Coleen Nolan’s hometown 1, Roald Dahl’s 1

By: Martyn | August 17th, 2009

I was really looking forward to making the trip to Blackpool. The away end may have an aversion to roofing and the journey there alone could see you read an issue of WSC cover-to-cover thrice, but it was one to tick off on my ‘Grounds to Visit’ list compounded with the opportunity to see my beloved Bluebirds in a rich vein of form (P2 W2 F6 A1). And then I crashed my car. D’oh indeed. In spite of thankfully escaping with all limbs attached, the same cannot be said for my trusty 106. So it’s the proverbial belt-tightening until financial normality resumes. Equally gutting; I was unable to listen to the game due to being stuck in work longer than anticipated. Accounts of the match from attending acquaintances have been sketchy given that more attentiveness was paid to the consumption of fizzy hop-pop! So my trust is placed in coherent posters on the social graveyards that are messageboards, and the objective viewpoints from those bastions of the erroneous Wales Online. The BBC has lost my trust since it began screening that hideously shoddy Football League package.

Oh, and these. Goal highlights. Courtesy of the folk who pay Jonathan Ross a King’s ransom. Now I know net-bulgers aren’t always the best indicator as to what’s gone before in the match, but they’re the bits that top the vitality list as they ultimately determine whether you prop up the rest of the league or are the surprise front-runners (I know we are but 2 games in, but few tipped Coleman’s Coventry to stay up so it’s nice to see them perhaps defying expectations). Therefore I’ll base my review of the game on the two goals that are available for all and sundry to view.

Firstly, ours. Now although McCormack and Ledley are so close that one’s imagination contemplates the notion that they were on the pitch playing some sort of active, charade-esque manifestation of Top Trumps that saw them vie for who has the highest tally of Premier League clubs on their case (either that or they were comparing midweek international excursions: “We lost to Montenegro in the searing heat.” “Yeah, well, we got battered by Norway, and now can’t get to the World Cup, and I got taken off after half hour, and then had to watch my club team-mate make a fool of himself by flapping at every single cross those big nasty Vikings put in the box.” “Erm, well, erm, Mr Toshack wouldn’t let us go and see where they filmed Casino Royale!” And so on), their positions indicate our strength in attack.

With Whittingham slotting in behind the two strikers (who are stretching the Dutch wannabes rearguard to forge a crack) as a trequartista, Ledley and McCormack’s desire/instructions to come infield see the formation become a 2-3-3-2. Dave Jones’s penchant for attacking full-backs means that we retain width, and McPhail acts as the counter-attack stifling insurance in front of our slow centre-backs. Though to be fair, this is about as safe as employing Peter Griffin as a child-minder. As for the fluky burier of our sole effort, Chopra’s early season scoring form is most welcome and indicates that the invention-lethargy that accompanied the stoic performances of last season is soooooooo like, gone. Introductions haven’t been this affirmative since Turok’s in the Nintendo 64 Dinosaur Hunter game!

And then we move onto the goal scored by the Tangerines. Despite the Liverpudlian Oscar Grouch commending the defensive solidity on display, I can’t help but feel that Blackpool’s goal could have been prevented. Firstly, although the defence makes for a clean sweep of “YES MISS” on the class register and has adopted a decent shape, it is one that’s giving Marshall a close-up of their backsides and is clearly not in control of the unfolding situation as they could be. Secondly, look at the way Evatt slots so easily into the territory neither McPhail nor Quinn is covering. The latter’s split-second of indecision costs him the relevant ground required to block the shot (albeit indecision that ends up preventing Evatt from attempting a dangerous dart toward the side of the six-yard box), while McPhail is perhaps contemplating what to have for his tea or whether he left the oven on. Wherever his mind had wandered to, it was far removed from the action.

The other talking points raised by the game concern injuries. To a lesser extent, the ones picked up by Quinn (he may be a bit naff by my initial reckoning, but his absence will be keenly felt seeing as McNaughton is not close to a return and the alternatives, Mark Kennedy, Miguel Comminges, Darcy Blake and Tony Capaldi are woeful, comedic, clueless and average) and McPhail, but mainly to Ross McCormack who it is guesstimated may be unavailable for up to eight weeks. Ouch. Now I may have written McCormack out of the City soap opera script a few weeks back, but his scintillating start to the season means his absence is a bummer on two levels. One being that the team is deprived of a creative and goal-scoring outlet, talisman and fulcrum. The other is that should the November blues kick in as Ross continues to pseudo-sweat for a manager he doesn’t get along with in a position and league he doesn’t want to play in, we’ve missed out on grabbing the money while his value is sky-high.

In terms of the Championship context, I can’t really figure just yet whether or not this was a decent weekend for us. The Jacks, managed by a kooky man who looks more suited to being the enigmatic, bespectacled sort who owns an antiques shop in Quimper with no disregard for the cat ambling and climbing about: You know, one of those quaint little places your parents would have made you venture in while on holiday – even though they had no intention of shelling out for anything – as a nipper with the tiny little price tags attached to each piece by dainty cotton thread, the gorgeous minuscule handwritten value semi-masking the fact that the lamps that don’t work or the vases that’ll smash on the plane ride home cost in excess of a small African nation’s GDP. Or Andrei Shevchenko. Anyway, where was I, yes Swansea City are bottom. With 0 points. Titter. We remain in 2nd place with what one may well describe as a point gained.

Yet worryingly, Sheffield United, Middlesbrough and Newcastle United seem to have shaken off the cobwebs and started upon the path named efficiency. Then again, returning to the other hand, Boro faced opposition with a seriously depleted midfield and how bad must the Royals have been to allow Shola Ameobi to net several?! I watched the Magpies with great interest at West Bromwich last weekend. The s..l..ooooo….w strikeforce of the aforementioned hat-trick hero and Andy Carroll, coupled with that overly-workmanlike central midfield and a reliance on Jonas and his God-awful delivery made me see them as just another team in this division (except this one has the circus in tow). In fact, the only bit of invention they showed was capped with a tasty finish by a player now departed for pastures new, Damien Duff. But clearly, there is still an element of Premier League level ruthlessness that courses through the fabric of these recently demoted sides and their threat means that we need to start winning games such as Blackpool away.

Next up – tomorrow in fact – is the club of Roscoff’s feeder town, Argyle. Anybody who tries telling you that it’s a derby game mind is a div. The Pilgrims were fortuitous in their coup of a point at home to Flavio Briatore’s favourite toy on the weekend, and I expect the likes of Chopra to thrive in engineering space against the likes of the thuggish David McNamee. Whether the third game in the space of a week catches up with the (22) players may be more decisive on the outcome however than the aforementioned centre-back’s attempts at wave-breaking. So you have my word that if there are more than 2 goals in this game, I’ll eat my mangled 106.