Quotes

Moyesy says: “I’ve said to the players that I was delighted that they came back because I didn’t see it happening. I thought we had little idea at that period of the game. We got a little bit of luck at the end, but maybe we deserve it, because we’ve worked hard. We’re getting nearer that magical 40-point mark which makes sure we’re in the Premiership and we’ll see what we can do after that.”

Lard: "Get stuck in Pisto"

Jogger: "He's not playing. You Dick!"

WRIGHTY’S DROPSY – AGAIN
By
Mickey Blue Eyes.

Being a holiday, I didn’t have time to include this small anecdote in the notloB match report.

Before the game we were in a queue outside the Street End. As usual the untidy lines were supervised by mounted police. Moronic bizzies in other parts of the country could take a valuable lesson from the way Merseyside Police deal with football crowds. That is, with a sense of responsibility coupled with the ability to laugh. There is usually a healthy, grudging respect between parties. Koestler long ago identified the collision of opposites as an important element in the entropy of comedy. I toss this morsel to those untalented who labour under the illusion there is a formula for humour.

Our usual queue was marshalled by a policewoman on a magnificent chestnut horse. Horse and rider were splendidly turned out. Boots, leather straps and buckles all gleamed - the sort of stuff some MPs use to have themselves suspended by the heels while squealing with delight during a sound thrashing in Westminster houses of ill repute. The policewoman looked new, young and slightly ill at ease with her job. Her voice was a trifle too octavo. The usual directions sounded fraught, “Come on lads! Two lines, PLEASE!” …………that sort of thing. Veteran football fans are like sharks, can smell uncertainty and are quite apt to get their teeth into an unsuspecting rookie. They circled menacingly, bobble caps a misleadingly softer sight than dorsal fins.

She began to edge her horse a little too far into the crowd to make her point. The grumbles grew more imperative. Various cries of, “EY! Mind me fuckn new shoes will yer!” and “Mind the cot! MIND THE FUCKN COT!” were aimed her way. Like all good marshallers she took the hint, edged out slightly and gestured me into the space behind the horse’s clattering rear hooves. “Two lines, PLEASE!”

So I said, “Alright. So long as the horse doesn’t kick me.”

Her tone softened. “It’s alright, sir……” (Sir! Jaysus! Can you imagine a neanderthal Geordie or Midlands copper…………no, of course you can’t) “………the horse is well trained.”

Off to my right a wicked world-weary scouse voice said, “If it’s trained like my missus it’ll kick shite outa yer.” Laughter, authority mocked, conjugal revenge delivered. The policewoman grinned and half turned in the saddle to deliver her coup de grace. “The horse,” she said with deep satisfaction, “is male.” You knew it was a mistake the minute she opened her mouth.

She’d didn’t have time to close her sensual lips before the answer came back like a sniper shot to the forehead: ”I’m fuckn sure my missus is too.”

More raucous laughter. The horse looked unsettled. Quite rightly the bizzyette gave up the geist. Quit while you’re behind, girl, I thought. She blushed. Now isn’t that nice?

An anarchist friend of mine once had a near irresistible urge to rumpy-pumpy a policewoman in full uniform and to blow her whistle on the urgent strokes. For the first time I saw why anarchy will never work.

So match day was on New Year’s Day, which was a very bad idea. Guilty and innocent parties assembled in St. Francis de Sales club. Hangovers were everywhere. For the first time in three centuries I wore an insufferably smug grin due to non-participation in the madness. Jogger had the skin complexion of a peeled onion. Sting Ray looked his impeccable, unperturbable self. Mogsy looked like he wanted to dive into his orange and soda and go to sleep for all eternity.

Eventually Kipper showed up and confirmed a consensus reached at the previous night’s party. It appears all the males present, not so much in their cups as wearing them on their heads, agreed to run with the bulls at Pamplona. Until someone pointed out you had to wear a pink bandana. “Fuck that,” said some genius, “if I go I’m wearing a blue one.” Ray considered this for a moment and then suggested, “Don’t know why you don’t get a good week in and do the tomato one as well.” Mogsy’s face discoloured even more at the thought of all that squashed tomato goo.

Hardly anybody wanted to talk footy. Actually, it looked as though everyone wanted to go home and expire in the arms of sobbing loved ones. There was some perfunctory chat about the match during which I expressed some unease. Our recent form has been fitful and we have a bad record against the Mancs.

Moreover, I have never much liked spaniel-eyed Keegan. Too narcissistic, too media sycophantic, too slippery by half. Of course it also had a little to do with the fact that he was a pinky. It is also backed up by the certainty he was merely a good player much overrated during a bad time for English football. Which is where his media sycophancy entered the frame. He was one of the first players to cotton on to the method. It helped him a lot.

