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.

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.

Flipped

Up and down Green Lanes. For family reasons, I was unable to watch the first half, so I missed both of the first two Rag goals, but I did catch City's replies and the ludicrous free kick which so cruelly ended it. In the lead-up, I kept seeing bookies ads saying that they would refund all bets if Van Persie scored, so it was almost inevitable, even if it did happen in the crucial closing minutes. Always likely to be 'one of those matches' it certainly didn't let anyone down in terms of drama and excitement. For a while, I dared to dream that we would get a  penalty in the 93rd minute and stuff Sir Alex's mind games down his throat. But no.

Much could be said about whether there should have been a free kick at all, though there wasn't a massive protest about it, and it was given, so little point in bemonaing that. Once it had been awarded, if there had to be any one player to blame, it would be Nasri of course. I didn't get to see Mario's contribution either, because I arrived at the screen just as Carlos was brought on in his stead, but opinion seems to be (largely) that Bobby made a mistake in starting him in place of the plucky Argentine. Some City fans on Twitter were saying that Balotelli had been hard done-by, and he put in a good shift, but I can't comment on that. Tevez looked pretty up for it I thought, and his presence did seem to galvanise us into piling a bit of pressure on the Rag twats. As for Nasri, I've said it before and I'll say it again: not good enough! Undeniably an extremely talented player, he fails to put in a shift all too often, seeks the Hollywood pass, or the YouTube showreel highlight, and then waggles his leg while sheltering behind Dzeko in the defensive wall. Maybe (another lowlight I failed to see) if Vincent hadn't gone off injured, we might not have conceded the second, and maybe there are too many maybes. These titanic matches sometimes seem to have their own unstoppable momentum, played out like King Lear to a terrible conclusion - almost elemental in character.

After they scored at the end, there was a surreal quality to events; a confusion of images as Ferdinand started pulling his shirt up and then stopped, seemingly overcome with the emotion of it all, while everyone in the pub (Rag and Blue together) laughed; and then there's blood trickling down his cheek, the Rag players are all legging it towards Hart's goal and the final whistle blows. Heart rates start to slow down and the hateful world gradually swims back into focus. The hero lies dead at centre stage and the curtain slowly billows down in silence.

Once Upon A Time

It was inevitable, wasn't it? After such a disappointing start, and the current seeming inability to bulge the onion bag, we were always going out. Just a shame that there wasn't even a goal to celebrate against the youth of Dortmund, but truth be told we were probably lucky to get the penalty against the Toffees on Saturday, and the ignominy of the worst ever European campaign by an English side is ours to carry like a cross to Calvary. It is now with trepidation that we look to the big one on Sunday. Let's just hope that the Rags' largesse in front of goal continues so that we can at least bang one or two in, and have a happy Hanukkah. Enough of that. Time for a festive story to warm the hearts of my many readers.

Once upon a time, there was a wicked queen who lived in an ice castle in SW1. All in her land bowed down at her feet and did her bidding, in great fear of the spells she was capable of casting, when her eyes bulged and bore through the thick lenses of her glasses into the very souls of those over whom she ruled. An army of workers toiled for her throughout the year, from humble drones to cunning viziers, each one dropping everything to carry out her slightest whim, trembling at the prospect of the dreaded One to One Meeting.

Her trusted lieutenants whipped her dwarf slaves to hard labour in the dusty mines of the Ice Queen's caves which were spread thoughout the land, even unto the far reaches of SE10. The poor dwarves' fingers were nipped with frost and their backs were bent with the heavy weight of the sacks they carried hither and thither. In a clear sign of the wicked queen's cruelty, the dwarves were forced to listen to Heart FM (only the merry jester at the cave in SE1 dared to play a classic rock station, and somehow he escaped the Queen's wrath, using his Tottenham Hotspur laughing stick to distract her from her spells) all day as they laboured for the paltry rewards she threw down to them, as rancid scraps to whipped curs from the heaving feast table.

The only thing which gave the little men and women heart was the prospect of the one day of freedom in their long and wearying struggle which Christmas gave them. A day when they could cast off their cares, rest their aching bones and feel warmth and love in the bosom of their local pub. Now the queen hated Christmas, and wished in her cold and black heart that it did not exist. Yet even her great power was not equal to this sorcery, which only the mighty lords Tesco and Sainsbury were able to perform, so she seethed with anger and jealousy in her frosty tower and devised her plans. At last it came to her! Christmas would remain - for now - but Christmas Eve, which had by tradition been a short day, would become just another working day, with the dwarves held to their labour till darkness fell.

