CCFC 0 v 0 HUDDERSFIELD

Cardiff City v Huddersfield as a top tier fixture lacks a bit of credibility. The Terriers may be in their  second season in the Premier League and we’ve been flirting with the big time for a while now but the suspicion remains that both teams would be a excellent answer in a future ‘Pointless’ round based on all time PL teams, perhaps recording a point or two more than Oldham, Barnsley and Bradford. After all in the public consciousness our teams are to the Premier League what Colin Baker and Sylvester McCoy are to Doctor Who. We are the David Niven and George Lazenby of the James Bond franchise. We are the third man on the moon. 

It’s approaching 100 years since our elevation to the old Division One. Elected into the Football League in 1920, The Bluebirds were promoted the following season where they joined The Terriers who were at the peak of their powers, becoming the first team to win three successive league titles under Herbert Chapman and Cecil Potter at a time when all managers were called either Herbert or Cecil and every first team squad contained a minimum of two Alfs, three Franks and a Reg. In the early years all teams played in contrasting shades of sepia (a confusing situation only resolved with the advent of colour TV in the sixties) the entire crowd wore flat caps - even the ladies - and smoked full strength Capstans. Boys wore bobble hats knitted by their mums and swung their balsa wood rattles with gay abandon. And all goalies were rubbish.

Huddersfield’s heyday was after ‘The War To End All Wars’ and proceeded ‘Peace in our time’. Between 1922-38 they finished in the top three on eight occasions and were FA Cup finalists five times. In the post-depression, inter-war years football and trips to the movies allowed a brief respite from austerity. 1927 was of course a huge year in popular culture, as Cardiff City’s era-defining FA Cup triumph was conjoined in the public consciousness with the release of the first ‘Talkie’. The nation took solace from fears over global instability and the rise of populist fascism by following the Bluebirds and watching Laurel and Hardy whose latest biopic has just been released. So, ‘Plus ca change’ as we say in Tremorfa.

Huddersfield’s lack of success since the 1950’s mirrors our fall from grace and it’s fair to say that both teams’ promotion to the Premier League were very much under the radar. Huddersfield’s elevation and subsequent survival last season is testament to the skill of manager David Wagner, a former assistant to Jurgen Klopp at Borrusia Dortmund, who pulled off a feat described by The Guardian at the time as ‘the Premier League’s greatest survival story’. Survival by either team this campaign will surely test that claim.

The lack of any significant activity in the January transfer window is worrying and Warnock is sounding increasingly frustrated as the month goes on. This is more than a little concerning as our  first team squad is thin as the manager’s skin after a failed transfer bid, and the need for a ‘marquee’ signing to steady the fans’ nerves and revitalise the team is becoming desperate.

Amongst my favourite medieval proverbs (well we all have one I’m sure…) is the one about trying to make ‘a silk purse out of a sow’s ear’ ie. fashioning something beautiful from poor materials. Well this was a sow’s ear of a game and this will be a short report.

When the team with the lowest points tally and goals scored visit a team which has managed just six first half goals all season and are yet to take a first half lead in any game, in the rerun of a fixture that produced a stalemate earlier in the season, it’s understandable that expectations might be modest. Still, with the official attendance put at 30,725 one might reasonably expect a contest of sorts. Nah. 

The game showed some early promise, the opposition in their ‘gilet jaunes’ radioactive lime green strip looking more like a protest movement, albeit one with no organisational sense or obvious plan. The on-loan Jason Puncheon threatened around the edge of the box and for the Bluebirds the marauding Mendez-Laing forced a rash challenge from the opposition left back, resulting in an early caution.

For all their commitment, both sides lacked quality in possession and any breakaways were frenetic and directionless. The teams seemed trapped in a midfield muddle where The Terriers were winning the battle but were unable to convert their advantage into any goal-scoring opportunities. The game was providing plenty of evidence for the prosecution in the assertion that neither team has the right to be playing at this level. And certainly the notion that they might currently be capable of cutting it against the likes of Bournemouth and Brighton, let alone the top four (Liverpool, Man City, Spurs and potentially Man Utd) is fanciful at best.