His limitations as a player at international (but not club) level were obvious. So too were the boundaries of his managerial abilities. Each time he walked away from a manager’s job it was always just before the media could get on his case. In PR terms it would be considered a nifty piece of existential footwork. However, he has now run out of dodges as sure as he couldn’t dodge the great Dutch and German midfields of the seventies. If he walks out on City too he must surely have himself tagged finally as a manager at the level of, say, John Gregory. Up to now he’s shown himself a one trick pony. Still, he might just make the leap with what’s left. For his own sake I hope he does - but I can’t say I’ll be bothered one iota if he doesn’t.

Anyway, it was an odd game. They were there for the taking but we just couldn’t raise our first half game while we were in command. The only time they got into it was during the last twenty minutes. The Mancs are no great shakes and we should have buried them. Probably even a mild reproduction of that devastating spell against notloB would have seen seen them off. Then again, it didn’t see noptloB off either. At times like this you realise just how coquettish the game can be.

We were good for the first ten-fifteen minutes. The ball got knocked around reasonably well and we scored an excellent goal after about seven minutes. It was a first class move the full length of the pitch. The ball went from Wrighty’s hands, out to Joey on the right, into Stubbsy in the middle, out to Nace wide left, in to The Gravedigger at inside left and across to The Duke at inside right. He had a clear opportunity to get it wide right to unmarked Joey. Instead, he turned his man and stuck a surgeon’s knife of a ball through to unmarked New Slimline Stevie just right of the D. No sweat, it got banged home inside Schmike’s right post. City just weren’t in it.

They got an equaliser right against the run of play about ten minutes later. By this time The Duke had hit one just over and we looked likely to get another without ever looking in full charge. Which made the equaliser all the more maddening.

They got a corner on their left in the Street End. It was poorly headed out to the left edge of the box. All due credit to him, their man killed the ball and went through one tackle and got to the bye line and then put over a quite useless short cross to our near post. Wrighty barely had to jump to catch it. So he goes and drops it and Misery Dome couldn’t miss. Yet another stupid and needless one to let through. I’ve lost count of the number of these we’ve conceded this season. Moyesy must be about ready to bounce the culprits – which is almost everyone – off the dressing room walls. Apart from a long distance shot that was the only effort City had at goal in the first half. We had most of the ball by a long chalk but simply weren’t using it. The same midfield problems nag away.

The pattern stayed much the same until about half way through the second half when they got on top and had a few misses until eventually the pressure told. A cross from the right got headed home. To me it looked like Wrighty should have got to that one too. At this stage it looked as though we were going to lose.

But, as we’ve noted all season, you just can’t write this team off, whatever their shortcomings. Injury time was petering out when Stevie lobbed one through from right back, Li Tie went for it in the air at inside right with their man breathing down his neck and it took one bounce beyond a City defender. The Rad came steaming in and headed it over Schmike’s despairing charge out of goal.

Taken overall, a draw was a fair result though the Mancs might easily have won with that second half spell of superiority. It was another mediocre match.

Deservedly, The Duke picked up another booking, which means he now misses four games instead of three. Add that to all the other missing players and it doesn’t look good for the next month or so. It will be decisive in how our season ends.

The way some fans behave you would think there have been no advances at all in our fortunes. Example, there’s one new dick head who has arrived recently in our area, probably on a half-season ticket. Unfortunately he sits right behind me and he has the kind of voice you associate with Josef Goebbels, and just as endearing. I’ll give you two of his King of the Kids samples:

SAMPLE A. “Wouldn’t you think Rooney would try since he’s about to start his suspension.”

SAMPLE B. “Bring back Smith.” (And I promise you the goonie wasn’t joking.)

Sure, we haven’t played too well during the last month. So what? Here we are, fifth as I write. This has been achieved with mostly the same players. For every two points we’ve dropped recently you can add back in two we should have picked up. In fact we should be second in the table. This doesn’t mean we rest content, far from it. You can bet Moyesy isn’t resting on it. But it is time some people grew up and got everything into a sensible perspective. Don’t hold your breath though. The game has always attracted a peculiar form of masochistic fan and it isn’t going to change any time soon. I just wish they’d stay away from our area of the Lower Street End. Fortunately the vast majority are first class in their support and instinctive knowledge of the game.

Still, we always knew it wasn’t going to be an easy ride. And just because it’s New Year doesn’t mean it will be any different. (02/01/03)