham defence but his role as a makeshift centre forward is based on instinct and determination. Given any time to weigh up his options he’s likely to be confused and sure enough the chance disappears in a haze of discombobulation.

On 65 minutes Paterson gets ahead of his defender and latches on to a loose ball finding just enough leverage to turn the ball past Bettinelli to put the Bluebirds back in front.

For all their ineptitude at the back, given space Fulham always look a threat going forward. The tiring Gunarsson makes way with 15 minutes left, Harris replaces Man of the Match Murphy and the midfield looks exposed. Fulham force a corner, the rising Mawson fires a bullet of a header low to Etheridge’s left which the Philippine international does well to keep out.

On 87 minutes a slip from T Ream allows us to D Ream, Camarasa finds a marauding Harris and suddenly things are a whole lot better. 

Four goals doubles our tally for the season, we’re off the bottom and running. Next up it’s an away trip to Anfield but we then have a run of winnable games in the lead up to Christmas.

I’m off on an American odyssey for a few weeks, joining the ranks of the frontiersmen in the Wild West. Let’s hope by the time I return we’ve staked our claim as PL settlers in our little old sod shanty in CF11.

CCFC 1 v 2 BURNLEY

The Preamble Ramble

‘There’s a nervousness you can feel when you are still waiting for your first win…when you’re in our position you can’t just wait for things to happen, you have to push to make them happen.’

This was Burnley manager Sean Dyche’s response to his side’s 4-0 defeat of Bournemouth last weekend, a win which took them off the bottom of the table after a lacklustre start to the season which has been complicated by an unlikely qualification into, and early exit from, the Europa League. 

Today’s game will determine the extent to which Neil Warnock can start to make things happen  for The Bluebirds after a run of dispiriting defeats. 

Warnock’s candid, self-deprecating pre and post match interviews may have entertained the neutrals but it’s time now to reassure the faithful and show a more steely resolve. Any close season optimism was predicated on picking up maximum points against relegation rivals, gaining a few sneaky draws against middling opposition and surviving with honour intact against the high-fliers. Last week’s mauling by Mansour’s Mancs disabused even the most deranged amongst us of any notion that we might be able to compete at their level. 

Having already passed up opportunities to capitalise on the misfortune of fellow contemptibles Huddersfield and Newcastle when they were reduced to 10 men it’s now essential that we start to compete against any team beyond the blue-bloods. 

Last week’s headlining appearance on MOTD (albeit as foils to the main attraction) will be replicated on MOTD2 today for the very good reason that, erm, ours is the only game in the top flight. The final day of the Ryder Cup is Sky Sports’ major attraction so presumably the decision was taken to clear the schedules to ensure advertising revenue is not compromised. I imagine TV receipts from City v Burnley would at best be on a par with ‘Sunday Teatime Classics’ on DAVE with Norman Vaughan-era The Golden Shot and Pinky & Perky. 

This fixture might be seen as an opportunity to get back on track but the opposition should not be underestimated. What Burnley lack in natural resources they more than make up for in high levels of organisation and efficiency. In achieving 7th position last season they amassed 54 points from only 36 goals scored. 

Our game of course tends to focus on sitting back and allowing the opposition to concentrate on the finer points of the beautiful game, while we unashamedly play ugly, hitting them on the break and bullying them in their own box. Today’s game promises to be attritional; engaging for the committed but otherwise dreadfully dull. The nervousness Dyche refers to will no doubt permeate the stands. It’s now time for our players to ease the burden and give us a reason to believe. 

Warnock made four changes - two enforced, two tactical - Bamba returning to partner Morrison in the centre of defence with Manga slotting in at right back replacing the injured Peltier. Josh Murphy made a welcome return out as the left-sided wide man, with fans’ favourite Paterson forming the link between midfield and the recalled Zahore. 

Despite a subdued atmosphere we began well, the anxiety on the terraces after last week’s humbling fortunately not transferring to the pitch where the midfield without stamping any real authority looked comfortable with the new set up. Paterson’s enthusiasm was as infectious as ever and Zahore, perhaps inspired by Warnock’s plea to ‘show more’ was looking to make runs beyond a fairly static rearguard. The pacy, artful, Murphy was unsettling the Clarets’ defence and  he almost caught out Joe Hart after one surge into the box, the former England stopper spreading himself and just managing to deflect his shot onto the post.