At half time we took some consolation from the fact that 70% of our goals have been scored in the second half; this was little more than a desperate quantum of solace. Match stats are often misleading but the stark truth of recording a paltry three shots in the entire game with not one on target, and conceding more than 60% possession against the league’s whipping boys is damming. 

After 70 minutes I realised I hadn’t found it necessary to make a single second half note. After a rash of substitutions I finally shook my redundant right thumb out of its torpor to record a three-at-the-back transition, and in doing so missed the only incident of note in the entire game! I looked up to see the shambolic Lee Mason point to the spot, only to be persuaded to consult with his linesman who adjudged that full back Bennet was more sinned-against than sinning. 

I haven’t seen the footage as I had no intention of waiting around to catch the ‘and finally’ MOTD wrap-up and confirmation from the studio guests of the hopelessness of our cause - I don’t sleep well at the best of times - but communications between the ref and his assistants were bewildering all afternoon with the erratic Mason either overruling his assistants at throw-ins or deferring to them when better placed. Certainly for the penalty decision he appeared to be a lot closer to the action than the linesman. 

Today’s game gave us the opportunity to take the temperature and give a realistic prognosis of our chances. In a sketch from Laurel and Hardy’s ‘Sons Of The Desert’ Ollie is unwell in bed but fortunately Stan is around to help:

Ollie: You’d better take my temperature…get that thermometer.

Stan: The what?

Ollie: Thermometer! You’ll find it on the shelf.

(Stan places the thermometer in Ollie’s mouth and starts to take his pulse)

Ollie: Well, what does it say?

Stan: Wet and windy

Turbulent times ahead at The Cardiff City Stadium

CCFC 0 V 3 TOTTENHAM

And you may ask yourself ‘Well, how did I get here?’

New Year’s Day and time to take stock. Finishing the year outside the drop zone after completing a full round of matches is at the higher end of expectations. 16th at the halfway point. Not half bad. Tidy. Better than that, it’s half-tidy. And the results against Palace and Leicester provide drops of cheery optimism to spice up the steamy glass of mulled pragmatism and anguish from which we are apt to sup.

Just a few days ago the prospect of facing free-scoring Tottenham after away fixtures against two teams that had just inflicted back-to-back defeats against the previously unassailable reigning champs Man City was daunting. I’d long-since earmarked this fixture as one to sit back and enjoy as an impartial connoisseur of the Beautiful Game.

However, Tottenham’s vaunted title ambitions were dealt a huge blow as they imploded against Wolves last time out. This unlikeliest of results combined with our astonishing performance against Leicester - the Etheridge penalty save, Bamba clearance and Camerasa wonder goal fully emblematic of an indomitable spirit - confirms that we are still capable of providing a surprise and defying expectations.

We’ve been written off many times of course. The most damming prediction, made pre-season by soccer shock-jock pundit and provocateur Chris Sutton was that we would be relegated with the worst ever PL points total. In 2008 Derby County achieved just one win all season and amassed a total of 11 points. Warnock has used this and other dismissive thick-witted remarks to cohere the squad into something akin to a siege mentality. Certainly we fear no-one in our pursuit of the improbable and a compulsion to upset the odds. We’re making progress and it’s so much more fun this time around (‘into the Blue again, after the money’s gone’) but the nagging doubts remain. So where to look for some reassurance?

The respected Euro Club Index ranks football clubs across Europe. We currently sit between Antalyaspor of Turkey and Empoli of Italy (no, nor me…) at 159th in the table of leading European teams. I think we can accept their conclusion that we have a 0% chance of winning the title, a fate  shared with all teams below Arsenal who themselves are given just a 0.1% probability. Where it gets interesting, and more than a little encouraging, is that although we are only predicted to amass a total of 34 points for the season, this will in fact ensure our survival. Hurrah!

