Out Out Out

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

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

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

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

Tainted or Sainted

It was coming. Nobody can deny that. Despite the entertainment value agin the Scousers, there was a lack of conviction - especially in front of goal - but also a worrying tendency for a return to the defensive errors which have so often historically proved our downfall. Saturday tea time, with the intensely annoying tones of Stan Collymore inflicting GBH on my ears, the chickens came home to roost. The Saints have looked a decent side on occasion, and I remember they gave us a few scares when we played them at the beginning of the season. They also ran the Rags close recently, so this was never going to be an easy trip down to the south coast. Yet, in truth, the loss was as much down to us shooting ourselves in the foot as to the blah-blah-blah philosophy of the new Argie Southampton manager (he must be good, because he can't speak English).

Naturally, to top things off, the Toffees caved in and made life easy for Sir Alex's boys in the run-up to their game against the Galacticos this week, and it really does look as if it's all over red rover now. Even if (which is looking increasingly unlikely) United do slip up, I can't see how we will have enough in us to win the games (i.e., all of them) that we need to in order to stay in it.

As for analysis of Saturday's fiasco, well where to start? There seem to be so many different issues conspiring to tip us into the shit heap at the moment. Barry obviously deserves criticism for having one of those games, and Nasri yet again simply failed to turn up, which is just so fucking infuriating and lazy of him. Hart as well (and again!) hardly covered himself in glory, and there was the now customary fiddling about with the defensive set-up as a result of Kompany's injury. This says so much about the latest recruits and the - let's say - limited impact they have made so far. Yaya hasn't been the force he was last season, and Saturday was just a reinforcement of that disappointing and depressing trend. Whatever the 'personal problem' Tevez had, it doesn't bode well for us, with only Dzeko and Kun to rely on up front. Once more, who could fathom replacing Silva with Maicon, when chasing the game like a Findus horse at 3-1 down?

Though of course it's impossible to know the detail behind much of what goes on at a big club, I feel heartily sick of Mancini sometimes when he starts flinging blame around. It comes across as lame and desperate: blaming the players, blaming Brian Marwood... Who to blame next? Now I hear that dodgy dealings with Barclays Bank are lapping around the Sheikh's ankles, threatening to leave a nasty tide mark on his Savile Row suit trousers, and things could start to go even more horribly wrong. Outside, snow is turning to sleet and a freezing wind blows.

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.

Power

Well that'll teach me, eh? Depressing night against fucking Villa, and we got no more than we deserved out of it. The struggle goes on, and I will never again be tempted to tempt fate.

Reading the endless screeds of print about David Mitchell and (may god forgive me) Plebgate, I am intrigued by the concepts of leadership as revealed in the details of this latest pathetic little story. Mr Mitchell is, we are told, the enforcer for the government (or at least the Tories - as if there's any difference) and ensures that MPs toe the party line. This may include - wait for it - losing his temper with them.
This concept of leadership is all too familiar in the football world of course, its greatest contemporary exponent being old Bacon Face himself, with his tea cups and flying boots and legendary Pifco treatments for those who dare to cross him. Unless you actually think about it, it could be seen as quite surprising that such tactics are used in the environment of the Houses of Parliament or Portcullis House. Verbal and psychological abuse is only to be expected, but actual physical violence - or at least the threat of it - seems a little beyond the pail. Yet, dipping guiltily as always into the Daily Mail over the weekend, I read a précis of some of Jack Straw's memoirs. Our Jack was talking quite candidly about a formidable Labour Deputy Chief Whip named Walter Harrison, around the time that he started out, and I was quite surprised to hear that Jack actually had his bollocks squeezed by this chap while standing in a corridor at the Palace of Westminster. Squeezed that is until the pips squeaked and Jack backed down (no sign of Jill) and changed his mind on the subjet du jour.

Grabbing someone's nuts and giving them a good squeeze is hardly the apogee of the art of rhetoric, I know, but is I'm sure quite an effective means of persuasion. Does it happen now, and are the (admittedly quite small number of) women treated in the same way? Doubtful, I would guess, in terms of the latter question, though perhaps not the first, which might be one of the reasons for there being so few women in Parliament. If you can't crush their knackers, what can you do to keep 'em in line, eh?

