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.

Polly

Well, maybe my last post did make all the difference in keeping Rooney [sic] out of the White House. Who knows? The Ajax match didn't exactly work out as one might have hoped however. As it happens, I was at the theatre, watching my eldest perform in a version of Hamlet while the match kicked off. Quite good (Hamlet, I mean) it was too, and I think may have further cemented the kid's love for the stage. Why not, eh? I realise, as much from my lover as anyone else, that acting is a tough profession, and a road as likely to lead to tears and fears as any in life - yet, there are a lot of good things to be said for it, and who am I to ruin a young girl's dream - if indeed that is what it will become? Maybe she will have her hopes dashed, and end up working in transportation or facilities management, but she will sure as hell have an interesting enough life if she sticks with it.

But, as often seems to happen, it was Twitter getting itself arse about face which caused me some confusion as I sat in the darkened theatre surreptitiously checking my phone. There was no mention of either of their opening goals until too late, and in a cruel twist, notification of the first (what a fucking joke of a goal that was) only came in after the match had finished, by which time I had managed to get home and watch the last infuriating 20 minutes or so. Blah blah, you can't blame the officials; blah blah, not good enough over the two matches; blah blah poor tactics. It all may well be true, but it doesn't half piss me off sometimes. Kun's third goal of the night, and his second disallowed one, should definitely have counted, and Mario was clearly fouled in the box at the end. Regardless of what those fucking idiots with the wands are supposed to be doing behind the goal line (and someone on Twitter pointed out that it was one of these dweebs who indicated this was not a penalty, though I haven't had chance to look closely at it again yet) the ref himself should have blown for that, and then we would have had another last gasp Balotelli pen to look forward to.

Alas, it was not to be. I'm also not going to change my view about the use of technology either, which is that it should not be used. Part of the whole emotional charge of footy is the argument in the pub after a match as to whether a decision was right or wrong, and in general things do balance out (unless you're a filthy cheating Rag with the ref in your back pocket) so to complain is churlish and a waste of time.

One of those teams of course who could have quite a few good reasons to complain are coming up agin us this weekend. The mighty Spurs no less, facing their own seemingly endless battle with the fates and struggling to come to terms with the overrated AVB. Personally, I don't think this will be an easy one either, although Defoe getting a hat trick midweek is not an indicator that he will play well - or even play at all - on Sunday. Cautiously, I would suggest a 2-1 win, but would not be too surprised at a draw. I desperately desperately desperately want Tevez to get a goal as recognition for all the hard shifts he has put in. Will little Silva come back into the side at last? Will I be at the theatre? No fucking chance! Come on City!

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

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.

Fraying

Well, to return from my stump to the subjet du jour, it has been a not uneventful few days in City land. First we had the amazing scenes against Spurs last weekend, then the Scousers dumping us out of the piss weak lager Cup on Wednesday. Lots of talking points and lots of opinions. There can be no doubt that the pressure of success is telling on City, with our inability to put any real distance between us and a pack of truly mediocre teams revealing in itself. Not all of the pressure is internal (and I'll come on to that) though quite a bit of it is. Balotelli is the obvious case in point. I do find him entertaining as a man, I must admit, though he is a very frustrating footballing 'talent' on too many occasions, and needless to say (because everybody is saying it all the time) his incendiary temper and ability to attract publicity like a supercharged Pete Doherty is depressingly well documented.

On the stamp, as evidenced by a piece on here from some time ago, I'm no fan of Scott (Batman) Parker, and given the intensely critical timing of the incident which could so easily have cost us the game - if not the season - my initial reaction was that it was accidental. Having watched it again (and again) I am no longer convinced of that fact. However, the deed is done and the game was won in the most dramatic fashion. Unlike the Liverpool match, which was really decided in the dreary home leg. Again though, from what I could tell on 5Live, it seemed a decent enough ding dong do, with a couple of cracking goals to boot. Stand up NDJ - what a man! And who - despite the shocking and frankly bad tasting decline of a once mighty Liverpool team - could wish ill on that Welsh bastard Bellamy, with his African school? Only those with a heart of stone, that's who. So that's that. It's just a shame that major finals are no longer held in Cardiff.

