Oh, and in the background, a game of football between the two largest Welsh cities is scheduled.

Along with their elder brother, the metropolis derby, intercity derbies are still regarded as the bedrock of British football. Foam-mouthed pundits will reel off the likes of United vs Liverpool, Blackburn vs Burnley, and Norwich vs Ipswich with all the enthusiasm of a wind turbine during a hurricane.

Yet other than a rowdier ambience, burgeoned ticket sales, and a free-for-all on the town that hosts the stadium for burglars, these games mean diddly squat in terms of one branch of regional politics triumphing over another. And anybody who tries convincing you otherwise is as misguided as Popeye is if he thinks tinned-spinach counts as one of his 5-a-day.

Now I don’t wish to inaccurately generalise, but…

Cardiff and Swansea were once thriving, working-class towns. With mines in the surrounding valleys and thriving ports, satellite settlements were common. Nevertheless, the hub remained the heartbeat, and a community spirit was apparent. In the post-Industrial Age, this was the substitute for national identity, although remnants of such characteristics lingered in the peoples of both towns (there is an enthusiasm for life and boisterousness in Wales that is conspicuous by its absence elsewhere).

As moves to identikit modernist housing estates began in earnest from about the 1930s, such community ties waned. With Cardiff being named capital city in 1955, postmodern regeneration continued to kill any ideas of regional identity, and rather than matches between the cities’ foremost football clubs being fun-to-attend-if-you-wanted engagements between close-knit working-class societies, the fragmented identities and asphyxiating life-lethargy saw the clashes take on a fresh significance.

The difference lies in the changed role of what it is to follow the sport. Back then, you’d go to the game as a escapist spectacle enjoyed with like-minded citizens. Now however, you are football. Being a fan – to use the modern vernacular – involves inescapable entanglement within a web of rhetoric, semantics-absconding colour and bloated non-importance.

Such a development meant thinking of them-up-the-road in a new context. With Cardiff and Swansea far enough apart – each has a different daily rag too; South Wales Echo in Cardiff and the Evening Post in Swansea – to facilitate irregular daily contact with the other-city folk, absence perversely made the heart grow fonder: now when the clubs meet, this new breed of fan-man didn’t know how to react. He was supposed to follow the narrative and deplore these upstarts he in actual fact shared an awful lot in common with. So other than a spot of smirky-schadenfreude if James Alexander-Gordon told you they’d lost, how did one go about showing this scorn?

Previously, bonds and friendships with players who came from and lived in the community saw ticket-payers bestow a semblance of proud association into spurring the local lads on. A rattle, the occasional striped scarf, and the company of one’s nearest and dearest was enough to go with it if one wished. Nowdays, nothing less than bellowing unnecessary obscenities at everything and anyone, and wearing a grotesque polyester replica jersey littered with advertisements for faceless corporations will do. Football was angry.

Yob culture became rampant in football, specifically during the late 1970s and 80s (androgynous greengrocer’s daughter + ignorant use of position of power = a generation more peeved than Paddington Bear confronted by an empty jar of marmalade), and derby games degenerated into little more than a façade offering mere backdrop to scuffles and hollow Guggenheim Museum-mouthed insults. Even in today’s Taylor Report world of alienating outta-town architectures we refer to as ‘home’, post-hooligan culture is rife albeit in a diluted confused form.

Events and magnified magniloquence such as parading neighbour-baiting swear-wordy flags on the pitch, tall Chinese Whisper-ish tales of fights descending into the sea, & the heinous crime of BADGE KISSING (??!!!???”@@’%) spark the quasi-crises that underpin and self-justify the actions of the imbeciles. Henri Lloyd-clad men clash in parks because Cardiff and Swansea hate each other – thus perpetuating the myth that we hate each other!

“We have to think it is just another game as it is just another three points, but it is more than that to the supporters as they want the bragging rights over their rivals”, says Anthony Gerrard. Sure, the relatively few Swansea supporters some of us know may spend the following week or so being incredibly obnoxious and overdosing on banter were they to triumph, but I’m certain I speak for the majority here when noting that *conversations* regarding football with any of the hordes of Manchester United and Liverpool-ites we unfortunately have to associate with are ten times more bothersome. And what may there be to brag about – that fleeting, ostentatious, football-external emotion – anyway? A lavishly-salaried drink-driver netting the winning goal?

The rise of live television coverage has led to Armchair vs Support Your Local Team militias following the game. With regards to the latter, save for putting money into a business deemed *local* (with Malaysian and/or Lebanese investors), how is Cardiff City FC a gallery to display the invested feelings of regionalism? In 2009, what makes Cardiff, Cardiff? More to the point, how does our special ingredient differentiate us from the nearest British city and its people? We throw coins at officials and they don’t, is that it? At least city clashes such as Rangers vs Celtic and Boca Juniors vs River Plate are marinated in (admittedly subsiding) meaning by virtue of contrasting religious and class values meeting. Therefore, I don’t see how we can ascribe any sense of ‘meaning’ to this intercity derby encounter.

“We are alienated in an absolute sense from the world-historical; we cannot even determine how things got this complicated”
Frederic Jameson

Were Roger the Dodger incepted as a character in the Beano today, he’d more than likely be cast as Roger the Benefit Fraud. Times change – deal with it. Nevertheless, the occasion doesn’t have to mean to be enjoyable. I’ve attended encounters between the sides both home and away and they are certainly exciting.

A full house will make for a noisy atmosphere that inevitably raises the tempo of what may well otherwise have been a rather ordinary Championship encounter. I, like many others, hope to watch my team maturely handle the vulgarities and hullabaloo by demonstrating a performance worthy of winning. Failing that, a route-one hoof at the death to add 3 points to our already handsome tally would do! My gripe, as I now hope you understand, is with the hordes who try placing an emphasis on the tie that simply does not exist.

So forgive me for not calling this the most important game of the season or any of that claptrap. Quantifying what the most important game of a season was should be made once said campaign has concluded, not before or during. While a loss against the league’s lowest scorers would be disappointing, you won’t find this City fan overdoing the moping. Although defeats to the likes of Doncaster and QPR were embarrassingly pitiful, the team has shown immense character to bounce back from such hindrances and is fully capable of doing so again.

Sooooooooooo….

Is it too blasé to castigate an entire legion of motorway-connected city derbies, tucking them in under one big, snug duvet? No, because postmodern British life is the same in each generic town, lifestyle and facet of existence.

Today’s class-less, suburban Blighty is one of chocolate biscuits, Steve Wright on the radio, sixth-form college and one-bedroom apartment skyscrapers – not a fight for survival, skittles at the inn, work in a sweatshop and extended families. Thus, it is for that reason the match between the City’s of Cardiff and Swansea is no more than a tempestuous affair between two geographically-adjacent football clubs. And if you don’t like it, you’ve always got Spoony’s ear to bend. Saying that, so have I…

He returned to the Championship with yesterday’s opponents after getting the chance to enjoy just the one advent calendar in The Great Smog. The incumbent local lad at the back, Adam Matthews, hasn’t yet got the same buzz about him in the papers/stands, yet by no means should I/we automatically assume that this makes him any less of a player or prospect.

Pre-match, my opinions of the pair saw Gunter come out somewhat more favourably from an aesthetic POV. Although this Spurs fan semi-justifiably criticises the starlet’s attacking attributes, I do believe Gunter was more expressive and exhilarating in all-round play during his City spell. Matthews on the other hand can be Mr Safe, often to the detriment of the team’s surprise-element. So to the 90 70 minutes of action then, played amongst a backdrop of antique or misplaced relics such as the referee’s constant whipping out of a handkerchief, monsoon-like weather that was about as British as Jon is a dentist, and 80s-inspired chanting on the supposed chickenheartedness of Nottingham’s men-folk during the 1984 Miners Strikes.

ADAM MATTHEWS (17 years old/ 13 season appearances, 1 yellow card/ 13 senior career appearances)

City adopted their usual 4-4-1-1-ish formation, with Matthews assisted on the right side by the effervescent Chris Burke. A measured caution permeates his body language and playing style, but don’t mistake this invention-paucity-on-par-with-the-Hyundai-logo for languidness. His calm and composed efforts at the back got City out of a number of self-dug holes, and in a niggly game amplified by constant clearing errors from supposed figureheads such as Hudson and Kennedy, Matthews’ gumption (at one moment, despite heavy advancing forward-line pressure, Matthews took care ensuring his backpass to Marshall landed smoothly to his favoured right boot) was a needed asset. Marking that ambidextrous Liverpool-loaned talent Paul Anderson, Matthews certainly had his hands full. Such players, possessing the ability to be comfy either going around or cutting, are the stuff of defender-nightmares. Equally troubling was Forest’s tactical style. Although generally very narrow and compact, they sought to dupe us by parting like Moses was in town upon coming upfield.