Cash in the bush

First of all, a small apology for slagging off City. A couple of good goals and a nice win rounded off the Austrian visit nicely. Now it's off to China and Arsenal, and I really do appreciate the updates from @MCFC, especially when I have no other means of keeping in contact with the boys. Now let's get the Van Persie thing over with, shall we? So, on to today's rant.

Reluctant as I am to fuel this specious 'debate' about the 'morality' of cash-in-hand payments, I do think the whole thing illustrates the way in which politism - or journalics if you prefer - operates today.

A junior minister is asked a question about cash payments (knowing that his bullshit will be picked up and propagated by what passes for the Press in this country) and responds in a way which will deflect attention from the meat and potatoes of the argument. Everyone then starts banging on and on about it as if it really mattered, while conveniently ignoring the truly egregious tax dodging of, for example, Vodafone. It all then ends up at the top, and Cleggeron are asked if they ever did it, while Boris of course can't keep his snooty snout out of anything with headlines in. The intriguing thing is how (I believe) these fuckers and their PR handlers will respond to such a question. They will not consider whether or not to answer truthfully, but will instead assess the risks of lying, and of being found out.

Morality - in the fiduciary sense - is the order of the day. Tax avoiders, benefit cheats, unworthy bank bonus collectors - everyone must somehow justify their earnings, and if they have been found wanting in this moral balance, then they must return their ill-gotten gains from whence they came. So, Cameron, Clegg, Boris and all must agree with the Rt. Hon. Mr Gauke in his assessment of paying plumbers (or whoever) in cash, and yet must admit to having done so themselves. Everyone, right and left, seems to share the view that the guy is talking pure, unadulterated bollocks.

Surely the real question of morality should be posed on the dusty plains of Afghanistan, where Mr Obama's secret agents bung dollar bills at local warlords, not in David Cameron's bathroom?

G4 Shite

Logical, really. Why pay extra for a service when you’ve already got fully equipped and (theoretically at least) qualified personnel sitting around doing sod-all and getting paid for it? Really, why stop at the Olympics? Surely, if you’ve got an (admittedly shrinking) army lying around you should put it to use whenever you can? I see those blokes in their useless camouflage walking around central London quite a bit, and have recently noticed the awful Wolff Olins logo stitched to their sleeves, just below where the stripes normally go. I assumed they were on ‘furlough’ or whatever, getting a bit of Blighty before heading back to the deadly wastelands of Helmand Province, but maybe they’re here all the time, doing jankers or some such in barracks like the horrible little men (and women) they are. Wouldn’t it be sensible to get the sappers digging up the roads, have the army drivers out in cabs, put the uxb men in amongst the Old Bill, mobilise the catering corps into swanky West End restaurants – that kind of thing?

Anyway, far be it from me in my position on the inside as it were to criticise, and fearful as I am of inviting the cyber goons on to my head, I have heard some things about this latest Games-related fiasco. A friend of mine, being some time out of work when he did so, applied for one of the security jobs over at Stratford. He went as far as attending three of the many required day long induction and training sessions before taking the brave step of deciding to drop it like a hot brick. He told me quite a bit about the process, which seemed fairly arduous, I must admit.

Besides his misgivings about whether he was right for the job – he said that he would be expected to confiscate food items from people who were coming to the Games, so that the appointed sponsors would have a monopoly on feeding the 5 million their burgers and chips, and felt distinctly uncomfortable about this – he highlighted a more major concern. In the latter stages of his final training session, the people in his class were asked to sign a sheet of paper so that they could move on to the next stage, and take one more step towards actually getting a job. With pay, no less! The terms and conditions on this sheet were such that the employees would be tied to G4S for a period of one year after the Games ended. If they left within this period, they would be held liable for the cost of training. This could be as much as £5,000, which is not insignificant, I'm sure you will agree. In addition to this, they would possibly be asked to work as far away as Scotland at a day’s notice - either before, during or after the Games.

