Football is the cruellest mistress - the Mighty vs Lincoln City

At least the keeper didn't score. 

A panoramic shot of a field at dusk. In the background the sky is painted with sunset as if a theatrical diorama created for this moment and this moment only. At the point where the sky meets the land, a distant illuminated tower. I turn my head. Look to the land on the other side of the road. The sky is darker and a thousand crows wheel, a corvid whirlwind above autumnal stubble.

Sometimes I wish I had longer just to take in the world. To do nothing but notice. There's angles and beauty in everything. Lines, colours, textures that speak of something beyond my comprehension. Maybe it's a soul. I don't know. Who even has time for a soul in this world of forever doing. I always seem to be moving, thinking 'what next' and these fleeting moments of inexplicable transcendence will have to do. 

Anyway.... Football! That's next. I'm in a strange mood still though. I put my earphones in and listen to some music. The effect is eerie as the PA system bleeds together with my tunes and everything is kind of ghostly and distant. Some kids chase the sprinkler showers along the edge of the gangway. Keogh is coaching in a very enthusiastic way. People climb the steps, some slower than others. Various stewards and safety people perform a choreography of pointing and walking and looking, without appearing to affect any great change.

The music ends. 

Beesley's in, Rhodes is out. I approve of that. 

I'm looking forward to this one.

---

It's very nearly the end. The game isn't dead, but it's definitely not got long to live. The keeper is up. As a rule, I love keepers coming up - I have a bad feeling this time though. I've had a bad feeling for about 15 minutes. Lincoln just won't lie down. They're rugged and ugly and they've shithoused there way to having ten men and the crowd on top of them but they're refusing to lie down. They're like a zombie in a terrible film that just won't die and we're panicking, shooting it time and again but it keeps coming, bits hanging off it, limbs missing, lurching towards us slowly and surely, our party one by one falling prey to the inevitable forward march of the monster till nothing stands between them and us... 

We've left no one up. They wouldn't track them anyway, it's all or nothing now. I hate this. I'm watching the keeper. They've got some big lads. Some square shouldered beasts. C'mon Pool. Hang on. Get to it. The ball comes in, it arcs, close to the keeper but he can't make contact, I'm momentarily relieved that the ball has bypassed the central melee but then I'm horrified as they've a man over who steals in, seemingly unopposed and the ball is being diverted in. Someone was there, but whoever it was doesn't do a great deal to stop it. 

I'm in a kind of shock. I look to the linesman. Nothing. I look to the ref. He seems to have given it. One of their players is screaming in the faces of our lads. Classy twat. The rest of them celebrate in front of their fans. The keeper trots back to his goal and gives a bit back to the Kop. 

I feel actually sick. 

What presaged this moment of abject horror was a period of play where we looked increasingly rattled by Lincoln when we should have been cruising to victory. Something went wrong. Everything went wrong. 

Tyrer stopped being able to kick. We stopped being able to pass full stop. Jimmy hooked it out play and spun round in anger at himself. Sonny passed it inexplicably to the East Stand and his shoulders fell. At one point, Embleton's attempts to get back in position seemed so laboured, I thought he would unfold a little stool and have a sit down to catch his breath. We couldn't hold the ball. We couldn't pass it to each other. We couldn't even clear it. We looked as if we had ten men and Lincoln 12. I have no idea where that came from, whether it was nerves are having been held for so long, whether it was, for some players at least, fatigue from 4 intense games in 10 days or whether Lincoln just found some kind of next level energy for 15 minutes or a bit of everything. If anything it was like we tried too hard most of the time but not quite hard enough in a few moments in between. We just went to bits. 

The first half was us dominant at first, then struggling to break Lincoln down, then putting pressure on again. We'd done everything but score. Morgan, set up by a smart set piece from Evans absolutely rattled one that did everything but go in after the keeper blocked it. Coulson had a great run and set up Joseph who produced a divine spinning finish that the keeper performed a near miracle to get to. Evans put one just wide and, after CJ performed an equal near miracle to keep the ball in play we had a mad goal mouth scramble where Gabriel came closest to brute forcing the ball home and the players all ran away beseeching the ref for a handball. 

Lincoln did not a lot aside from defend resolutely and foul, their highlights were a cross scuffed wide and Connor McGrandles not being sent off when really, there was a strong case for a second yellow. We pinged it wide, we slipped it through, Robbie Apter found crosses from the most oblique of angles - we played pretty well, but we didn't score. 

The second half was weird. We seemed to adopt a cat and mouse style, passing it along the back, daring Lincoln to press and then, when they came, whipping it long or trying to play through them. It was a curious mix of Critchball and Stevie Bruce's 90's football extravaganza. Lincoln posed no real threat, but we were also struggling to break them down - the one real chance coming after CJ was sent up the left and produced a peach of a cross (yes, he did) only for Fletcher to produce the kind of header that a year 8 kid who isn't very good would produce, the ball seeming to balloon off the top of his head in a manner redolent of someone who'd closed their eyes, jumped and hoped for the best. 

Then, Kyle Joseph, not for the first time this half is caught. He's been running deep in horizontal lines, providing an angle for our more artistic attempts to get out and it is very useful, very intelligent and Lincoln has no answer but to kick him up in the air. The no 5 did it once too many times and he was gone.