The plausibility of a victory today is rated at a piddling 10.4%, but bear in mind that the Leicester victory was achieved in the face of an 11.7% likelihood. And Tottenham conspired to lose to Wolves despite an overwhelming 78.8% probability of victory. So who knows? Anything is possible. ‘Am I right? Am I wrong?’

Well, in the event, wrong. But just very. Oh dear. In a cast iron calamitous start we went behind after two minutes as a grateful Harry Kane bundled the ball over the line after it might have been cleared by Morrison. Ten minutes later Eriksen was given time on the edge of the box to swivel, turn and place the ball into Etheridge’s corner. And just to allay any lingering doubt that the match was dead as a contest, Son delivered the last rites with the simplest of finishes after 26 minutes. 

Tottenham’s control of the game was absolute, a midfield of Alli, Eriksen, Son and the roaming Kane playing a rotational style that completely threw our mesmerised midfield which seemed rooted to the spot, and a disorganised back line that was always susceptible to the incisive final pass. We’ve seen this style of play previously from Man City, United and Arsenal but today the early goals seemed to unsettle the players to the extent that they seemed incapable of responding.

We did have the occasional break out but our offensive play was so disjointed that we rarely entered the opposition box other than from dead ball situations. In beating Tottenham on the weekend Wolves were able to defend deep but without standing off, and set up the counter attack  in greater numbers, blessed with the personnel to break with full effect. We were incapable of achieving this.

The second half saw an improvement as we took a more aggressive approach, closing down in midfield and stepping up at the back. But Tottenham still dominated possession and although they were not so relentless we had few opportunities to venture beyond the halfway line. Hoillet who had replaced the ineffective Murphy at half time had some impact and Arter and Paterson should be lauded for their tireless running but chances were few, Tottenham playing well within themselves and quietly closing the game down as the disgruntled home fans sloped off early.

Driving home, Warnock’s post match interview was insightful and disarmingly honest. He was clearly outraged that his charges had failed to put his plans into effect (it was reassuring to know that there had been a plan…) saying that he’d lost patience with certain players. He hinted at changes, but confessed that getting the right players at the right price in the January transfer window is going to be problematic.

I just checked and we’ve dropped a place in the Euro Club Index and our projected season’s total sees us relegated on goal difference ensuring that the pessimists hold sway once again. Ah well, ‘same as it ever was, same as it ever was’. Happy New Year!

CCFC 1 v 5 MAN UTD

THE PREAMBLE RAMBLE...

You know when you’re in the right job. You can’t hide the warm glow that meaningful, rewarding, enriching employment brings as you go about your day with a cheery upbeat life-affirming demeanour that’s good for your soul and uplifting for those around you. 

Likewise it’s impossible to disguise the signs of work-based anxiety -  the dark pain and torment, the daily undermining of the wellbeing of the demotivated individual. The malcontent may try to hide his unease but sooner or later the overwhelming fears and apprehension, the strong urge to escape will be unbearable. It is almost always preferable for the individual to take ownership of his predicament, to take decisive action before his behaviour becomes intolerable to his employer. 

Which nicely sums up my career and brings us inevitably to Jose Mario dos Santos Mourinho Felix GOIH (Order of Prince Henry) commonly known by the diminutive ‘Jose Mourinho’.

Mourinho’s career began as an interpreter for Sir Bobby Robson (generally regarded as a Ruddy Nice Chap, Top Bloke and all-round Good Egg) at Sporting Lisbon and Porto, before taking him to Barcelona as his assistant. It’s possible that in the early days some of the sainted Sir Bobby’s conviviality permeated the troubled soul of the petulant Portuguese but prolonged success ultimately brought out the worst in Mourinho.

Each successive high profile appointment has led to diminishing returns and the self-proclaimed ‘Special One’ has become an increasingly divisive figure in the dressing room, boardroom and on the terraces. Incapable of healthy introspection his instinct has been to look around for a fall guy. He has marginalised high profile players including Juan Mata at Chelsea, Christiano Ronaldo at Real Madrid and Paul Pogba at Man Utd. At Real Madrid the fans were divided into ‘Mourinhistas’ and ‘Madridistas’

Constantly complaining about referee bias, vindictive journalism and boardroom incompetence, his singular and lethal combination of arrogance, narcissism, hubris and self-delusion has been identified by the Jungian school of analytical psychology as a particular psychotic character trait, that of the ‘right miserable sod’. 

