Pride

Perhaps it was because there was nothing to fight for but pride; maybe it helped that Van Persil left his shooting boots at home and Roo (ha!) had a mare. It could have been any of those things, but in the end we easily deserved the glorious win that marked two consecutive away beatings of the old enemy. Another incredible goal from Kun to seal it, and an overall performance which showed few of the cracks and failings we have displayed in some of our worst matches this season. Nastasic looking solid, Clichy full of running, Vinnie back to his self-assured best, Yaya strong and powerful - playing a captain's role on the occasions when football was secondary to handbags - and Milner getting MOTM as he deservedly should have. Merlin not quite clicking as we know he can, but still more than bloody decent, and Nasri playing... well... OK, I suppose. Then it was all nicely capped off with the #tweetyourphiljonesface hilarity the next morning, once again confirming City fans as the wittiest in the country.

On to Chelsea then, and in the purest sense, the football gods you might say would demand a sacrifice, but the victory at the Sty was purely on merit, and I can say with my hand on my heart that we bossed the fuckers for pretty much the whole 96 or 97 minutes. Even their goal was ridiculous, down to a crazy Joe Hart lunge and a bounce off Jones' beaker mug onto the back of Vinnie's shirt before somehow going in. We all know that Bobby and Platty are right when they say that the title race is over, but we can dream. A small glimmer of hope to brighten this interminable winter with its persistent easterly wind gnawing at our bones.

Though they do say spring is on its way, with a possible 21 degrees at Wembley to look forward to tomorrow, and what promises to be a testing game against the Smilers. Could go either way that one (I'm not ashamed of the cliche, thank you) but it does look likely to have its moments. Mata, Hazard and Oscar are all deadly on their day, while Ba can bang them in, and even old Frankie Lamps is still a man to cause any team problems. But they are, if not a curate's egg (which is becoming one of my favourite phrases - typically slippery English) then certainly a curious bunch this season, Benitez's boys: full of flair and brio one minute and clod-hopping losers the next. On top of that, it is the FA Cup of course, and the accepted wisdom is that accepted wisdom goes flying out of the window. All I can say is that I'm looking forward to it. Sunday 4 o'clock kick-off is an ideal match time for me.

Current reading: Stephen King's It. Not up to the standard of Gerald's Game or The Shining, but entertaining nevertheless. King can write about childhood like nobody else, but It seems a little too unfocussed to hold the terror of - for example - the Overlook Hotel. I've had quite an exclusive diet of the Maine man lately, but I'll stick with It for the time being. I feel I can't flush Stephen out of my system till I get hold of a copy of Pet Sematary. Then I will move on to someone or something else.

Current listening: I've Been Everywhere, Man by Johnny Cash. What a tune! I'm trying to:

a) learn the words and

b) come up with an Oswestry version (having found that there's a Kiwi one, FFS!) even though Maesbury doesn't have quite the same ring as Sioux City.


Current work situation: being called a fucking wanker by some weirdo who spends his time ringing us up and complaining about... what? I don't know. I was rattled the first time it happened, but now everyone is surprised at how clamly I deal with him.

Oligarchs

My thoughts on the Pistorius/Steenkamp case (as everyone seems to feel the need to express these) are that the whole tragic case has only been compounded by the astonishing way in which every detail of it is being broadcast - almost in real time. No good can come of this prurient desire to splash every morsel of information over every media outlet in the world, and it is depressing in the extreme. That's that.

So next up Chelsea again, shunted aside to a lunchtime kick-off by the ridiculous display of the Capital One cup final (seriously - and I am a football fan let me tell you - who but followers of Bradford and Swansea can be looking forward to that?) The boys from the Bridge are hardly an ideal team to face at such a critical juncture. A few seasons ago, I would have feared the worst; the season before and the one just gone, the tone would have been a good deal more optimistic; this time, it could go either way. They are still a good side, despite their recent minor fall from grace (which is actually only a part of the decline in English Premier League football in comparison to say Italian or German sides - in the Champions League, that is) and capable of giving any opponent a game. Amazingly, Torres continues to endure the purgatory of being Roman's golden boy, but I feel despite the seemingly endless toil and humiliation that he will always carry a threat. In Hazard and Oscar they have two fantastic players, and of course fabulous Frankie Lampard is banging them in to try and reach that record before he heads off to Kazakhstan, or China, or wherever the hell they send them these days. Cech looks a lot weaker than he has ever done, but is nonetheless big and strong with a scary hat on. For us, Tevez ought to be buoyed by some good performances and his goal against Leeds, Kun is hot hot hot, and Vinnie looks as if he may make it back from his calf (or is it foal?) injury. So, hard to predict the outcome of this one. I will say 2-1 City, though fear it could be a draw or even the reverse of that scoreline.