Wisely, in my opinion, he decided not to sign this bit of paper and walked out into an uncertain future. I’m glad to say he has since found work, and on considerably better terms than this daylight robbery, I'm sure. In addition, he will be able to take his sandwiches with him when he goes to work, and will not be expected to confiscate flasks of tea and McVitie’s Digestives wrapped in foil from respectable spectacle and kagoule wearing Olympic Games fans who have travelled all the way from Doncaster to watch a bit of the coxless fours.

Is it any wonder, listening to that, that G4S have failed to recruit enough staff for this crazy venture? It is a wonder indeed that they have managed to recruit anyone at all. Well, it will all begin, as the French say, in a quinze jours, and then we’ll see what it will be like. I’m not allowed to put anything online about my experiences, so will be relying on the fact that nobody reads this to keep me out of trouble.

Creep

With startling chutzpah (given that he is still under the Leveson microscope) Cameron releases a Sunday statement about the 'something for nothing' culture in our society, and issues dark threats about the removal of housing benefit for those under the age of 25. It is obvious to all that this is a continuation of the cut cut cut agenda currently in place, and - as so many in the Graun have been saying - we've only really seen the beginning of it. We are not yet, despite the best efforts of the ruling elite, and I'm sure many young people would take exception, quite in the same handcart as Greece or Spain, but it won't be long now before th dogma of austerity destroys the last vestiges of hope.

There is no recognition of the fact that there are no jobs, no attempt to address some of the root causes of the problems faced by so much of Europe, such as:

the appalling lack of affordable housing while properties lie empty; the ridiculously inflated value of property in the first place; the fact that the real beneficaries of the HB payments are private landlords; the truth that most people claiming HB are in work, and are clearly not being paid a wage to enable them to live a decent life. None of that. Just another dig at the feckless poor, another petty grab for the resources of those who already have the least to give, straight out of the mouth of a privileged, born into riches millionaire who spends his days allocating jobs for the boys.

I feel mightily sick to my stomach.

Let's not fall out

I write preparing to hold a meeting about someone's attendance at work. Without going into too much detail, the guy is trying to claim that he suffered an industrial injury because he was bitten by insects while in the office. He signed himself off sick for 5 days as a result of the bites after sending a lengthy email, complete with pictures of his bites and a pasted section from Wikipedia about mites. Needless to say, his TU rep has also become involved. His immediate line manager, two steps below me in the hierarchy, and incidentally a Union rep himself to boot, allowed the guy's claim of industrial injury to be entered on his return to work form. This of course caused some consternation higher up the tree (I was out of the office when all of this happened) and now I have been asked to sort it out. The guy is, shall we say, somewhat eccentric, so I really don't know what will happen at the meeting. I heard that he hopes we won't fall out over the issue. I've said before that I'm generally supportive of trades unions, but I've also said before that some people take the piss. I'll leave it to you to decide which side of the fence this particular issue sits on.

There is a parallel between the attendance issues here and the record of one Carlos Tevez, who has made a remarkable return to the City first team in the last couple of weeks. In the absence of Balotelli, Carlos will of course always attract headlines, and you have to say that a hat-trick's a hat-trick. However, yet again, the mighty Kun put on a display at Carrow Road of which any football fan would be proud - limited opposition notwithstanding. He is a truly talented and exciting player, and will be getting my vote for Etihad Player of the Year. Chris Foy, if it needs to be said again, is an absolute word now likely to lead to prosecution on Twitter.

Bobby is getting it right with his avowal that it is impossible for us to win it, expecially with Ashley Young performing Swan Lake at every opportunity, and opposition as limp and listless as the Villans up agin the fucking Rags. Just a shame that pissing Rio Ferdinand looks unlikely to have his words rammed down his smug throat come season's end. Ah well.

Crashing Bore

His intentions were good enough, I think. There was little or no malice in him. It was merely that everything he said somehow came out both tedious and insulting. It is a frustrating trait, common unfortunately to many, that people don't listen to you when you say something. They are either waiting for you to affirm their own feelings on a particular subject, or are too keen to get their little joke in. So, we had stayed in an extremely rustic wooden 'barn' the night before. Creature comforts (i.e., a toilet) were in short supply, and the freakishly warm weather had long departed, leaving a freezing night, which was not ameliorated by the gaping holes in the walls. We had hunkered down and nested for the night on the floor in front of the wood burning stove, so were not feeling particularly jaunty as a result when we arrived at the house the next morning. People were asking how we had slept in the barn, and we replied that it had been bloody cold.