Nevertheless, Matthews stuck to marking his zone with supreme conduct, one or two hairy moments aside (he was indebted to that worldly veteran Gavin Rae bailing him out zone-covering wise during one too-prolonged foray forward, and indulged in spots of ball-watching). Due to Chris Burke’s ubiquitous covering and left-back Chris Cohen’s feeble sorties onward, Matthews evening became progressively more cosy. Although Anderson was by no means ever ejected from the game, he wasn’t as crucifying as Fred Eastwood had been during the opening twenty minutes of our last home game with Coventry. Two moments where Matthews epitomised his never-more-than-a-yard-away manner by strongly getting under and inside Anderson to masterfully dispossess linger in the grey matter. Their goal, although scored during a spell of hopeless City clearances upfield that included one by Matthews, was by no means the fault of the Swansea-born lad. The strikers had given up pressing and had joined the midfielders for a picnic in Marshall’s six-yard box. We invited Forest on and the equaliser was so inevitable that I had the uncanny feeling it’d already happened.

Matthews is very, very quiet however. He still needs to be forced about on occasion and you can’t help but feel that another reticent ‘un at the back doesn’t compensate for the loss of Roger Johnson’s vociferousness. Alas, it can be difficult to forget that he was only 4 years old when Baddiel & Skinner initially released that bloody song. To emphasise this tenderness even further, Matthews’ counterpart on the left, Mark Kennedy, could legitimately have been playing in Jack Charlton’s RoI World Cup 1994 squad: a competition Matthews was just 2 years old for. Mid-match, I was helpfully reminded of the adolescence when Matthews lined up to haul a ball in the box. As he used his shirt to wipe away residue, the way that big man’s ball eclipsed his meek torso made one think that he’d look less outta place in a Hovis ad. Regardless, credit is due for the fact that whenever he confidently surges upfield to reinforce the cavalry he has no second thoughts and thus his move forces the hand of the opposition winger who now has to depart our territory in order to cover. Correspondingly impressive is the long throw that’ll have pundits drawing dull comparisons with Rory Delap should we clamber to the MOTD League.

CHRIS GUNTER (20 years old/ 20 season appearances, 3 yellow cards, 1 goal/ 85 senior career appearances, 7 yellow cards, 1 goal)

Gunter is so in-yer-face it’s untrue. He tussled with Gerrard, he tussled with Chopra (who got an astonishingly silly yellow for trying to physically enact a Sinatra song on pantomime villain Lee Camp). He’ll verbally and chest-flex his colleagues’ corner, yet also give ‘em an ear-lashing if warranted. For example, whoever of Garner or McGoldrick was occupying the right-sided berth of Forest’s 4-2-3-1 was deafened into retreating. Cardiff’s goal was pre-empted by the Valleys boy: his screams at Wes Morgan to stop trudging and get his fat rear-end back to halt the overlapping Ledley weren’t heeded. Then, as injury time loomed, Hudson stood as free as a Bluebird on the box’s capital-d for a City corner. Gunter bellowed at McKenna to get into position and keep an eye on the roving defender. However, McKenna, sidetracked by needless angry-dialogue with blue-shirts, was too far away to get there in time and thankfully for the Nottinghamshire side our haphazard centre-back ballooned it.

Gunter’s constant usage of his vocal chords, abetted by his excellent reading of the game and taking up of clearing positions (he often operated as a 3rd centre-back), is in direct contrast to the timidness of Matthews. If wee Adam was to admonish anyone, you imagine he’d first borrow the ref’s hanky to wipe away any unsightly excess-snot emanating from the face’s dual carriageway, before prefacing such ungentlemanly rage with something like “I say dear chap“.

For all the defensive virtuosity and adeptness, Gunter’s trips into City territory (only frequent in number when the Reds went one-behind and adopted an inverted egg-timer 4-2-2-2 shape) were generally blighted by his inability to operate a left foot, Voldemort-awful control and rushed decision-making. He can be neat and tidy in his distribution, and this was mitigated by the compact formation the Forest adopted: it allowed for better give-and-go moves and an array of passing options. I know it sounds somewhat trivial, but I began to wonder if Gunter’s hair was playing a part in his cow-on-ice touch. His quasi-emo style, tousled and drowned by the opened heavens, was constantly being rearranged during any break in play. During a gallant saunter upfield, one imagines all this work was undone, thus allowing the locks to tarnish his train of thought, concentration levels and eyesight. Get it sorted man(e), asap!

Gunter’s urgent aura, body language and bolshy cockiness in adding to the attack can be dead handy and won his outfit a number of free-kicks. As City sat back in an xmas-tree formation late on (Bothroyd and Burke flanking Chopra, Whittingham dropping back into centre-mid to (a). compensate for a dearth of creativity caused by the injury-induced withdrawal of McPhail, and (b). invite the likes of Gunter on in order to gain numerical counter-attacking advantages), Gunter was quick to pick up the going-nowhere City hoofs and feed them back into that mythical *mixer*.

SO WHO IS BETTER?

What a ridiculously stupid rhetorical question. The need to quantify who or what is the *best* or *worst* is a plague on modern day football. Therefore, all I’ll conclude with is that it’d be great to have both players in the Bluebirds squad as each has a set of attributes that’d bolster any side at this level. I won’t try some speculative amalgamation to conjure them into one super-RB either because the different qualities they possess means such a potential-merger would fail to adequately reflect what each excels at. Tactical discipline aside, the one talent both share – unlike those dastardly Bells of St. Helens or Team Rocket – is greediness. On the day, both displayed more of their good characteristics than bad (7/10 showings apiece), and although it was/is apparent they’re set for bright soccer futures (national team position rivals?), they aren’t yet baroque commodities.

In a quasi-deja-vu-ish post, it seems our Marlon King deprivation hasn’t been the sole close shave we’ve had in the transfer market. There were failed overtures to Marcus Bent and Remco van der Schaaf: a pair whom currently spend Saturday afternoons working on their golfing handicaps in the Midlands and Lancashire respectively. Then there was Alexei Smertin, a player who caused Dave Jones a wasted trip to London (I hope he travelled by Megabus. Every Little Helps, to dip into my supermarket-indoctrinated psyche for cliché assistance). Something of a maverick in that he was a footballer who had a detectable brain, and Rasputin-esque locks the antithesis of Tommy Pickles (I bet there was a footballer in the 50s actually called that!), Smertin wouldn’t have been suited to appeasing a demanding South Welsh public intent on promotion, primarily because a desire to bother had gone. This is encapsulated by the fact that he is now a politician in his native Russia, a career he turned his hand to during the season he was so close to representing us in. Ultimately therefore, signing these blokes would have been dafter than (a couple with the surname Ridiculous naming their child Frank-Lee? Nah Martyn, you’ve done that one already. Hold up: why are you referring to yourself in the third person?! Who are you, Robbie Savage?!) the Bananas in Pyjamas asking for a tour of the monkey enclosure down Bristol Zoo.

Alas, perhaps one target we missed out on is worth ruing. A rather dull ‘Will He, Won’t He’ semi-saga of last summer saw Kenny Cooper opt to continue plying his trade for FC Dallas at McDonald’s Burger King I Dunno, I’m Giving Up, Some Other Generic Fast Food Chain Pizza Express Hut Park. However, since shunning Tremorfa for Texas, Cooper has earned the right to play his football in Germany. The stadium? Only the bloody ALLIANZ ARENA!!!!! This grandiose piece of architecture is home to Bavarian giants Bayern München, a colossal club boasting the likes of Arjen Robben, Franck Ribery, Bastian Schweinsteiger and many other illustrious names amongst their ranks. Oh yeah, it’s also home to another Munich-based team; them being the ones Cooper actually plays for. Had I forgetten to mention that? Soz! Yup, the American has wound up down TSV 1860 München way. The River Isar outfit are currently 14th in the second tier, and Cooper – who bears an uncanny resemblance to the archetypal Scooby Doo cartoon villain – has bagged a staggering 2 goals in 10 League games. This handy graph perhaps not only represents his side’s form, but also the trajectory of the striker’s career. Blast!

(1). His new-found willingness to track back and tuck in have led to his team-mates and manager appreciating him more. Confidence, as they say, breeds confidence, and with extra trust being instilled in him by the tactician and fellow City players, Whittingham’s other assets have been accentuated. When you add this extra facet to his already versatile presence in midfield (AMC/AML/AMR), it’s little wonder that Whittingham’s importance and standing in the group has soared.

(2). A shift in the team’s tactical approach leads to more opportunities for Whittingham to ghost into the box. As we sit with our two banks of four off-ball, there is a more cohesive and systematic style to the way in which we gallop upfield upon winning the sponsor-laden leather-jacketed balloon back. This isn’t to say that it’s not beautiful – quite the opposite, in fact. Nevertheless, the training ground-routine goals we’ve seen this season from the team and our no. 7 in particular emphasise the importance of this invigorated cog-esque tactical discipline. The Nuneaton Nani, now starting moves from deeper, is able to get into the box without stalling or reconsidering his options at just the right time to sweep the ball in. Plus, being the class act he is, he retains the option of splicing an entire team with a single killer pass from deep.