**It was at this precise moment that news came through of Mourinho’s sacking. Which I’m sure was a personal blow for Mourinho but catastrophic for my Match Report prep. Aaaargh! Ah well, ‘Drop The Dead Donkey…’

Conversely Neil Warnock’s natural affability and general propriety combined with ample amounts of frenzied battiness has endeared him to all of his clubs. Whilst whingeing self-justifying Mourinho blamed the poor results at Old Trafford on lack of funds, despite the fact that he was responsible for 11 stellar signings with a budget of nearly £400m (!) the Blessed Warnock scraped by this summer on less than £30m, bringing in 6 players of dubious pedigree and unable to secure any funding for a desperately needed regular centre forward. He is the uncomplaining pragmatic King of Cut-Price, The Prince of Paucity, indeed the Monarch of Meagreness, Sovereign of the Shortfall and Deity of Deficiencies. And we loves him, we do.

There are no prima donna Fancy Dans at Cardiff City. No blurred lines, no confusing fuzzy boundaries. The manager knows his role and accepts his and his team’s limitations and for as long as the players continue to play to their full (in some cases limited) potential everyone concerned gets the fans’ full backing. We’re all in this together and whatever the circumstances that give rise to his eventual departure, Neil Warnock contrary to all precedents and expectations will leave with everyone’s unbounded thanks, astonished admiration and best wishes ringing in his ears. He will always be welcome at the CCS. Unlike some.

Enter Ole Gunnar Solskjaer. Now, there’s ‘Fake News’ and there’s ‘You Couldn’t Make It Up’ news.  Ole’s return might be welcomed by the majority of United fans, based on sentiment and a wistful look back at the Ferguson era, but any Bluebird fan would caution against unrealistic expectations of the rookie manager. Solskjaer’s disarming press conference will have pleased the faithful but his attempt to tackle the difficult question of his record at Cardiff by suggesting that as we’re back in the Premier League we can’t be too unhappy won’t have convinced either set of fans.

Most Bluebirds will have been as upset as the travelling fans at Mourinho’s departure, being denied the opportunity to taunt him with ‘You’re not Special anymore’ and ‘You’re getting sacked in the morning’ etc. And the early evening kick off is a tad inconvenient. But at least we’re not faced with a tortuous late trip back home along the M4 to deepest Surrey. Ker-ching! 

This time last year we were losing at Bolton at the start of a run of four successive defeats. Which was very concerning for us, but of no interest to anyone else. By contrast today the eyes of the football world are upon us. How will we react?

It’s not easy to judge what impact a new manager can have after just a few days in charge. And perhaps it wasn’t so much the presence of the new man as the absence of the old one that was the defining factor here. But right from the start we struggled to deal with a free-spirited opposition playing as though shackles, physical and mental, had been cast off allowing them to give free reign to their huge natural talents. 

Solskjaer was rightly criticised during his nine month spell in charge of the Bluebirds for his naivety in trying endless combinations in search of a winning formula based on pure, instinctive, positive attacking football, rather than putting together a plan based on the natural, if limited, abilities of the squad that he’d inherited. Mourinho’s mistake was trying to impose his philosophy on a reluctant resentful squad who failed to embrace his ideas. Based on this performance it seems unlikely that Solskjaer will endure similar problems.

Neil Warnock’s has always been pragmatic. We were not going to be able to take the game to the opposition so today’s plan was clearly to sit back, defend to the death and highlight any areas of weakness to hit them on the counter attack. Unfortunately the early goal rendered this tactic extremely dubious and handed the opposition an immediate boost. A soft foul on Pogba on the edge of the box led to a free kick and with an array of dead ball options you feared the worst. The deceptive long run up and wizardry of Rashford’s low drive left Etheridge flat-footed and the home support deflated as it took the slightest of deflections off Paterson in the defensive wall before nestling into the unprotected corner of the net.

