Public relations deflations.

By: Martyn | July 24th, 2008

This piece is written in response to a few points raised in an interview given here by Dave Jones. It relates to a period before the almost-almost-acquisition of Marcus Bent. Since then, big money bids have continued to be lodged left, right, centre, North, South, East and West, so the piece still has a strong body of relevance.

Although certain City followers are the sort who’d probably ring Flora and complain if the butter failed to melt on their crumpets that morning at breakfast, the sole reason fans were getting ebulliently fidgety about the prospective arrival of a multi-million pound striker was because the club was BIDDING FOR MULTI-MILLION POUND STRIKERS! Hell, if you don’t want your kids to get a taste for junk food, don’t take them to McDonald’s. Even if there are players who demand £27, 000 a week, figures everyone knows are way over our proverbial wage cap (but naturally, on par with the bonuses of a certain Yorkshire-born chairperson), the very fact that Jones felt the need to reiterate that we sniff around this standard of professional is enough to get some salivating. And thus, you have fans clamouring for the knight in shining armour to arrive sooner rather than later.

After all, Bluebirds who are so hardened that they are practically terrace furniture have become accustomed to the club talking big, bidding big, then either signing big yet crocked flops, or getting nowhere and signing the bargain bin items nobody else really wants with about 5 minutes before the deadline day ends. Take Warren Feeney as the encapsulating example. The ex-Bournemouth and Stockport man is tenacious, (Avram) granted. But what exactly are the technical or tactical credentials and attributes that make him a suitable Championship personnel acquirement? When you consider the money Jones has needlessly squandered on flops such as this who have contributed absolutely zilch to this football club, or just haven’t been value for money in any shape or form, delegating responsibility and misfortune entirely on the doorsteps of circumstances and fate is rather negligent.

“Every league gets stronger as the years go on and of course there’s a little bit of trepidation”. These were the words of one David Jones shortly before his maiden season in the Premier League with Wolverhampton Wanderers. The part of that marriage where the sex was still good, the wedding photos took pride and place on the living room windowsill, and decorating the new house revelled in priority and the smell of fresh Dulux. Then the season started, erectile dysfunction set in, the wedding photos were shoe-boxed, and mould was spreading throughout the house. The divorce papers were signed in little over 1/1000th of a millennium. Now we have Dave Jones in his present marriage, acting all the wiser because of his messy previous divorces, yet still resorting to snide remarks about the in-laws.

They say like a fine wine, marriages taste better and develop stronger bodies the older they get. To a very minimal extent, the squad has improved from the one at his disposal last year. However, this improvement is only marginal, and only due to the fact that our squad was horrendously brittle and imbalanced last season. Dave Jones, as epitomised in the previous paragraph’s introduction, is intelligent enough to know that although by and large leagues improve upon each year, this league sure as hell won’t progress that much. Therefore, when it comes to fans getting a little ahead of themselves with regards to reinforcements, it’s because the majority of us realise that the wet weekend in Torquay really must be supplemented with a sunny second honeymoon on a Caribbean island for a fortnight.

Players get paid their wages whatever the weather, yes. But if rumours are to be believed, Glenn Loovens has itchy feet about signing a new contract and is looking to hop aboard any ship that sails the Premier League Ocean. A wave of pessimism and stagnation really must be banished and barred from in and around the club, or it won’t be the sixth-sense endowed rats turning the lights out.

Jones shows a fatal, semi-naive flaw in his managerial character by aiming repeated pops at expectant fans. One must always remember that managers are mere mortals probably susceptible to sleep deprivation, and thus, we shouldn’t expect prophetic, all-knowing showings of public relations management. But such interviews are part and parcel of the job, and if Dave Jones is really a manager worth his salt, then he’d justify himself physically rather than digging himself into a deeper hole verbally. Referring back to that interview conducted during his Wolves tenure, Jones came out with the point I just made, the obvious enough perception that, “the media interest has been a bit manic and sure, I could be doing something different but that’s part of the job. The hype has been intense but at the end of the day, I have a job to do.” Well Dave, you still have a job to do, so the same logic still applies: If you don’t enjoy the sound of screaming kids in prams, then do your utmost to avoid shopping in Toys ‘R’ Us or Mothercare.