"I bet you warmed up, pretty quick, eh?" he nudge-nudged, touching my shoulder. I smiled. What can you do? The next morning, we arrived again, this time no less tired, but having suffered not quite so much from the cold, due to a rise of two or three degrees in the ambient temperature.

"How did you sleep last night?"
"OK. Not great, but at least it wasn't so cold."
"Well, you get used to the cold after a while, don't you?"
"Maybe, but it wasn't anywhere near as cold as the night before."
"I bet you still found a way to keep out the cold though, eh?"

Sigh.

After the exertions and the sadness, London - with its toilets and heating - beckoned once again, and then a trip to Littlehampton which meant that there were only Twitter updates for the Arsenal match. Balotelli had already been in the news for crashing his car into some kid, and allegedly crashing his cock into a couple of prostitutes, so it was inevitable that he should again be the focal point of yet another crushing 90 minutes of football, resulting in a Gooners win, and annoying references from their fans to the Poznan. As I didn't see the match, have not (and will not) watched MOTD2, and cannot bring myself to read a newspaper report of the game, I don't know if Mario was entirely at fault for us losing. It can't help of course to get sent off, but from what I saw on the MCFC Twitter feed (I hold this ridiculous 'together' hashtag largely responsible for the decline in our fortunes as a matter of fact) we were lucky not to have conceded 2 or 3 before their goal went in.

Ten points the gap to Arsenal now, and not inconceivable that it will be chipped away by season's end. Never mind the fucking Rags clinching the title at the Etihad, we could even drop to third spot. Good old City.

I love Tony!

Education has been a burning subject lately, both nationally, and in the close confines of my own family circle. My eldest has just been through the GCSE selection process, and the whole evening was quite an eye-opener for me. Apparently, and perhaps I should have been - but wasn't - aware, the Coalition has introduced something called the 'E-Bac', or English Baccalaureate. It is (according to the DfE) not a qualification in itself; rather, it seeks to ensure grade 'C' or higher passes in subjects which are perceived as having more value than others. Namely: English; maths; history or geography; the sciences; and a modern language. The E-Bac was introduced to counter the steep rise in the take-up of vocational subjects (one assumes woodwork, hairdressing and such) especially among the lower income sections of society, which means that poor CT kids are not getting a fair crack of the whip when it comes to the Russell Group or a spell as an intern at Conservative Central Office. As a result, they become neets or stack shelves for benefit plus expenses for the rest of their worthless existence.

My daughter's school is one of the shiny new Academies, and as such embraces wholeheartedly any bilge the current crop of fuckwitted Ministers spew out. It is, additionally, a faith school. Nuff said. I have been impressed and surprised by the obvious wealth of resources in the place, and by the enthusiasm of the staff, even if they do seem a bit like drones, all power dressing and watches. My own references for teachers have always been along the lines of frayed cord jackets smelling of pipe smoke, tired cynicism a la Mrs Krabappel, and (with some notable exceptions - I'm looking at you, Mr and Mrs Waites) a strong leaning towards the Left. A bit like The History Man without the sex. Anyway, before nostalgia carries me too far away from the point of this ramble, I find the earnestness and sheer corporate feel of the school somehat overwhelming. Apparently, Business Studies is one of the most popular optional GCSE choices, and the fear of many parents is palpable as they strive to give their kids some kind of toehold on the future.

Worst of all, amidst this desperate grasping for a life, is the cold hearted cynicism of people like Michael Gove. In a tough field, he is a close contender for the vilest man in Westminster. His track record of a warehouse full of bibles and his refusal to include homophobic religious ranting aimed at schoolkids as discriminatory is bad enough. Now, we see just how cosy he has been with the Dirty Digger, seemingly lunching with the old goat and Rebekah Wade on an almost daily basis while Murdoch was laying his plans for a money spinning private education business. Given the most recent Leveson stuff, surely a thorough examination of just how close the Secretary of State for Education and Rupert and his boys were (are...) would be in order? Just the one quote (October, 2004) from Gove, referenced in the title of this post, is enough for me:

"I can't hold it back anymore. I love Tony!"