The ground erupts. The ground has been great tonight. The less there are, the louder it is sometimes. The drum is a permanent back beat. Duh duh duuuuu d-d-d-d duuuuuu (drum pounds) duh duh duuuuuu (etc) I've bounced involuntarily on the balls of my feet for 20 minutes. C'mon the Pool... 

Almost instantly, the cry is heeded. Fletcher, right hand side, great control and a run, he takes it to the byline it seems, he's run it too far has he? He hasn't because he's pulled it back and Kyle Joseph has slid in and sent the place wild! Yes! Great play. Never doubted the big man. Honest. 

NOTHING CAN GO WRONG NOW

I'm dreaming of the league table. I'm dreaming of the second goal. I'm dreaming of us knocking it about as Lincoln get more and more ragged and we maybe take off Joseph and perhaps Rhodes scores an impudent little finish or two and maybe they go down to 9 or even 8 as their temper gets the better of them... We'll teach that keeper to fake injury. He'll have a bad back from picking the ball out of the net so many times... 

This, as you already know is not quite how things turn out. 

At the moment of death, we have a corner. Evans, as he seem to do with an unerring regularity spins it right into the box and finds a man. Unfortunately, it's the big lad from year 8 again who can run about but he's closed his eyes again and the ball just bounces off him to the keeper. 

The last rites are spoken. 

Fuck's sake Pool. 

---

Sometimes. I hate football. 

We've got a squad built for 5-3-2 polite possession football and it shows when we get stretched. There's 13 or 14 of them who are well suited to playing a totally different way and some who really aren't built for what we're doing now. Whether, in hindsight, we could shuffle the pack a bit more, set up a bit differently, make different changes, I don't know. 

I know this fucking stung, because we should have had it won. I can't help but have a grudging respect for Lincoln. They're not Wrexham or Birmingham - they're just a team of players with no particular great star value but fuck me, they scrapped to the death in a horrible and uncompromising way. 

That's no comfort - but it's the mentality that we've shown a lot more of late, but not in that final section tonight. There was something in the air tonight - and it dissipated so quickly, a reminder of how brilliantly (and terribly) fragile success and belief is. If you're Man City, you have a battalion of pure class waiting to come in - if you're us, you have a first team and some others and you get tired, you get knocks, you end up thinking 'if only player x (mainly Norburn tonight in that wild 15 minutes) was fit' and 'how we miss Dom Ballard' - Coulson going off wasn't a good thing. There's no bigger advocate of the footballing genius of Jimmy Husband (formerly topknotted god amongst men) but the hipster has been fantastic in the last few games and gives us an additional burst of pace and attacking threat. He's been Gabriel but on the other flank and we'll miss that if he's out and we missed him when he went off. 

Tonight was fucking painful, but if it wasn't for the pain, the joy wouldn't be so rich. I honestly have pissed myself of with that trite ending, but what else am I going to say? It's true. At some point it'll be us stealing a point in the dying seconds and it will feel glorious because tonight felt so shit. That's how it goes. I still don't feel any better despite writing that Pollyanna shit. 

Blackpool are Blackpool. 

Onward. 

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Up the football league we go! - the Mighty vs Burton Albion

The last time we convened for a league game, I had one key question in my head. 'Is Steve Bruce going to be any good?' 

Today, that question seems horribly outdated. It's like owning a Nokia brick phone after the smartphone had been invented. It's like gas lamps post Edison, it's like worshipping Gary Madine* It's all so last year**.  

*He's a goal machine  

**about 2 weeks ago

Today my thoughts are different. They go a bit like this: 

Proposition a) Burton are palpably not very good. They've been rubbish so far, even Critch beat them 4-0, and they seem to have been getting relegated for about 2 years and they couldn't even keep hold of Bez Lubala. 

Proposition b) We're palpably decent, we've just played 2 of the better sides in the division away, deservedly beaten both and, for good measure put one of the more 'Burton-y' level sides in the division to the sword before that. We look like a proper team, have multiple threats going forward and several players playing the football of their careers. 

Conventional logic would say: home win. 

Tangerine logic says: A+B = agonising, frustrating, calamitous and self inflicted home defeat that leaves you wondering what the point of anything is and why you even bother with this stupid club anyway. 

I'm actually a bit worried that I'm not as worried as I normally would be to be honest. Steve Bruce has got me believing despite my battle hardened seaside paranoia. I think we can overcome the inevitable and puncture the (Pirelli) tyres of the men in yellow and black.

Belief, hope, even a tiny little bit of expectation.

It's a dangerous thing... 

---

The start of the game is flat. The ground seems quiet. I'm kind of thinking 'this might be one of those games that we just never get going' when out of nowhere we get going. It only takes one attack, one crossfield pass, one run from the Rapter, one snarling tackle from Coulson and we're up and off and the drum is going, the noise is swirling and we're back in the heart of where we all want to be. 

Burton don't look as shit as I expected them to be though. They're a bit ragged with the ball at times, but they often move it nicely and move for it quite well. Things are more even than I hoped they would be. We press a bit but without Dom Ballard we've not got the same dynamism up front and we're not stealing the ball as we've done in the last few games. 

Burton even carve out a few chances, though Albie Morgan rasps a really nice effort wide for us. It's all quite level. Aren't we supposed to be hammering them? 