Surely he recognises that in the postmodern world of quick then quickly forgotten thrills and spills, supporters are growing ever more ravenous. Fo’ shizzle, Peter Ridsdale is often (note the use of that word) very opaque and prudent with his public verbal vomit, but at least he stokes the fire of burning ambition now and again, doing so in the knowledge that it often isn’t he lighting the damn thing in the first place. He realises that in the world of football, fans need constant reminders and evidence of progression. But with his dry-witted manager adopting such pragmatic-meets-condescending-meets-curmudgeon public relations tactics, conflicting directions constantly emanate from the club.

Perhaps Jones is just subtly trying to win over the fans with some hard-hitting Scouse realism and backhanded friendship offering. This is not to say I lust after a Kevin Keegan-esque empty sound-bite fuelled false camaraderie love-in, but surely there are alternative ways of offering a considered response to alleviate pressure mounting prematurely?

Particular paper pap aside, you can’t get away from the hard fact that the club was lodging weighty bids for potential season-defining goal-getters. Indeed, we eventually ghost-signed one in Marcus Bent. Although the expectations of some fans are clearly not quantifiable, fans do need to see some sort of evidence of progression every season. Even the most City mad will reach a crossroads where they need a reaffirmation to renew the season ticket. People don’t eat the same meal every night, so they sure as Hell don’t wanna put up with the same mundane and recurring crap season on season.

After so many seasons of uncertainty both on and off the pitch, the stability of the club must always be prioritised, but even a minor symbol of enthusiasm or ambition albeit dipped in the frothy pot of caution, might have been an easier way of beginning the season for the dugout-leaning Liverpudlian. Indeed, he could even get tips from his players on how to apply and employ the skill. Reaching the new stadium in a healthy condition (i.e. in the Championship at the very least with an attractive looking wage bill) is the ultimate goal, but a bit of belief perspiring from all quarters of the club, albeit ostentatious, wouldn’t go amiss. The public relations pretensions wouldn’t matter a jot if his actions speaks louder than words, but alas, they don’t, and that is why I believe he is in the wrong and shows all the signs of a man feeling the pressure.

You can’t fault Jones for bringing in and along players of the calibre of McNaughton, Loovens, Johnson, Rae, and Scimeca. Likewise, players such as Whittingham and McPhail might be as futile and wasted as a John Terry spot-kick, but they are assets that the club can and could eventually make a profit from. With such an able first XI backbone, most of whom have healthy seven-figure price tickets hanging off them, the chimera that I’ll christen Jonesdale (not forgetting directors such as Steve Borley who work their arse off) have done a fair bit of good for the club. But coming out in the same week that the more executive half of Jonesdale left his office with a bonus envelope in his pocket that must have had one or two pondering if Pete really was that pleased to see them, and criticising the heart and soul of Glamorgan’s finest soccer team for getting a little light-headed about the very real prospect of a luminary signing that could lift the club out of the doldrums of another season (yeah, FA Cup Final, I geddit) of lackadaisical league showings was not the wisest move Jones has made as City chief.

Going back to the marriage analogy I have (ab)used, realistically there is just the one role Jones should perform in the matrimony between the fans and club, and that’s as vicar. When push comes to shove, you don’t really want the vicar making bitchy remarks about the bride’s bingo-wings during the service, do you? They might be uglier than a Steve McClaren smile, but let them flap harmlessly by themselves and get on with the ruddy service! Alphabetically, we start the season in 6th. Perhaps it would be better for all concerned if we freeze-frame that!

Oh, and about that blasted reserve game he skipped: Methinks the lady doth protest too much.