(3). The steady presence of Chris Burke out on the right. Last season, Burke’s appearances were sporadic, and there were the likes of Quincy, McCormack and Parry to try/accomodate out in the wide positions. This season however, the Glaswegian has had a clean bill of health and thus, Cardiff’s chalk aficionados have used this consistency to offer more penetration than David Duchovny at a swinger’s party. Burke isn’t an all-out luxury player because he seems to relish defensive responsibilities. Nevertheless, he can dribble and jinx in a manner akin to the kinds of players Scotland was once famed for churning out, and it’s this constant attacking mien that imbibes opposition defenders, thereby offering Whitts the chance to gatecrash the goalkeeper’s territory. Sure, McCormack has the ability to cause this kind of hysteria amongst adversaries too. However, the crucial difference is that Burke is selfless and will opt to go out wide and put a ball into the box for a fellow Bluebird, whereas McCormack tends to try and do it all himself, generally preferring the direct carrying-down-the-centre option.

(4). The Chopra-Bothroyd strike partnership. We’ve had a settled presence up front this season due to the tender ages of Etuhu and Magennis, the uselessness of Feeney, and the injury to McCormack. The Chopra-Bothroyd pairing is perfect for a player like Whittingham: As neither are the run-on-to-the-ball-over-the-top or cross-to-forehead types, they’ll constantly be back in amongst the midfield areas tendering passing druthers. Both are content with receiving the ball on the flanks too, and this lets Whittingham come in and attack from a more centralised location. Correspondingly, Bothroyd’s superb ability to hold the ball up allows Whittingham to jettison the now-binned defensive sitting and move into an attacking area in which to endeavour. As an attacking triumvirate with Chris Burke and Stephen McPhail feeding them, and Joe Ledley a member of the supporting cast, not many Championship defences are able to cope.

(5). The form of Stephen McPhail. In Italy, the cult of the Fantasista is deeply embedded into the football culture. A team without one is something of an anomaly, as Jose Mourinho has discovered (though Wesley Sneijder is now slowly starting to grow into the string-pulling role for Inter). Even yo-yo clubs like Reggina (Francesco Cozza), and Livorno (Antonio Candreva) consider the role to be a necessary component in the team, and such players are idolised by the tifosi despite their side’s constant on-pitch struggles. While the majority of fantasistas tend to operate in the trequartista role (Totti, Maradona, Diego to name a few), there are others like Andrea Pirlo who are utilized deeper in a quarterback role. It is l’Architetto who McPhail most resembles, but unfortunately for the Irishman, he’s always struggled to convince City fans of such a luxury player’s worth. It’s an inherently British way of thinking with regards to the sport.
Such wizards are rarely appreciated (David Dunn offers an exception that only serves to prove the rule: nevertheless, his status as *local lad* has played a large part in Blackburn fans’ appreciation of him), and even the Top Four rarely risk such players (see Benitez’s sheer fear of the relative renegade Benayoun). Anyone perceived not to be running about like a headless chicken or making safe two-yard passes is the scourge of the terraces. Imagination is to be stifled, primarily because (admittedly) it takes a number of bad balls before one gets it just right. Luckily for the team and McPhail himself, the increased solidity, movement and collective understanding of the side in the offensive positions this season has led to his renaissance. In fact, it’s been such a turnaround that he’s considered a must-pick by all and sundry at present! Aided by Ledley’s sheer uselessness in comparison, and Chopra’s reading of his clever through-balls, McPhail has also struck up a delightful give-and-go partnership with Whittingham that see the two most visionary players on our side bamboozling anyone daring enough to try and out-think or physically intimidate them. With such intelligence forming the blueprint of all City’s foray forwards (aided too by more of a willingness to try a bit of the melina at the back and build patiently via shorter David Marshall distributions), City are devilishly tricky to snatch the ball from for wave-breakers of all shapes and sizes.

(6). Luck. If we’re going to quantify Whittingham’s success in terms of goals, then the amount of times he’s been given free set-piece opportunities to add to his tally has certainly helped his sparkling 09/10 form. With McCormack screwing up latter-stage 08/09 dot-shots, and then continuing to do so in pre-season, Chopra was supposed to assume the PK-taking berth. However, amidst the no. 8 and Bothroyd having a cat-fight over twelve-yard duties, Whittingham has now been granted sole responsibility for converting the endless set-pieces the team wins, and our league position is all the healthier for it.

(7). The club’s permanent unearthing of a training ground and our groundsmen’s constant pristine pitch-tending means that Whittingham’s technical ability is never left to rot. Self-explanatory in a sense, although I can elaborate further. Speaking in the summer of 2008, Dave Jones noted thus: “Two seasons ago we did not train on grass for three months because the pitches were waterlogged, and for several weeks the astroturf pitches were too dangerous to play on.” Therefore, it was impossible to expect members of the squad to enhance technique during their spells with Cardiff City. Now however, it isn’t just Peter who’s reaping the benefits of not only being able to play his home games on a lush turf, but also working on doing so in practise sessions at freshly-acquired first-class training facilities.

(8). The benefits of consecutive pre-seasons spent in Portugal are showing. Intensive workouts, compounded with ball work on gorgeous bits of lawn have led to Whittingham’s technical ability remaining of the highest standard, and his fitness levels being more than adequate for a player at this level of the game. Correspondingly, lack of involvement with any international side since EURO 2007 (U21) means that he’s been able to manoeuvre and focus on one season to the next working solely with players in a single squad.

(9). His quiet personality and paucity of received media scrutiny makes for a non-egotistical worthy wage-earner. Unlike Paul Parry and his marriage troubles, international retirements and general batches of disinterest in life and sport, Whittingham isn’t one for magniloquent rants in the press, sloppy clandestine flings, or going off on two-day benders and missing training. This continued and maintained professional approach off-field has surely helped spur the (still, kinda) youngster onto greater heights.

(10). In a similar vein, the further away his time spent with the England U21s and Villa gets, the more grounded he has become. Perhaps at long last the realisation that he’s at this level until he hauls himself out of it has sunk in. He can no longer afford to think like the proverbial prima-donna or become accustomed to that Premier League lifestyle and all it entails.

SYSTEMS, TACTICS, FORMATIONS
On pressed-together wood-derived cellulose pulp, it was same old same old for the “BOYS IN BLUE AND WHITE AND WE’RE F£$@*&G DYNAMITE”. MRSH/MTWS-HUD-GRD-KEN/BRK-LED-MCP-WHIT/CHOP/BOTH. For those of you who read that last bit of text as a conglomeration of punctuation and letters indulging in argy-bargy, get your code-cracking Vodafone-harvested grandchildren to the monitors immediately! However, confusion permeated as the match began with City’s defence (namely, the wing-backs) uncertain on how to handle the threat of 3 strikers (Morrison/Best/Eastwood) whilst simultaneously rampaging in attack as WBs do. Thus, our formation temporarily amalgamated into a weirder-than-George-Formby’s-obsession-with-Mr-Wu 5-2-1-1-1. Matthews was virtually simulating anal sex with the corner flag, such was the dominance of Freddy Eastwood in pinning him back. Meanwhile, Kennedy looked rather lost and began acting as an auxiliary centre-half. Rather than fully assimilating into this role however, he’d keep tentatively eyeing up the area of turf he normally stands around: his body language was akin to that of the new kid at school, awkwardly poised between pricking either the Adidas ‘poppers’-clad sporty-gang with their Blackburn Rovers and Newcastle United replica jerseys, or the one with them playing Pogs and quasi-homoerotically discussing how amazing Ken is on the SNES version of Street Fighter II. All this confusion led to Whittingham being forced to come in at left-back, despite the fact that Martin Cranie was making no attempt to push on and our opposition had nobody positioned at right-midfield. The ‘2′ comprised of Ledley (standing there, not really doing anything), and Chris Burke, who did a sterling job in protecting Matthews and eventually nullifying Eastwood.

Normality eventually resumed, as City’s usual 4-4-1-1 began to regain balance, conciseness and 4-4-1-1ness. The forwards were constantly running out wide to feed on the “‘AVE IT!!!” balls from the defence, and Bothroyd in particular was really quite masterful in his holding and bridging. This, compounded with Chopra defending from the front and dragging the DM Jack Cork here, there and everywhere meant that Cardiff were able to engineer some flowing moves. The centre-midfield pairing of Ledley and McPhail were on the same wavelength tactically. On-ball, it was Ledley who supported the forwards and McPhail who sat in the quarterback role looking to dictate; off-ball, McPhail pressed and Ledley tended to sit in front of the defenders. From the first peep of the ref’s whistle in the second half, City dictated and orchestrated the game’s structure. The full-backs were pushing on, while Burke and Whittingham were free to tease, beleaguer and maltreat. The former of the named midfielders was the latter period’s star man, stretching and scaring Coventry into submission, and the tie into a petered-out contest.
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Coventry lined-up in an ambitious-ish 4-3-3 system. I insert that grating ‘ish’ because the full-backs Martin Cranie and Patrick van Aanholt were somewhat shackled. Thus, the point where Coventry’s right-attack should have been penetrating City’s left-defence region generally remained neglected (Eastwood stuck to the attacking left-wing fort, thus not facilitating the need for van Aanholt to sally up and down). Osbourne and McIndoe were stationed as the more advanced pair in the midfield threesome, though neither ghosted into the box or sought to exploit the space on the right often enough. Coleman – conspicious by his paucity of touchline-managing, that task left up to menacing first-team coach Frankie Bunn instead – prioritised the grass-pass, and getting the ball out/down the wings. It is a game-plan reliant on the kind of dangerous delivery that either the gangly Leon Best or tactically astute Clinton Morrison could attack. Route one balls were few and far between: those that were hoofed up highlighted Best’s inability to get the better of bulky centre-backs like Mark Hudson, indicating why the former-Sociedad manager keeps Graham Taylor’s love-child to a premium.