Lee Evans swings it in. Offiah darts towards the near post and... It's a goal! It's so simple. Since Critchley left we've been absolutely brilliant from set pieces. I don't know what it is, but we just seem to have more players in the box, more movement and more commitment to get to the ball first - it helps that Evans has the ability to put the ball where it needs to go time after time, but it's also about what happens when it gets there. 

I'm settled down by that. We all are. 

There are two absolutely sublime bits of play from the Rapter, one, where he's in the corner, hemmed in, absolutely no way out and he shows the ball, takes it back, looks to be looking for a pass and then squeezing, like an alley cat through a tiny crack between two wooden panels of a fence, he's through a gap that barely looked to be there, all along the touchline and pulling it across to be stabbed just wide. The second is actually better if that's possible because it involves the most exquisite use of the bounce and spin of a ball I think I've ever seen, just brushing it with his legs, using his feet to shape the direction of the bounce to what he needed it to be - it's like watching a master potter at work, sculpting beauty from the mundane, shaping a lump of clay into graceful lines with the merest of contact. I could watch him do stuff like that for the rest of my life and never get bored. I'm so, so, so glad he's as good, perhaps even better than I thought he might be, because it's been so long since we've seen someone come through like this. 

There are moments when the freshness of Apter seems to contrast with the age of Rhodes. One of them isn't always in the right place, but has the energy to get to where they need. The other is always in the right place but just can't seem to find the next gear to make it count. 

Jordan Gabriel has a wonderfully mental charge forward where he closes almost every Burton defender down chasing for the ball like a dog let off the leash on the beach. How did we not let this man play football for half the games he was fit for last season? The crowd rise as one. Evans keeps spinning it out wide, Offiah is imperiously sweeping up. CJ is even doing little give and goes and running round to receive clever passes. 

That doesn't tell the whole story though. We're not having it all our own way. Burton aren't giving in and they are a threat. Tyrer has to clear a few from the edge of the box, they slam one into the side netting and then, After Tyrer makes what I can't tell from my end if it's a really good stop or a bit of a fumble, they head a rebounded chance over when it looks like for all the world they're going to score. 

---
 
I've enjoyed us, but I think we've played better. It's not the Tuesday night dominance or the side that blew Charlton away for an hour so. It's ok. It's quite good - but I feel like we're only slightly on top as opposed to dominating. 

---

A recurring frustration for me over the last few seasons is that we've not rarely seemed to get better after half time. Today is absolutely not one of those days. We come out fizzing, running hard, playing it first time. We've got that lovely confident sense of patience to play when we want combined with an urgency to make things happen. 

There's no one more urgent than Apter - the ball is slid forward, he takes it. There's an expectant hum, he's got maybe 45 yards to go, he's going, like a champion wind surfer, riding the waves, skipping and jumping, dipping and turning but going through everything the sea throws up... he's outside, he's inside, the ball is not so much glued to him, but as if it's on elastic - he shows it, but then seems to draw it back to his feet, and he's on his way still, the man behind me can't help the words 'this is going to be a great goal' tumbling from his mouth and as Apter pulls back the hammer, the powder fires and it's not actually so much the expected musket shot because he's far to clever to give them what they expect, but more of an Amazonian blow dart finish, precise, poison tip arrow, right into the bottom corner that the keeper gets nowhere near... 

YESSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSS! 

So many times last season, it seemed so obvious that the energy and impetuosity of youth was lacking. The wee lad is leaping and punching the air. He's clenching his fists as he's mobbed in front of the Kop. I feel nothing but pure light and elation. All goals are great goals, but when the goals is a goal scored by a kid you've been watching progress for years and daring to hope that one day he'd do this and you'd have this very moment you are living now, than that is even better than a Gary Goal and truly, the greatest goal of all. 

Breathe out. We've got this. 

Hang on, Gabes, shit! An awful pass across his own box is snaffled by a Burton forward, he whistles a dipping effort and somehow Harry Tyrer arches his back, leaping, springing incredibly athletically from a position where he seemed to be caught on his heels and palms the ball over the top. It's a truly magnificent stop. 

Rhodes' light might be dimming a little from his brilliant best, but there's nothing at all shabby about the ball he turns round the corner for CJ. GO ON CEEJ! He's doing what he does best, just punting it ahead and charging forward, into the box, through on goal and the keeper is making a good low stop. 

They fling a ball, in, for once neither Offiah or Casey get to it and one of the blue shirted/green shorted (what a weird colour combination) men stoops and again, Tyrer pulls off a brilliant save, this time kind of collapsing and then flinging himself out as he falls to make a low save that big keeper should struggle with, but he really doesn't. It's arguably better than the first one as he has so little time to react. 

Rhodes and Morgan have gone off, Albie getting serenaded to the touchline after another good game. The ball breaks for us, Carey spots a space and races forward into it, he looks to go inside, but plays a nice disguised ball to Fletcher outside of him instead, Fletcher takes it well, looks up, sees Evans, slides it across. Evans looks to have lost the shooting chance as he seems to take forever to take the ball from one foot to another, but just as I'm thinking he's fumbled his lines, he delivers, with pitch perfect elocution as he fairly leathers it into the top corner to send us into raptures. 

That's the game. 