Those who bemoan the fate of City, who are not eppy, and scream that we are victimised and put upon, will elicit little sympathy from me, although lazer blue blood courses through my furry arteries, and I am avowedly CTID. For me, the main culprits (and I exclude Savic only out of deferring to his extreme callowness) are Nasri and Lescott, with the uncertainty around Big Nige's future also seeming to be playing a part in a decline in his form. Mancini cannot be excused either, and has indeed come under fire for both team selection and tactics in recent weeks. As I said above, we should be streaking ahead of the dross that is the Premier League this season, while instead we are floundering a little and just keeping our noses in front.

That all said, there can be no doubt that the very fact of success brings a pressure of its own. Everyone wants to have a pop, and even referees are inclined to change their behaviour. But, now we're out of the Carling Cup and the FA Cup, I think we should make every endeavour to drop out of the Europa League and concentrate on winning the main prize.

Anger

Came into work boiling today, despite being liberally doused with rain. I wanted to toss off this piece in the heat of that anger, but ended up on the phone addressing the issue for half an hour, so now I'm here, retrospectively annoyed, tapping away.

My thoughts were to experiment with anger and writing, to see how it might come out, and although there is a lingering simmer of pissed off-ness, most of the initial seething has subsided, so that experiment will have to wait another day. The subject of my ire: the boss, of coss! Standing in the pissing rain, waiting for a bus, I checked my BlackBerry, to find there a message accusing me (to cut a long story short) of poor customer service, albeit through a member of my team.

'For fuck's sake!' I hissed, as I slopped through a puddle into the mass of steaming commuters on the 24, my mood immediately sent nosediving by this stupid message. Head down after I disembarked, taking the incessant heavy drizzle full in the face on the short walk to the office, I mulled over my response. Temporarily toying with writing something along the lines of:

'Do you think we're all fucking stupid or something? How dare you accuse me of this, when I only found out about it late last night, and have already told you that I would investigate? How fucking DARE you, BITCH?!', I nonetheless didn't bother, and instead penned an anodyne 'I'll look into it' before making a phone call. I'm glad to say that I was vindicated by the call, and have heard nothing in response as yet, although the danger of course is always that some other attack (and let's face it, everyone has at least one vulnerability in their work. If the powers that be really don't like you, it can be difficult to avoid an inevitable crash) will mount. Let's wait and see.

So now that's over with, time for a bit of football talk. Though not a good win, a win for all that on Monday night against an anaemic Wigan side. Dzeko, despite scoring, still looking more of a donkey than a world class striker. Aguero unlucky again, with a fantastic work ethic, great speed and strength. De Jong alarmingly short of his previous form, and really should have been a more comfortable scoreline, even without Yaya. So it's on to face the magnificent Spurs at the weekend, and do I spy (geddit?) a cracking match? My prediction, 2-2, which wouldn't make me too angry, or perhaps 3-2 City, though perhaps old 'Arry will be taxed (geddit???!!) by events at Southwark Crown Court the following day.

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.

Found Out

Saturday teatime in a Tottenham stronghold watching the Rags' outrageous good fortune (conveniently skating over the Wolves farrago here) and something of a return to the bear pit atmosphere I remember from pub matches of old. Large bald men treating the bar as if it's the Paxton Road End and slinging - sometimes funny, sometimes not - insults out at full volume. Then some mug in an Arsenal shirt walks in (entry to this particular pub is in full view of the assembled hordes watching the telly) and gets the 'My Old Man...' treatment. A sheepish grin and a quickening of his pace through the gauntlet towards the bar staves off any nastiness, and hearty roars of laughter follow.