Although we mustn't forget that he is a millionaire who paid his mother-in-law thousands of pounds of expenses cash while flipping his homes. This is the kind of twat that is setting educational policy for fuck's sake. It has to stop.

So, on to the important lesson doled out to a thoroughly abject Blackburn Rovers, who were turned over easily after a slightly obdurate opening half hour. The team is looking good, with our attacking options as fluid and exciting as I think they have ever been. Bolton to come, and I'm always reluctant to tempt fate, but that should be another 3 points in the bag. Bloody United old boys staying the pace with another last minute clincher against the Canaries. Still looks as if the title's going all the way to the wire.

Poverty of Ideas

Props to Wikipedia of course, for the picture

Another sign that incompetence, graft and downright greed are no barrier to political success as we watch the latest disgraceful goings-on in Westminster over the Welfare Reform Bill. Almost as bad as the fact that people seem to be sucking this shit up and boosting the bloody Coalition. FFS!!

“We know who these families are,” said Iain Duncan Smith on the Today programme. “We have been identifying them, and will be working with them to ensure that the impact of these changes are managed in the best possible way.”


It's all very Kafka-esque. How have the Department for Work and Pensions managed to pull off this amazing feat? What does it actually mean? Perhaps they will find these families among the ‘homeless’ who are sharing rooms in Major Smith’s (‘Duncan’ is not a family name, and so he is not double-barrelled. It is just one of his given names, and typical of the kind of twat he is that he goes around using it) fantasy world. A world which is not inhabited by such organisations as Shelter, who surprisingly have a somewhat different take on the definition of homeless. As far as I can see, with Clegg et al running around peddling the usual mendacious nastiness since the Lords and bishops bared their teeth again, the government will offer training programmes to – wait for it – help get people into work (!) as a sweetener once they have lost their homes and have finished queuing up at the soup kitchen for the kids’ dinners.

He then went on to pronounce that poor people should not have large families if they cannot afford to. As a Catholic, with a stated desire to promote conventional (married) family life, perhaps he would like to suggest an appropriate way for these families to do as he suggests? I believe that (unless a man is diagnosed with HIV, of course, when the use of perforated condoms may be considered, though of course this may not be entirely successful in limiting the size of the family) there could be some dispensation for the rhythm method among the mandarins in the Vatican City. Failing that, a sterilisation programme could be implemented. It almost worked in the Third Reich after all.

Maybe his educational background at the GEC Marconi employees’ college gives him an insight his Eton/Oxbridge colleagues so sorely lack. Or, being married to the daughter of a baron (though Baroness Betsy was of course handsomely paid for 'working' as his diary secretary) and with four children of his own to which he can leave his considerable fortune, he is uniquely qualified to preach on poverty and responsible family planning. Or possibly, he's just a fucking cunt.

Drag out the Dickens

One more quick blast while I sit here waiting for the right time to leave the office.

As Christmas draws ever closer, I wonder what David Cameron will be doing on the big day? No doubt (as this is now as traditional as sprouts and the Queen's speech) he will need to be photographed visiting church with his wife and kids. Doubtless Nick Clegg will have to do the same with the lovely Miriam. Much as I loath the whole lot of the bastards, you have to admire the sheer bloody-mindedness of those who choose the path of power. There can be extremely few moments of genuine down time when they can pick their noses or scratch their arses without being photographed or written about. I suppose though that a few years of such intrusion is worth the effort for the enormous payoff that results at the end of it.

Will it be back to Number 10 for a spot of turkey and stuffing for the Cams? Or will he be huddled over his boxes, picking up the phone to Osborne and Obama, monitoring the secure emails (I'm assuming that telegrams are no longer in use, though the FCO were still using them while I was at Defra just a couple of  years back) flying around about Pakistan, Iran, Iraq, North Korea... Or will he pay a visit to some Mother's Union meeting in Witney - another photo opportunity to be flickered on to the nation's TV screens at 5.30, just before the Celebrity Come Dancing special?