Burton, to be fair to them, don't give up. They're a much better side and have given a much better display than either the scoreline or their league position would suggest. They certainly seem a better team than the one who beat us over Christmas last year. Such is football though. Win when you look crap, lose when you look good. Their subs definitely improve them - the 17 year old Ronelle Donovan in particular. He has a bit of the vibe of Nya Kirby in hair, physique and playing style - a player who really impressed us at a similar age - but who has now fallen out of the league altogether (he's currently in the Isthmian League South East division) - a fact that makes Rob Apter's emphatic arrival on the stage all the more pleasing, because the promise of youth is never a guarantee of later success. 

I can't remember much of the rest of the game except for the strange and genuinely soul affirming feeling of applauding CJ for running back and getting stuck in in a way he's almost never seemed to do. Whatever Bruce has said to him, it's worked. He's still CJ in essence, but he's making the most of what he has and it's as if he's twice the player he was a few weeks ago. 

--- 

Today was a bit odd - we played really well at points but we didn't convince as much as we have done - and yet, this was our most convincing win of the season. There was something really quite satisfying about the fact we were clinical and also that Tyrer was really very convincing as a good keeper is a prerequisite of a really good team. 

The one worry for me is the lack of Ballard. Evans and Morgan were good. Evans and Carey was fine. As long as we've got Evans and... we'll have a chance. Rhodes and Joseph just wasn't quite there. I'm not sure if Joseph was feeling the burn of running two games in one match twice in a week already or if the way he shares pressing with Ballard and they swap over running the ball down just isn't going to happen with Rhodes. 

That's a minor question in the grand scheme of things and we all know that if he gets a chance, Jordan Rhodes will bury it, so it's far from a nightmare situation. 

In fact, stop twatting on about worries - we're fucking 4th! How did that happen? When and how did we suddenly become actually, really, genuinely, not even joking about it, pretty fucking decent? 

I don't understand what is going on. It feels like something is happening. I absolutely didn't expect it. I  love it though. 

3rd vs 4th on Tuesday under the lights. 

What more could you actually want in life? 

Onward! 

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One morning of Kevin De Bruyne - Bamber Bridge vs the future

Bamber Bridge is one of those places that weirdly seems to have its own identity despite, to all intents and purposes being part of a bigger place. It has the misfortune of being stuck to Preston and yet somehow it seems a little bit more distinct from Preston than other places that are also stuck to it. Penwortham. Not sure what that is. Broughton. That's a roundabout I think. Walton-le-Dale - is there anything other than car showrooms and closed pubs there? Bamber Bridge - that's a football club tucked in by the railway. That's a place. 

The football club is half decent in the grand scheme of things. It's at that level whereby it might reasonably hope to get somewhere in the FA Cup (somewhere being a 3 minute highlight on national telly of them playing someone like Exeter or or Stevenage.) It has a history - some players have played for them that you've heard of (not least, super Robbie Apter ) It has a half decent ground, a proper stand, a bit of terracing, you can buy a pie, have a pint. If you go to Irongate on a match day, there are enough people for it to feel like 'a thing' and the prospect of seeing players good enough to justify the fact you are paying to watch them. You'll see a few ex pros, you'll see a few never been pros and a few young pros and the football will be hard fought and physical. At the level they're at, there's not enough at stake (i.e. it's not a matter of global capital's childish pride in their latest toy) for it to be tainted by painful and joyless over-seriousness that blights the top levels but more than enough at stake to make it real. 

It's one of those many clubs where you'll go, spend an afternoon - the football might be great, shit or somewhere in between but you'll not feel ripped off because that's not what football is about at that level. 

The strength of English football comes from the fact it has literally hundreds, if not thousands of clubs like Bamber Bridge - operations serious enough to resemble (if you squint a bit) the 'bigger' teams above them but open enough to be a place for the local community to gather, watch and even play football. It's this vast network of teams that provide the foundations for all the hoopla and spectacle above. Without the foundations, a house crumbles.

English football is good, not just because there is money, but because as a player you are constantly walking a tightrope, knowing at any time there are an infinite number of sharks circling below, the multi thousands of players from the next rung down, hungrily waiting for that sniff of a chance. Clubs like Bamber Bridge are what makes that, they are what contributes to the incredibly competitive meritocracy that is football in England. Whether it's a super league, the MSL, the Saudi League or whatever - these pretenders will never match the culture, the depth, the sheer weight of numbers that makes English football what it is. The original professional league with an astonishing and never ending number of teams, a straight line from Manchester City right down to village level football with (at least a theoretical) path from one place to another. 

The Premier League might be a triumph of spin and marketing, but essentially, it's just a re-brand of Division One. It is, metaphorically speaking, the penthouse suite or observation deck atop one of the world's tallest buildings and whilst the lower floors might not have the global appeal, they still matter. Just because no one pays to ride the elevator to floor 6 of the Empire State Building doesn't mean floor 6 isn't an integral part of the structure. If you take floor 6 away, the building is that bit smaller, that bit less grand, that bit less appealing. The point is, the observation deck is what everyone goes to, but it is only where it is because of everything it sits on top of. 

Bamber Bridge need cash to survive. They don't need a lot of cash. (£30,000) 

Here are some facts about the cash they need in comparison to other things in football

1: Paying Kevin De Bruyne for a morning and about 20 minutes after lunch. (based on his reported earnings of 400k per week) 

2: 10 of Fulham's most expensive season tickets

3: 0.0002% of the cost of Enzo Fernandez's transfer fee 

4: 0.000004% of the cost of a 27.7% stake in Manchester United

5. 6 hospitality tickets for one game (Chelsea vs Manchester United) 

6. 0.01% of the 'merit payment' received by the worst team in the Premier League last season. 