So it came that this year she summoned her lieutenant in charge of the dwarves to the feared One to One Meeting, and sat with her faithful raven, Stanton, perched upon her shoulder. Magnifying her eyes into the trembling lieutenant's lowered countenance, she spoke:

"What treachery are those loathsome dwarf swine plotting against me now, imbecile?" she snapped. Stanton blinked his black eyelid over his black eye and plucked the entrails from a small rodent, held down with one of his black claws. Stuttering, the poor lieutenant tried to answer:

"Ah yes, your majesty - ha ha... They are but lazy, conniving..."

"Enough!" shouted the queen in anger, causing Stanton to flutter up from her shoulder, trailing the mouse entrails across the breast of the queen's gown and leaving a red smear as he did so. Lightning flashed through the tower's arrow slits and thunder rumbled in the Mountains of Victoria in the distance. The lieutenant cowered and clasped his hands across his chest, waiting for the pronouncement.

"You will tell those... pathetic beasts... that Christmas Eve is cancelled!"

The queen smiled, Stanton squawked and swallowed his bloody entrails, and the lieutenant gasped in amazement.

"But... Your majesty... This is... Too much...!"

"Too much?" screamed the queen. "Too MUCH??!! When half the world is grateful for any work, when children are begging for food, when the dying are forced from their beds to seek labour, and when the great Lord Osborne takes away more of my feeble hoard for his steaming money forges each year? Do not tell me 'Too Much'! Go and set those feckless fools to work!" Suddenly she became still, stroking Stanton's midnight feathers and smiling as she rose to her feet. "Unless you wish to join... Them!" The sleeve of her gown billowed as she pointed through the arrow slits to the shambling, shuffling souls outside. Huddled against the cold, their scrawny arms outstretched, they waited for the leavings of the fortunate ones, their eyes hollow with hunger and the death of hope. The queen turned away, and the lieutenant dropped his head into his hands and wept.

And they all lived happily ever after. The End.

Please please

The devil makes work for idle hands, so they say. I’ve been struggling with inspiration (and occasionally technology) over the last few weeks, and have 6 posts on draft, none of which have really gone anywhere. Sometimes I’ve felt that I’ve been over sharing, and others that I didn’t really have enough of a point to make (’That’s never stopped you before!’ come the voices of Statler and Waldorf) so have dropped the thread. I also feel recently as if I have no time to myself, no time to think and prepare for a piece of writing.

I am intrigued by the issues of rape currently in the news, with yet another dangerous US Republican religious nut coming out with just such terribly depressing nonsense, and the unconnected issue of Julian Assange’s alleged infractions. I watched closely as a group of businessmen discussed these stories in the park today, wondering if any of them had ever sexually assaulted a woman. Then it was all capped off with the story of a 14 year old boy being raped in a department store in Manchester! Jesus.

I’ve been listening to the Tories tell us that we’re all idle, and thinking about those people who work 12 hour shifts as security guards or 'cooking' in McDonald’s; those who work as carers (obviously not the ones who beat old people up) or cleaners; all of those who struggle into a long day’s work at minimum wage day in and day out, just to keep a roof over their heads and food on the table. Not for most the luxury of two weeks in Tuscany, a nice new car or some lovely new clothes. Yet, the problem clearly is that people are not prepared to work harder.

The (fairly) excellent series Toughest Place to Be A… has returned, with this week’s programme showing us the horrors of unregulated mining in Mongolia, and this is surely what those shiny faced little twats from Central Office want – British industrial practices on a par with those of the developing world. Rather than fighting to raise the standards of those less fortunate than us, thanks to many years of hard-won labour rights, they would have us all race to the bottom and a life of struggle and penury followed by an almost certain early death.

And then of course, the football's started again. Come on you Toffees!

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

In a City Way

I found myself with a large whiskey in my hand just after Kun scored the winner in the 94th minute. I didn't know the bloke who gave it to me, though we had been exchanging the usual footy banter throughout the second half. In the melee, I leapt up and - on my second roar - elbowed the missus in a Joey Barton sort of way (though in my case it was accidental) leaving a small but discernible lump on her forehead. A Scouser came over to shake my hand, and told me that he had been ready to leave before we pulled that off. A Hammers fan who had been bleating on about his 80/1 punt on a draw/Barton sending-off combination said:

"You've just won the fucking league! What's the matter with you?"

I was stunned, a sort of smile playing on my lips and the whiskey glass cradled in my hand. Worried about the lump on the missus' head, still hardly able to believe what I had just witnessed, I didn't know what to do. Just a couple of minutes earlier, I had put on my jacket, determined to stay till what I was sure would be the bitter end, but keen on getting away from the place as quickly as possible after the final whistle. Dzeko's goal, I was sure, was too little too late, and there was no hope of pulling this one off. Every ball into the box seemed to either hit a QPR player or miss everyone, every shot was blocked or missed, and nothing would fall for us.