For some reason, I thought the Rags would be playing the second leg of their Madrid tie during the week, but of course they've changed the setup once more, and it's on next week. Zzzzz. They face the Hoops at Shepherd's Bush, most likely without pube head, but that shouldn't make much difference, and I fully expect them to run away with it there 1-0. All of which means we will probably have to pedal like hell just to stand still. But hey - there's pride if nothing else to play for.

Further to my last update, I've just finished Stephen King's On Writing (I also came across a review [well, sort of a review] of Pet Sematary today, and now I feel I must read that one. As my Isness said, it would almost be possible to read nothing but Stephen King) which I've been meaning to read for a while now. Worth the wait, and it's set me to thinking a little about 'the craft' and my place in it. I'm going to take on Stephen's challenge in the book, and aim to produce the fruits of my labour in the final post on this blog. I will say no more on that subject because the door must remain firmly shut.

Fat Man

I apologise if anyone took my tip and opted for a 2-1 final score at Stamford Bridge on Sunday. This was a truly drab game, and although I thought City played well enough in patches, they just lacked the killer punch. A bit (stealing from my cousin Steve here) like the sad Ricky Hatton in the ring the night before, although both teams were slugged and pummelled into a weary submission here. Neither side showed a huge amount of commitment or quality in front of goal, and frustrating was the only word for it. I have to say that if there had been a less lenient referee, the match might have flared into something more closely resembling a contest. He let the game flow and could easily have got up to a couple of reds if he had come down harder early on - though for once I feel Mario was hard done by for his yellow. Not that I wish for a dirty match, just that we might have seen a bit more gusto if it had happened. I think also the anger of the detestable Chelsea fans towards their new manager must surely have had an effect on the home side. Anyway, the less said about this poor excuse for a game of football the better, and let's hope we see something different at the home of Rugby League on Wednesday night. I fear we may struggle again, but this time I think that a 2-1 to City scoreline might be the result this time.

Now, on to the next thing. I've mentioned it once already, and it becomes increasingly hard to ignore as time goes by. Yes, Christmas is just around the corner.

This year, operating the way I do in my personal life, is particularly tricky as the Big Day falls on a Tuesday. My place of employment is being typically anal and seeking to control everyone minutely, so it feels as if there is hardly any room to breathe. For a festival which lasts one - maybe two - days, Christmas causes an awful lot of heartache. Retailers are sweating their arses off hoping that folks will shell out ever-increasing amounts on the latest tat; families are frantic with worry about the presents, the cooking, the inevitable interaction with people they hardly ever see; sad milestones are marked with depression; even the telly isn't what it used to be, what with all the guff you can get on the internet and elsewhere all year round.

I have one simple proposal (and it has probably already been suggested by loads of people) which - though not a cure-all for the Yuletide disease - might do a little something to help. Why not follow the Easter pattern and make Christmas day the Friday after the last full moon in whenever (I'm sure the theological doctors could come up with something which meant it was always the second-to-last Friday of December) on some ridiculous religious calendar somewhere? Boxing Day could then fall on the Monday after it and we would get a four day weekend. You'd have to make sure that New Year's Eve was untouched of course, because I feel that people won't put up with moving that around, but surely it makes sense from all angles to have the Christmas event better managed? I mean, there is no real evidence to suggest that Jesus ever lived at all (old scraps of papyrus don't count for me) so why get hung up on the 'fact' that he was born on the 25th of December? In any case, the whole thing was hijacked from the pagan agricultural/astronomical festival, which was devised at a time when most people didn't have to get the tube into work five days a week. Just a thought.

Churning

In sympathy with City, my stomach roiled and boiled last night, just after the final whistle. For the first time in ages, I was nastily sick all over the toilet and surrounding floorspace. I actually think my stomach was unsettled for most of the day, but it was only after being sick that I realised it. Funny, really.

