Out Out Out

A fitting way to watch the FA Cup final which - somewhat sadly - I really wasn't looking forward to all that much anyway. I was struck down early on Wednesday morning by some kind of gastric bug. I will spare you the gruesome details, but suffice it to say that I am still at the tail-end of the hideous fallout from it. On top of the rear end action, I was also feeling a little flu-ey: aching joints and head; slightly spaced out physicality, etc. No doubt compounded by the lack of sleep as I sat and stared at the tiled toilet floor in the middle of the night. So it was in this frame of mind that I crawled onto the sofa at 5 fucking 15 on Saturday, a can of beer unopened in front of me for nearly 45 minutes, listlessly watching the match unfold.

What can I say? I never expected - as so many fuckwits seemed to - that we would turn Wigan over. Just recently, we were extremely lucky to get away with a 1-0 win over them, and, unluckily mired as they are in the bottom three, they are still more than capable of playing some good football. I'm not calling him a fuckwit, but my cousin Steve predicted 4-1 City. I always (honestly - I'm not trying to big myself up) believed that it would be a low scoring affair. From the off, the Latics looked seemingly impenetrable in defence, though perhaps lacking in the final ball finesse to score, while we were lethargic and utterly bereft of ideas. A packed line of central defenders repeatedly stifled the darting runs of Kun and Tevez. Silva, on the rare occasions he did pick up the ball, was not playing at all well, and Yaya looked as if he was still suffering the muscle fatigue reported against Swansea earlier in the week. There was some hope rather than anticipation that we might click in the second half, but it was very short-lived and - truth be told - they (and particularly McManaman) came on much more strongly as the game progressed - cocking a snook at 'bloody' Roy Keane and his pearls of wisdom. I was too weak to shout, but that didn't matter as there was hardly anything worth shouting about. More and more often, Clichy was made to look an idiot down our left side, until their scoring seemed an inevitability, and then Zab got his marching orders, putting paid to any chance we might have had of (unjustly) nicking one to win it.

I'm no fan of Dave Whelan - in fact I think he's a Tory cunt - but I suppose I've got nothing in particular against their fans, even if they do like egg chasing more than the beautiful game. In any case, it's important to be magnanimous in defeat, so fair play to them, congratulations and all that.

We hear that Bobby is being treated in the now familiar shabby fashion that is modern football management, although swinging the axe on the very day that was the anniversary of our tremendous title win was classless in the extreme. The loss though, and the end to a potless and disappointing campaign, fits the mood of the moment - even as Sralex stands and cries in the middle of the Sty, sticking the knife in as the tears roll down his face. Wigan then, as much as City, deserved what they got, so it's time to look to the future and our exciting trips to South Africa and the USA. Time to consider life under a Chilean rather than an Italian.

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.

No bovver

My cousin Steve would certainly not thank me for bringing up a case of divided loyalty. When we were kids (we used to spend a great deal of time together, almost more brothers than cousins) he was a Leeds fan. The little football table I had was customised to match our different allegiances, with one side all in Leeds white and the other in City blue. I even painted the 'City' left winger's head yellow to denote Peter Barnes' blond barnet. It was only later (I'm not sure exactly how old he would have been) that Steve switched allegiance to City in honour of his father, who was also responsible for my own dedication to the men of Maine Road.

In addtion to Barnes, Paul Power and Dave Watson were key players for me; Corrigan in goal, Donachie (for some reason, we used to deliberately make the 'ch' sound soft) at left back and Tueart up front. He had Lorimer, Norman Hunter, Gordon McQueen, Sniffer Clarke and Trevor Cherry, and what epic matches we had - occasionally - miraculously drafting in George Best, Pele or Clyde from the Harlem Globetrotters to cover for any injured regulars. Striking how many Scottish players there were among the elite in those days. Not the case now, is it? Not only the lack of Scots players, but the whole thing really does seem a world away. The summer of 1976, with its endless drought, images of rugged, mashed-up centre backs with flowing locks and floppy fringes clearing their nostrils stuck into my scrap book alongside cut out Hagar the Horrible strips, Sun Fun cartoons and Mercedes logos.

City were of course a formidable force in those days, and so were Leeds. Two behemoths of the game, slugging it out with Liverpool and Ipswich Town for dominance of the First Division. Yesterday's performance by the Yorkshiremen, if Steve had retained his original allegiance, would surely have made him very angry indeed. I really can't think of a meaningful attack from them in the whole match, and they couldn't have made it any easier for us to shrug off the disappointment of the St. Mary's debacle. Whether this stroll in the park will mean renewed hope in the title race is another point, and a moot one, it has to be said. Chelsea will not be so obliging, and neither will any of the teams we are yet to face - Rags included. The fact of drawing Barnsley in the next round though should at least mean that we progress further in the FA Cup, so things could be worse.

On another note, I am considering retiring this blog. Not long now till I reach a total of 555 posts, and it would seem to make some sort of sense to knock it on the head. My readership stats are very low, and since I implemented text recognition, I don't even get spam comments any more. Maybe I'll try a new venture, like Tumblr or something. I don't know. Will keep you informed.

Don't believe a word of it

Well no tonking, but a reasonably satisfying last minute incident at White Hart Lane, as well as Old Alex losing it (again!) over yet more officialdom incompetence. Five points the gap now, so keep it coming please. Now on to fucking Stoke again. How utterly boring. I bet at least if you dared to kick a ballboy at the Britannia stadium, you would be nursing a very nasty injury as a result. FWIW, and I still don't really like the FA Cup much, I think we will probably get a draw up there and then - perhaps - beat them in the return leg.

Last night to my daughter's parents' evening at the sponsored academy which is providing her with the ammunition for a tough life ahead. Very pleased I was too, with forecast A or even A* grades in almost all of her subjects (maths excluded, but that was never my strong point either. Not that that means I don't want her to succeed in the dark arts of number crunching, which is a subject I still don't understand, but now love in a sort of murky way) and very glowing reports from the teachers. My school days were certainly not peppered with such praise, and I only hope that a) the upward trajectory continues and b) that there are jobs of any kind for her to do when she reaches working age.

It seemed odd to be sitting there listening to the teachers saying all this good stuff while Michael fucking Gove continues to spew his regressive, reactionary bullshit (can one spew bullshit?) from his ivory tower at the Department for Education. Will her A* grades (should she get them) be arbitrarily downgraded to Bs? Will she then be assessed on her A Levels (subjects - Kings and Queens of England, Poetry Rote Recitation and Being English) only at the end of a two year study period? Will the cost of a university education be so prohibitive that only people like Captain Wales can afford it, and then after this gruelling struggle, will she end up executing innocent civilians through a space age monocle because the only jobs going will be to keep the natives' hands off their own fossil fuels?

Answers on a postcard please.