We had 19 corners, 44 shots off target (Update - 17/5/2012. Given my predilection for numbers, I'm a little shamefaced to say that it took an article in the New York Times to make me realise the significance of this statistic. There you go...) and 15 on target. For most of the first half, the 'Super Hoops' were reluctant to step outside their own penalty area, and yet here we were staring down the barrel of a gun, about to gift the Rags their 20th title in a way which would never be forgotten.

Now it will be remembered for all the right reasons. When the coach pulls into Corporation Street this evening, and the thousands of Blues cheer on their heroes, and for long after, the whole of football will be talking about how we won it in 2012.

In a City way.

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.

History

What would Ernest Mangnall make of it all? A few quid, I have no doubt.

Far be it from me to tempt fate. I feel reluctant even to mention Monday's game, and my blood pressure will be at danger level as it kicks off and gets into full swing. There are far too many 'Super Sundays' and other such nonsense these days, so we are in danger of losing sight of the truly great moments in the game - those things which keep Pelé going. At least there have been some cracking games (in both the Premier League and Champions League) recently, so let's hope that continues into Monday night.

I've been looking at some stats around the derby, and they do make interesting reading. At home, we've won 23, Rags have 26, with a total of 24 draws. At theirs, the tally is slanted quite a bit more in their favour, with Rags wins totalling 32 against only 16 for us and 25 draws (league matches only), which gives the following totals: City 39, Rags 58, draws 49. Of course, they didn't play us at Old Trafford till 1910, and we didn't play them at Maine Road till 1925, while the whole 'payments to players' scandal in 1905 had a devastating effect on us for many years. If only we had held on to Billy Meredith before he reached my age (It really is true! Like Ripping Yarns, some of this stuff - you couldn't make it up) and came back again. Quite something also that their record attendance actually came at Maine Road. And then there was the fisticuffs between Stan Bowles and Brian Kidd during the glorious 1968 season. I can do no better than simply lifting a chunk of text from Wikipedia to finish off how that season went:

"In late April, after City won 1–0 against Sheffield Wednesday and title rivals United lost to West Bromwich Albion, City were in a position where winning their final three games would all but guarantee the championship. In the first of the three, a home match against Everton, City won 2–0 in a match featuring Tony Book's first league goal for the club. Next was Tottenham Hotspur at White Hart Lane. City took a 3–0 lead before half time, eventually winning 3–1.

"Going into the final match, City were level on points with neighbours United. Liverpool were three points behind, but had a game in hand, so could still win the title if both City and United faltered. City faced tenth-placed Newcastle United at St James' Park; United were at home to bottom-half Sunderland. Bookmakers made United slight favourites for the title. Mike Summerbee opened the scoring on 13 minutes, but Newcastle soon equalised. Neil Young made it 2–1, but again Newcastle equalized. A second strike by Young was disallowed for offside, and at half-time the score was 2–2. Straight after half-time Young scored again, and Francis Lee scored a fourth at 63 minutes. A late Newcastle goal set up a nervy finish, but City held on to win 4–3 and secure the title."

But. History is bunk, as we all know, and the only thing which need concern us is the future. You will have seen (if you were paying attention) that I have not been massively optimistic of late, and did indeed fear that we might not only see the Rags lift the title at the Eithad, but that we could even have lost 2nd spot just a couple of weeks ago. Thankfully, this being the unpredictable season it has though, nobody can say with any conviction what's going to happen over the next few days and weeks.

What a twat

What are my thoughts? Like Bobby, I feel that there won't be a glut of goals as there were back at the Sty. It's just a feeling I have, despite the fact that both defences are a little suspect at the minute, and despite the fact that both teams are currently playing (and play acting in some cases) some killer attacking stuff. I think we could well see some frayed tempers and some bookings. Mario's eligible again, god help us, and I wonder whether he will be involved. Part of me hopes he is, and part of me that he definitely is not.

All on now

Who'd a thunk it, eh? Certainly not me as I sat on the 329 in its interminable course along Green Lanes, furious with the BB as it echoed the bus's tardiness in returning a simple web query. Five or six refreshes and at last you get to the score of the current match, which was of course the Rags v Everton at the Sty. At that point it was 4-2 Rags, and naturally I felt that it was definitely Kenneth Wolstenholme, so dejectedly prepared to grab my messages from Waitrose and head home. Then, two text messages came in in quick succession from John the Brief; the first said 'Come on you toffies' (sic) and the second, simply: 'Happy days!' The prospect of again firing up the BB web browser was too much to bear, so I contemplated standing in the doorway of McDonald's and trying to pick up the Cloud wi-fi on my iPod, but instead sent John a text back. 'Out & about,' it said, 'Did they beat the Rags?' A few minutes later, and on my way to Holland & Barrett, came his reply: '4-4 f/t', and at the same moment a bloke (obviously a United fan) was talking to his mate on the mobile just behind me, confirming the wonderful news.