Whatever it is he's up to, I'm sure he and his cronies have got plenty up their sleeves for us all in 2012, and it is with bated breath that we await his pronouncements. God rest ye merry gentlemen. Let nothing ye dismay.

Tired

I'm afraid this is a theme I have often returned to, and I will hopefully balance the gloom with a nice piece about us getting through to the knockout stages of the Champions League on Wednesday. But you have to agree that - outside of the Etihad Stadium - things are pretty bloody dismal at the moment!

Christmas is a time for meeting old friends, for taking stock of the year just gone. A time for sentiment and happiness, celebration and indulgence. Is this the gloomiest Christmas there has ever been? Is it darker than the early 40s, when my ancestors huddled around radios, eking out the butter ration and piling coats on the bed as the bombs fell all around? Darker than December 1914, when the Tommies and Fritzes played football in no man's land?

Day after day, ever more dire financial news is poured down on our heads, unrelenting in its intensity. Politicians in Italy are crying as they announce their austerity budgets; the streets are still burning in Greece; the youth of Spain stare at empty, crumbling development sites; and the disabled in this country are (sometimes literally) having their wheelchairs pulled from beneath them as the homes in which we place our old folk are facing financial ruin.

Businesses - many of them well established, sometimes bastions of the world of retail - are going under at alarming rates. Millions strike to defend what little future security they have; and thousands of others, with no labour to withdraw in the first place, turn with blank eyes to the windows of sports and electronics shops - smashing and grabbing for a slice of the pie. There is no money left, and that is what we are told. If Rolls Royce et al can't sell their cars, then every other lamprey - in a sort of sad homage to natural selection - which sucks on the scaly sides of the Silver Ghosts will also go hungry. And very quickly extinct, preserved only in the fossil record of Companies House.

Let us be under no illusion that Miliband, or anyone, will provide a way out of this. As we have seen in Greece and Italy, the markets will have their way, regardless of the 'will of the people', and we can expect no white knight to be allowed to rein in the money men. Hopes pinned on a Chinese Marshall Plan seem futile indeed, and the only glimmer of stimulus comes from sabre rattling at the old Iranian foe. May the Ayatollahs quake at the avenging angel - William Hague - and his cavalry of Euro Fighters!

Responsibility

Image courtesy of Lola Dupre

Dave has spoken.  After revealing the contingency plan to deploy water cannon against the flat screen stealers (otherwise known as 'scum' by people who are usually quite rational) he states:

"Its [sic] all too clear that we have a big problem with gangs in our country. For too long there has been a lack of focus and a complete lack of respect shown by these groups of thugs." Is he referring to his friends at News International?

"...there are pockets of our society that are not just broken, but frankly sick." Does he mean the Metropolitan Police? The Conservative Party?



"For me the root cause of this mindless selfishness is the same thing I have spoken about for years: it is a complete lack of responsibility in parts of our society." Would this lack of responsibility be the result of an example set by the ruling classes, one wonders? By the slavish adherence to market values and the culutre of winner take all sod-you-mate which drives so much of government thinking? Is he not part of society himself, and therefore a major contributor to the 'mindless selfishness' he so casually talks abayt?
 
"People allowed to feel that the world owes them something, that their rights outweigh their responsibilities and that their actions do not have consequences. Well they do have consequences."


Is a wealthy, Eton and Oxbridge educated white man who finagled his way into a position of power after lurking around such luminaries as Michael Green, able to say such a thing with a straight face? I mean, really! Think about Andy Coulson and Rebekah Wade for a minute before you start talking about rights and consequences.

"We need to have a clearer code of values and standards that we expect people to live by and stronger penalties if they cross the line." These values and standards will of course not apply to DC or any of his cronies. We can be sure of that. What penalties will these fuckers have to face for screwing the entire country over?

"Restoring a stronger sense of responsibility across our society in every town in every street in ever estate is something I am determined to do." Well, that's a relief. Thanks Dave. Now fuck off.