Cricket and table-tennis fan Clinton Morrison’s high-octane, hard-work ethic was necessary in tracking/getting numbers back wherever was required, although Eastwood seemed firmly planted into the AML position save for a few saunters to bolster the body count near the pitch’s Pokéball. Jack Cork sat in front of the two central defenders, but the son of a recent former City manager was left marooned and isolated far too often. In possession, you could sense he had the idea of where the cleverest place to pass to was, but doing it in the blink of an eye with the necessary aeronautics proved too onerous. In terms of physical application, the Sky Blues were pretty sterile: the antithesis to Chocolate Starfish-era Fred Durst. Often a lack of *fight* emanates from lost support in the manager, tactical confusion or crises of confidence, but given that they are a squad depleted by injuries at present – thus forced to fill their bench with nippers probably too young to even have heard of Pat Sharp in Funhouse – this poverty of atavistic-exertion, coupled with the tactical naivety (I’ll levy the same criticism at Coleman – he should have opted for a cautionary approach rather than leaving gaping gaps for inexperienced players to cover) was unsurprising.

WHAT, WHERE, WHY, HOW
Cardiff’s 90 minutes were rather like the experience of listening to one of Ludwig van Beethoven’s pieces. You can be walking along with your I-pod in your ears, track-skipping through one of his many compilation CDs wondering, “What the hell is this classical music malarkey all about? It’s naff, it’s rubbish, there’s nothing to it.” And then, you land on ‘Turkish March Opus 113 from the Ruins of Athens‘, and there’s a spring in your step, you’re a world-beater, classical music is incredible, powerful, just… wow! We started the match in far too sloppy and casual a manner. Passes went astray, territory wasn’t seized and a lull descended. But then, our talents (collectively and individually) began shining through, albeit not as a continuous process. McPhail’s assist for Gerrard’s headed goal highlighted why we ride high in this division – not many teams have the quality that we do when it comes to feeding the box-lurkers.

All evening, McPhail stuck to being his clever trequartista best, ignoring the semi-ironic cries of “SHOOOOOOOOT” in order to delicately dink-in the last-shoulders-hovering Chopra (his finishing was naff all evening unfortunately). As for some of the moves we constructed, they were quite simply Turkish March-esque in their conjuring of uplifting feelings and sheer beauty (although after getting a handful of early chances and having opted for an open formation, the helping hand of our guests splitting with relative ease did make the task a fair bit easier). The paradigmatic operation began with Whittingham and McPhail effortlessly giving-and-going, one-two’ing their way out of trouble from near the Kennedy corner-flag. The ball was distribruted to Bothroyd’s feet through a plethora of black shirts, and his turn and carry alleviated all the pressure Coventry had just been exerting. The former Perugia striker fed the overlapping Ledley, and his square to Chopra was tamely directed to Westwood’s shinnies. If we can keep on creating moves of such majesty on a more frequent basis, and continue riding our luck in not conceding despite being sloppy for the large part of the game, just maybe we’ll have this promotion quest sewn up at long last!
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Coventry’s 90 minutes were rather like the opening correspondences between verses and chorus in the Metallica song ‘One’. For the song’s peaceful, dulcet medieval tones interjected by brash, snarling despair, read outta-possession surrendering and consternation mingling with inventive, neat, to-the-point forays. One such move led to a brilliant Best dummy-preceding ‘keeper tester. Another culminated in a magnificent, stinging cross from the left channel by Freddie Eastwood, it was met first-time on the left-foot of Clinton Morrison; yet there was Marshall, Sudowoodo-esque in the sprawling hand-growing save. I was impressed by our ‘keeper’s all-round performance on the wet Tuesday evening (the conditions contriving to keep the flowing football to sporadic appearances). He was far more ostentatiously screamy than he normally is, and this gave him a degree of command and demand over the defence that has been so often lacking (not just in the Scot, but in recent City net-tenders such as Tom Heaton). Meanwhile, Kieran Westwood had little to do, but the Irishman is very springy and not many in the land can match his Roadrunner line-leaving speed.

As I touched upon in my previous post, Coventry were shorn of a number of key personnel, including their burly, commanding central-defender Elliott Ward. Ward has always struck me as having the air of a twenty-something card you see ‘Big Fish Little Fish Cardboard Box‘ing it up purposefully towards the dancefloor of some God-foresaken town’s Flares franchise, whilst successfully managing not to spill a drop of his 4 bottles of alcoholic Sunny Delight. Newcastle United’s Steven Taylor would be alongside him, flies undone and chest freshly waxed, whilst someone generically football-joker like David Bentley would be hovering by the tables asking unsuspecting mademoiselles if they’d ever seen an elephant drinking a pint (for those of you unaware of this particularly tasteful party piece, all one needs is a set of pulled-out trouser pockets, 568ml of beverage and a floppy bit attached to your midriff…).

That digression cast firmly to one side, the point I’m trying to get at is that even without Elliott Ward, comedy was provided in the form of his replacement, Ben Turner. Not only did his weak backpass set in motion the move that began the Bluebirds winning a dot-shot, but his repeated blunderings led to his team being unable to develop and gather rhythm in the second batch of 45 minutes. Equally clumsy was poor young Patrick van Aanholt. I know Chelsea have a transfer embargo imposed, but I can’t foresee any circumstances under which they are likely to recall the Dutchman in order to use/plug holes. Blessed with dire touch, selfish and incorrect decision-making and a disregard for holding your position in the system, the youngster was hauled off by Chris Coleman after receiving a yellow card for hauling down Chris Burke: he’d just been caught AWOL for the umpteenth time. In the FK that followed the caution, Michael McIndoe was comforting a left-back who looked on the verge of tears. I’m certain such comforting words weren’t bestowed upon the Scottish winger by Chris Coleman mind – his set-piece deliveries were truly shambolic.

Jason BYRNE (01/07 – 09/08)
The Irish Gerd Müller was signed for a paltry £100k, and statistically his arrival seemed canny business. Unfortunately for Byrne, Championship-standard football is a pastime played in a vast surface area amongst a plethora of athletic bodies and a fast-moving balloon in a leather jacket: goal-hanging in Bono-land’s native league plainly hadn’t equipped him adequately for this leap in class. Positionally clueless and owner of a first touch that guaranteed his second was a tackle, life with the City had actually started promisingly. A last-minute match-settling debut goal at Wolverhampton Wanderers had myself and many others jumping for joy in the bowels of Ninian Park (away fans were banned for the game so the club screened the match in the old Grandstand bar). Admittedly, he’d foreshadowingly done sweet Fanny Adams in the minutes preceding that inconceivable glory-pounce, but then perhaps every week in the ROI has Molineux-like silver-lining for Byrne as since returning with Bohemians he continues to score at a canter.

Andrea FERRETTI (07/05 – 01/07)
The shy Italian induced copious amounts of homoeroticism from the terraces in spite of failing to do anything meaningful on the pitch: unless you count coming on in a dire Carling Cup tie at home to Leicester City and making Paul Henderson look superhuman. Ferretti’s Otherness – his name ended in a vowel; he was handsome, tanned and archetypally maned; he hadn’t been brought up playing on park pitches that resemble lumpy gravy with sprinklings of green crayon; he wasn’t Alan Lee – was his most endearing quality, as really, the summer 2005 arrival wasn’t all that good.
Joining the club after supposedly being recommended by Sir Alex Ferguson, Ferretti had time for some reserve team run-outs, a poor loan stint with Scunthorpe United, and several cup-comp appearances. He left these shores in 2007 to join perennial Serie B outfit Cesena. However, despite featuring regularly for the side in their relegation season, he did continue to figure prominently until the final day of their successful promotion campaign last time out. His reward wasn’t a bevvie of beauties lolling suggestively in a marbled-bathtub of marinated olives, rather a curt ‘arriverderci‘. You can semi-juxtapose the season being had by the Emilia-Romagnan team with our own, the club currently finding themselves in second position back in B. We’re both doing just fine without Fergie’s tip, who now plies his trade in the peninsula’s regional leagues with Pavia alongside Benito Carbone.

