Long Live the King

I know I've mentioned him before, and I apologise for the repetition, but he's got into my head again. The latest compulsion is a book called Gerald's Game, a nasty yet absorbing piece about a woman who ends up (where else?) in a deserted holiday home in the Maine woods - handcuffed to a bed - while her husband lies dead at her feet. In fact, the eponymous husband is slain by those very feet when he fails to read his wife's stop signals clearly enough.

As always, there's no messing around with Mr King. He's straight into the action and does not stop all the way along (though I haven't yet finished) barely pausing for breath as he goes. Aside from what I think are the book's fascinating themes of sex and sexual abuse, self-loathing and fear, there is the writer's courage at being able to examine in microscopic detail the very worst of human nature we can possibly imagine. And we can possibly imagine quite a lot, unfortunately. There are, it is true, real instances of child abuse, and perhaps also real instances of handcuffed women killing their husbands when bondage games go wrong. However, the ability to take these events and write them down on a page surely requires an unflinching resolve, a firm grasp of one's natural revulsion to persist with accurately (some might say a little salaciously in King's case, perhaps. Though this book is somewhat less fantastical than many of his others, there is still almost a sense of his revelling in the gore and dark stuff) portraying them. Anyone who does not harbour sexual feelings towards minors would surely find it difficult to write down such an episode? Whatever the case, it's a rare book indeed that causes me to gasp on the bus, or to unwittingly cover my mouth with my hand at the horror on the page, and must be praised for that alone.

In the meantime, thoughts turn to the Geordies and the question of whether Bobby will keep his job or not at the Sports Direct.com Stadium/St. James's Park. Certainly I think the stuffing was knocked out of us during last weekend's fiasco, and we need to make a firm statement of our intent. Whether we can or not is moot. Newcastle are looking pretty shaky at the moment it's true, but they still have some dangerous players, and there's no way we can sit on our laurels. I'm opting for 2-1 City, though hoping for a few more in our favour. Howay the Blues!

Straining

A big win, they said. A decent match, though we could - and should - have banged more goals in. The Geordies didn't threaten over much, but sometimes looked dangerous on the break. Yaya is clearly the man for the big occasion, although I'm already thoroughly sick of hearing that he is 'worth every penny' of his transfer fee and the massive pay cheque he receives each week. But, he is a thing of beauty on the pitch, an enormous brooding presence that can suddenly burst into life and run the length of the pitch, or get off a sublime shot from 25 yards out.

Now all that stands in our way is the Ruabon soul dancer, that alumnus of the Rags, of Chelsea, of Wales, of Blackburn, of Fulham, and of course - of City. Sparky's boys, fighting not to go down with the chicken men and the Wolves, complete with Joey Barton and SWP for resonance, as well as Taarabt for possible goal danger. Can we do it? Will the Mackems, now without the ever pliant Steve Bruce, stand up to the dejected Rags and do the job for us? Kick off time on Sunday can't come soon enough.

My heart is all a-flutter at the prospect, let me tell you. I fear for us against the Hoops and am beginning to regret making mention of Stan Bowles in a previous post (though in the style of Private Eye's Andrew Neil Brillo shot, I think I should put that picture up again). What I am trying to keep in mind is: 'win or lose, it's City for ever'. It doesn't matter if we are pipped at the post, because we've given our all this season, and it's been a mighty good one in terms of entertainment value. Still, eh? One in the eye for old Fergie and his merry men will top things off nicely.

COME ON CITY!

Hold Fast

Well, my prediction of a low scoring match was absolutely correct. The watching galaxy of stars, from Diego to Liam to Thaksin, were not treated to a night of stellar entertainment, but a win is most certainly a win - especially at such a crucial time of the season. Some nerves on the part of City, and a (largely) very poor display from the Rags were major contributors to the way that the game played out. I was amazed at Bacon Face's team selection, which was negative in the extreme, and left pube head Shrek with few options up front on his own. Aww, shame.

