Minding my ps and qs

Funny how I don't swear in front of my father. I have sworn in my mother's presence, but not very often; hardly ever more than a bloody or two - perhaps the odd bugger - and almost always felt awkward once I did so. Especially that time I said 'cunt' as an experiment. Having been informed that there is a new audience for this drivel, I will ensure that I display more caution with my language in future writings.

Just returned from a very brief trip to Oswestry, cut short by a combination of snow (which could possibly have prevented us travelling, and which would certainly have meant staring out of a Morda window for a day. Not really recommended) and a rotten head cold (now thankfully on its way out) which has left me with a red raw nostril and a sore eye. The bracing walk to the top of the hill fort on Wednesday morning may not have helped much, even though I am skeptical about cold causing colds. Anyway, as often happens, Oswestry always brings home to me the true brutality of the current political dogma.

I pointed out in a Guardian CiF article once that the town (and I do realise it's not the only place in the country suffering) is an economic basket case. Certainly, recent unhappy events in the retail cursed earth cannot have helped the situation much. Some people I know are currently availing themselves of whatever they are deciding to call sickness benefit these days (DLA, ESA, NFI... Who knows?) and it is salutary indeed to hear them talk about the risk of being filmed by the DWP walking up a hill, which would mean instant loss of the payment because it doesn't meet the criteria of not being able to walk more than 50 metres. My Dad believes that certain pubs are full of the unemployed, who somehow manage to stay in them all day despite only bringing home £45 a week. He may be right, but I think I might end up that way myself if faced with the alternative of watching daytime telly and waiting for signing day to come around.

In addition to that disgraceful state of affairs, I hear that online activity on the new DWP Universal Jobmatch website is now monitored by staff. Failure to conduct enough job searches leads to sanctions of one sort or another, ultimately I suppose leading to the 156 week ban recently introduced. Now, I don't agree that this kind of thing is in any way defensible even in a vibrant job market. The way things are - especially in Oswestry - it is no less than inhuman. Surely there must be some human rights or privacy legislation which can prevent this? How little dignity do you want people to have? All in all it was a rather depressing return to the old haunts, and gave me much food for thought.

To cheer myself up, a routine and slightly disappointing easy win over Fulham after Stoke beat Palace to face us in the next round of the FA Cup. Then it's on to 'Arry's lads at Fortress Loftus Road. No disrespect, but I don't think we'll be feeling too much pressure in these matches. Let's just hope that (snow willing) Spurs give the Rags a good tonking to open things up a bit.

Overwhelming

'I turned my face away, and dreamed about you.'

It must be approaching the festive season again, as Shane and Kirsty have started to seep into the consciousness. Overwhelmed as I am with the sheer weight of news at the moment, I feel the need to stick my head in the sand and hope it all just goes away. I was not a big fan of Jimmy Savile, but I did like Jim'll Fix It when I was about 10 years old (though probably not as much as he would have liked me, by all accounts) and besides that could not - even in the context of the wild and woolly 70s - really understand why he was such a prominent figure on the BBC. Still, even though I had heard nodding, winking, paedo gags about him for many years, which I assumed were just of the vindictive/silly type, it has been increasingly shocking to watch the truth slowly come out; astounding to see his ostentatious gravestone torn up and smashed to pieces, so that even death is no refuge for him. Hearing some of the horrific, almost unbelievable stories, neither should it be, I suppose.

Then there's Hillsborough, still (rightly of course) rumbling on, the forthcoming US presidential election, the Syrian war and Turkey's involvement, the never-ending Eurozone crisis, Lance Armstrong's reign of terror, Conservative and coalition cuts, John Terry, Ashley Cole, Juilan Assange, Andrew Mitchell, Gary McKinnon, Abu Hamza...

It's all too much for me, and in those circumstances, a bit of footy usually does the trick. So, a review of City past and City yet to come, with some words on England sandwiched in between.

My trip to Craven Cottage was a delight, in a very Fulham sort of way. Not for them the standard pie or burger on the way to the ground, oh no. Instead, a slice of artisan goat's cheese and spinach pizza (at a very reasonable £4 for a large slice. Recommended) was the pre-match choice. Seats were excellent, just on the edge of the City support, who were in fine voice and happy to see a good win over a poor side. Then it was off to South Wales for a few days' break, where the Dortmund match was played out in a pub called The Corvus in St Clears. Nice little place, tiny snug bar with a Calor gas heater and a few sardonic Taffs at the bar. How we survived that torrid but entertaining night is purely down to Joe Hart, and they looked a frighteningly good side, full of vim and vigour, passing the ball well and closing us down at every turn. Some slight encouragement in the chances we made, but I don't hold out much hope for the return leg. What with that and a visit from Jose's men to come, the result against Ajax might make all the difference in the world, though if I'm honest, I think we'll be looking at Thursday night football again at the end of the group stages.