Kerrea GILBERT (07/06 – 05/07)
The queer case of the young wing-back lingers to this day. Joining City on a season-long loan, the Arsenal starlet was tremendous for the first three months. Helping us sail dexterously to the top of the division, Gilbert possessed the attributes of a must-buy for our imminent maiden Premier League campaign. Sadly, that bid collapsed in a manner akin to Gilbert’s form: he disappeared, literally and metaphorically! Rumours abounded that he’d impregnated a local schoolgirl and her father was a tad tumultuous with rugby ball’s conduct. The veracity of all this is open to debate, but clearly something turbulent was going on in Kerrea’s personal life. Gilbert popped back into the team every now and again, mainly flattering to deceive: the healthy combativeness metamorphosed into pig-headed arrogance and immature, Petit Filous-violence; the youthful zest of belief-stuffed flank-rampaging zapped.
Post-City, he skedaddled to the Shrimpers. Nonetheless, his attitude continued to stink worse than the local delicacies of Southend-on-Sea, but Gilbert seemed to finally get his professional (and personal) life back on track at Leicester City during the Foxes’ promotion-winning campaign: a move that re-united him with Nigel Pearson, a coach who’d help rear his talent at England schoolboy level. Currently, Gilbert is back with Arsenal and in the final year of his contract. What does the future hold? A place in the starting line-up for a Carling Cup tie against West Bromwich has been his only competitive game-time so far, although cynics will note the reason he got the jersey for that match was due to Gavin Hoyte being in Egypt for the U20 World Cup. His may not be a story akin to the almighty career balls-ups of Jason Dozzell or Leon Jeanne, but Gilbert might be a talent lost to the detriment of a decent team somewhere.

Luigi GLOMBARD (07/06 – 05/07)
Ahhh Luigi. He really was Kaká. Latter vowel subtracted. Recruited from French side Nantes, Glombard should’ve stuck to being Mario’s partner-in-plumbing. The 1995 Ligue 1 champions are nicknamed the Canaries, and significantly, Glombard’s most epochal outing in blue came against Canaries: albeit those of the Norfolk variety. His performance at Carrow Road was so shoddy that he had the indignity of being hauled off at the interval. Loan spells in Leicestershire and Oldham Athletic amounted to nothing before the inevitable ‘au revoir‘. French third-tier side Niort were next up to offer the winger-cum-striker a seat on the team bus, but after an average final season Glombard finds himself available for weddings, Bar Mitzvah’s, or perhaps even fixing that leaky tap of yours alongside his tubbier brother…

Matt GREEN (01/07 – 05/08)
Superficially, the end result of mixing blue and yellow appeared to be bargain buy from *arch-rivals* Newport County. However, he was never given the opportunities to convince the City faithful he was more than just a speed merchant with a nasty habit of looking rather disoriented. Unsurprisingly, the club eventually let him depart for diddly-squat last summer. Drawing a parallel with Stuart Fleetwood – another young striker on our books who failed to make the grade – Green has since become something of a flat-track bully/goal-getter in the Blue Square Premier. Exercising him at present to aid their unassailable lead at the top of said division are Oxford United.

Mark HOWARD (06/06 – 05/07)
A presumed net-tender best remembered for an infamously woeful performance against TNS in the FAW Premier Cup (a now defunct competition that pitted Welsh *giants* against one another in a battle to win a bowling ball). In all honesty, we’d have been better off pluralising his forename and switching it with the family name, thus bolstering our squad with Howard Marks. The one-time Arsenal custodian now finds himself at St. Mirren. On the bench.

Malvin KAMARA (06/06 – 01/07)
This six-month fling recently helped sports editors on red-tops fill inches after specifying a rather odd pre-match ritual involving Willy Wonka. That quirky but relatively innocuous story encapsulates the winger’s very brief spell as a Bluebird. Kamara’s needle-in-the-haystack was scoring a tasty goal that formed part of a Wolverhampton Wanderers demolition job. Darting infield from his right-midfield position, he finished with aplomb. Alas, little else of substance was forthcoming and eventually he moved on to Port Vale. Since then, the son of a man most famous for sporting an awful ‘tache and shrieking “UNBELIEVABLE JEFF“ has regressed to non-league level. Pride is partially restored by virtue of the fact I don’t suppose many other Barrow players have their own websites.

Maros KLIMPL (07/09)
Brief though his spell as a ‘bird may have been (no competitive games played), the triallist was deemed worthy of a place on our most recent Portuguese tour: he even managed to bag a winning goal! Released by FC Midtjylland of Denmark, Klimpl is a versatile Slovakian midfielder with the ability to play the holding and DMC roles (plus centre-back), although evidently versatility isn’t the sole slab of judging criterion for DJ & co. Dundee – a side not even playing in the SPL but spending big bucks to get there – eventually snared him on a three-year deal. His last appearance was in the *giant-killing* cup victory over Aberdeen several weeks back, the Vieira-esque no. 4 picking up a customary yellow rectangle. Did Dave Jones make the right decision in letting him go? Well, as one Motherwell fan so eloquently puts it: “Why waste thousands of pounds a week on a guy that just kicks opponents? You could whistle at any junior ground and get a talentless thug from there for a fraction of the cost. Klimpl was a big f*£%@!g stookie heid.” Presumably so!

Daniel KOLÁŘ (03/09)
Once on the books of European semi-giants Sparta Prague, the much-hyped youngster from the Czech Republic made a solitary appearance for the City against Merthyr Tydfil in March (scoring a rather memorable goal). With Dave Jones cautious about signing youngsters after the Ferretti, Fleetwood and Green failings, the Kolář option was rain-checked and back he went to his Republic. A fledging career continues in the top-flight with multi-colour crested FC Viktoria Plzeň. Daniel is a regular starter – operating just behind the strikers – and enjoys Coca Cola (honestly – it’s not just a weak pun on his name!), Ice Tea, steak, and a whole host of other things that my lack of West Slavic lingo prevents me from discovering.

Nick McCOY (06/06 – 05/07)
Brought in along with Malvin Kamara during the club’s spot of subtle pillaging of Wimbledon’s identity-stealers, McCoy’s noxious attitude and lack of actual ability contributed to his non-existent City career: one that somehow extended all the way to 2007. The waster was last seen floundering for Bishop Stortford reserves in the Capital League (eastern division). McKoy needs a career change more than Mr Kipling a thesaurus.

Phil MULRYNE (07/05 – 05/06)
Helped earn himself a deal with the Bluebirds after scoring an impressive goal against Luciano Spalletti’s Udinese during the 2005 off-season. A midfielder supposedly capable in numerous positions, it would be an understatement to note that we didn’t witness the true ability of a man struggling to banish personal demons. Life post-City has been scophilic, wandering from town to town (Barnsley to King’s Lynn, via Yeovil, Bournemouth and assorted other map-dots), country to country (Legia Warsaw of Poland, Cliftonville of Northern Ireland), collecting fruitless trials, short-term contracts, unrivalled knowledge of service-station pasties, and a wealth of petrol receipts. Phil has now retired from the sport, heaven-bent on modelling a soutane in his native County Down. While others may sneer at such a choice of profession, I’ll opt to wish him the best of luck in the pulpit.

Guylain NDUMBU-NSUNGU (01/06 – 05/06)
Affectionately (?) referred to as Dave by those of us who swore he was really named after a pack of posh chocolates, Ndumbu-Nsungu epitomised hit-&-miss during his sojourn in South Wales. On his game, a decent target man; off it (as he so often was), a work-shy, profligate embarrassment to donkeys everywhere. Lately, Dave has been club-less for 17 months after an unceremonious release by Darlington in 2008. Nevertheless, some Quakers fans still clamour for his return.

Wilson ORUMA (07/08)
After being freed by Marseille, the Nigerian attacking-midfield man (17 Super Eagles caps) briefly chanced his arm at Cardiff City during 2008’s warmest weather-season. Still blowing out twenty-something candles on his cake (just), and with experience at clubs such as Lens, Nancy, Samsunspor (Turkey), Nimes, Servette (Switzerland), and Sochaux prior to docking at the Mediterranean port side, snapping up a player of Oruma’s calibre would have represented a major coup for the Bluebirds. Unfortunately, demands and deadlines weren’t met, and Oruma heaved his suitcase back to France and second-tier side Guingamp. In a manner similar to our club’s very own cup final run, Guingamp went one better and won the cup itself: Oruma providing an assist for the first goal in the showpiece event! With a medal added to his luggage and muscles a year wearier, Oruma was now collecting his worldly goods from a carousel in Zeus’s homeland after netting a deal with Greek Super League side AO Kavala.

QUINCY Owusu-Abeyie (01/09 – 05/09)
The ex-Arsenal trainee was the mercenary who gave me the idea for all this nostalgia. Watching highlights of the Russian League on ESPN late one evening, the both-flank-prowling wideman stroked home the fifth goal for Spartak Moscow during a protocolic victory over Tom Tomsk: what-might-have-been thoughts permeated my mind-musings, and hereafter the trail forked. Quincy’s repeated absences during his loan spell with the club – courtesy of the aforementioned Eastern European giants – were the source of much frustration and debate. Despite the City having a spectacularly useless end to the campaign, Quincy was barely offered a chance to help remedy the slump, seldom even making the matchday squad. One cameo appearance away at Southampton (where admittedly, he did sod all), followed by a helping hand in achieving a seasonal-first three-goal haul versus Barnsley was all we got to see of him in the closing months. I’d been so excited by his arrival: just a few months prior to joining, Quincy put in a phenomenal performance against us for Birmingham City. That, and his quasi-illustrious (albeit chequered) past and standing in the game made for an acquisition that screamed “BIG TIME!!!!” Since departing South Wales on that rather anonymous note, Quincy appeared set to squander his majestic talent. Wasted trials at the likes of Bristol City confirmed this.
However, redemption arrived in the form of Valeri Karpin keeping the Spartak Moscow job on a permanent basis. After all, it was Karpin’s predecessor Michael Laudrup who’d let the Dutch-Ghanaian loose on English football’s second-tier in the first place, and since he’d been given the sack, Karpin was willing to shake Owusu-Abeyie’s Russian Etch A Sketch clean. Things seem to be looking far healthier now for the prodigiously talented winger: Spartak are second in the league, Quincy is Narodnaya Komanda’s first port of call from the bench (that goal I saw him score past Tomsk epitomised how lethal a player he is – or could have been for us had we bothered to utilize him – on the counter-attack), and the man not deemed good enough for the Bluebirds bench will be rubbing shoulders with the likes of Leo Messi, Ronaldo and Zlatan in next season’s Champions League.

