DEARTH VALLEY
By
Mickey Blue Eyes.

I have to ration my away days this season. Which is unfortunate given our revival. But I wanted to go on this one to see The Duke get some turf time after his suspension wore off.

And when it comes to revivals Charlton Athletic are a footy existential miracle. They shouldn’t be around anymore. They should have disappeared into the crumbling, gangster-ridden obscurity of sarf Lahndan many seasons ago. Yet here they are, not only in existence, but thriving in tenth place. Since all truth is a good deal more attractive and astonishing than fiction their story is scarce believable, and all the better for it. Not so long ago they were on the bones of their arse – no, REALLY on the bones of their arse. While we were whimpering with self pity over our financial and playing condition in the top division Charlton were tenants at someone else’s ground, The Valley overgrown and falling to bits, their playing aspirations at about the height of your ankle, way down the league, no money and little prospect of getting any. They were dying while the media showed its true colours and dismissed them to the cemetery while hyping the corrupt new league set-up and the few self-appointed scab clubs who want to control it.

Then something happened which would stretch your script-writing abilities. I don’t know the details but apparently even Guy Ritchie would have retched at the plot: Charlton revived on their death bed. Their fans got angry enough at fate to organise themselves and fight back long term, a classic example of getting mad AND getting even. Gradually they restored The Valley and moved back just as they rebuilt their finances and playing fortunes. The inestimable Alan Curbishley was appointed manager. They started to rebuild their ground. They got back into the top division. And now nobody laughs at them anymore. They are nobody’s pushover, not with a brilliant young player like Scott Parker in their side. It is a truly glorious sports story, the best by far in an ugly and dishonest modern footy administrative era shot through with spivs, media liars and corporate loan sharks. Needless to say - entirely in keeping with the ugly aspect - the media have paid next to no attention to their achievements. Charlton have succeeded in spite of the system and thereby provided inspiration to footy fans everywhere. It is a wonderful tale. Moreover, it provides valuable lessons for countering a looming, threatening future for The Beautiful Game.

On a lighter note, during the week the pinkies were knocked out of the FA Cup at home by ten-man Crystal Palace. Quite rightly the remaining few days of the week saw pinks all over the city massacred by proletarian propaganda of the most visceral and satisfying kind. You had to larf. In fact you had to split your sides, get up in the morning and do it all over again. The pinkies are in gloomy disarray. The delight on the Blue side of the city is both palpable and measured. In other words, we’re pissing ourselves laffing at them. No class, them pinkies, no style. But anyway.

I delivered positive proof of footy fans’ insanity when I got up at 5.00 a.m to collect Keith in Waterloo and then drive across to Widnes to meet The Bus. The last thing I wanted to do was suffer a five hour coach trip to Lahndan but it was a beautifully mild morning free of freezing temperatures, a slight breeze off the river and the air as clear as crystal. Moyes weather.

Once the trip was under way I found myself spoiled rotten. Mogsy kindly produced a half bottle of acceptable white wine and Texyla just as kindly provided cheese and crackers, both of these little prezzies cannily calculated to get me into the right state of mind. There’s no question this is a good deal better than a warm can of Fosters accompanied by a belch and a tribal footy song. Keith got one of his quizzes into the air and that was my cue to have a doze, especially since I knew at least one question was bound to be a trick question, exactly the sort to piss off anyone with a sense of logic. Not only that, it triggers off other quiz-heads and the conversation adjusts accordingly. I slipped into a fitful snooze and woke up with an inevitable cricked neck as we reached the outskirts of Lahndan. Keith was STILL asking, “Which players have scored at Goodison after having a lightly grilled sirloin steak for lunch accompanied by a vintage Margot served by Harry Catterick.” I tried and failed to doze off again but Keith was relentless. I wanted to choke him to death.