United continued with their possession game, based on short passes, quick feet and incisive runs off the ball. Our midfield was holding its shape and Bamba put in some thunderous tackles but a second goal seemed inevitable. When it came after 30 minutes it was fortuitous - Herrera’s deflected shot dipping over Etheridge - but deserved. 

Still, we persevered, heads held high, and after Rashford inexplicably dipped his shoulder and appeared to nudge the ball away in the box, Camerasa dispatched the resultant penalty and we were back in the game. For all of two minutes. 

For the neutral the Man Utd reply was a delight. A bit of magic that served to highlight the huge gulf in class between the two teams as Martial danced through a leaden defence to slot his team’s third past Etheridge. For the home fans it was a real sucker punch but objectively a goal to just sit back and admire. An approach which might have been adopted by a few imprudent celebrating Manc fans in the Canton End who were removed by the stewards for their own safety. 

The second half followed pretty much the same pattern as the first. We held two solid lines at the back but Paterson was ploughing a lone furrow upfront and if we were to get back into the game changes were required. Unfortunately as the defensive effort tired spaces inevitably opened up and Pogba began to exert greater influence. On the hour, Lingard’s incursion into the box drew the slightest of challenges from Bamba but it was sufficient to persuade Michael Oliver to point to the spot. Lingard stepped up to make it 1-4.

Belatedly, Warnock made the change by bringing on Zahore, allowing Paterson to drop back and play as a link man. Our shape improved and one of the few positives to come from the game was the return of a revitalised Zahore who, galvanised no doubt by the possible January arrival of £25m Emiliano Sala from FC Nantes, reminded us what a talent he can be when the mood takes him.

At the back Manga and Bamba were tiring and were guilty of giving the ball away in dangerous areas. Bamba was culpable for the final goal, losing the ball and being out of position allowing Lingard the space to run behind the defence to tuck away his second and Man Utd’s fifth.

So a crushing defeat against a revived and vastly superior opposition and, as the radio commentary rather cryptically put it ‘another three points Cardiff will have to do without’! But be left in no doubt, there are bigger, more meaningful battles to come. We had a secondary role here today, bit part players, foils to the leading men in a drama played out on a global stage. 

At the end of his hapless spell in charge of the Bluebirds I described Solskjaer as being ‘out of his depth….like the promising kid pushed by a well-meaning teacher against his better judgement to take his GCSE’s a year early. His time may come. It’s not now’. Today he looked like a man in the right job, at the right time. Out with the malcontent, in with the magnanimous. Always nice to see a man happy at his work…

CCFC 1 V 0 SOUTHAMPTON

Here are some things you may not know about today’s opponents:

• In 1014 Viking King Cnut (or ‘Canute’) was crowned in Southampton after his forces beat King Ethelred the Unready. Ethelred was lining up the defensive wall with his back turned as the ref blew the whistle. Canute is of course better known in popular mythology for his attempts to turn back the tide. Mark Hughes tried something similar and was regarded locally as another useless Canute.

• An Anglo-Saxon settlement in the St Mary’s area near the new football stadium was known as  Hamwic or South Humtun. In 1338 the town was sacked by the French. This was the last recorded incursion by hostile forces prior to regular pitched battles in the 1980s with Portsmouth fans who are known locally as ‘Skates’, an obscure derogatory naval term deployed by Southampton fans who in turn refer to Pompey fans as ‘Scummers’, an obscure derogatory naval term.

• Rivalry between the fans is fairly recent and it’s not exactly clear when and why it began but some ascribe it to diverging economic fortunes in the 1980s. So it seems only right to blame Thatcher.

• Southampton is not Portsmouth. Controversially the two towns were merged for the purposes of the 2011 census to become the 6th largest conurbation in England, an area known as South Hampshire. But Southampton is not Portsmouth. South Hampshire is also known as Solent City, a metropolitan area that includes Southampton and Portsmouth. But Southampton is NOT Portsmouth.

