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!

Tough Love for Lewis

Reading reports of the Ray Lewis affair is a rather pleasing activity for a Sunday afternoon. In case anyone thinks I'm a Ken supporter (actually, in preference to Boris, I guess I am, but, in preference to Boris, I might possibly support almost anyone) or a racist, I must state that I know a little more about the man than I did yesterday, but that is still very little, so I have no personal beef with him. Always wary of the amount of truth contained in the press, I am nonetheless not over-enamoured by his Academy, as you will see if you read on, but the main focus of my enjoyment is on the fact that that twat Boris has had his stupid toffee nose rubbed in it at last. It took all of two months for the hollow lies around this wanker to start crumbling to bits, and I hope we can now all sit back and watch the show.

What really angers me is the pathetic Tory agenda behind the appointment of Lewis to City Hall in the first place. He is a black man. He runs an academy where kids are forced to wear uniforms and perform military drills in order to prevent them from living a life of crime on the streets of East London. He is a man of 'strong faith' (well, I think you know how I feel on that score) according to that revolting arsehole Steve Norris, who just never seems to go away. Just the kind of talisman that the party of David Cameron wants to wave in front of everyone. All this allows Boris to answer critics who have accused him of racism (whether he refutes these with arguments of context, somehow I think he may have one or two black shirt tendencies) by pointing to his black deputy. It also provides a platform for the Conservatives' dream: of young men in uniform being 'drilled' in order to stop them from thinking about why they don't have a cat in hell's chance of making the kind of money they see being flaunted in front of them all the time.

I've heard, for as long as I can remember, the call to 'bring back National Service' but I used to put that down to the generations that were saying it to me. My parents were war babies, and the expectations around society were different then. A short sharp shock was the norm in the home, let alone out in the institutions. Now, we seem to be hearing the same pointless crap from people who must have grown up in the free lovin' sixties. Why? Were all those kitchen sink dramas and shocking documentaries about Vietnam and homelessness just a waste of time after all? Did the drugs not work? So that's what I think of Ray Lewis and his tough love regime. Typical for this kind of thing to be touted by the clueless idiots (on either side of the house if truth to be told) and seized upon as a means to resolve the countless problems faced by everybody who hasn't been privileged or crooked enough to be rolling around in the proverbial.

For now, I'm just enjoying the spectacle of the Conservative machinery being stuck on a pin, running around frantically trying to cover up the 'reputational damage'. This is a very fine principle upon which British politics is based: do not allow anyone to expose any weaknesses or inconsistencies. If they do, employ every weapon in your arsenal to remove yourself from the ensuing embarrassment.

Hartleys

Before I start, don't you think Martin should audition for a part in Invasion of The Body Snatchers?

Can't complain, eh? A couple of weeks where we have undoubtedly gained more than we deserved. Jam comes to those who make it, I say. I was somewhat distracted during the Sunderland game last week, but did manage to catch the little trickler from Darius. Today was even better. A David James screamer and one in off the hamstring of big Sol, then the Herman Munster sending off and a little bit of class for Mruwuwari's clincher. Two points behind the Pompey now, and all to play for.

The best bit, of course, was the sight of that old Rag lag losing his rag. I remember the mythology around him and Gordon McQueen when I was a kid, and it was pleasing indeed to see him spitting out his dummy over the young lad Sam Williamson's challenge.

Get tae fuck!

Coppella

Don't know about you, but I'm sick to death of everyone talking about Steve Coppell as if he's some kind of intellectual giant. As ever, Clive Tyldesley turns the stomach more than anyone else, but there's loads of pundits jabbering on about the man's 'insight' and 'intelligence' just because he speaks really... slowly... and... quietly, and says things which are a little off-beam.



There is of course some history involved in my feelings towards this wannabe Wenger, and so yesterday's stunning late goal from Daddy Dick (again) to lead to an 8/8 100% home record was that little bit more delicious.

I watched Coppell on MOTD this morning, and he struck me as not much more than a slightly eccentric bloke from the Wirral, who couldn't quite figure out what he was doing at the football match. Sounds perfect for the job at the FA to me.

Once again, naturally, the City match was way down the running order on MOTD. I'd like to hear the reasoning behind showing the Portsmouth/Birmingham game before ours, but there you have it.

Now, as Sven said, the real test of the festive fixtures approaches. Only 16 players in the squad, he said. How can that be?

city

football

schadenfreude

tv

Ireland's loss

Can we credit the footballer (in a generic sense) with a genuine sense of humour (in a specific sense)? I exclude all Bebo references from the above statement.

How else would it be possible to explain Stephen Ireland's gesture at Monday evening's superb humbling of the mighty Roy? Superman pants, Supergran er,...?

Anyhoo, I myself summed it up with a succinct SMS to a United supporting friend:

Keano Goes Down On Sven.

Satisfaction.

Mifsud

Picture courtesy BBC

From today's Guardian: "I was absolutely flabbergasted by that performance," said Ferguson. "I did not expect that at all. I am not interested in giving reasons or mitigating circumstances. It was just a very bad performance."

Heh heh.