A spring now in my jaded step, I made it home and flicked on the radio, listening to the pundits saying it was perhaps the game of the season, listening to Bacon Face decrying his defence and sending Schadenfreude texts to my Rag mate, tempered slightly by the fact that the City match was still an hour and a half from kick-off. There was also much talk also of how City could wrest back the initiative by winning at Molineux, of how destiny had brought us to this point, and blah blah blah. I vacillated for some time, working out whether I wanted to spend almost £4 on a pint, whether I could be bothered to walk to the top of the hill, and - most importantly - what effect my decision would have on the outcome of the match, knowing full well that my choice would definitely influence the game.

Finally, I settled on going for one pint and one half of 90 minutes, arriving at the bar a minute or two after the start. Wolves looked bright enough, and were testing us with set pieces and high balls into the box, but their early threat faded somewhat, and we had a good few chances which were agonisingly close before Clichy played that absolute peach of a pass and allowed Kun the sniff he needed to bang in his 22nd goal of his debut season. What a player he is! Home again for the second half, and a few more scares before the quick thinking of Tevez gave Nasri an easy task to seal the points, sending the Yow Yows back down below in the process.

All on now for a week today, and a match to look forward to if ever there was one.

404

The slide down the razor blade of life begins here. Knocked off our perch at long last, and as I've already mentioned, with a tougher run-in than the fucking Rags, things can only get worse. There, I've said it. Happy to be morose again. Still, the enlivening breath of spring yesterday somehow made it bearable, and (drought notwithstanding) the week ahead looks pretty promising also. So fuck football and its tomfoolery, I say.

Now, the smell of cordite still fresh in our nostrils from the latest Full Metal Jacket style episode, a word or two on our great adventures with the Pashtun. It is intriguing to me the way that soldiers and politics are so entwined; how the rapacious policies of the rich elites around the world are woven into the hearts and minds of ordinary people. I have no doubt that there are those reading this who will think me a traitor - someone who does not value the sacrifices of 'our boys' in the cause of freedom - and I have no doubt that many people I know from my own family background would feel the same way (though, as far as I know, none of my family read this).

With some notable exceptions (I have a very good mate who wore the khaki as a matter of fact, and although his sense of humour is sometimes rather near the knuckle, he is a very good man as well as a staunch friend) I would say that squaddies are not really my sort of people. They're in the same sort of bracket as policemen as far as I'm concerned - macho meatheads with tastes so wildly different to mine that we would almost certainly never get on. I realise that there can be sound economic reasons for young men and women to choose this particular career path, but there is also very often a disturbing patriotism evident in them - something which I simply cannot understand. This doesn't mean that I don't feel sorry for the families of all those who have died in wars, including the 6 recently reported as the latest casualties to take the total in the current fiasco in Afghanistan over the 400 mark. But I really think we need to get some perspective on things. How many front pages (the latest atrocity perhaps not included) have been devoted to the loss of thousands of innocent lives among the Afghan population? How much analysis (and do shut up, Max Hastings, you are a fucking idiot) is there of the real reasons for Her Majesty's armed forces presence in this tortured land? Heroes? Or fools?

Capitulation

In a weekend of cinnamon challenges, there were such high hopes for the men of Tottenham, and such a disappointment when it came to the (cinnamon) crunch. We did what we needed to do (and not much more, I admit, but - as Bobby said - what can you expect on a couple of hours' kip?) against another lame bunch, this time the Trotters. Positives - Pizzarro; Adam Johnson finding a bit of form; the fact that we can win without Kun or Merlin; refreshing attacking flair but (a little) more solidity at the back.

All we needed was a bit of spunk at White Hart Lane. Alas, it was not to be. Is Harry's head turned by the lure of England's Polish prefab? If not, are the players victims of Fergie's mind games, so believing it even though it isn't true? We'll never know, but despite a bright start and some decent pressure, Spurs never really looked threatening enough in front of goal.

A great deal of the talk I hear from City fans shows a kind of desperation for us to win. I read in the very authentic King of the Kippax about the disappointment over Liverpool winning the Carling Cup, which means that, with a place in Europe, they will have money to invest in new talent. This in turn will mean that they could be more of a threat to us next season in our quest for global dominance. I must admit that I find it hard to identify with this. Although I of course would love us to win the Premier League, winning everything is not my primary concern, and I certainly don't hope for a league as bad as (say) the Scottish one - now that Rangers are dead and buried - and now that there really is only one serious challenger for any honours. After all, where's the interest in that? Frustrating as it may be to schlep up to the Britannia stadium on a bleak Tuesday in February and lose by a single goal, when we feel as if we should be mixing it with the Catalans, that really is what the game is all about.