Iwan REDAN (01/07 – 05/07)
A Surinamese striker with pace and power making waves in the Eredivisie. Sound familiar? To followers of Oranje-flavoured football, this is a scenario that generally plays out each season as numerous neophytes burst in to XIs nationwide. Alas, breakthrough sealed, so began young Iwan’s descent to the proverbial wayside. Tales of ugly footballer-style excess, car crashes, and the dissipation of that famous burst of pace culminated in Redan leaving the Netherlands after offering a teammate a Glaswegian kiss.
The Dutchman’s locomotive had ground to a permanent shrieking halt at the perdition that is Stagnation Station. Below the platforms, Cardiff City were one of the retail outlets Redan browsed at during his time in the concourse. A player once dubbed the ‘new Patrick Kluivert‘ scarcely featured in the blue shirt despite arriving with a commendable career goal tally. Even when he did get opportunities, it was only to be upstaged by youngsters against the likes of Carmarthen Town. Since his time in Glamorgan, the Surinamese stroller has lugged his socks & shinnies to Aris Thessaloniki (Greece), RKC Waalwijk, RBC Roosendaal, AEP Paphos (Cyprus), Excelisor, and Germany’s VfL Osnabrück respectively. Most recently, Redan has embarked upon fruitless trials with FC Zwolle, and latterly, Den Bosch. It would appear the flâneur’s train is still lifeless at the aforementioned rail stop, doing little more than gathering rust and ‘NCF’ graffiti.

James SIMMONDS (01/07 – 06/07)
Lots of clubs stock this kind of pen-pusher: someone you’re told is on the books at the club, who turns up for training, and plays for the reserves; yet they never, ever get assigned first-team duties. For other examples, see the curious case of Denes Rosa at Wolverhampton, or the most famous of them all, Winston Bogarde at Chelsea. Simmonds lodged with us for a wedge of the 2006-07 season, ostensibly on loan from Bogarde’s former paymasters. The right-footed left-sided Irish midfielder then hedged his bets at QPR, before sinking all the way down to Dover Athletic. After yet more come-to-nothingness, Simmonds jetted out to Spain to take up a residency at Glenn Hoddle’s Academy: a place where Wycombe Wanderers rejects can earn contracts at La Liga teams like Sevilla. Instead of putting in crosses for the likes of Fabiano and Kanoute, Simmonds has had to settle for the modest surroundings of third-tier Spanish outfit Écija Balompié since graduating.

Simon WALTON (01/07 – 05/07)
The Yorkshireman always seemed to take to the turf as cheesed off as a sheep farmer who’s just spotted his finest ewe making small-talk over the fence with the bulls in a neighbouring field. Complementing that, Walton holds the accolade of being the biggest liability and sloppiest passer of the ball I’ve ever had the misfortune of witnessing. When he wasn’t getting himself sent off or giving possession away, our favour-from-Premier-League-Charlton was busy being a div on the internet. One chortles at the fact that Walton currently finds himself playing in League Two for struggling Crewe Alexandra.

Cardiff itself is a city defiantly in the ascendancy, one that is definitely coming in both the figurative and literal sense. The current subject of much regeneration and investment, the municipality is a hip, energetic and fresh place to live, albeit one that hasn’t forgotten its roots. The cuisine is still heartily Welsh in flavour, the local Brains brewery still permeates the local club and pub scene, and the architecture incorporates the famous nineteenth-century shopping arcades amongst its sprawling, mollusc-esque modern and postmodern erections. The Cardiff Bay area hasn’t been neglected either, and although now far removed from its days as a working port and docks, the attention paid to creativity in the fields of arts, dining and culture in the area shows that the council recognises its importance to the very essence of the Welsh capital. New restaurants, shopping centres, and housing/apartment blocks are opening at a rate that’d give Billy Whizz a stitch: as an encapsulation of the stature Cardiff is held in by big businesses, the nation’s second-largest John Lewis branch has just opened here.

Factor in a world-class sporting arena like the Millennium Stadium, a brogue to the lace that is the famous River Taff at the very heart of the CBD, and of course, our own club side’s recently-opened new stadium, as well as an Olympic-standard swimming pool, a new athletics stadium, and a plethora of concert venues, and you have a cosmopolitan melting pot that warrants a club at the top level of the nation’s favourite sport. Except, alas, we’ve a habit of jilting the groom at the altar. As weak an analogy as that is, it’s futility best illustrates the flaws this club presents its followers with as round 46 draws ever nearer.

So is this to be the season upon which Cardiff City take Suggs’s advice and proceed one step beyond? Newcastle United aside, no outfit in this division looks capable of cementing that other automatic promotion spot. The Bluebirds boast one of the Championship’s best grounds, its most passionate fans, the league’s sharpest shooter, the most prolific ‘F’ column, and high-quality players such as Jay Bothroyd, Peter Whittingham and Chris Burke, so surely ours is the hat-stand upon which most pundits and flutterers would toss their berets with justifiable logic? Caution, naturally, comes in the shape of our small and brittle squad, defensive lapses, and the manager’s lack of tactical acumen or clinical usage of the loan market (not to mention his apparent-inability to handle or motivate an under-pressure squad in Spring as the beach beckons). Nevertheless, we’ve wilted at the key moment so many times, surely this club, its fans, and the city deserves gaining and then retaining its place mat in the eating quarters of our favoured pastime’s eating quarters. And you know what, even I, a shameless pessimist, have reason to believe that we’ll be watching images of a certain South African-hosted competition this summer and using it as a chance to measure up our latest batch of foes.

Cardiff City, are coming!

BLUEBIRDS
Jones opted to deploy two wave-breakers in the centre of midfield and it worked a treat. The pair tackled, harried and (then) released others. However, Gavin Rae is more than just a sitting defensive-midfielder, so his forays forward were as frequent as ever. Stephen McPhail sat with wonderful astuteness and spread the ball about with such competence and ease that one could’ve been excused for believing Ball Boy to have ditched his famous rossonero for an evening. Two of Michael Chopra’s goals were McPhail-assisted, and the ROI midfielder so gracefully ensured that his clinical former Tyke team-mate got all the plaudits. Staying with the strikers, and I thought Jay Bothroyd to have put in a malevolent shift intent on punishing his markers. The striker, who appeared to be sporting two bottles of Listerine on his feet (Vapor SLs, apparently), cropped up on the right channel mainly and did his unselfish link-up man bit to perfection.

Returning to the midfield, and the disciplined showings of Peter Whittingham and Chris Burke must be hailed, the former in particular capping a systematically-shackled showing with a goal and an assist. The wideman from Warwickshire county refused/was told not to dribble, so aided the team’s cause greatly by passing backwards to keep Lee Croft chasing and tiring. Not only that, he was punctual when filling in for either Gavin Rae or Mark Kennedy during their advancing for long stretches. Whittingham’s opener was a tap-in set-up by fellow artisan Bothroyd, while his assist for Chopra’s first was one of stunning craftsmanship and came on the back of a spell of his left-foot incisively punishing Derby’s woeful offside trap and higgledy-piggledy shape. Blond Scot Burke meanwhile scored a goal that was preceded by a Best-like saunter, albeit against opponents who’d metaphorically gone home. City’s no. 11 must be heralded for never waning in his support of young comrade Matthews, the pair shackling Teale and totally nullifying any threat from that flank.

What of Adam Matthews then, the much-hyped youngster? Well, he’s far more sensible and accomplished at doing the defensive bits than the haphazard and grandiloquent Quinn. Whereas the Scot recruited from Motherwell in the summer will lunge in and more often than not miss the intended target of the ball, Matthews will sit and force his man (Teale) down the flank. Even if this is the favoured option of the winger, the young right-back’s pace allows him to block the inevitable cross. Alas, if I must levy one criticism in the youngster’s direction, it’s that he plays with the safety on. After a while, it became clear that even County were beginning to realise this. When every pass he makes must be a safe one, stifling these options can induce panic in the man from Swansea. This is where he notably differs from Chris Gunter, a player far more adventurous and swashbuckling at a similar age. Nevertheless, Matthews isn’t short of confidence when it comes to galloping forward and offering to attacks, and long may that continue (so long as it doesn’t hinder his tidying up role).

