The Diary

28 December 2004: All Aboard The Embarrassment Express, Folks!

It?s been 24 hours, just about, since the latest in a never-ending run of embarrassing defeats for us, and as you might expect, the recriminations among supporters have been flying around the airwaves like crazy ever since. At the moment, our mailing list, the ?Boing? one, is white-hot with discussion and debate among followers regarding what, if anything, can be done to reverse the decline. There?s lots been suggested, of course: some place the blame firmly at the feet of our current manager, while others vent sorely-tried spleens on our chairman for appointing him in the first place. There?s also a school of thought that opines getting rid of Megson was the real root of the trouble, while yet another believes the source of our salvation lies in giving all those players performing in a less than satisfactory manner right now the boot. I?ve even seen one list member advocate dropping most of the regulars, and sticking those in the reserve side at the sharp end instead.

At the moment, reasonably-rational and informed debate among some of the most knowledgable supporters to be found at the club seems to be the order of the day ? but we have known occasions when internecine quarrels and complete acrimony seem to take centre-stage instead. Inevitable when discussing such an emotive subject, I suppose, and, if you care to think about it a little more deeply, a healthy development, in its own way. A completely-supine list doesn?t make for constructive and reasoned argument, never has done, and never will.

Most of our current problems stem from the complete collapse of any semblance of confidence we previously enjoyed. A few days ago, I likened our current situation to that of a group of people getting into what I termed a ?negative feed-back cycle? of defeat, fuelled by yet more defeat, piled on top of the funeral-pyre. This creates yet another problem, the near-impossibility of finding a way out of it. I reckon the closest other approximation I?ve seen to the nub of our current situation emanates from a pretty unlikely source; a theory propounded many years ago by Lord Moran, Churchill?s personal physician, who was in an excellent position to know quite a bit about group morale, and what could affect it; during the first lot, he spent years in the trenches of the Western Front as a regimental MO. His theory, apropos shell-shock and similar conditions, ?tis true, revolved around the concept of people having a personal ?bank balance? of courage on which they could draw when needed. Some had stacks in the ?bank? and were able to cope, no matter what. Most, though, had very much less, and very quickly found themselves in an ?overdraft? situation ? once that was gone, so-called ?shell-shock? supervened.

And it?s no different with players, really; each and every one of ours has a personal reservoir of confidence and courage on which to draw, and, just like Moran?s squaddies, some are considerably more well-endowed in that respect than others. Come the middle of the current season, and loss piled upon serious loss, it follows that some, if not all of our players, are well and truly ?in the red? on that score. So what to do, then? Moran advocated better psychological selection of sharp-end soldiers in the first place, but that sort of approach is hardly applicable to the football field. Of one thing I?m certain, though; bawling and shouting isn?t going to help. As the club discovered during the previous incumbent?s reign, there?s a limit to how many times you can go down that particular road; exceed it, and suddenly you have a dressing-room full of players who switch off instantaneously every time you open your cavernous mouth.

Whatever course of action is eventually deemed necessary by the club, as far as I can see, we?ve had it. Better to realise that now, and start planning for next season, than entertain false hopes of survival ? because it just ain?t going to happen. Fact. Mind you, on our return last night and then early this morning, I tried to seek some sort of assistance on that front. Not from Robbo, of course; from a Christmas present my other half was given by a workmate, one of those ?executive toy? things, I suppose. Complete and utter desperation does that to you, sometimes. To all outward appearances, this device looks rather like a grossly-enlarged pool ball, or one of its crown bowling cousins, but with a figure ?8? within a white circle on the upper ?pole?. The lower ?pole? has a dinky circular plastic window instead. How to use? Easy: what you have to do is shake the thing, while making a wish/asking for answers to a vexing question, then turning over to reveal the little ?window? below, where the answer to your question should be showing, on a little blue triangular thingy. ?Ask? another, shake, and a different ?answer? is revealed.

You?ve probably guessed what I?m about to say by now, but I?ll say it anyway. Last night, when we got in, out of sheer anxiety, I grabbed the dratted thing, and asked it: ?When are we going to pick up another bloody point, then?? I have to say the thing was a bit Delphic with its answers; even whitewash-merchant supreme Lord Hutton would be pushed to come up with such ambivalent answers as the ones I got. And, this lot, folks, no kidding, each and every one is totally and utterly genuine! To my first, predictably enough, the answer, when it came, was: ?YOU WILL HAVE TO WAIT.?

?Er, yes, we know that, but for how bloody long?? said I. Answer? ?LOOKING GOOD.? Doo wot? I can only assume from that one that the entire Man City side will go down with a mysterious plague of boils shortly before kick-off tomorrow afternoon; either that, or in a ?first? for the world of psychic research, I have in my house a ?fortune-telling device? completely under the influence of some sort of hallucinatory drug or other! I blame that Doris Stokes, myself.

But I wasn?t going to be defeated, despite the strong possibility of witnessing our finest going down a similar road tomorrow. Ask it another, I thought, so I dutifully posed the question: ?Is there any way whatsoever of extricating ourselves from this almighty mess?? The answer? ?YES, IN TIME?.? Closely followed by the word ?ABSOLUTELY?, when I asked it if it was taking the pee! OK, so now I knew what I was dealing with ? a fortune-telling ball that most certainly knew what the word ?irony? meant, not to mention the concept of ?sarcasm?. Bloody good abstract thought for what was supposed to be an inanimate object, I suppose! At least I got a straight answer to the next one, which was: ?YOU CAN COUNT ON IT!? My original poser? ?Are we really going to go down, then?? Case proven, M?Lud.