But if I start ranting about everything that's wrong with the game (Scholes, Henry - are there no young players coming through? Stupid short-sightedness and the sacking of managers after only a couple of games. England going in to a European Championship with no manager and no captain - the former having been sacked for backing the latter!) I don't know when I might stop. On we go then. Every game a must win, and whispers - now that our list of favourable fixtures is coming to an end, and with United's run-in now appearing far more manageable - that it will all come down to the derby game. I dread to think, I really do.

Zippin up my Roots

I've just picked up a copy of Alex Haley's Roots from the library. It's a good read, and once I started getting into it, memories of the TV series came flooding back (I once visited the outdoor set at Golden Oaks ranch in California, where some of the sequences in Roots II were shot, and my word, how evocative and amazing was that, even though Roots II was crap compared to Roots?) and I became curious around the subject. Intriguing that this partly phony exploration of a man's personal history should cause a refelction on my own. I think it must have been 1976 or 1977 when the programme was on TV, and I was in the early years of my secondary education. Every Monday would entail a ritual Kunta Kinte or Chicken George impression among those of us at Oswestry Boys High School. My own family tree stops dead on my mother's side (a little further back on my dad's side - as far as a housemaid in rural Kent - about 4 generations before my dad) just before my great grandmother, thanks to some, shall we say, extra-marital issues, so how incredible, I thought, for this guy to be able to trace his family history so far back (to mid 18th Century Gambia, in case you were unaware and interesed) and I admit I wondered how it was done.

Well of course it turns out that he not only didn't actually trace his (whole) family tree, but more than that, he stole large chunks of the book from someone else's novel. What a crock! Harold Courlander (for it was he from whom the work was nicked) seems a fascinating character, responsible for some invaluable research into oral traditions in Africa, North America and elsewhere. Harold received an out of court settlement for the admitted plagiarism, though may have been wiser - given the huge success of the franchise - to have taken his case all the way. He probably didn't receive as much as he could have (the information in the Roots link above seems to say that the settlement was around $650,000, in 1978) through a rights deal, but also the fame associated with such a seminal piece of work lies solely with Mr Haley. Anyway, having just passed the circumcision scene, I will continue with the book and hunt out the series on YouTube or elsewhere, while fomenting my own imagined youthful adventures among the arafangs of Oswestry town.

All of which brings me to footballing roots, and a remark made on Sunday while I was in the corner shop at the same time (oh happy chance!) as a Rag, shortly after the match had finished. "You don't sound as if you're from Manchester...?" he said, gauntly, and I replied: "No, I'm not." Whatever the rights and wrongs of the Kompany red card, I think the time has well passed for City fans to get over it. We don't want to end up looking like sour grapes Scousers bemoaning our fate, especially as everyone knows we've got tons and tons of cash and about 600 players out on loan. I personally think we should take great comfort in our performance, reflect on what was an excellent match and get on with playing Liverpool. Again. And again. And again.

Spanish Inquisition

Nobody expected that. Certainly not me, with my pre-match non-financial punt on a 1-0, 1-1... tight match. I even entered (to my shame) a 1-1 draw in the Predictions sheet I'm on with my mates. I don't count myself among them, let me make that clear, but surely not even the most fervent Blue - one of those who cannot accept any wrongdoing from Eastlands; one who sees nothing but goodness emanating from the club, despite the evidence before their eyes - would have thought that we would cream the Rags up the walls, all over the floor, and smack into the middle of next week with a 6-1 humiliation. But we did. What a fucking marvel.

'Not enough pictures of Ferguson's face' said the wonderful (even if he is a Newcastle supporter, and of course he couldn't resist tweeting a reminder that the Rags' biggest ever defeat was at the hands of the Geordies) Dolphin Hotel creator, Michael Hudson, and that pretty much summed it up for me. That, and the agonised expressions on the faces of Rio, Evra and the rest as the goals continued to rain on their sad little parade. I find it boring as hell to listen to all this 'balance of power' bullshit, and frankly don't see the point of it. Of course, with the resources at our disposal, we were sure in time to pose a threat to the existing world order, and now that morning appears to have dawned.

Amusing also for Chelsea to slip up against Barton, SWP and the rest under Neil Warnock, so things - for the moment at least - are looking up. As Bobby said, quite sensibly, though perhaps to the chagrin of some of the fans, let's keep our feet on the ground and focus on the fact that all this was about 3 points. Nothing more. Certainly not 6 - even though he must be fully aware of the psychological impact of such a convincing win.

In Balotelli, we really do have a genuine, dyed-in-the-wool, City hero. A fruitcake of the highest order, who is at last showing some of the required form on the pitch as well as fuelling the South Stand songsters with his mad antics.

But Silva is pure mercury, without doubt among the very best players in the world at the moment, and his goal was as well deserved as any that have been scored. He is the catalyst that sparks the revolution.

CTID! Come on City! Come on City!