7. 0.000004% of the latest Premier League TV deal 

8. 0.0004% of the somewhat questionable sponsorship deal that Manchester City's owners appear to pay themselves to cook the books. 

9. 125 Tottenham shirts (pro edition) from the Tottenham club shop. 

10. Half a game of the Sky punditry team (based on reported earnings of around 1 million each for the 'a-team' pundits and them doing about 50 games per season) 

I don't know about you - I'd rather my next bit of spare cash went towards keeping a club like Bamber Bridge alive than contributing further to the culture of 'tunnel clubs,' 'CR7' and stadiums with swimming pools for rich tourists to Instagram themselves in. I'm fortunate to have *some* disposable income and to be able to pay my heating bill. I don't have anything like the levels of spare cash that football in general has but there we go - if I'd wanted to be a billionaire, I should have worked hard and inherited an oil state.

If football wants to continue to pump it's filthy money round the top levels, I can do fuck all about it, but I can give a few quid to Bamber Bridge if I want because I think that kind of side, that exists largely because people love football and doesn't have the option (or, I would guess, desire) to 'monetise itself in order to maximise consumer interface with the brand and turn social media interest into consumption' or to 'seek to renew the customer base and phase out legacy profiles in favour of newer and more upwardly mobile cash rich leisure spend' should actually be able to carry on existing. 

Bamber Bridge fundraising page

It's a choice (if you are able to make it.) Up to you.

As you were. 

Onward. 

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Forgotten already - the Mighty vs Sheffield Wednesday

Before the game, I have a feeling that Steve 'giant football brain' Bruce would use his giant football brain to work out that the League Cup isn't very important. If Richard Keogh was still the manager, you'd suspect that he'd be bouncing up and down on the spot talking to himself in the third person trying to work out how we can not only beat Sheffield Wednesday (all out chaotic attack) but actually win the bloody thing (all out chaotic attack again) 

Steve 'football, eh, jumpers for goalposts etc, wonderful. how lucky am I?' Bruce is a bit older and wiser than that. I had a feeling he might bung out the sort of side he did (a half baked selection of random players in need of a game) and treat it as an opportunity for the preseason he was denied by the fact he had his feat up reading a catalogue of cruise holidays and wondering where he'd put his reading glasses, before remembering they were on a string round his neck. At the point we were 5-3-2ing our way to Spain and Crewe, he was probably considering whether or not to try the new carvery place down the road next week or not as the biggest decision of the next few weeks. 

Like Nostradamus (though, as far as I'm aware, yer man never had a go at predicting the starting line ups of League 1 sides in the early rounds of lesser cup competitions) I was right. 

Still. It was a nice evening. Lovely light. It's better than sitting inside and thinking about tomorrow. That's what football is. 

--- 

From the off, we huff and we puff (words Steve 'did I tell you Fergie rang?' Bruce himself would use post match) but we don't really get close to blowing anyone's house down. Neil 'unemployed' Critchley wouldn't have been able to cite 'good areas' unless 'mostly twatting it forward hopefully from somewhere around full back' constituted a 'good area' which I don't think it did in Critchley's head.  

I can't actually remember anything we did from the first half other than Rhodes catching the defender in possession and trying a weird effort when it was clearly (obviously, I know more about being a footballer than him) the right option to try and put Beesley in. 

I don't think we had a shot at any point. Hey ho. 

Sheffield Wednesday are reasonably proficient. They're not noticeably 'good' - just a bit bigger and a bit quicker than us. They have a spell where they score two shady goals that are chalked off (offside and a really mad handball when it looked like it might go in anyway) and then score a real goal (that was a bit like the shady goals but just not shady) and then basically keep us at bay for the rest of it without any real effort over and above the generally quite acceptable running about in an organised way that they do. 

--- 

We lack pace upfront. We lack pace wide. We lack pace and presence in midfield and essentially, I don't think we've got a hope in hell unless we address the above. We haven't really got any presence on the bench, but we do have some pace. 

--- 

The second half is the same. Nothing happens. Wednesday look boringly competent again and indulge in some falling over antics that don't seem really in keeping with the lack of tension in the game. We look as toothless as the victim of a sadistic dentist who fucking loves removing teeth. 

The main highlight is some immensely loud whistling, most obviously from a fella in the crowd but also from someone on the bench. I've never mastered that 'putting yer fingers in yer mouth to increase the volume by a factor of 10' thing and have nothing but admiration for anyone who has. 

I'm musing on the way the North is considerably steeper than the south and the spruce appearance of the flags behind when... 

THOMMO HAS A SHOT! AN ACTUAL REAL LIFE SHOT! 

It's straight at the keeper but still... 

Thommo goes off. We put some faster players on to replace some of the slower players as well. 

We are better with the faster player but we still can't really create anything. It's one them Chizz. Everything we do breaks down. CJ actually does a great job of pressuring their full back and nabs it a few times. We get the ball to the Rapter who does some running and some tricky things but the final ball or shot isn't there. We steal the ball in midfield really well and then hit a shit pass. We chase them down and put some pressure on but the cross is over everyone's heads. 