After failing to make an early breakthrough and with the pedestrian opposition failing to enthuse their meagre muffled support, the game evolved into a disjointed affair lacking any hint of individual flair to get the pulse racing. Neither side was making a convincing case to be regarded as anything other than a Championship side temporarily on loan to the Premier League. With half time approaching, a distracted Canton End community choir amused itself by resorting to some tiresome Jack-baiting and monotonous dirges executed with all the joie de vivre of Gregorian chant. It was all very dispiriting.

It’s fair to say we had the best of the first half and put up a reasonable case for suggesting that we’re slowly finding our level. What we’re lacking is some belief, a bit of luck and some PL nous which will only come with experience as we slowly adapt to the new challenges. 

Burnley came out for the second half showing greater intent but it was still galling to go behind to their first effort on target when after 50 minutes, following a quickly taken throw in and some slack defending, Gudmundsson rose at the far post to head down past a scrambling Etheridge. 

We responded well however. A Camarasa volley rocketed over the bar from inside the box and shortly after the stylish Spaniard linked well with Manga whose incisive cross was met by Murphy sending his first time shot curling past Hart to level the scores. The initiative was with The Bluebirds, now playing with conviction and backed by a reinvigorated crowd. Another goal would have been fair reward for our endeavours but just desserts have been temporarily removed from the menu at Chez Oiseaux Bleus.

Shortly after another fine effort by Murphy was tipped over the bar by the excellent Hart, Burnley broke out and with the backtracking City defence out of position Vokes found space in the box, deftly placing a header past Etheridge.

A demoralised City struggled to pick themselves back up and Burnley successfully killed the game off, sitting deep and dealing comfortably with the home team’s increasingly desperate attempts to take something from the game. 

Hart irked the home crowd with blatant time-wasting, drawing some good humoured badinage, referencing his relative fall from grace in recent years (‘You’re not famous anymore’ / ‘England, England’s number 4) and sympathising with him over the loss of his Head And Shoulders contract to which he responded with a good humoured thumbs-up.

As we trudged off, the TVs in the concourse pronounced our plight confirming the worst start to a season for 54 years.

Earlier today I read an article in the Sunday paper which suggested that 60% of Brits still believe miracles happen. I’d normally respond to belief in the supernatural with a derisive snort. I’m now coming round to the idea that divine intervention probably represents our best hope.

CCFC 0 v 5 MAN CITY

THE PREAMBLE RAMBLE

So who’s up next? Ah, Man City. Well ‘It never rains but it pours…’ 

and the creditable performance against the Gooners in a narrow defeat last time out at the CCS might now be seen as the first drop of rain in the following storm. The subsequent 4-1 defeat to Chelsea was more than a bit demoralising as after a bright start we were overwhelmed by the singular footballing genius of Eden Hazard stepping up to rain on our parade. What can we reasonably expect today against the raining, sorry, reigning champs, a team on their day probably the finest on the planet? 

On balance I think anything short of catastrophic will be a fair outcome. 

Where might we look for words of inspiration, encouragement, consolation as we face the apocalypse? When I find myself in times of trouble and Mother Mary can’t be found, in the search for someone speaking words of wisdom I often turn to the candy-flossed master of sweet reason, the Leader of the Free World, Donut J Trump. Perhaps we can all take solace in these fine words as he settled the nerves of a restless nation ahead of the recent Hurricane Florence:

‘We are ready. We are as ready as anyone has ever been. This is going to be a very big one. Tremendously big and tremendously wet’

Well can I get an ‘Amen’? I said can I get an Aaaaaaay-men?’ No. I didn’t think so. 

An analysis of Trump supporters has identified certain psychological traits, one of which is Relative Deprivation, defined as ‘the discontent felt when one compares their position in life to others who they feel are inferior but have had more success than them’. Which rather neatly sums up the mental state of the majority of long-suffering Bluebird fans. Perhaps The Donald’s our man.

After all, in a post-truth world where appealing fictions override facts our approach to today’s game might benefit from some fantasy football, delusion and denial. Yeh, it’s gonna be totally great, absolutely tremendous, the best, beautiful, mark my words...

In the event this was the mismatch that we all feared it might be. Sean Spicer and Comical Ali would have struggled to find an alternative truth to hide behind. Warnock made a couple of changes at the back, bringing in Cunningham and Peltier and moving Manga alongside Morrison but it proved no more effective than rearranging the deckchairs on the Titanic. This ship was going down with all hands.