Barring the odd scare in the box (high balls swung into the area always seem to cause chaos in the City back line, although we are starting to defend better) there was very little showing from them and, not having yet read a match report to verify, I cannot recall a shot on our goal. Park was a bad choice, even if he had been match fit, and Jones, Smalling and Evra were decidedly average. Nani was just shit, and amen to that. Of course, there's always playing the averages, and I'm convinced that Fergie was definitely thinking of damage limitation when he set out his team, aware that we are still to play the surging (bar the Latics hiccup) Geordies and Sparky's losers, while he gets to stroll in the park against the Taffs and the Mackems.

Highlight of the match, apart from Vinnie's goal of course, was the shout-off between Fergie and Bobby. I definitely lip read the word 'tosser' from him, although of course there was a lot more said through the massive wad of Extra gum in his gob. Hilarious.

So it's on to another nerve shredder at the weekend. Alan Pardew's face will haunt my dreams till that one's over, and then there's a wait for the Rag result to see how this drama will continue to unfold. To be honest, I have warmed a little towards Pards since he took over at Sports Direct and some good words from him about poverty and the love of the game in the North East were a major contributor to that. Along with Cisse and Ba and all the other cut-price geniuses the club have managed to entice in, and despite the odious Ashley. After this glowing appraisal, have I done enough to appease the gods of fortune and avoided any jinxes? Hope so.

Cave In

After the seriousness of last week's post, I've now managed to draw breath and prepare for the next thrilling instalment. This year, as part of my attempt to free myself from the tyranny of writing, I've decided against the usual December thing of writing 12 posts about some or other theme, so I don't feel under any particular pressure. In previous years, I would have needed to have completed 88 posts by now so that I was ready for the December dozen and could complete my annual haul of 100 posts. But not any more. I still can't get over a slight feeling of unease however, as I have only managed something like 50 this year. And it hasn't been a particularly busy one for me. Positive in many ways, and certainly with some major changes in my life, but not busy.

So I have the luxury of thinking about (at long fucking last. I'm sick of seeing John Terry's mug on the back page of every paper, bored shitless by watching England against Sweden, and gobsmacked by that idiot Blatter) some proper football before I head off to Shropshire for a few days next week.

What to say about the Geordies? I always did like them, partly as a result (and this may not make sense. To clarify, I felt no specific sense of pride for Sunderland, despite living there, although it did - and does - mean that I paid attention to their results a bit more closely) of spending so much time in Sunderland. Newcastle is about 25 minutes by train from Sunderland, and I used to visit regularly, having exhausted the delights of Binns and the Royalty after about 10 minutes. It (Newcastle) is a great city; very vibrant, despite the many knocks it has taken - and continues to take - in recent years. The club also has a tremendous history, a wonderful fan base and a place firmly cemented in any true (with the exception of the Mackems, of course) football fans' hearts. Of course, like the city in which they ply their trade, the recent past has not been kind to the great institution, with the latest decision to rename the ground as the Sports Direct Stadium a further mortifying insult heaped on it by that villain of the piece, Mike Ashley.

Alan Pardew has never been a favourite of mine, and didn't really seem to demonstrate that much greatness in his previous jobs. The squad has been decimated for financial reasons, and relegation - to me at least - seemed a definite possibility for the Magpies at the beginning of the season. But, despite all this, they are the only unbeaten side in the league apart from the mighty MCFC, and they appear to be going from strength to strength. Why should this be? David Pleat's chalkboard and endless footy opinion pieces don't provide satisfactory answers for me, and I think it's all down to... blooming luck! Let's face it.

Buoyed up by our recent encouraging financial figures, we will surely be too much for the boys in black and white. I don't expect a goalfest, but we should win it by the odd one. Let's see.

This week, Alan has been reading The Death of Bunny Munroe by Nick Cave. Though he found it interesting, it was ultimately unsatisfying, so he put it down unfinished.