On a day when Chelsea madness took a further step forward, and when Israeli madness seemed to take a tentative step backwards, City inevitably bowed out of the Champions League for another year. Not a great show from us, it has to be said, though there was at least a little bit of fight in the second half. The penalty was something of a gift, and it never really felt as if we were going to get another goal. Clearly, the damage was done at the Bernabeu when we surrendered an unlikely lead and gave the game away in those crazy last few minutes. In all honesty, we have been pretty conclusively outplayed in all of our CL fixtures this year, with both Dortmund and Ajax making us look slightly amateurish, and appearing very naive in allowing the Spaniards back in at that first match. More than the Galacticos however, I was hugely impressed with both the other two, but especially the Germans, who look to be an extremely accomplished and combative side, able to give any Premier League team a torrid time.

And there's the essence of the thing really. This year's season at the top table of English club football has been of even lower quality than last. No disrespect to West Brom, and apologies to the once cultured Hammers, but the presence of these two teams so near the top of the league really speaks to that drop in standards. It's all to the good, I suppose, to have a more open competition, and it would be great if the Prem were more like the Championship, with any team capable of beating any other at any time. Yet it doesn't help the standing of English football in the European elite.

It's not all bad though. For the moment, we are top of the league, a point ahead of the Rags, and starting to play a little better. As well as that, Rafa Benitez is installed at Chelsea, and one can only hope that his arrival will not be one of those which galvanizes a moribund team into action. Finally, my own predilection for getting scores and outcomes correct is starting to become a little bit scary. I rightly said 2-1 against Spurs, tipped a heavy win with Tevez goals against Villa and predicted a draw against Mourinho's men last night. As far as Chelsea go on Sunday (in case you fancy a punt) I reckon 2-1 City. You can have that one on me.

Not just anybody

Meaning no disrespect to the Paralympics, which I always enjoy watching, it seems somehow fitting that the end of the Olympic Games coincides with the Community Shield. Finally, the season is starting and, for once, City can head into it more in expectation than in hope.

The annual Guardian prediction column has us as favourites. I hesitantly agree, and think that we really should be living up to the hype this year. No signings yet, but not too much panic, except perhaps in central defence should we be without Kompany for any reason. Agger I'm not sure about, though everyone seems to think he's a decent player. As for the opposition, I believe that Liverpool have finally settled on being a second tier club; their ambition severely curtailed by the harsh economic reality they are facing. Chelsea will be a threat - always will while big Roman is digging into his pockets - though I don't believe that Di Matteo is the real deal. I think I said this before, but Arsenal will be better than last season, with or without Van Persie. Spurs I'm not sure about. Again, a good squad, but light in attack. The Rags?

Ah, the Rags. I'm not expecting great things from them, but they will be there or thereabouts, because they still have a great deal of talent, and a point to prove. Another couple of seasons, unless something unexpected happens, and a decline will set in. That's what I think. So, my prediction for the top 10 in full:

1. City
2/3. Chelsea
3/2. Rags
4. Arsenal
5. Spurs
6/7. Everton
7/6. Liverpool
8/9. Newcastle
9/8. Fulham
10. Anyone else from the rest with Soton at the foot

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!

The Blues

Well, quite a shock with Fabrice Muamba. It set me to remembering Marc Vivien Foé, a sudden and tragic death on the pitch during the reign of Keegan (though of course he was playing for Cameroon when he died) as a result of heart failure. I can't imagine how it must be to experience such an event as a spectator or player, but I'm sure it sears the day into your memory. I hope that Muamba recovers.

Now, as we all know, the show must go on. Wolves though didn't seem to think so yesterday, getting tonked 5-0 at home by the Rags in yet another shameful capitulation. They should never have got rid of the wonderful Mick McCarthy, I say. Things are definitely not looking so bright now for the City side of Manchester, and I have serious doubts that we will be able to catch the Rag fuckers up - Tevez or no Tevez. It seems to me that our biggest worries are once again at the back (though Silva's perhaps understandable dip in form after such a mercurial start to the season is also playing a part) rather than the front, and I fear for the result on Wednesday night, despite some of our recent successes against Chelsea.