Eventually The Bus was directed to its parking spot not far from the ground. As we disembarked I caught sight of myself in a mirror. I felt, looked and sounded completely wrecked. All good wine travels badly. Paul had informed us in advance that the quaffing venue was The Prince of Denmark, “………just around the corner from the Liberal Club.” As we got off, Texyla said, “It’s straight ahead, the other side of the traffic lights,” and Jimmy said, “No it’s not. Turn right at the lights and it’s about two hundred yards down on your left.” Which of course was nowhere near the Liberal Club. That being the case, you won’t be surprised to hear the pub’s called The Rose of Denmark. Paul will get a letter from my solicitors sometime on Wednesday.

We piled into a smashing little pub with a warm and welcome atmosphere and an even split of fans. The staff were friendly and lightning quick. You wanted to take the useless Crofts bar crew with you from the previous week and shout into their incapable ears, “LOOK–THIS-IS-HOW-IT’S-DONE. WATCH-AND-LEARN-FROM-STAFF-LIKE-THIS.” We were served in no time at all and before you could say “pisshead” we were talking fluent licorice allsorts with the rest. Relaxed Blue Belly optimism everywhere, same for the Charlton fans. It was just great, everything good in footy. The chat matched it too. The Melledrew Tendency were nowhere to be seen. Tired and worn out as I was, I loved it all.

It was made even better when we were openly welcomed by the Charlton regulars therein, salt of the earth all. They told us they have almost clinched a deal whereby they get a fans representative on the board of directors. This may well be a modest start but at least it’s a start. Given their fans’ efforts in saving the club I wouldn’t put it past them to make huge improvements on that too. My admiration is boundless. We could learn a lot from them.

Expat Blue Bellies started arriving. Neil, Squire, cockney toffee, Terry-Gerry-Steve from Oxford, Tim and son (rightly full of himself after scoring four for his school), the place was soon thronged and we ended up outside. It’s wonderful the wisdom a few bevvies imparts. Moyesy really should hold his team talks at times and venues like this. We have all the answers and we’re always right. News filtered through that the pinkies were losing and that kicked off the inevitable Houllier gags. Some of the comments would have curdled a jar of Marmite. Which reminds me……………Mogsy’s started eating MARMITE CRISPS. If it goes on I will arrange for his slow and painful death. Only the British could think up “food” like that and, worse, eat the fucking stuff. Yes, I know the Yanks invented tomato-flavoured ice cream but everyone knows they’re ga-ga at the best of times.

The Squire was on top form. No, I’ll re-phase that. He was on top ROTUND form. No question, I’m worried about the boy. He’s so tubby these days, if he fell over he’d rock himself to sleep trying to get up. It doesn’t quite gell with the epoxy resin hair-do either. Meanwhile, ct has acquired a spiffy new pair of specs which finally has him fulfilling his intellectual potential. Me, I was just dishevelled, pissed and talking complete shite virtually all the time. No change there, then. Most of us had more or less decided Charlton shouldn’t bother turning up since they were going to get destroyed by Moyesy’s thousand metre stare alone. Only Neil said we’d lose, and that by 3-1. I had to restrain our wonderful and knowledgeable fans from booting the living shites out of him. You can safely say I was tired and emotional by the time the match rolled around.

Inside, The Valley has made more advances and is beginning to look splendid in a small scale sort of way. The only section not rebult is the end we occupied. Despite the tackiness of this area of the ground the whole atmosphere is welcoming. Even the bizzies managed the odd grin when somebody made a clever and/or cheeky scouse remark calculated to challenge uniformed authority.

Our only team change was The Gravedigger for injured Stevie.

In a storming start, we got a corner within seconds and then they broke away and Wrighty almost got lobbed for an opener. Jaysus, I hardly had me arse on the seat after draping a huge Blue Kipper banner over the front barrier. Texyla had already got the You’ve Just Been Rooneyed! banner up. Having imbibed not wisely but too well, my head swivelled from side to side as play whizzed all over the place. I got dizzy because of the pace. Next to me, Keith had already decided that Winter was, his words, “An absolute fuckn cunt of the first order. He hates us.” Though this was somewhat emotional I found myself agreeing with the central truth.