All quotes taken from the Graun website.

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.

Shoot me

Yesterday I turned down the opportunity of a ticket to Saturday's match at Wembley. City faithful and others among my readership will perhaps be surprised at this, but I can assure you that there are several good reasons, not all of which I'll go into here. Two reasons I will give however, are as follows:
1. Money
2. Hopelessness

Things are a little tight for me following changes to my personal circumstances, and I cannot really justify whatever astronomical cost I would have had to pay to get to and into HA9 on a warm Saturday tea time. Having been to Wemberlee before (on a jolly as well as a paid-for excursion) I am fully aware of the true horror involved in buying a pint of beer there.

Following the disastrous display against the Scousers the other night, and watching the ongoing clusterfuck juggernaut that is the Rags' season, I can't really believe we will stand much of a chance either. All the talk now is that Tevez may never play for us again, and - if true - what a whimper of a way to end your time at a club, pulling up after an inocuous tackle at Anfield and hobbling off the pitch.

Doubtless, Lord Berba will extend his goal tally at the home of football and snatch the Golden Boot from under Carlos' nose, leaving only Shrewsbury boy Hart with a sniff of the Golden Glove award.  Really, what are our options without the bolshy little Argy? Dzeko seems to be suffering Torres-itis, and Balotelli is... well, a fairly typical City player, unfortunately. More noted for his bizarre behaviour than his footballing talent; 'the kind of player to get managers the sack' as was pointed out in the Graun on Tuesday, we really cannot expect great things from the man. One ray of hope lies in David Silva, but as I've said before, he's not a goal scorer; another glimmer is in AJ, and I hope he blows more hot than cold.

Not only have I declined the offer of a ticket, but I don't plan to be with any other football fans when the match is on, despite being offered the opportunity to do so. I will be watching on the boob tube, screening my eyes with my fingers, cowering behind the sofa, silently heaving dry sobs into the crook of my elbow.

Rownd a Rownd

So the year turns and time marches on. Last Saturday, while City were labouring in the Arctic melting pot (see what I did there? Oxymoron and historo-cultural reference all in one. Stoke have got to be one of the worst teams to take on at their ground in the winter - especially when your players are so mollycoddled that they get to drive home at half time in order to avoid the traffic...) of the Britannia Stadium, I marked the anniversary of losing my job at Defra/Interserve by watching Football Focus.

It is now 8 months that I have been working for Olive, though for only just over a week as a member of 'the family' and not as some expendable service or good, to be discussed (in my own presence!) and discarded as if I was a broken domestic appliance. It may be possible to detect a slight note of bitterness in my tone as I look back on those days, and this is of course coloured by the lengthy period I spent out of work after I was let go, but is also the result of memories of the boss at the time.

I have heard that he was removed from the contract about 4 months after I left, and that he has now found employ (gainful or not, one could hardly say) at another. I have met some arseholes in my time, let me tell you, but this guy was right up (or should that be down?) there with the worst of them. I firmly believe that managers should re-define themselves as leaders, and as such should display some of the characteristics necessary to inspire people. These may include - though will not be limited to - saying hello; showing a modicum of interest; listening; saying goodbye, etc. He displayed none of these traits. It may have been of course that he was carrying a terrible burden, in the knowledge of the decimation that was to come, and that the only way he could survive was to cauterise his humanity and behave as an automaton. But to assume that would be way too charitable a gesture on my part, and I sincerely hope that the guy is twisted up inside, like Stan wishes on Eminem at the end of the song:

"I hope you can't sleep and you dream about it
and when you dream I hope you can't sleep and you scream about it
I hope your conscience eats at you and you can't breathe without me!"

This one's for you, Pat.

Hoo

Well, what's all this shit about Rooney? Utterly pathetic. He wants to leave, Fergy is tediously upset (the PR woman at the end of this piece really encapsulates the whole thing for me. 'No questions. That's it. Sir Alex is doing another piece for MUTV, and that will be available to you all.' For fuck's sake...) Mancini refuses to commit, Chelsea are playing a waiting game and neither Real nor Barca can afford it. Wazzer himself is playing a few rounds with his agent, and the goddam circus makes me want to puke.