The gulf between the teams was tremendously big, played out in conditions that were tremendously wet. The driving rain and swirling winds might have provided grounds for optimism, as poor conditions are often seen as ‘a leveller’ and for 30 minutes we looked capable of at least competing. Sure, there were signs, Sane and Sterling breezing past our hapless full backs as Aguero and Gundogan made their darting runs, somehow finding space in a crowded box. Gundogan inexplicably blasted over from 6 yards but our centre backs weren’t fazed by the task, Manga in particular controlling the line with some decisive interceptions. 

The midfield occasionally hit The Sky Blues on the break but the disconnect with a hesitant front two was in stark contrast with an intuitive opposition and we always looked vulnerable to a quick break out. Guardiola the master tactician, interviewed after the game hinted at frustration to make an early breakthrough and indeed cut an exasperated figure at times. The tactical changes he directed were so subtle as to be imperceptible to the untrained eye (mine) but profound in their impact as suddenly we were two down, Ageuro’s opener on his 300th appearance for the club quickly followed by an impudent Bernado Silva looping header.

We looked demoralised and it was no surprise when Gundogan effectively ended the game as a contest just before the break, firing into the top corner after neat interchanges with Sana and Sterling. 

A pattern has emerged over the last three games. We seem able to compete in the early exchanges but once found out we’re not capable of adapting. Perhaps a lack of resources doesn’t allow for tactical changes but the apparent inability to spot the flaws and make the necessary alterations is troubling. We set up with a 4-4-2 and stuck with it. And perhaps this will be sufficient against the less stellar opposition to come. Warnock has huge reserves of goodwill to fall back on generated by our surprise elevation to the PL but pressure from the terraces and in the boardroom will intensify in the coming weeks if we fail to pick up points against our peers in the (footie lexicon alert!) ‘relegation dogfight.’

The players left the field at half time as Bob Marley exhorted us all not to ‘worry bout a ting’ but I searched the leaden skies in vain for ‘tree lickle’ birds’, finding nothing but a mocking flock of seagulls, providing little reassurance that every lickle ting was gonna be alright in the second half. And so it proved.

Peltier was stretchered off within a minute of the restart as in an effort to keep track of Sana his head turned a full 360 degrees in its socket, the physios unable to reconnect it with his torso. Guardiola’s charges continued to bewilder, befuddle and discombobulate at will. On the hour Aguero (current value £72m) was granted the rest of the day off, replaced by the £60m Riyad Mahrez. Warnock responded by replacing the £1m Danny Ward with (fee undisclosed) Kenneth Zohore. 

Mahrez’s impact was immediate and tangible as within minutes he whipped in the first goal since his summer signing. Despite some well received taunts aimed at the travelling fans from the Canton End (sample: ‘Four nil and you still can’t sing’ and ‘we’re gonna win 5-4’) the majority of the home fans decided they’d seen enough. As they filed out, a tired, benevolent Manga passed the ball out to Mahrez to allow him to complete his ‘brace’ - a strange antiquated term normally associated with the shooting of grouse in an uneven contest between the rich and influential and the vulnerable and defenceless. So entirely appropriate. 

Bob Woodward’s recent expose, Fear: Trump In The White House takes its title from the shrieking pumpkin’s claim that power depends on frightening people. It’s all very well for Gary Lineker to say that this was ‘not a game to judge Cardiff’ but we are frightened. The ‘ill-fitting suit full of chickens coming home to roost’ would surely approve.

CCFC 2 v 3 ARSENAL

Preamble Ramble

‘That old September feeling, left over from school days, of summer passing…obligations gathering, books and football in the air'

- Angel Of Repose, Wallace Stegner

As the dying embers of our summer hopes and dreams succumb to mean winds and fade into the ether on a relentless, pitiless zephyr, cruel September arrives, invoking the fear and panic of the guileless, conflicted schoolboy leaving the comfort of small town elemental education to mix it with the big boys and the bullies. Today holds the prospect of the first of an anticipated triple whammy duffing up at the hands of the PL prefects.