The pace was furious but had no real shape. One touch play abounded, one-twos at left right and centre, but it invariably ended in a cul-de-sac of defenders at both ends of the field. The teams were similar in style. We should have had a penalty when The New Model Gravedigger got dropped in the box left side as Keith yelled, “Fuckn neat feet, neat feet!” Winter had no intention of paying any attention to anything we had to say. Two seats to my left The Squire was offering him some sage advice which might one day save his life.

The one player to stand out in it all was Scott Parker. Simply, the boy is brilliant. He plays very much like an old style inside forward. He knows virtually exactly when to drop off, where to pass long and short, when to dribble and when to tackle. I maintain he was the difference between the two teams. If he can keep this up he’s destined for greatness. Naturally, I wanted him incapacitated for this match – and you can read anything you like into that. The little upright bastard was running rings around us in midfield. Nobody got near him all afternoon.

Not that we had anyone playing poorly especially. It was a fascinating contest without much flowing footy. It was end to end stuff, cut and thrust. It could have gone either way and it stayed like that right to the end.

Winter scored the first goal for Charlton at just over the quarter hour. A sharp move down their left ended with a through ball into the box, wide left. Where stood a man in an offside position. The ball got to their man behind the offside player and he had to dribble around him before knocking it home at close range. If that isn’t “interfering with play” then I’ll……………arse……………Lewis’s……………window. But Winter naturally allowed it.

Needless to say all this did was infuriate everybody, team included, and we kept up an assault which might have yielded a goal with better and more varied midfield play. You know, like Scott Parker’s. We don’t have anybody like Parker, nor do we have any money to buy one. I have to keep saying this so some people don’t get carried away with simple solutions to our playing problems. Anyway, Moyesy’s teams don’t throw in the towel the way Smiffy’s used to. We kept at it. When teams are matched as closely as this it doesn’t take much to win it.

A word here about The Gravedigger. In this match he deployed much more positional discipline, odd understandable wander apart. Strange this, but the result is someone who looks subdued and therefore less effective. He didn’t play badly, merely sort of not one thing or the other. Maybe he just likes being an anarchist. He’s an odd player alright.

Just before half time we attacked through the middle and got a free kick central in the D. Inevitably, it was knocked sideways to Stubbsy, ideal range for him and almost a gimme. Sadly, not only do we know this, so do all the owl arse pros in the game. So Parker was on it in a flash to block tackle Stubbsy’s shot. Stubbsy went down like a brick zeppelin and lay prone for ages before getting stretchered off. It looked bad. Joey came on for the second half.

The second half was much the same as the first, except maybe we had slightly the best of it. We were quite lively without being really persuasive and for all the usual reasons. Which is why it took us about twenty five minutes to get back on level terms. Li Tie bustled into the box right side and switch-passed with The Rad before the latter laid it left sideways to Macca. Right centre side, a metre or two inside the box he hit an instant belter home that had his trade-mark raised right hand in the air once again before it found the inside of their right post, a brilliant cross-shot. Game on, and we looked the likely lads.

Next to me, Keith was beside himself. “Bring on the Golden Child! Bring on the Golden Child!” On the bench, nobody listened. It’s always easy when you’re a fan. When you’re a manager you’re always wrong if the result goes against you. ‘Twas ever thus.

So of course he was proved wrong when Charlton got the winner about a quarter hour later. Actually, it was just one of those things, a matter of luck. There was no particular threat when a Charlton move broke down in centre midfield and the ball broke to Li Tie about half way in our half. It rebounded forward through to their two front men and a quick exchange of passes and one rebound left one clear to angle it under Wrighty inside our left post. C’est la guerre.