• The city has a major port. Its most conspicuous contribution to maritime, social and world history is as the place where The Black Death entered the UK and where The Titanic departed it. Four in five of the crew, and around third of those who perished on board the liner were Sotonians.

• ‘Sotonian’ is the demonym for the citizens of Southampton, often confused with Satanian which is a Black Death metal band (or is that black Death Metal band..?) Celebrity Sotonians include Womble In Chief Mike Batt and renowned feminists Benny Hill and Craig David.

• The nickname of Southampton FC is ‘The Saints’. Historically more miracles and subsequent canonisations have taken place in the city than anywhere else in Hampshire. Chief amongst  venerated locals are Reg, Patron Saint of Bus Conductors, Theresa, Patron Saint Of The Hopelessly Conflicted and Craig, Patron Saint of Those Who Like To Meet Girls On Monday And Chill On Sunday.

• The new Southampton manager is Austrian Ralph Hasenhuttl who has been described as ‘The Alpine Klopp’ based on his managerial record in the Bundesliga, his penchant for short leather pants and suspenders, extreme dental glossing and flossing and a tendency to be annoying.

Under Mark Hughes, a great player, proud patriotic Welshman and very average manager, The Saints have recorded their worst ever start to a season. Southampton FC was established in 1885 so that really is, put simply, a very poor start indeed. The worst. Monosyllabically weak. Bad. The new manager held a 40 minute press conference this week in which he offered no guarantees about turning their fortunes around saying ‘If you want a guarantee, buy a washing machine’. Realistic perhaps but hardly reassuring. 

Hasenhuttl made 6 changes for his first team selection. He had expressed a tactical preference for playing 4-2-2-2 ‘but also 4-3-3 and 3-4-3’ (presumably not during the same game) so it was impossible to work out his set up at the start of the game with any degree of certainty. One thing was clear, that he intended to pack midfield. However, the wily Warnock had done his research, correctly predicting that playing with two speedy wide men might cause a few problems. He brought in Josh Murphy for Hoilett and gave a start to Mendez-Laing, returning after a lengthy injury. 

It was a stinker of a day in Cardiff. A swirling wind and greasy surface meant expectations for a footballing masterclass between these relegations rivals were low bordering on subterranean. In truth Southampton (Warning: footie cliche alert…) came out of the blocks as though they had a point to prove. The recalled Charlie Austin had chances early on to stake a claim before The Bluebirds settled into their game plan.

We had a succession of chances as both wingers set about an ineffectual Saints’ defence. Arter, Paterson, Mendez-Laing and Murphy all might have done better from good positions in the box. In addition Morrison was given space at set plays but couldn’t take advantage.

A half that had started brightly lost impetus as a heavily populated midfield played a version of schoolyard football chasing after the ball, and each other, in packs. It was similar to the recent episode of David Attenborough’s ‘Dynasties’ where the painted wolves were hemmed in by the hyenas. But without the tension. Or laughter. As half time approached the game was looking like a shoe-in for the MOTD ‘and finally’ post-witching hour game. Only two Premier League teams have failed to take a half time lead this season. That will be us, and, perhaps surprisingly, Arsenal.

The second half lived down to expectations as the weather deteriorated from inclement to quite frankly uncivilised and dashed uncouth. It was positively lubberly and oafish. (Just a sample there of post - No Deal Brexit vernacular as de Pfeffel Johnson and Rees-Mogg drive us forward to a brighter future. Some time around 1952.) As the teams struggled against the elements we had more chances to break the deadlock but it was the opposition midfield, picking up loose balls that became more influential with Gabon international Lemina the dominant force. The Saints had a reasonable shout for a penalty but Armstrong over-egged his dive in the box, referee Moss not convinced that there had been sufficient contact. 