Sonny hits a really nice first time pass. Gabriel does a tremendous tackle and run forward. Kyle Joseph goes hunting and wins the ball and then dribbles round 3. None of it does any good. It's just one of those nights where we don't make more than three passes in a row without something going wrong. Finnegan does a sensational little shimmy. Finnigan also looks like he's never seen a football before. 

Gary Goalie makes a good save towards the end. No one's that arsed when the final whistle goes. Everyone it seems, is a pragmatist now. 

It happened - but as we're filing out, it's almost like it's being forgotten already. Maybe after 5 thrillers in a row, this was something we needed to remind us that not every game is an end to end chaotic classic. 

--- 

I'm not sure we learned anything other than 'if you take away all the quick players and all the strong players and play all the slower players and all the flimsy players at once in a system which fundamentally requires strength and pace to function, it's probably not going to work' 

Morgan did pretty well for a comeback game and lasted a decent time. Casey had a really good night and I think deserved the man of the match. Rhodes worries me because I think Bruce likes him but I just don't see how he's going to be able to create the kind of pressing menace that Ballard and Joseph do and if either of those are injured I'm not sure where the energy comes from. 

Last night looked like a bunch of fringe players playing an unfamiliar system. I don't particularly object to us not prioritising the League Cup. Swindon won it, and when I think about it, Luton won it and Birmingham too and probably some other ridiculous teams. I'm not fussed about winning anything that any of them won unless it's the Anglo Italian cup which counts because we've won it. 

The bigger questions are for the weekend and the biggest question is - how do we function without either Evans or Norburn. I've no issue at all with either Carey or Morgan  (in fact, I think they both have their distinct qualities) but it's not a pair that I'd imagine at the heart of a rugged and aggressive 442 approach. Either one would work with one of the missing players alongside them but those two (or indeed Finnigan) as the foundation of how we played last Saturday doesn't seem a realistic prospect. 

Maybe Steve Bruce and his giant football brain has the answer. Setbacks on the road to glory are inevitable but it does seem particularly 'Blackpool' to both discover that we've got a brilliant midfield and then to lose it on the same day.  The last fella had no plan B.

Maybe this fella has? 

Onward 

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Things might just work out... - The Mighty vs Exeter City

Before some time last week I hadn't given Steve Bruce any thought in a long time. I hadn't given him all that much thought ever really.

Steve Bruce.

The name didn't really conjure any particular emotion. Sure, I knew a lot about him - I remember him as a player, an effective defender who looked like a lumpy Guy Fawkes dummy made out of two great big slightly squashed cardboard boxes with a sack full of spuds for a head. He was pretty good but weirdly never played for England. I remember him as a manager, mainly because when I watched a highlights show, I'd quite often be surprised to find out 'oh, Bruce is there now is he?' I connected him with a kind of sometimes effective pragmatism - a kind of slightly more forward thinking version of the 'proper-football man' archetype. 

He's the sort of man who pops up in stories from those podcasts where ex footballers laugh a lot in a slightly too loud way (a forced laughter that suggests they're possibly covering up their inner emptiness and existential dread.) You know the ones. "So the boss said, don't go on a scooter (oh aye, classic) whatever you do, and so Giggsy (manic laughter) went down the fire escape (manic laughter) and there's Pally (oh, aye Pally) and Dennis (oh aye, Dennis) and Brucey (oh, aye, Brucey) already there with a fucking VESPA (30 seconds manic laughter)" 

Up until his last few jobs, he's the kind of fella one of the 'proper football men' on TalkSport would say 'you know, I just don't think Steve Bruce gets enough credit for what he's done at (insert name of about 15 clubs)' and a really boring 20 minute conversation would ensue where names like Allardyce and Pulis would be invoked as other examples of under appreciated 'proper' types. It's not that I haven't got some sympathy for that point of view, it's just that I've heard it endlessly on repeat since about 1999 and there's nothing new to say. 

Put it this way. I'd never really felt anything about Steve Bruce until *Steve Bruce day* happened. 

I've thought about very little else since. At first, I was furious. Then I was angry. Then I was furious again. 

Then I started listening to him and I felt a bit different. 

Steve Bruce at Fairhaven lake having an ice cream and blurting out excitedly 'y'know what Aggers, lets hire one of those boats. Aggers, I know I'm 63. Exactly. That's exactly why. You only live once.' 

Steve Bruce on a miniature railway looking absolutely massive and having to duck to avoid signals and tunnels. Steve Bruce at the model village saying "y'know what Aggers, I feel like a bloody giant here, like godzilla, I could pick up that building there and imagine all the little fellas and lasses going 'nooooo!, don't eat us!'. I could use that little windmill as a hand fan couldn't I?'" Steve Bruce having a cuppa at the training ground and leaving the tea bag in. Steve Bruce at a B+B finding the flowery valance around the bed 'quite pleasing' because it reminds him of a caravan holiday he had with the missus 40 years ago where a similar valance was present. Steve Bruce smiling benevolently as a seagull makes off with a sandwich crust he's left on a plate outside of a little cafe in the park. 

Steve Bruce is happy. He's back. He's where he's been for most of his life. Football, footballers, football pitches, football grounds and football crowds. 