Adequate

I suppose you could say that City's showing the other night was adequate, though I did feel Bobby's joy with him at the end.

A win, as the wise ones on 5Live were pointing out, was what mattered. And a win we got. A last gasp, lovely, final minute win from the man of the moment - Kun. May God bless his boots. So now the Champions League march is (just about) still on, and off we go to the Sty on Sunday. I wouldn't like to call the result of that one at this stage, but I do think it will be a close one. One goal either way or a low scoring draw is my considered view.

I have thought long and hard over the years about the notion of adequacy. Especially in relation to my own stumbling progress through life. Some years ago, I was made redundant from my job at the House of Mouse, after over 10 years in their employ. This wasn't one of those cost saving chops, but was rather a calculated re-structure to form a group from which I was to be forever excluded. I think I know the reasons for it happening, and they were eminently practical and in no way personal. Yet this doesn't change the feelings of inadequacy the episode left me with.

The story goes that I was responsible for managing (among other things) the engineering maintenance for the company's London HQ. I have never been any sort of engineer, but in reality that shouldn't matter too much. My boss, if anything, was less knowledgeable than I was, and certainly knew a damned sight less than I did about (for example) voice telecoms, where my expertise used to be, but no longer remains, valuable and current. His lack of knowledge did not matter because it was his leadership - the formation and development of his team of subject matter experts - which carried the day.

However that may be, I remember a visit from a senior IT manager from Burbank just before the redundancy was announced. There were concerns that the data suite housing the servers was vulnerable to failure. Indeed, the chillers for this room would fail on a regular basis, and the back-up systems in place were far from resilient. Many was the time I received a late night phone call saying that these systems had failed, and that the temperatures were fast approaching critical levels, though at no time (with the exception of a major local power failure) was there any unplanned interruption to the servers. I knew then that money would have solved the problem, but was not allowed to spend what was needed.

That being said, time is money, and the IT man wanted to know what we were going to do about it. No servers meant no email and no money counting, and this was a serious business. I fear that I may have slightly exposed my lack of technical knowledge at a meeting with him, where I remember being fixated on his very large, very white USA teeth, which actually impeded his ability to speak clearly, and tried to sketch a schematic of the UPS set-up for the server room on a piece of paper. That was where it all began, I think. I was edged out of the door in the nicest possible way and have gone on to other things since.

And yet, there is a persistent sense of failure, a bad smell following it all which has lingered in the air, and there are occasions when I mull over it with a red cheeked shame. I was, after all, not good enough; was weighed in the balance and found wanting. Despite the fact that my manager has since suffered the same fate as I did, this feeling sometimes imbues me with a sense of anger towards him (though it is certain that White Teeth Man played a significant role in the decision) for telling me I was out the door. There is no doubt that my self-confidence - fragile flower that it is - took a severe knock from it. But I'm over it now. Honest.

One-upmanship

I was at Southend on Sunday; my version of the summer holiday in this trying year - a day spent watching the kids whiz and fly around various pieces of garish machinery and a few seconds of cool Thames estuary water lapping over my toes. Bad chips which tasted nice anyway. It was a pleasant enough day, weather-wise, and a decent way to spend a Sunday, even though City were on ESPN (bah!) and the Rags/Arse game up at 4 o'clock.



Hearing today the crazy rumours that we are now signing Owen Hargreaves on a pay-as-you-play basis, I have realised that just when you think that the world of football has jumped the shark, something else happens to tip the scales (or sharkskin) even further into insanity. Leaving aside the (allegedly) grubby business of the Nasri signing (FWIW, I didn't feel that we needed him) and the farcical goings-on which continue with Tevez, we are of course now a real prospect for the title. And so we should be, eh? David Platt was on the radio the other day, saying (in a fairly jocund sort of way) that he couldn't actually decide on the best starting XI for City now, being able only to whittle the vast army of talent down to 12. So I've given some thought to my starting XI (which, funnily enough, doesn't include Hargreaves). Here it is:

1. Hart
2 (r/b). Richards
3 (l/b). Zabaleta
4. (c/h) De Jong
5. (c/h) Kompany
6. Yaya
7. Milner
8. Silva (right - nominally)
9. Agüero
10. Dzeko
11. AJ (left - nominally)

You will see Milner is in italics, and I did think about swapping him with Nasri, but figured there would be too much attack in the side if we played with that line up. I'm not a huge fan of Milner, but prefer him to Barry - despite the latter's lucky strike against the Trotters the other day - and, well, when in Stoke...

From the footage on MOTD 2, I felt that Agüero's goal was the pick of the bunch on Sunday, though Dzeko's second (headed) effort was quite nice. I knew little of any of this while on the Essex shoreline and was very pleasantly surprised to hear of the final score from my Spurs mate via text as I stood - laden with bags - next to the platforms for the Rage ride at Adventure Island.

