Thursday, 22 March 2012

Getting there

The chap's face was almost comical. His eyes were half-lidded and a slightly crooked smile seemed to be playing on his lips. It's a dangerous game to make assumptions I know, but we all do it, and I had him taped as a cross between Harry Belafonte on the Muppet Show and a sardonic geezer you might meet down the pub, sipping on a rum and coke. The tube carriage was absolutely packed, and people were trying, as best they could, to squeeze on and get to work. A stressful time for all. But, as the train was pulling into Turnpike Lane and the doors opened to admit yet more people on, Mr Belafonte began to make grumbling noises.

"For fuck's sake!" he moaned, grudgingly making way, upsetting some of those poor souls who had committed no crime greater than getting the tube at Turnpike Lane instead of Arnos Grove or Wood Green. One man, a slightly battered looking ginger bloke with long hair and a balding pate, looked as if he might take further umbrage and start some vebal aggression at the very least. But it didn't happen. Everyone just got a little prickly and the journey continued.

(I'm sure Kun looks tired in this photo. Can you see the bags under his eyes?)

None of this was touching me too much after last night's stirring fightback against Chelsea; a game in which Samir Nasri at last started to justify some of his enormous transfer fee and showed that he can indeed be a world class player if the mood takes him. Typically French, one might say. All the headlines, for a team which has never been too far from the limelight in any case, were naturally about the Argentine prodigal son (if that is the right term to use) and his sumptuous lay-off enabling Nasri's dink to win the match. I didn't manage to watch, and yet again Talk Sport had the exclusive radio rights, which I find absolutely infuriating. Despite my support for Collymore in the recent racist tweet episode, I can't rate him as a commentator. He talks over his (even more irritating) co-commentator and regularly stumbles over and fluffs his lines in a feeble attempt at football commentary poetry. What's worse, and a sad sign of the times, is the way in which ads are woven into the stuff they say, rather than being suitably quarantined. In the middle of reporting a phase of play, they will suddenly mention some betting shop or other, urging us to punt our hard-earned cash on the next goalscorer or some other shite.

Anyway, the first hurdle is overcome, but there are many more to face before we can rest on our laurels. I can begin to feel a little more confident. Come on City!

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