Steve Bruce narrowing his eyes as he looks at Sonny Carey and thinks 'I reckon I can make something of this lad if....' Steve Bruce scribbling 'late runs, Sonny' and adding an arrow to his notepad. Steve Bruce looking at Keysie and thinking 'he's got all the energy you need around these boys' Steve Bruce chuckling to himself in pleasure as he watches CJ go from 0-80 in 2 seconds and then run past the ball. He's thinking 'inverted wing back my hat.' Steve Bruce purring like a cat as he watches the videos of us going forward and then, his already crinkly face wincing like a scrunched up old fashioned wax paper bag of crisps as he sees us go the other way. 

Steve Bruce in front of a camera. He's no winsome old fella. This is no deckchair job. He's biting the reporter's words off and making mincemeat of the questions. Why is he here? He loves football. Obviously. Fuck off. Next one. Are we going to att... Obviously, he's not managing fucking Newcastle with a 50 p budget from skinflint Mike here is he? We're going to win the league. Are you looking forward to Sat... "If I wasn't I should be shot in the head and my corpse paraded for people to piss on because SATURDAY'S THE DAY WE PLAY THE GAME*." 

*Slight paraphrasing 

He's good at this stuff. He convinces. It's not flimflam. It's not placeholder answers. It's not rabbit in the headlights umm-ing and ah-ing, 'Exeter are a good team-ing,' listen, like you said-ing. It's the voice of experience. It's the voice of a man who has been around the block and wears a broken nose like a badge of honour to show it. There is an authority to it all. Despite everything I initially felt, I like it. 

To be completely frank - I hated the idea at first. He's won me over with his sheer enthusiasm. Now it's time for the deeds to match the rhetoric. Just please... No one mention Big Mick.

Into them you Tangerine Bastards! 

C'mon you Poooooooooool. 

---- 

What are we going to get though? I'd be lying if I didn't think of 'Steve Bruce football' as a bit lumpen, a bit cold salty porridge, a bit, well, boring. He's picked wingers, we have a solid midfield, a back four. It could be exciting stuff, it could be... stodgy.

I just don't know. 

We're quickly into our stride. Almost immediately, it feels like we've taken the best of Keogh's beguiling but brittle chaosball approach and aligned it with a bit of conventional thinking. Exeter can't get out of their own half. We're like dogs, but not nice dogs, nasty dogs, guard dogs and Ollie Norburn is the savage alsatian, snapping at his lead and snarling fiercely at anything that comes near him. 

What has Steve Bruce done to Jimmy? Has he hypnotised him into realising his own genius again? He's flipping it up the line for Joseph to run on to, he's sliding it inch perfectly for CJ to glide on with, he's putting it on a sixpence for Ballard to chase round and reach. 

The front two are dynamic and link well. The tactics are interesting. CJ stays wide generally, but the Rapter tucks in and makes a three up front at points. The overwhelming impression I have is that we know what we're doing. 

We're all over them. We just need to make this count. The Rapter is outside and inside, he's forcing errors. Joseph is a mini tornado forcing more - but we can't quite turn the quality and pressure in a definitive chance. 

I swear the following is true. I say 'I bet Steve Bruce likes a long throw' to my neighbour. 90 seconds later, Jordan Gabriel winds up into the longest throw we've seen in a long time and the ball bounces through to CJ who shins it/hits a lovely controlled volley into the ground and it's in the back of the net via a kind deflection. 

We're off. Steve Bruce has a Tangerine Army now. He might be an experienced general, but this is the best, most fucking beautiful battalion he's ever led. Ole! CJ! 

Talking of CJ, let me explain about Offiah. He looks very composed. He clatters into a tackle early on but he barely misses a beat otherwise. His pace and strength are just what we need. He makes us a lot less vulnerable on the break. Now, let me explain why I'm talking about Offiah to explain CJ. Exeter have a little moment and someone races across and smashes into their lad, and comes away with the ball. I assume it's Offiah for a moment - but it isn't. It's CJ. Ole! 

We should score more. We have the pressure (lots) and the chances (some) - the best of them comes from a move that is pure 1990s football, Joseph leaps, his flick is perfect, Ballard collect, steadies himself and draws a really good stop from the Exeter keeper. I almost have a little tear in my eye as I remember how simple and fun football can be and a time before heat maps, data bras, cunts with blogs, football banter shows and all that shite. When it was just a thing. Imagine the ground as it was, a fug of sweet fag smoke hanging over the paddock and the bitter stable smell of piss from the open toilets with big Dave leaping onto a long ball and Andy Watson snaffling it and smashing a shot in. Oh, the past.  

Ballard brings another great stop, Joseph slashes one wide. The Rapter cuts in and hammers a twenty yarder that their keeper has to gallop and sprawl to get to. 

I might be getting carried away, but we look... pretty fucking good to be honest. 

---

That was everything I didn't dare hope for. Everyone is pulling their weight, looking confident and we've not had a more dominant performance in ages. Exeter managed very little, one chance they messed up horribly and not a lot else. We've been comfortably the better side. We look about a division better than them and a lot tighter at the back than we have been. 

--- 

The second half isn't plain sailing. As you'd expect after a very weak second half, Exeter come out and try and assert themselves a bit more. We ride that little flurry and seem to be playing ourselves back in the game when Jerry Yates Dom Ballard is flattened running into the box and the ref (more on him later) turns down what looks a decent shout and then Ballard has to hobble off. 