The Duke was on with SuperKev thereafter, immediately surrounded by a posse of red shirts. Hungry as ever, he had two tremendously strong runs, one of which took him slightly right, just outside the D, and his shot whistled narrowly over. His annoyed gestures showed once again that he expects to score every time he gets the slightest opportunity. Moreover, you can see near panic in the opposition every time he gets the ball. One recalls the hapless figure of Campo of Bolton as a classic example of what he can do to seasoned professional players. It’s hard to avoid impatience, to want him to grow up quickly, to do it all and do it NOW. But we have to. Relish the lad’s adolescence. Grow with him. And all things being equal, he’ll repay the patience a thousand times over. Me, I trust Moyesy’s judgement completely. Of course he’ll get it wrong every now and then but I’m willing to bet he’ll get it right a good deal more than your average aficionado.

In the last quarter hour we flooded forward with the home fans whistling frantically for the final whistle. All in all a draw would have been a fair result, though I’m not complaining. It could have gone either way. As I said earlier, I am convinced the difference was the sheer brilliance of Scott Parker. In his own way, he’s every bit as good as The Duke. He’s one of the best all round young players I have seen in recent years. Until we can acquire that kind of midfield play we will probably fall short of our ultimate aspirations.

There was plenty to feel good about, though. Wrighty had a superb game in goal and looked absolutely solid at critical times. Sandro had another magic game and nobody tried to get too clever in Unsy’s patch, not while he’s as solid as this. Davey-Stubbsy were just as solid, and Joey showed glimpses of his class as he settled back in – at one point he pinged an amazing eighty metres pass right to The Rad’s feet on the right wing. All the middies battled well but only managed one telling through pass and that brought us our equaliser. Once again, The Rad chased everything down and it was his final pass which laid on the equaliser. Macca is everything good from America, works hard, plays hard, no complaints, takes no shit and is decisive when he gets the breaks. Kev Campbell continues to restore himself to full fitness and did some useful things during the closing stages.

So, the result was a pain in the arse and we hope it isn’t repeated this week versus Southampton. If it is, I think it likely we won’t qualify for Europe. Which will be a pity. Texyla is already checking the prices of charter airplanes. A lot of us are dreaming about reports from The Plane instead of The Bus. We’ll see. And if there is any group of fans who will have earned it, it’s us Blue Bellies. And none more than The Bus.

When we arrived back, I drove Keith home from the drop-off point. He was still narky about Winter and The Duke’s “late” introduction. But at least he wasn’t asking fucking quiz questions.

Click on this link to read the match report from a Charlton fan, David Hatch who runs the Charlton fanzine, 'Goodbye Horse'.

http://www.goodbyehorse.pwp.blueyonder.co.uk/gbh/index.htm

Team News

Watch out for the NEW Blue Kipper Flag to be unveiled @ Charlton.

Sven Goran Eriksson is ready to make Wayne Rooney England's youngest ever international player. The Swede will watch 17-year-old Rooney (and Richard Wright) in action for Everton at Charlton this afternoon before naming his squad for Wednesday's Sky Live friendly against Australia.
And if Rooney makes the squad, Eriksson will have no hesitation pitching him into the action at Upton Park, breaking the record set by James Prinsep back in 1879.
"If I pick Rooney, he will play," said Eriksson. "Maybe not from the start, but certainly at some stage." - fuckin' 'ell I'm dribblin' already at the thought!

Moyesy has a near full squad to pick from. A straight choice between McBride & Campbell to partner the Rad. We think Moyesy may pick Super over Macca. Otherwise the team should be the same. Carsley, Osman, Yobo, Gravesen, & Pembo all pushing for places, but may miss out this time. A certain Wayne Rooney is back in the squad, but we think he'll stay on the bench, but will come in with 18 minutes to go

Jogger predicts the team: Wright, Pistone, Weir, Stubbs, Unsworth, Watson, Gemmill, Li Tie, Naysmith, Campbell & Radzinski.