A feeling of caution permeated the City ranks throughout, from Bothroyd holding it in the corner rather than squaring it across the box, to Marshall taking an age in his distribution. Maybe this was Jones’s tactical master scheme; luring Derby into a false lull. The quasi-paranoia was most tangible in the melina constructed by the centre-backs and aided by the wine cork-vision of Whittingham. Whilst this at first felt right given the pessimistic air surrounding the club and its latest losing escapades, after a while it felt wholeheartedly unnecessary given the bluntness of the Derbyshire side. Ultimately of course it mattered not, but I’m convinced that were we to have played from anywhere between third and fifth gear, double figures would have been possible.

As for the aforementioned melina-instigating central defensive pairing, they had a fine game: County’s very messy consolation goal aside. The strike, which came within moments of the interval ending brought the score back to 2-1 and was abysmal from our point of view. Mark Hudson made the most lackadaisical effort to head it clear, Anthony Gerrard was rooted, and David Marshall looked frightened and abandoned on the white paint under his goal-frame. The goalkeeper failed to inspire confidence all evening and was embarrassingly shy: it all culminated in Gerrard giving Mr Mute a humiliating dressing-down (another incident later in the game saw him stroll to make a punch, forgetting in the seconds preceding his intended contact to inform Bothroyd, thus leaving himself stranded).

RAMS
The forms of computer data storage clearly have no designs on staving off the sack threat besieging their manager if this showing is anything to go on. Perhaps there was some sort of macabre pleasure to take from this for the 12 or so Derby fans who made up the away end: there sure as hell wasn’t anything else to toast. Never has the crass ’sheepshagger’ insult aimed at the Welsh people been so well, correct! We were as rampant as Norman Bates with unlimited funds to splurge in New Look against the nicely-monikered male sheep. Clough – who tries so hard to diminish the kind of aura that his father had yet succeeds only in allowing these kind of performances by maintaining such passiveness – set his side up in a formation that was somewhere between 4-4-1-1 and a 4-1-4-1.

In goal was Stephen Bywater, his green attire proving rather apt camoflauge on a forgettable evening in which I imagine conversation with his cowardly defence on the bus home was strained. The full-backs were freshly-acquired Fredrik Stoor, and Dean Moxey. The former got forward on more occasions, spooning over when well-placed to score at one point. Moxey was atrocious. He didn’t make many attempts to push up, and ability at the back that should’ve been compensating for minimal attacking prowess was distinctly lacking. Chris Burke’s simple goal was so preventable, yet Moxey was metres away from his man and resigned from trying to halt him instantaneously. Savage gave him a royally-earned piece of his mind after that incident. Dean Leacock and Shaun Barker started in the centre of defence, but Leacock was eventually forced off with injury/couldn’t be arsed continuing and was replaced by James McEveley (I thought he was Jay? He’s doing his Andrew Cole bit, presumably).

Now I thought the ball-carrying, easily-drawn-out Leacock was bad – McEveley sought to be worse. Bothroyd rendered his former Blackburn colleague’s evening a misery, and he wasn’t alone in doing so. McEveley and Barker (who had begun to look very commanding at the start of the second period, winning all his duels on the ground and in the air) failed to strike up a partnership of any kind. That 4 of the goals came via relatively docile CENTRAL through-balls from deep territory with no leopard-like pace is truly flamin’ well shocking. The duo had no clue where the other was, and neither tried to infuse any sort of shape or balance to a side that is clearly going to be in and around the drop-zone come May. Any kids in the midst of learning basic defensive drills; I implore you to watch the match highlights in order to witness how not to set up an offside trap near the halfway line, or how not to man-mark at set-pieces.

My division of County’s formation into two choices derives mainly from their 3-man centre midfield system. While it is undisputed that Robbie Savage sat at the base in a full-blown DMC position, Lee Hendrie and Jake Livermore were a little more difficult to pin down. Each took a turn to ghost in for Hulse knock-downs, but every now and again they’d both do it: therefore I’m uncertain as to who was supposed to be meandering in and when, or whether both were supposed to be doing it for the entire game but such was the tactical indiscipline on display in the County ranks that the pair defied/forgot Major Clough’s orders! Nevertheless, when one was up with Hulse (Hendrie, primarily), the other tried to thread the ball through or feed the anonymous widemen. I don’t think Lee Croft had a touch all game, while Dirk Kuyt-lookalike Gary Teale – who took the Derby set-pieces not particularly successfully as right-footed inswingers – started to try a tad in the second period (drew a saved shot, ran a few yards, crossed) after getting no space from Matthews in the first batch of forty-five.

Because Hendrie and Livermore were marked out of the game by McPhail and Rae – compounded by City constantly holding their fort with two banks of four men each whenever Derby got some ball-time – Robbie Savage saw a lot of the leather-coated balloon in space (when Chopra or Bothroyd weren’t within a whisker of his flowing locks, that is). In this Andrea Pirlo-esque quarterback role, Savage was somewhat ineffectual. It was neat now and then, and he did his wave-breaking duties when County weren’t being overloaded, but for all the time and space he saw on the ball in the first half there wasn’t a pass worth writing a poem for.

And that brings us on to poor old Rob Hulse (he was replaced late on by Dickov, and although his inclusion in my title fails to take into account the limited part the Scot played in any aspect of the game, it does make for some tasty alliteration). The forward encapsulated Derby’s growing frustration at our ball-holding, tempo-slowing tactics, but rather than respond with an increased battling attitude Robert resorted to letting Hudson marshal him all too easily. Some of the service he received was pretty dire long-ball stuff mind, and whatever scraps of that he won were never followed up ruthlessly enough: nevertheless Hulse could have done more to keep chugging, hold it up, and try and bring his fellow white shirts into play. His goal was well-taken, and it’s that aversion to profligacy that marks him out as hot property in this division.

in a land called Cardiff, there lived the most fantastic of all monarchs. His name was Joseph. Ninian Park was his castle, and all over the kingdom his name provoked nothing but verbal marvel and sheer joy. Heroic, handsome, gallant, brave, and noble, not to mention a sublime swordsman and accomplished archer, his subjects could not contemplate life without their leader. Many a time during his reign Joseph had saved his meek counterparts and people, a race perennially threatened by the most grotesque creations God hath ever fathomed such as the Lebanese Hammamhead dragon and the Westham Warriors. Be they at the very peak of the Hawthorn Mountains, or in amongst the native Barnsley tribe deep in the enchanted forest of Wemberlee, his royal highness so superlatively slayed encroaching demons to save his people from all that was sacrilegious.

As his reputation and prestige swelled, so did the length of his admirers. The advances of dainty Lady McCarthy of Wolverhampton, shy Maid Moyes and the gorgeous Princess Pulis were kindly welcomed but rebuffed. The only true female figures prominent in Joseph’s life were his overbearing step-mothers: The grouchy but loyal, Di Jones, and the gobby but jovial Queen Tosh. Both believed themselves to be the closer of the duo to young Joseph, but in reality, the poor fellow had become somewhat wayward under the influence of his greedy gardener, Dastardly David Baldwin…

Now I’ll end this quasi-fairy tale here because they’re supposed to conclude with ‘and they all lived happily ever after‘ and that may not necessarily be the case.

Firstly; what is it about Joe Ledley that has managers and pundits gushing with praise and waving chequebooks with vertically-stretching triceps? He’s not exactly the most graceful, technically-endowed or (constant) goal-grabbing midfielder ever to have graced the lower leagues. Nor does he possess an ability from free-kicks that could mask some of his flaws. In fact, Steve Claridge was spot on when highlighting that Ledley’s talents may lie in the fact that he’s an average Joe (that pun was inevitable) who does the all-round bit very well. He’s certainly had more chances than most to showcase this bulging averageness, playing scores of games since being involved in the first team squad picture at Ninian Park/New Ground (albeit after debuting 5 years ago on a hockey pitch). There have been 31 goals (0.12 goals per game), countless assists, 17 yellow cards (Saturday saw his first ever red) and a staggering 215 City showings, all of which help promote the Joe Ledley brand.

FACTOR IN…

- 6 spells of pre-season fitness training for the 6 feet tall, 12-ish stone weighing Cardiffian known as The Skunk (?)
- A few positional shifts.
- Multiple injuries, from metatarsals to fingers, via the back.
- Becoming the 646th player to represent Wales at full international level.
- Adding another 30 caps, several goals, and becoming the poster-boy and captain for an entire nation.
- Trips to draining locations such as Bulgaria, Cyprus, Montenegro, Azerbaijan and Slovakia. Not to mention equally draining shadow-chasing clashes against sides like Germany, Brazil and the Netherlands.
- 14 appearances for Welsh youth teams from U17 – U21 level.

Ledley’s life in the footballing circus has certainly been action-packed.