By contrast, Sunderland was all too easy, despite (if you listen to Bobby) being played at the crack of dawn after 2 hours' kip. A strolling romp at home (yet again) and a bit of a disappointment from O'Neill's boys, who I thought might have tried a bit harder. Having Richards back is a good thing, though it does raise more questions about the recent acquisitions. Ironic perhaps that these players were brought in in preparation for the Champions League campaign...

As far as England go, I'm in agreement with most sane people, who question the logic of having San Marino in competition at this level. What is the sense in it? Five nil was just about a satisfactory result for England, and that surely makes a mockery of them playing each other at all. Now we eagerly await the re-scheduled kick-off in Poland and... Oh, fuck it, I can't be bothered to write any more about the England football team. I just hope that something is done about the racism levelled at the Under 21 side in Serbia, but I'm not holding my breath.

Something should also be done about the bloody French, causing damage to Silva before our crucial matches at West Brom and against the Dam united. I'm hopeful of a 2-1 win at the Hawthorns and perhaps a draw with Ajax. Let's see.

Cottage industry

So on to Fulham, and by virtue of the sad misfortune of others, I have a couple of tickets for the neutral (though one might say the whole place is largely neutral) part of the ground. Regardless of possible outcomes (I'm not particularly optimistic, and think that Martin J is doing a decent job there. I fear another bloody draw, if I'm honest) I know Craven Cottage fairly well, having seen City there a couple of times, as well as Bristol Rovers once, and I really like it as a spectating experience: alongside the Thames, the little pavilion still standing in the terraces, and Diddy David Hamilton (real name: Pilditch!) on the PA. I unearthed an amusing piece from the Daily Mirror in 2010, which mentions that Mohammed Al Fayed gave Diddy Dave a bottle of whisky and a box of Viagra when he re-instated him as match day compère. You also get some very interesting results if you type David Hamilton in a Google image search, let me tell you.

That aside, Craven Cottage seems more Henley than football really. I saw City there when Keegan was managing them, and I embarrassingly let loose a foul mouthed rant at him when he appeared at the corner of the pitch, attracting disapproving looks from a family group standing near me. I will be more circumspect on Saturday, especially as Kev is unlikely to be present. I believe Anelka scored for us, though I am admittedly a little hazy, and sometimes confuse the Cottage with Loftus Road in my memory.

My own good fortune - balancing out the above-mentioned misfortune of others - with the tickets extends to not having to pay for them, but if I had, the price would have been a cool £55 each! That does seem excessive, I have to say. My City supporting cousin Steve, who still lives in Oswestry, seemed to think that Fulham would be a short little jaunt for me, but I had to disabuse him of the fact, and tell him that it can take between 90 minutes and 2 hours to get there from where I live - not a whole lot shorter than it would take to travel to London from Oswestry. I'm looking forward to the match, though, and hope that we get some decent entertainment, even though the Lord Berba is out with his hip problem.

H&F

The Fox was absolutely packed.

Not with football fans particularly, but rather hordes of Irish watching Dublin and Kerry hurl at each other. Grannies and kiddies, pale white skin and red hair, pints of the black stuff, vodkas & lemonade, a plate from the carvery and a black & white knotted thing tucked into the back pocket, cheering the incomprehensible rubbish on the many screens.

If ever a publican bucked the trend, here's one, let me tell you. Obviously doing something right, with beer close to £4 the pint (although not everyone was drinking - especially those who watched the proper game, squeezed economy class into the fiddly corners of the pub, where it's not easy to get a view of the game without blocking someone else) and yet not enough room, even with the huge beer garden and the separate function rooms, to get all the punters in. And to be fair (aside from the £4 price tag) I do like the place myself. Two lovely dogs (one a Pyrenean mountain dog named Hudson, like a great bear rug and the other a lab called Max) and a mostly friendly clientele; the boss very chatty. What's not to like?

But it wasn't for me yesterday. Those stupid Sunday 3 o'clock kick-offs always put me in a foul mood. I understand that it accommodates the midweek European travellers and all that bunkum, but it drives me mad. So, radio on (1-0 when I left the house) and then a quick scoot up the road to - ostensibly - watch the first half of the Rags/Chelsea match. This was when I was confronted with the Irish diaspora hooting and hollering at the screen where nothing of any import or interest seemed to be happening. With a few random thoughts about the global recession, and the shithole the Emerald Isle has found it in not seeming to effect those chucking the booze down them, I finally managed to get served. No seats were available naturally, so I edged myself in behind a table where a man (without a pint in front of him!) was sitting and started watching the muted action at the Sty to the background of RTE commentary. Goal from Agüero! Great news. Rags score. Shit news. Still, 2-0 up and looking good. My beer finished and without the heart or cash to buy another, I headed home towards 5 Live, learning when I got there that it was now 2-1 with 15 minutes to go.