On 74 minutes the inconsistent Moss made the best call of the game waiting to see if an advantage had accrued after Camerasa was taken down. The ball seemed to fall harmlessly to Vestergaard who fumbled under pressure from Paterson, the ever alert temporary striker stroking the ball past the advancing McCarthy. 

We saw out the remaining minutes without any real concerns to (*inane but accurate stat alert) record a third successive home victory in the top flight for the first time since 1963. We’re up to 14th (repeat ‘fourteenth!) in the league, 4 points clear of the relegation zone and closing in inexorably on mid-table Nirvana. Well ‘Hail To The Jewel In The Lotus. Hommmm…’

CCFC 2 v 1 WOLVERHAMPTON WANDERERS

I can only bring to mind two players from the Wolverhampton Wanderers page in my ‘Soccer Stars’ sticker collection, circa 1970. One is Peter Knowles, brother of Tottenham’s ‘Nice One’ Cyril who at the peak of his powers and on the verge of an England call-up gave it all up to become a Jehovah’s Witness. To a 10 year old soccer obsessive this was bewildering. A bit like, say, Aron Gunnarsson announcing that he was quitting the game to join IS. Well, if Holy Jihad meant trawling around suburbia on a Sunday morning dressed like civil servants, knocking on doors enquiring politely if you wouldn’t mind awfully being saved. So a far from perfect analogy.

The other stand out player was Derek Dougan, justifiably remembered as a Wolverhampton Wanderers and Northern Ireland ‘legend’ and a complex character. His on and off field exploits were fuelled by an anti-authoritarian streak which often got him into trouble and resulted in that most of ambiguous of descriptions ‘colourful’ being applied to his relatively short public life. 

With his de rigueur 1970s chevron moustache, lank unkempt hair and ‘You talkin’ to me?’ demeanour he wouldn’t have looked out of place on the mean streets of Noo Yoik assisting a dysfunctional Robert De Niro in his quest to ‘wash all this scum off the streets’. You didn’t mess with The Doog. He had a notoriously short fuse. Documented outburst include picking up a record suspension for swearing at a linesman and handing in a transfer request on the morning of an FA Cup Final. At Wolves he struck up very successful strike partnerships with John Richards and Dave Wagstaffe which was quite remarkable as he was on speaking terms with neither.

After retiring from the game his inclusion in the ITV 1970 World Cup Panel, which more or less invented TV football punditry, led to him being elected as chairman of the PFA where he successfully advocated freedom of contract for players. Or else. His subsequent role as chief executive of Wolves proved controversial and almost saw the club go out of existence setting it on a downward spiral which culminated in a spell in the fourth tier (Division 4 in old money…) of the football league. 

Dougan was often described as a ‘loveable rogue’ by those who worked closely with him, the emphasis placed firmly on ‘rogue’. A legend to Wolves fans, he was inducted into the Wolverhampton Wanderers Hall of Fame in 2010 alongside former Bluebirds manager Kenny Hibbitt who played nearly 500 games for Wolves between 1968-84.

For Bluebird fans Hibbitt is a half-forgotten footnote in an appendix to the history of Cardiff City AFC. In a tortuous two year tenure he proved as effective as his former colleague in overseeing a trophy, sorry, atrophy, and the decline of a once proud club.

In March 1998 Hibbitt returned for an enforced second spell as manager after Russell Osman, football’s Greta Garbo, had walked away muttering enigmatically ‘I want to be alone’. Osman’s thespian predilections were ultimately satisfied when he starred with Sylvester Stallone, Michael Caine, Pele, Mike Summerbee and Osvaldo Ardiles in the Hollywood Prisoner of War Soccerball classic ‘Escape To Victory’. Unfortunately Osman was to acting what Stallone was to the art of goalkeeping.

On his return to the dugout Hibbitt oversaw a 0-0 home draw against Brighton in front of 3,519 bewildered pathological optimists. With six games left of a season that redefined the word ‘drab’, the Bluebirds needed just one more draw to match the greatest number of stalemates in a season. They struggled to achieve even this most dubious of accolades, conspiring to go on a run of 5 successive defeats to set up a drear-defying denouement against dopey Darlington in the final game of the season.