Then there was that goal. There were two other blokes around me, and we had been exchanging the odd word between ourselves throughout the match. When Nani scored, we all missed it, turning around to see the scoreline flashed up on ESPN's appalling coverage (Disney does animation pretty well, but it should keep its nose out of the beautiful game) in disbelief. Needless to say, we weren't the only ones in the boozer to utter cries of disbelief when the replay was finally shown. Mark Clattenburg, redder than SAF after a night of 'wine tasting' was getting some, er, opprobrium from the partisan crowd. And, in the midst of all this, two South American rag fans with cojones of steel jumped up and cheered the goal, sitting as they were in a row of chairs just behind the main Spurs contingent. This didn't best please the N17 boys, as you can imagine, and a few harsh words were exchanged, culminating in one of the Spurs fans getting to his feet and lifting up his chair. The nearest of the South Americans showed no fear, standing up and pushing out his chest in defiance of the threat. For a minute, it looked as if things might turn nasty, but it petered out in the end.

And as for the goal. Well, what can I say that hasn't been said already? Oh yeah, that's right:

CHEATING RAG FUCKING BASTARDS!

The things which riled me most about it were: Nani's flapping around on the deck when he was trying to buy a penalty, and fucking Rio gobbing off at the ref and linesman - even after the incident was over and done with. Mr Clough would not have stood for that.

A Load of Bollocks, or James Son of Zebedee

I was going to let the tags for this post speak for the whole thing. They are: City, football, fuck, shit, Spurs, wanker. And that pretty much sums up my feelings about last night's game, endured in some piss-pot of a Gooner pub on the Cally, accompanied (for some inexplicable reason) by a garrulous Irish lawyer and a Chinese woman, after traipsing round in the sleet trying to find a pub which wasn't (illegally, of course) showing the Arsenal/Burnley game via Albanian satellite. In the immortal song-smithery of Jake Burns - 'there are no words to say, just what it is you mean'.

However, I was somewhat buoyed by my perusal of the Star this morning, noticing that Jerry Dammers may be returning to The Specials, in a deal being brokered by the mighty Suggs. Suggs is of course doing this for the purest of motives.

Be that as it might be, as of course it might be, and then again (name that Ian Dury song) again, this news did put a little spring in my step, a bit like James' dad up above. So I will allow the chorus of the Coventry boys' hit, Pearl's Cafe, to be the epitaph to a dismal night at the Lane.

Labouring

God made man in his likeness, which explains a lot. The fucker was certainly extracting the maximum urine yesterday - not that I wish to seem ungrateful.

I was invited, you see, to the Lane to watch the last home game of the season against the mighty City. As is often the case with this kind of thing, there had been a fair bit of to-ing and fro-ing, and, up until about 8 o'clock on Friday evening, it looked as if it wasn't going to happen.

And given the way things have been going for me, that would have been about right. But go ahead it did, and despite the torrential rain on Friday evening, it really made my night/week/month/year that such an opportunity had arisen. I was not without apprehension, because there had been dark mutterings about players' lounges, Directors' Boxes and not being allowed to wear jeans. I wondered what I would say to Mark Hughes or Robinho if I met either of them, whether I should mention my blog, and ran out to buy a new pair of trousers on Saturday morning before knocking back a quick Grolsch and completing the interminable walk up Tottenham High Road to my rendezvous point outside the Corner Pin.

It turned out that we were only picking the tickets up from the Directors' Box area, and that the tickets were actually for seats among the Academy youngsters. Never mind. I have been boxed at Spurs and elsewhere, and don't really like it as a method of watching the game. But, the usual crap around scheduling meant that the Rags were winning the league as I stood waiting for kick off next to the pissers sipping my £3.30 bottle of Carlsberg, casting envious glances at the kanga burger munchers around me.

And then there was the game. There was almost a funereal atmosphere early on, a respectful air between the players. Robinho wasn't even in the squad, and we were relying on Caicedo to carry the line. Nuff said. Spurs quickly took control after about 10 minutes, and City were lucky not to be 3 or 4 nil down in half an hour. Spurs were attacking the goal just the other side of Vanuatu, so there wasn't a great deal of action on offer for 45 minutes.

The inevitable happened after the break when Spurs inexplicably self-destructed and given Bojinov a goal. For a while it looked as if we might even have won the game before the ex-Rag won that ludicrous pen, and it was game over. Not a dead rubber, but it may as well have been now that the Toon have really blown it yet again.

I never did get the opportunity to discuss my online representations with Sparky.