'Dangerous...' I thought and waited for the inevitable equaliser, fucking lucky shit deflected Danny Murphy bollocks it was. Meanwhile, Nani scores for them, Rooney misses a penalty and scores and Torres continues to swing his banjo loosely in the direction of cows' arses. All so bloody inevitable, really. It puts the Monday routine all out of kilter, having to read articles about how we threw it away, how we still have some way to go before we match the ruthless, winning attitude of the fucking Rags, and blah blah blah...

I was going to say that some progress is shown by this away draw feeling more like a defeat, but Fulham were bottom of the table yesterday morning, and are absolutely shit, so we should be beating them from the comfort of a 2 goal cushion. Shouldn't we?

Mrs Brady

Thanks (I think...) to The Spectator for this image.

Officially better than Juve, then?



It was, to say the least, an odd one for me watching City today (I heard that it was possible to see the game via Justin.tv on the computer, where - they say - feeds from all over the world are aggregated and beamed to users without the need to pay a subscription fee. To Rupert Murdoch, or anyone else, come to that. I'm advised that - if you do take advantage of this entirely illegal service, you might end up with a South American commentary, complete with the obligatory vintage Chris Tarrant TV shouts of 'Goooooaaaaaaalllll!!!!' morphing into 'I Love You Baby' and amusingly partisan shouts of 'Carrrrlitoss!' every time Tevez touches the ball.) but I ain't making no fuss.

Fulham were never really in it, and the handball decision was harsh to say the least. Hard to credit that they gave The Old Lady such a run for her money in the week, but - as the inimitable Mr Hodgson was quick to point out - there's often a reaction to every action.



Of course, the high-as-a-kite Mr Dempsey had to sink to earth with a deafening thud at some point. He has not gone up in my estimation, and that's a fact.

All in all, not too bad a show this weekend, though I was hoping for a high scoring draw between the Rags and the Scousers, with some juicy injuries thrown in. But then again, you can't have it all, as Kate Bush would doubtless agree.

Clempsey

Well, what can I say?

Apart from fusckshitwanker.

I'm going to compile a chart of the highs and lows of a City fan. It will be similar to the map function in Flickr, where one is able to gradually drill down from the entire globe to the very house in which you are sitting.

The top of the chart will be marked 'excellent' and the bottom will be marked 'shite' and there will be an entirely objective plotting process for each game as far as the Citizens are concerned. It will track individual games and then pan out to the pontoon scale, then full season, going on to the entire history of the club. I will be able to conclusively prove that it is more exciting, in terms of pure adrenaline, to support Manchester City than any other team. There may even be an Easter Egg.

Saturday's game against Fulham (no exception to the rule) was screened on Setanta Sports only (another nail in the coffin, IYAM) so wasn't easy to track down. I congratulated myself on finishing the new curtains in time to get to the pub for the kick-off. They're all Gooners here, so I wasn't surprised to find the nearest pub half empty. Imagine my horror when, strolling to the bar, I turned to find out if there had been a first minute incident and saw.........

Ipswich v Coventry!!!! WTF?? I thought, turning smartly on my heel. For a moment it crossed my mind to pop into the offy and catch the game on 5 Live at home, but something persuaded me to keep walking.

I ended up at Kennedy's, a so-so bar on the Cally. I was relieved to see that the game was being shown in there, even if the set-up is pathetically poor for watching telly - at best, maybe 6 people can see the (2) screens properly. I plonked myself down and craned my neck, fully expecting a dour affair - 1-0, 0-0 maybe, and waited...

City were prising fish scales off bent oak planks skilfully coopered into a pleasing rotundity for 20 minutes and then the inevitable happened. Fookin Fulham got one. City were so irredeemably crap at this stage that I was losing the will to live. The only thing that sustained me was my enduring love.

On and on this went, till I turned my head when I heard a supportive murmur:

"Fucking Clint Dempsey," a voice said in a languid US drawl. A pissed-up Yank was sitting next to me and paying attention to the game. He had watched Arsenal's earlier demolition of Derby and had stayed the course for City/Fulham. My estimation of the good ol' US of A went up a few notches right there - especially with the vitriolic hatred of 'Clempsey', as he called him. There's nothing so pleasing as an irrational hatred of a particular player (though you could argue that in Clint's case, the hatred is entirely rational) Despite the paucity of our play, Fulham were somehow, inconceivably, worse and we got one back. Stephen Ireland (though he will no doubt deny it) clattered into Dempsey and left him on the deck. My new buddy said he would buy me a beer if we got Dempsey stretchered off and the evening really started to get going as we cheered every mistake he made.

The game ended in a 3 all draw, though there could have been even more goals at both ends. There was a table of Gooners who had thrown in their lot with Fulham (solidarity among Londoners or some other bollocks, I suppose) and I was hoping and praying that we would turn them over. The Yank finally showed his true colours by leaving at half time, but he wished me a 'Good luck, man' as he left, and the little Tory who sold me a hamster a few months back took his place. He said that he would have stopped supporting West Ham if Sven had taken over there. I said he wouldn't have.

Cracking game, terrible result.