As we used to say in school - first the worst, second the best, but that was from a place of some desperation as we struggled across the finishing line just ahead of the boys who liked Physics lessons and watching butterflies. So, Bobby's coming across a bit lame to say the least, saying once again that he had made a mistake in underestimating Sporting, just as he did when we lost to the Toffees a few weeks back. Come on son, sort it out! At least there was some spirit in the fightback against the Portuguese the other night, and I suppose you can't ask for much more than that. Also helpful that Bilbao (fans as well as players) showed United how it should be done, and absolutely humiliated them.

I will stick to my guns and maintain that losing a good match is preferable to winning a dull one in the cosmic balance of football karma, but I can't hide at least a little disappointment at the fact that (it at least looks as if) it will be the Rags that pip us to the post again. I have to agree with whichever football writer (Andy Dunn, I think, read in a café copy of the Sun, in case you were thinking I may have bought one) who was sure that Bobby's services would be dispensed with should we finish runners-up, the patience of the Sheikhs predicted to be used up by that point. Mourinho, tired of banking his £10,000,000 a year from Real Madrid, might consider bringing his talents to Eastlands, and in any case we'll win the lot next year. Won't we?

Where the typewriter clipped

All is not lost. But, when the writing of Max Hastings starts to make sense, then a serious sense of perspective is needed.

Churchill's ghost has been seen around Westminster a fair bit over the past couple of weeks, drafted in by Mad Max's readership of swivel-eyed twunts to give power to Dave's elbow in his great stand against the Brussels bureaucrats. Yet (having found myself irresistibly drawn to the Daily Hitler in the cafe) I noted that Max quoted him in support of another - opposing - view of this farrago. Wars, Winnie's quote sort of went, were never won by evacuations, and god knows where we will go from here. People like Tim Montgomerie and Baron Freud are - instead of being locked up in padded cells - a part of the executive and their insane philosophy will ruin us all before long.

Just as Labour politicians have felt the need to drift to the centre (though in fact have ended up further to the right than their original adversaries) in order to feel themselves electable, so Cameron and his pals have so far tempered the worst excesses of their true agenda to gain power. But now the objective has been achieved, and now that we all seem to be swallowing this nonsense about balancing budgets and cutting deficits, they can really let rip. Are you living in a house with a spare room whilst receiving housing benefit? Then you will have to put up or shut up. I do wonder how many rooms there are in Lord Freud's home, but I would guess that he probably has more bathrooms than you could shake a stick at, and I could reasonably safely hazard that there hasn't been the full tax payment made against his property or properties.

Are you suffering from cancer, perhaps undergoing chemotherapy? Clearly, this means (!) that you are fit for work, even if there is either a) no work to be had or b) such work as there is is so badly paid that you live in fear of losing your home, and dare not switch on your heating because it is unaffordable. So we stagger from one insane and evil initiative to another, while the lifeblood pumps out of the economy day by day. Tim Montgomerie thinks that this is compassionate Conservatism, and everyone inside the House of Commons is playing some mad game which bears no relationship to reality in the slightest. Perhaps, muses Max, 'twas ever thus, and the only difference now is that it is televised.

I cannot even offer succour from the gift that keeps on giving up in Beswick. Despite a win against the Bayern Munich C Team, we are out of the 'lucrative' Champions League (these days, success in sport - like everything else it seems - is measured in monetary terms) and as I feared suffered defeat at the horrible Stamford Bridge to bring the Rags to within 2 points of us. The only redeeming factor is that they will be joining us on our Thursday evening sojourns across the decaying continent of Europa. Onward with the Project, comrades! Fear not the doubters! City have protection from the Man at Number 10.

Nerves

Apologies for the recent online silence, but I have been in mourning for the (to all intents and purposes) end of Manchester City's season. I thought we were doing OK against Chelsea in the first half, but they fucked us in the end. At least we weren't the ones on which Torres bust his still intact cherry, and for that small mercy we can only be grateful. The Kiev match was a wash-out once Balo had received his marching orders, even if it was something of a relief that we were out of that stupid Europa League competition. I am now reduced to hoping that the Rags get caught by the Gooners in the finishing straight. Fourth spot is by no means a foregone for us, and that will sure as eggs is eggs seal Mancini's fate if it so transpires.

But enough of this maudlin talk. We have failed two big tests and have to move on. Now for another test - this time for me.