As I sit here listening to the incredible end to the Inter/Spurs match, it comes home to me just how much the beautiful game is sullied by this shit. As one of my Rag mates said:

'Get rid.'

Rich

So, ended up in Regent's Park yesterday after shopping with the kids in Camden Town. Clearly, one wouldn't expect the same type of people to patronise this particular royal garden as you would see in say Paradise Park.  As the kids played, and I sat and waited, a middle aged woman next to me fired up her iPhone and began to talk.

"Hello darling. Are you well? Oh Caro, yes it was a lovely time.  The Ritz was fabulous, and the whole area around it, the Place Vendome, was really wonderful. Oh, and Caro... The shopping. Oh. My God. There are some of the big names there, but also a lot of lovely boutiques. And Neil bought me a ring from Boucheron. Emeralds. There were some fantastic restaurants, Caro. A friend recommended one and the concierge at the Ritz recommended another. It was all just so lovely and romantic. I think I'm falling in love with the city again... Caro, you can't go to Magnet for your kitchen - they're so naff. Yes. They're ultra naff.

"Oh, I must tell you Caro. We've won a holiday. With Boucheron, for being one of their best customers. It's a weekend in Morocco. Isn't that funny? No, I don't think we will go. The Algerian president will be there. I mean, what do these people do at these things? No, if I did get a free weekend, I'd sooner jump on a plane with Neil and go to New York."

I couldn't take any more.

Poor Show

Everyone knows that the League Cup is at least a tertiary competition these days, and of course we do face the mighty Chelsea Saturday lunchtime, so there had to be some changes. But – all eleven positions rotated from the previous game? You’re having a laugh, as they say in the post room. 

Here are the squad profiles for some of the – ahem – less well known players in last night’s team:

Javan Vidal.  Manchester born player, who’s served time at Grimsby and Aberdeen (lucky boy! Told you the footballer’s life was a glamorous one) and most recently brought back from the dead, sorry, I meant Derby County, where he played just one game last season.  Has made 2 appearances for England Under 19s.  I’m not alone in not having seen him play I guess, so can’t really comment.
 
Ben Mee.  Before last night’s game, there was a 0 against all stats for this 20 year old.  I can’t even find out if he’s anything to do with Bertie.

Greg Cunningham. All the way from Cregmore FC in the Republic. Has made 2 appearances for the national side, and came on for AJ against the Brummies.

John Guidetti.  Swedish. Played for Brommapojkarna, which in itself should have been sufficient warning to leave him out against West Brom.

Surrounding this motley crew was Ibrahim (slightly more recognisable), Boyata, AJ, Vieira, Santa fucking Cruz, Jo and the ever-wonderful Shay.

Nowhere on earth deemed it worthwhile to put the match on the internet (and who can blame them?) so I saw none of the action. The City website went down (again) and so I made do with Twitter and 5 Live updates, trying vainly to tune in to GMR, but blocked by ‘contractual issues’ said the BBC (I can’t understand that. I realise that there may be national broadcast arrangements in place, but why couldn’t I listen to a radio station being broadcast in bloody Manchester?  The last time I checked, Manchester was part of England.  But I don’t know anything anymore.  The farcical 5 Live situation at the weekend, where we had to listen to a fireside chat among Lawro, Alan Green and the rest because fucking Talk Sport had the radio rights to the Rag/Liverpool match says it all. Doesn’t it?)
 
Many of the fans I saw tweeting last night seemed to think that we should have invested a bit more in this match as a means of attaining some silverware and getting rid of the infamous banner at the Sty. I can see some sense in that, but also think that we couldn’t really risk injuring our first choice players ahead of the Chelsea match. The argument which will always be thrown at us now is that we cannot cry injury as an excuse because of all the money we have spent, so I think we have put ourselves in a difficult position.

Another oft-echoed sentiment, with which I do agree, is that – based on his tactical decisions so far this season – the ‘journey’ looks like it will take Signor Mancini to the Italian equivalent of the dole office very soon.