2,610 lost souls attended the game, each one picking up a certificate that would exempt them from military service in a time of conflict, granting disability benefits on the grounds of imbecility and entry into the Donald Rumsfeld Museum of Preposterousness. It was a close call but in a game that swung from fair and all the way back to middling a 0-0 draw enabled the Bluebirds to, as reported in the South Wales Echo at the time, pluck ‘sheer averageness from the jaws of triumph’. 

Both clubs might have bounced back from the brink but the sheer averageness of recording a 50% draw return over a Premier League season would be a realistic ambition and a reasonable return today.

CCFC 2 v 1 WOLVES

Due to an injury in the warm up I found myself driving away from the ground, its lights urging me to, in the words of Dame Bonnie Tyler of Sketty ‘Turn around bright eyes (every now and then I fall apart)’. Ironically following my non-appearance in the last two home games this is now my worst run of absenteeism since the Hibbitt period. The favourable no-show win percentage of 66.6% might suggest that my personal contribution to the success of the team is limited.

I’d already written the preliminary nonsense so decided to carry on and file my match report direct from my armchair. Slightly detached and fuelled by a glass or two of Marston’s Old Peculiar the following is an analysis of each player’s contribution.

ETHERIDGE. A commanding, reassuring presence. Read the game well and is always alive to danger. Not called into action very often but always alert. Prepared to be adventurous whilst exercising due prudence. Blameless for the goal, he was yet again, let down by his defence from a set piece.

MANGA. More suited to a central defence partnership as part of a back four. Peltier, back from injury and sitting on the bench is probably more suited to a three man defence. Lost his man in the lead up to the Wolves goal. 

BAMBA. Typically cool in possession and committed to the cause. Distribution wayward at times. Often too keen to get in a pre-emptive strike on his attacker and too easily turned. The fulcrum of a defence which has now conceded more goals from set pieces than any other Premier League team this season.

MORRISON. Formed an effective partnership with Bamba and dealt well with the limited threat from opposition front line. Often seems more at home in the opposition box than his own, and has record more touches there than any other PL defender this season.

GUNNARSSON. A compelling presence marshalling a five man midfield. Held the ball well but provided with limited outlets due to lack of movement ahead of him. Blamed by Warnock for the Wolves goal by failing to track his man. Did well to get ahead of defenders for his goal.

RALLS. Combative but made some poor choices when in possession. Unable to hold and make the decisive pass. Part of a unit that successfully negated the potential dominance of the opposition midfield.

CAMARASA. Quality on the ball which he didn’t see enough of. Should be given more freedom to take the initiative. Put in a lot of work off the ball and tracked back well.

ARTER. Excellent work rate and capable of turning a game but needs to exert greater influence. A few decent chances from second balls on the edge of the box. 

HOILETT. Not the force that he was this season and as the only player with regular PL experience was expected to have a greater impact. Disappointing playing deep as a wing back and rarely threatened. However, any negatives overlooked following superb winning goal. Awarded Sky’s Man of the Match for that one telling contribution. 

PATERSON. Physical, awkward, always willing but with no goalscorer’s instinct. A temporary solution to our problems up front which must be addressed in the January transfer window. Won a few decent balls in the air but typically went to ground too easily and transparently. 

MURPHY. Got the better of his full back but lack of a regular striker able to make runs off the ball limits his effectiveness. Too often left with nowhere to go. Unfairly substituted.

THE CROWD. Outstanding. Clearly determined to enjoy the PL experience in the full knowledge that it probably won’t be for long. Responded well to provocation from the travelling fans including misguided renditions of God Save The Queen and Swing Low Sweet Chariot. Given due praise by Warnock in his post match interview and there is no doubt that the connection between crowd and team is telling. All of our wins this season have been achieved after going behind which is a great testament to the spirit of the team and the influence of the crowd and manager providing reasons to believe. Always great to start the weekend with a Friday night win. Happy 70th birthday Mr Warnock!

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.