I mentioned my NEBOSH training in a recent post.

And now the moment of truth approaches. Yes, it's the exam. A two hour pen and paper assessment with a pass mark of 45%, due to commence at 10am on Thursday 24th March. The pass seems fairly easily achievable, and as a result I feel that I've become a little complacent. My original aim was to try and get a distinction (which I believe to be 70%+) or at least a merit (which I think is 60%+) but I am now fully prepared to settle for the pass. I don't have a particular fear of written exams, though, I have to say. I feel that I have always (at least since I left school. Whilst I was at school, through a mixture of laziness and some very poor teachers, I did rather abysmally) more or less performed well in such pressure situations. I'm just hopeful that I will get some of the more woolly questions about health & safety culture, where I can freeform bullshit, rather than the hard fact regurgitation of some of the other areas - although the PEME, ERICPD and POPIMAR pnemonics have sunk in, so I suppose I shouldn't have that much to worry about.

I never thought, I must confess, when I started here in what felt like a sleepy backwater after the madness of Defra/Interserve, that things would get as hectic as they have, but I'm not complaining. At least I've got a job, and if I do manage to achieve that pass, my CV will appear a damn sight healthier than it did before I arrived.

Atmosphere

It hasn't felt like a Cup Final day today. Not in any way, shape or form. I could not have given a flying fuck whether Chelsea won or Pompey lost (I know, I have a heart of stone. I just don't buy all that fairytale shit, I'm sorry to say) and have felt nothing since finding out the result a few minutes ago.



I read a tweet earlier (from Tim Lovejoy) which was lamenting the lack of TV build up, though that has been the case for many a long year. The last one I enjoyed featured the erstwhile manager of Bettabuys (ashamed that I can't recall his name now) carrying out a draw for the two teams who would be playing and also involved the usual QoS special. Since then, in all honesty, there hasn't been too much to get excited about, though that might have been different if City had been involved.

Now, as ever, the febrile excitement of the approaching World Cup is slightly tempered by the masses of injuries which have befallen the players. I could hardly believe my eyes when I saw Capello's squad of 30 and immediately thought I could do better - until I started to look into some of the other possible players and realised that there really isn't much of an option other than Emile Heskey. God help us.

Last night in the pub, I got into a conversation with a couple of blokes, and one made me laugh uproariously with stories of his dad banging the side of the TV to make Big Emile fall over. It worked every time.

At least there are the play-offs to look forward to.

Bristols

It was the best of games, it was the worst of games.

Oh all right then, it was the best of games. Actually, the only real response had to be laughter, as perfectly captured by one of my Spurs mates when he thoughtfully rang me after the final whistle. This was in direct opposition to one of my Rag mates (yes, there are some...) who texted me before the end of the game (he knows the rules, and it isn't the first time he's broken them either) to crow about us helping the cause of our red smeared neighbours. Class, as they say, always tells. I would like to congratulate Manchester United on lifting the 3 handled cup again, but I won't.

So, returning to more important matters, I marvelled at the yin-yangness of the thing at Stamford Bridge on Saturday. It was a tale of two men, no doubt about it - the famous not-handshake forcing even the mighty Murdoch to change his habits and shift his ad schedule around. There was quite a lot of business around the 'not-shake and stir affair' as it goes, with one of the officials attempting some sort of 'brother' clasp with Wayne just before the big JT moment and then the Bridge air-shot immediately followed by a shake with a kid (which surely doesn't count as a shake anyway?) standing next to the odious erstwhile captain. A palpable tension was in the air.

And then the game.

To say that City were continuing in their recent vein of (atrocious - and tedious) form would be an understatement, and after the first goal, I was convinced that it would be pelmets for Henri. How wrong can you be? The slowest strike in the world from Tevez - jet lag fuelled one might say - crept over the line and from that moment on, the match was transformed, the balance tipping our way with every scuffed kick and misplaced pass, every spiteful flick and resigned march towards the tunnel. A game of two halves you are never more likely to see. This is what has struck me (pathetic as I may be with my number shit, but there you go) about the game:

Tevez scored 2; Bellamy scored 2; Lampard scored 2; Chelsea had 2 men sent off; the total number of goals is divisible by 2; I start my new job on 2 March; John Terry is a number 2.