FOR THE UNACQUAINTED, HERE ARE A FEW OF THE WELSHMAN’S CHARACTERISTICS

He can let the game pass him by: “I’m pretty certain Joe Ledley was actually back in Cardiff and a cardboard cut-out like the one in the old John Smith’s adverts had instead taken his place” [Doncaster Rovers away, August 2008]

He can operate in several roles: “Showed his versatility by playing in 3 different positions during the game: out on the left, then right-back, before ending up in central midfield for the second period. Some good running, tackling, crossing and movement was compounded with some bad reading of the game” [MK Dons, August 2008]

He offers little in the way of a set-piece threat: “Yesterday he gave away a penalty, showed a wide range of heavy and lacklustre passing, looked asleep and lethargic when on the ball or when it was near him, threw in a few bad CK’s, and horribly miscued and directed a shot” [Norwich City, August 2008]

He is guilty of playing only in brief flashes: “Ledley was sloppy, indecisive, tactically tactless and somewhat comatose. On the few occasions he got on the ball he looked useful and carried and personified the way a team should threaten. But when I say ‘few’, I mean that he did this about twice. In 90 minutes” [Wolverhampton Wanderers, November 2008]

He is not always the most alert player: “Joe Ledley scored a fantastic goal but he was slow and clueless on the ball and had a few lazy moments in the second half when he would remember to pick up his man about two seconds after the Jack in question had passed him” [Swansea City away, November 2008]

He can be a pulsating midfield presence: “An imposing and dominant figure in both defence and attack thereafter. When he performs like this, his clever, intelligent and athletic play is plain for all to see” [Wolverhampton Wanderers away, February 2009]

He is a chameleon, not a leader: “When the team are winning and comfortable in doing so, Ledley begins to ooze class” [Nottingham Forest, February 2009]

He is a *big-game player*: “Are the cameras here? Yes Joe, yes they are. Are Premier League scouts here? One would imagine one or two are, aye. Is a world class manager who is yet to open his chequebook here? Abso-bloody-lutely Ledley! So yeah, Joe decided to turn it on. Footballer’s brains and priorities: You gotta love ‘em!” [Arsenal, January 2009]

BUT HE’S JUST A KID?

The Dolmio adverts on TV help portray a view that mollycoddling grown adults is rife and normal. Joe may still be seen as a tender youngster by some, yet with the previous two stanza’s arsenal of statistics and reflections in mind it’s apparent that one can no longer refer to him as a rookie either professionally or in life. He’s as experienced as a professional can get for club and country, has a steady girlfriend, a bedrock of friends from his alma mater Cantonian High, as well as a supportive family. Besides, there isn’t a law that dictates that a twenty-two year old is any less wise (or to use the footballing parlance, ready) than a forty year old by virtue of time spent out of the womb. You can’t quantify such readiness or intelligence in terms of how many candles on cakes you’ve racked up because if we did then we’d turn to nincompoop’s like Romario or Dwight Yorke in hours of need.

Ledley has seen it *all*; from FAW Premier Cup ties, to the Emirates and Anfield, via early-round Carling Cup games against the likes of Macclesfield. He’s had several mentors and played in different systems with maestros like Ryan Giggs and Graham Kavanagh. Joe’s shown he has the ability on his day, but has been moribund for so long it’s not clear whether he’ll ever turn the anamolous flashes into regular Epcot-esque firework displays in the City blue. Has the “cultured” midfielder been over-praised or celebrated so frequently early in his career that the motivation is beginning to wane? Correspondingly, is hesuffering from having never left his comfort zone? Coming through the ranks of a local club, does the fire in the belly get extinguished too early? You look at the likes of Shaun Goater, Jermaine Beckford or even Ledley’s close friend Cameron Jerome and the way in which they have a steely determinedness about them to improve and prove their critics wrong. Nevertheless, for every one of those players released by a top club coming back stronger for and from the experience, there are also the likes of Ledley’s former Wales team-mate Ramon Calliste.

CRUXES

To put his woeful showings this season into some form of context, Ledley was stripped of the captaincy amidst his refusal to pen a new deal with the club, and thus, a freshly-signed cockney named Mark Hudson was appointed in his place. From this, some may opine that I’m basing my opinions on the few shoddy showings of a hurt and scorned local lad. Sadly, that isn’t the case. The malaise has set and permeated the no. 16 ever since that famous FA Cup semi-final goal against Barnsley in April 2008 – arguably the defining and most important moment in his career to date.

When Ledley’s career with the club was beginning, the flashes of genius he showed were supposed to develop into something that he displayed more regularly, and with even greater effect. As it is the flashes are now more irregular and the optimistic, carefree and combative attitude has been displaced by one of lethargy, silver-medal-acceptance and weak will. The Fairwater fellow was the toast of the town, and this provides a useful metaphor for the career-state Ledley currently resides in. Toast has a habit of going cold awfully quickly, and as is the habit with most consumers, the option of putting another slice under the grill is preferable to eating the cold one. With Cardiff City, Ledley has been lucky in that we’re content with the quality of the bread and applied margarine to enjoy it regardless of temperature. Alas, there comes a point when that cold toast goes mouldy, and unlike cheese, mouldy bread isn’t edible.

On the field of play, Ledley’s star currently shines with all the lustre of one of those lardy Biffa bins. So why is such a fading force still granted levels of exposure that others are denied? I’ll call on Jameson to complement my take on the matter:

“One is tempted to say that the very function of the news media is to relegate recent historical experiences as rapidly as possible into the past. The informational function of the media would thus be to help us forget, to serve as the very agents and mechanisms for our historical amnesia”

Joe, who looks every inch the Premier League star, has himself a hotshot agent, and is still of an age where the word potential is can be applied just as readily as complete is the perfect man for bored writers looking to fill copy. The more the papers print stories linking this star-in-the-making – whom the majority will probably have seen no more than once – with a glamorous cash-heavy transfer, the rate at which the hype around him burgeons: until it reaches the point where we simply assume that Ledley can’t possibly be under-performing on the pitch, because well, it’s impossible. He’s Joe Ledley, superstar! This red-top-assisted “fragmentation of time into a series of perpetual presents” has certainly played a big part in the continued glossy bling-laden halo that the world believes to hover over Joe Ledley. The part of playing a game on a pitch and being worthy of a switch to a team with a higher calibre of players is relegated in Modern Football, and this is where players like Ledley (and of course, their agents) benefit in the financial and publicity stakes.*

Therefore, is he guilty of using the club as a stepping stone, blinded by (his fringe) and his agent’s promises of cash/glory/prestige? If, as he so often declares, his desire to remain with the Glamorganshire side is so very palpable, then why on earth hasn’t he offered a performance (or string of them) worthy of this wish? At present, Ledley is levitated by a sense of the grandiose imposed on him by the media, transfer speculation, his agent, and an inflating ego. His career is not being enhanced or maintained by his current level of performance and that’s why I’m looking beyond the hype in the title of this post by trying to posit the idea that Ledley has become merely a competent-ish midfielder in a very poor quality division. Were one totally hype-oblivious to begin watching Cardiff City on a season-long basis, they’d definitely fail to pick out Ledley as a player worthy of the recognition or bloated multi-million figures quoted by clubs for him. With Homegrown Quota laws soon to set plague the gargantuan talent vacuums that are the top-tier sides, expect Ledley to seal a move somewhere nice soon enough. I for one will be interested to see whether the move acts as a catalyst for his career. The whole playing with better players, fresh start claptrap may just invigorate the Welshman to a level of consistency and quality that us City fans have not been fortunate enough to witness. The flip-side of course is that the move just may prove to be the ultimate exposé of an overly-average player luckier than many, himself included, realise.

This isn’t meant to be a character assassination of a likeable local fellow: More a realisation that the career of a potentially decent player is not amounting to much with us here at Cardiff City. A parting of the ways would suit all parties, and the sooner it happens the better. Whichever way you view the case of Joe Ledley, the conclusion suits both. Perhaps he’s just a plucky product of the Cardiff City vineyard who got several fortuitous breaks and we and he should cash in on the boom while its tones still reverberate in our ears. The consistent amount of games he plays and travelling he does may have contributed to early burn-out and attaining high levels of form will never be forthcoming as a result. Alternatively, the men in suits – be they employed in the media or greed sectors – have contrived to ruin the sporting promise of a talented Cardiffian. As far as football is concerned, the longer they spend swamping the likes of Cardiff’s Mill Lane quaffing overly-priced bubbly truth serum and away from the game the sooner the rest of us can enjoy a sport sans fabricated-dramas, overpaid-mercenaries and petty mind-games.

* – I know this seems a tad contradictory given that I’m opting to gift Ledley further wordage rather than discuss the far more vital matter of the team on the pitch, but the issue of this ongoing transfer/contract saga plagues the club and is therefore worthy of debate. This and the fact that due to an increased workload/a steadfast refusal to pay out for meaningless away cup games, I’ve missed watching us in action and would therefore feel fraudulent trying to fully decipher what happened when my eyes witnessed nothing live.

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It’s all gone a bit Adrien Brody’s-nose-shaped on the pitch, with an (unlucky) defeat at Villa in the League Cup followed by a far more preventable one to Sheffield Wednesday in the league on the weekend. The defeat at Aston Holiday Cabin witnessed some feeble marking by Gerrard for Agbonlahor’s goal, while the loss up in Yorkshire to the girl-child of the Addams family saw the boys in yellow (against the suffocating presence of the home side’s blue shirts, the game had the look of an Ikea store’s exterior) contrive to triple Gerrard’s error earlier that week.

We come up against Derby County tomorrow and I for one am relishing getting my teeth into watching the team live once again. Whether I’m echoing those sentiments at approximately 21:34 tomorrow evening is another matter entirely…