Friday, 15 April 2011
Yesterday I turned down the opportunity of a ticket to Saturday's match at Wembley. City faithful and others among my readership will perhaps be surprised at this, but I can assure you that there are several good reasons, not all of which I'll go into here. Two reasons I will give however, are as follows:
Things are a little tight for me following changes to my personal circumstances, and I cannot really justify whatever astronomical cost I would have had to pay to get to and into HA9 on a warm Saturday tea time. Having been to Wemberlee before (on a jolly as well as a paid-for excursion) I am fully aware of the true horror involved in buying a pint of beer there.
Following the disastrous display against the Scousers the other night, and watching the ongoing clusterfuck juggernaut that is the Rags' season, I can't really believe we will stand much of a chance either. All the talk now is that Tevez may never play for us again, and - if true - what a whimper of a way to end your time at a club, pulling up after an inocuous tackle at Anfield and hobbling off the pitch.
Doubtless, Lord Berba will extend his goal tally at the home of football and snatch the Golden Boot from under Carlos' nose, leaving only Shrewsbury boy Hart with a sniff of the Golden Glove award. Really, what are our options without the bolshy little Argy? Dzeko seems to be suffering Torres-itis, and Balotelli is... well, a fairly typical City player, unfortunately. More noted for his bizarre behaviour than his footballing talent; 'the kind of player to get managers the sack' as was pointed out in the Graun on Tuesday, we really cannot expect great things from the man. One ray of hope lies in David Silva, but as I've said before, he's not a goal scorer; another glimmer is in AJ, and I hope he blows more hot than cold.
Not only have I declined the offer of a ticket, but I don't plan to be with any other football fans when the match is on, despite being offered the opportunity to do so. I will be watching on the boob tube, screening my eyes with my fingers, cowering behind the sofa, silently heaving dry sobs into the crook of my elbow.