Then it was the 16.14 service to Fenchurch Street, and a need to find out how things were going at the Sty. So much for that shite.

Dreck

It was funny for a while. They were all over us, no doubt about that. We looked lethargic and uninterested, overrun at the back and unable to cope with their 'passing and movement' in any part of the pitch. Ashley Young and Danny fucking Welbeck appear to have had the Man U branding steamed into their sleek sides. Evra is as much of a twat as he ever was. I will not mention you-know-who. He can fuck right off to join his mates in Croxteth for a night of petrol bombing.

Then there was De Gea. A stripling with wispy beard thrust into the limelight at Wembley and - it has to be said - at fault for both goals (though obviously the second more so than the first) which essentially came out of nothing. I couldn't hear it in the pub due to the sound of windows being smashed at the local Curry's across the street and the sickening crunch of bone as black bloc-ers vented their spleen at the local plod, but this morning on 5 Live I heard some commentary on Dzeko's goal. It was described as a 'great strike'. I have to disagree. It was an average strike, and should without question have been saved. At that point, it was funny. And you thought we could only improve with the wind at our backs and the usual wealth of talent at our disposal on the bench. Not to be though, was it? Typical City and all that bullshit as we continued our ponderous probings and allowed them back into it.

What the hell happened? Why on god's earth did Mancini bring on Gareth Barry? Can someone answer me that? Was he trying to hold on for the draw? Was he treating the match as some kind of training exercise, or as an opportunity to look at different ways of setting the team up? Maybe there is some contractual mcguffin in Agüero's contract which would have meant an additional €100 million falling due or something if he were to make an appearance. Who the fuck knows. All I can say is that it was pretty much a foregone conclusion from there on that we wouldn't win the thing. Yaya seemed out of sorts, Silva fitful, Balotelli poor and Dzeko average. In summary, our midfield and attack utterly lame in truth. But the real problems were at the back - Kolarov terrorised, Lescott exposed (again) and even Kompany frequently lunging. Richards was busy and stood out not only in defence, but in the team as a whole. De Jong didn't make much of an impression on me, and the whole lot were all too easily side-stepped by the marauding Rags.

I was glad in a way that the match didn't go to extra time and penalties, being as I was surrounded by Rags of European descent, and trudged home through the clouds of tear gas and screams of agony in the apocalyptic city.

Here we go

Yesterday to Broomfield Park for a birthday picnic with some very good friends. Naturally, I wore my City shirt and played a bit of cricket - thankful that my friends were sporting enough to rescind my run-out decision because the ball clearly didn't touch the tree before I rounded the plastic tennis ball container.

Prior to that, I was caught up (having forgotten it was on) in the madness of traffic as a result of the Emirates Cup, stuck on a 259 on the Seven Sisters Road for what seemed an eternity, not helped by the fact that the driver seemed to be doing everything humanly possible to slow the journey down. At one point he even deployed the wheelchair ramp when there was:

a) no-one in a wheelchair waiting to get on, and
b) no-one at all waiting to get on!

He was Mr Nice, stopping once he had set off to let on any old stragglers. Add to this the interminable crawl along the road and through the Finsbury Park bottleneck in temperatures up in the high twenties and you have a recipe for frustration, let me tell you.

But the point of it all is this: the football season is just around the corner (unless you're a Jocko, in which case, it's already history) and today's Graun carried the first of their Premier League reviews - all about Arsenal, who are predicted to finish 5th. Next weekend sees the Community Shield, with another chance to watch us take on the Rags, and today's post brings me to my predictions for the season ahead. My City shirt draws some attention in the Highbury/Holloway area, but not too much, yet the chap in the Turkish supermarket (clearly obsessed with the beautiful game) seemed very pleased to see me there - Gooner/Galatasary though he is. His eyes lit up, and he spoke of our seven strikers, admitting that Kun is a tidy prospect, showing some love for Dzeko, and adding that Tevez still held the key to our success. Mostly sentiments with which I agree.

So, my two cents if you will.

Un-controversially, I would say that Chelsea are going to be good this season. The Rags will be there or thereabouts. Yawn. Spurs will not have as good a season as last year, Arsenal (despite the lack of transfer activity in the inward direction so far) will have a better one. Liverpool won't do a lot. Everton will be the usual conundrum, though not likely to finish much above 7th. Villa will be lower-middle, Blackburn and Bolton slightly flattered by the new boys. Here goes with the table then:

1.   Chelsea
2.   City
3.   Rags
4.   Arsenal
5.   Spurs
6.   Everton
7.   Liverpool
8.   Bolton
9.   Stoke
10. Fulham
11. Blackburn
12. QPR
13. Villa
14. Newcastle
15. Sunderland
16. West Brom
17. Norwich
18. Wigan
19. Wolves
20. Swansea

Of course, I may be wrong. Here are my predictions for last season (with the actual finishing position in brackets).