Oh, well. Turning from the mysterious world of the occult to the more mundane aspects of our remaining Premiership programme, tomorrow sees us head on up to a new destination for us Dick Eds, the City Of Manchester Stadium, and Kevin Keegan?s lovely lot. Given their fervent worship of the Great Attacking God, I foresee not great quantities of ?blood, toil, tears and sweat?, as prescribed by Sir Winston Churchill when he was up against it sixty-odd years ago, just even more embarrassment for us come five pm tomorrow. Oh ? and another thought. My other half gave me the cheering news tonight that our present managerial incumbent is now well on his way towards becoming the next Albion gaffer with the worst ever post-war starting record (see your next GD for full details, courtesy the writer, Pete Cotterill). The current record-holder is none other than Bobby Gould, who, on arrival, managed a debut draw with West Ham at our place, then went on to lose six on the bounce, only to score two goals in all that time. When we lose tomorrow ? note the distinct lack of the word ?if? in that statement - I strongly suspect that the Barmy One?s thirteen year-old record will finally fall. And after that cheering bit of news, feel free to cut your throats with a rusty sardine-tin any time you like! Just don?t do it on my doorstep, OK?

As far as Man City?s new home is concerned, I know sod-all about it, I?m afraid, as it?s our first ever visit to the place. Oh well ? at least we?ll get thumped in classy surroundings. And, just to get us in the mood for such a ?debut?, we even purchased a couple of Manchester tarts from our local supermarket, today, and ate ?em with our tea. Nothing to do with Northern prostitutes, I hasten to add; just a yummy and cakey delicacy consisting of shortcrust pastry shell, a thin layer of strawberry jam on the bottom surface, slurpy, golden custard on top, and with desiccated coconut bits in abundance chucked on for good measure as well. And my fave bit ? a whopping great cherry on top.

As for City, it would appear that they?ve also had problems concerning players imbibing far more of the Christmas spirit than was really good for them. With us, it was Bernt Hass; with them, it was Joey Barton, the lad with a now-famous drunken penchant for doing things with cigars that weren?t either big or clever. He was dropped for that particular misdemeanour, but is expected to return to the fold nicely in time for us turkeys, and a bit of shooting-practice for him, I suppose. Reports suggest Ben Thatcher could be back after ankle surgery, but Christian Negouai, also a naughty boy after their encounter with Everton, won?t ? he was sent off, and enjoys similar status to our own miscreant right now.

As far as we?re concerned, I don?t suppose we?ll be getting the services of Kanu tomorrow, either; still suffering with that most peculiar malady of his, I reckon. Once more, Big Dave?s absence will be keenly felt; we sure as hell need his steadying touch, not to mention ginormous nut, in the side right now. The other notable absentee, of course, will be Mister Contra Mundum (Latin-English translation of my latest ?Contra? play on words, appropriately enough, is ?against the whole world?!), who will be cooling his heels in the stand, as a result of his abortive and totally-unrequited attempt to usurp Houlty?s goalkeeping role yesterday evening. Prediction? Do I still have to spell it out in words of one syllable? Just what aspect of the term ?crap? do you not understand?

A hell of a lot will hang on how mean and/or nasty City?s strikeforce are feeling right now. Should the mood so take them, they?ll absolutely marmalise us, make no mistake ? but the trouble is, City are the sort of outfit that tends to blow hot and cold, and with little indication beforehand either way. Should they have an off-day tomorrow, the football equivalent of PMT, or their keeper being a Virgo and their midfielders being Aries, then they?ll lay off, comparatively speaking, and we might just get away with a ?goals against? tally looking almost respectable, for once! I reckon around five goals shipped by Houlty if they?re in the mood, and around two or three if they?re not.

And Finally?.. A quick word about Dave Knott, who, for his many sins, currently sorts out the new Supporters? Club website. Having sent some pictures of the East Midland Branch meeting to him recently, in my covering email, I made reference to our equally-embarrassing 1985-86 relegation from the top-flight ? old-stagers will know what I?m on about, of course. Tonight I received a reply ? and, as far as what?s happening now is concerned, it?s all Dave?s fault, apparently!

How come? Easy. According to Dave, ?85-86 was around the time he first got involved with the running of the Supporters Club, and he only stood down just after Megson took over. Dave then re-joined the Committee this season ? say no more? As Dave said in conclusion, ?Perhaps I'm attracted by doom and gloom - just call me Jonah!!? OK, Dave, I?ll do just that. I'll call you Jonah - but only if you promise to chuck yourself off the top of the Brummie Road stand, then get swallowed by a whale. The first bit can be organised without too much difficulty, but it's the second I'm having problems with right now - trouble is, I can't find a whale daft enough to show up for our next home (mis)match. When I asked them, most said they'd rather wave a white flag at the next Japanese factory ship they saw, than endure the fare currently on offer at the Hawthorns!

 - Glynis Wright

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