At the end of August last year we were on the crest of a wave, maximum points taken in an epic first month, the best return in the entire ‘English’ pyramid scoring ten goals in the process. Today we’re minnows caught in the undertow, in danger of being swept away as we contemplate the frightening prospect of a run of games against the Premier League big fish. And we do so with the unenviable record of the worst goal-scoring record in the four leagues. In front of goal we are the Kevin Phillips Bong of the PL, a candidate for the Slightly Silly Party, with a nil return. ‘Not a sausage. Bugger all’ in fact.

Today is a chance for the team to provide some comfort to the restive fans that they can hold our own at this level. Arsenal, in transition both on and off the field have so far this season failed to convince and sit just three places and one point above us. That fact alone might provide grounds for some optimism (or at least put my inner Eeyore back deep into the Hundred Acre Wood for 90 minutes). Hey, it’s a lovely day and we’re playing The Arsenal! What’s not to like?

‘Don’t blame me if it rains’ said Eeyore.

The stats tell us that Arsenal have a proud history, winning 13 league titles in their time and the same number of FA Cup triumphs. We on the other hand are pretty much defined by our single FA Cup win, particularly as the subsequent 91 years have been more or less unproductive. Our 1927 victory, was of course courtesy of The Gunners’ Welsh keeper (sepia goalies always look rubbish but Lewis’ fumble would have raised a few eyebrows today) and since when no Arsenal keeper has apparently taken to the field in a new shirt.

It was uplifting to take our seats today in an expectant full ground, the atmosphere generated by both sets of fans making for a special occasion; one to put the gloomy old grey donkey in Row L Seat 798 to shame. 

Arsenal set up in the expected way. We’re used to conceding possession, running around chasing shadows, aggressively closing the opposition down and hitting them with a long ball out of defence (not too easy on the eye, but generally effective) but the contrast of styles today could not have been greater. Arsene Wenger may no longer be in charge but his legacy has been embraced by Unai Emery whose charges retain an almost pathological  proprietorial interest in the ball. This doesn’t always work in their favour.

On more than one occasion today Petr Cech in the Arsenal goal was almost caught in possession dilly-dallying inside the six yard box looking to pass the ball out of defence. City were unable to take advantage, the normally reliable Harry Arter guilty of blowing the chance to give us an early lead. One of the main lessons from an otherwise creditable performance today is that chances are likely to be as rare as a brain cell in the Oval Office and when they arrive they must be taken.

Unfortunately our profligacy in the opposition’s box was matched by defensive ineptitude in our own. Indecision by Morrison led to an unnecessary corner from which Mustafi headed into the back of the net unchallenged.  0-1 with only 12 minutes on the board. Soon afterwards Manga’s blushes were spared by a point blank save from Etheridge. 

A Home Office security announcement appeared on the screen above our goal providing the crowd with advice in the event of a terrorist incident. With a genuine prescience it was headed ‘Do you know the game plan?’ Erm, hope? Pray?

Surprisingly, and worryingly for the Gooners, Arsenal failed to capitalise on their domination and although in control of the game seemed to lack a killer instinct, more content to play exhibition football mincing around in midfield with a flounce here and a sashay there. We were being allowed a second chance and as the half wore on were actually having the better of the play. It was still a shock however when we drew level deep into time added on, Camarasa turning Monreal and lashing the ball past Cech for our first goal of the season and (Pointless Stat Alert…) 1597 days since our last goal in the Premier League.

The equaliser seemed to give us the edge in the early stages of the second half. We were now playing with a real belief, keeping a high line and closing down the Arsenal defence, almost taking advantage of Cech’s lingering nonchalance in his own area.

It was a crushing blow to the home fans when Aubameyang was given too much space on the edge of the box and turned to whip a shot past Etheridge and restore the Gunners’ lead. However, we responded well and in a manner that provides real hope for the future. A Ward header found the inside of the post to set up a rousing finale to a game that was providing more entertainment and ambition than we had dared to hope for.

Shortly after Reid had been set free by Ward, his tired shot limping tamely to Cech, Arsenal confirmed their natural superiority as Lacazette found space to lash a late winner past Etheridge. 

We expected nothing from this game and the table shows that’s exactly what we got. But sometimes it’s not the result but the performance that matters. We can only do what we can do with what we’ve got, or as Eeyore himself said ‘We can’t all and some of us don’t. That’s all there is to it.’

CCFC 0 V 0 NEWCASTLE

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Cardiff 0 v 0 Reading

READING 

6.5.2018

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

CCFC 3 V 2 BLACKPOOL

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

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

Hey Guys! Is masochism YOUR bag?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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