1.   Chelsea (2)
2.   Rags (1)
3.   Arsenal (4)
4.   City (3)
5.   Liverpool (6)
6.   Spurs (5)
7.   Villa (9)
8.   Everton (7)
9.   Bolton (14)
10. Blackburn (15)
11. Fulham (8)
12. Brum (18 - ha!)
13. Stoke (13)
14. Wolves (17)
15. West Ham (20. Oh dear)
16. Wigan (16)
17. Sunderland (10)
18. West Brom (11)
19. Newcastle (12)
20. Blackpool (19)

You can see from that that I was in a few instances only one place out, but it still means that I correctly guessed only the finishing positions of Stoke and Wigan, which is not an impressive strike rate by anyone's lights. Better luck next time, eh?

Thoughts of Chair Man

Well, here's my two cents.

AV = yes (though I must re-iterate my total lack of faith in organised politics of any kind. I don't assume that having AV will suddenly make things all better, but there are two compelling reasons I've heard today: 1. Thatcher would never have made it to power if AV was in place in 79 [thanks Michael] and 2. Anything which causes those in power to get so worked up must be worth doing [thanks qwghlm]. This does not mean I will be casting a vote)

OBL = stinks to high heaven. The groans of the Bullingdon Club boys in the Commons the other day when challenged about flouting the supposedly sacrosanct Rule of Law say it all for me. You can't just go around shooting people in the face - I mean head - just because you say they are murderous scum. There aren't many apologists for Bin Laden, yet what do we actually know about him? What do we actually know about anything, really? Only what we're told, and we can see from the way this whole Geronimo thing is developing that that ain't much more than a sack of shit. Xeni Jardin has been tweeting about Guatemala, and the tendency of the government there to dump bodies in the ocean when faced with the inconvenience of requests for basic human rights, and I for one find it all very chilling. Is Barack still guided by the shining hand of God? Is he still striving for an America that is all it can be?

Eurozone bailouts = holy shit! Looking at Greece and Portugal, how can Gideon continue to pursue the austerity plan he is so set on? The swingeing cuts (at least for the Greeks) have done nothing to reduce the deficit, and - duh! - the squeeze is actually making things worse by rendering the economy so uncompetitive that it may never have a chance to pay back the money borrowed. Yet here we are relentlessly pushing forward, laying off coppers and then asking them back as unpaid Specials, slashing nurses and teachers and flying priceless hardware over Libyan air space. What can we do but despair?

On top of that, an easy bye for the Rags against the pliant Schalke 04s, but a glimmer of hope that they will be utterly destroyed at Wembley. Fergie at his usual 'best' yesterday when talking about the tribalism of the Premier League. He mentioned 'Yorkshire teams' (such as? Leeds? Bradford? Barnsley? Rotherham? York? Get to fuck, Sir Alex) and London teams and Liverpool teams and of course studiously avoided mentioning the only true Manchester team. I myself was challenged the other day:

"Who do you support, then?"
"Man City."
"Oh right... Are you a Mancunian?"
"No."

Maybe, in days gone by, or if there hadn't been quite so loud a Bob Dylan duo playing, I would have gone on and blathered about Oswestry and TNS and Shrewsbury and Wrexham... But I didn't.

Wrong 'un

I'm always happy to admit it when I'm wrong. All of my friends will tell you I'm magnanimous to a fault. And how wonderful to be wrong on this occasion. Gloriously, beautifully, rip-roaringly wrong. There were a few omens, such as the young scally lurking outside the chip shop at midday in a Tevez shirt ('Is he 32 years old, Dad?' asked my daughter. He wasn't) asking how much for a chip muffin, clearly unaware that such things are not known in north London. As he left the shop, I asked him:

'Who's gonna win?'

He didn't turn towards me, just sauntered off, and all he said in reply was:

'City'

Then, I discovered that the match tickets I had turned down were for the Rags' end anyway, so even that little downer was not really a downer after all. My fears in the first 25 minutes were not to be realised as we gradually began to boss the match. Kompany was again the all-action hero, and Hart was playing his Shropshire best to deny Lord Berba his goal.

And then there was Yaya... nutmegging Van Der Sar. Rio was clearly getting leggy, and Vidic was looking punch drunk. Who needs Tevez, eh?

But things - as Professor Brian Cox and his mates used to say - could only get better, and the truly beautiful sight of ginger seeing red was laid before me, topped off by Balo's fabulous bit of baiting (yet again, the morning papers are reproducing Ferdinand's bloody tweets. What a sack of fucking shit that is) made them look like the bunch of tossers they are. All in all, a feast fit for a king.

COME ON CITY!