Rhodes is a consummate finisher, but he doesn't stretch a defence like Ballard and we really don't look as threatening from that point onwards. We still play some nice football though. Evans is pulling strings, Norburn is having what I think is the best game I've ever seen him have. He's remarkable. Joseph continues to hare around. 

My favourite move is a bit of slick passing started by (I think) a clever Norburn pass from a tight spot and then quickly worked forward. Jimmy is in full blown Roberto Carlos mode as he charges forward and yes, really, this happens, vaults a sliding challenge with a neat push on and then a graceful leap, then lays it to CJ who runs over the ball and it almost falls apart... Except it doesn't because the all new CJ fights for the ball and we win it back and go again. 

We're doing ok. I'm not worried per se, but I'm missing the attacking. Exeter have definitely brought their own ref which isn't helping things. He seems blind to their shirt pulling and general shithousery. They have a defender who looks like he would be more at home in a truckstop canteen than in a professional football match and he plays like he's a Sunday League bully. The other centre half is constantly niggling, grabbing and pushing, but the ref only seems to want to book us for not a lot at all. The nadir of his performance comes when we have a great chance to break, are taking it and one of their lads outright throws his hand up and diverts what looks like it could be a perfect out ball to (I think CJ) who would have been away, potentially one on one. He doesn't get so much as a talking too whereas Joseph gets booked for being near the ball and looking at it with intent a moment or two later. 

Exeter are pressing further. I am now getting a little bit worried. Jimmy makes a simply brilliant sliding tackle, the spray from sprinkler damp turf creating a moment of sheer aesthetic pleasure for those of us who appreciate such things. Gabriel makes an equally good one on the other side, a kind of spear tackle that misses the man and takes the ball. Tyrer makes a very good low stop from a well hit low effort. It was notable, not so much for the athleticism but for his anticipation, his reading of what they were going to do. He's done ok so far, though I think he needs one side of his boots sanding down a bit as he keeps putting it out of play when he goes to his left with long kicks. 

Exeter are causing a little bit more trouble still. It's not anything too awful though. We clear. Rhodes has it. Rhodes doesn't have it. Fuck me Jordan, that was simply fucking awful. He's chasing back now, looking like a milkman who's sleepily left the handbrake off his milk float on a steep hill, a strangely waddling, panicky run, nipping at the heels of the player who robbed him helplessly. The cross, they don't make anything of it. The ref draws it back for Rhodes' rather weak attempted fouls. A free kick, a tight angle. Here we go... 

Ping. It's smashed home. It seems to defy physics. It was more of an archery shot than a free kick. I don't know how that went right through us. Tyrer looks stunned. I am stunned. I was enjoying this. Typical fucking Blackpool. Every time. Piss it away with something shit and pathetic. Fuck's sake Pool! Fuck's sake. This is going to be another fucking bollocks chapter in the Blackpool book of fucking clown car calamity isn't it? Play well for a bit and then fuck it up. I can see it now, we're going to play increasingly grey gruel-like football and be boring as fuck as more colour drains from us every week. I hate everything. Especially football. 

The crowd though. The beauty of being a fan at the game (and not a cunt on a sofa doing a watchalong video with their own weird fake Sky Sports studio backdrop, shouting their performative child having a tantrum pseudo feelings directly in the faces of anyone stupid enough to watch them) is that there's other people there. You don't actually have to say all that stuff because feeling it is enough and sometimes, the other people around you will pick you up, the roar of defiance will shake you out of your self pity and restore your belief in the possible. 

We're snapped back into life immediately. We've played too well to not win this. We've played too well over this last few games to not have a win to our name. We're absolutely at them and the crowd is right behind us. How Joseph is still sprinting around defies belief. I'm not definitely expecting us to get a goal, but as the minutes go by, I'm starting to hope.

A cross, a bundled effort, it's in! It's not. How? Was it hand ball? I can't tell. 'THAT WAS IN!' shouts my neighbour. I don't know. A corner... oooooh, Rhodes got to it. Another corner ooooh! - Exeter have headed it out from under the bar and over the top.

Time is ticking, we're waiting. One more chance. A ball in. A packed box, a melee and YESSSSSS!!! The net is bulging... someone got the touch and the ball bulleted home - Jimmy is haring away like he's that Marco Tardelli lad so I guess it's him... YESSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSS! YES YESSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSS! 

"The scorer of Blackpool's second goal, coming on 94 minutes, is the Seasider's no 3 Jimmy Husband!" 

All goals are great goals but last minute Jimmy goals are the greatest goals of all. 

---

All I can say is. It felt right. We played quite well. Steve Bruce's Tangerine Army defied the rules of syllables and rolled off the tongue and sounded great even though it logically shouldn't. I've already said the first half was just about spot on - the second half had a lot of room for improvement, but we left nothing out there. We were sharp, committed and given we'd only had 5 days with a new manager, we looked pretty organised. We moved it quickly. We showed some nous and creativity as well. Exeter were nothing special, but they're not the worst side in this league and we really should have made it a bit more comfortable for ourselves. 

The back 4 worked well. Jimmy is an excellent left back for this level. Gabriel is an outstanding full back to have in league 1. Casey looked calm, Offiah was really dynamic. The central midfield pair of Norburn and Evans is a very, very strong pairing if they can stay fit. They looked really classy. Apter gave of his all and made things happen. CJ also gave his all and looked to enjoy himself. He still looks lost, a winger without a trick at times, but he also looked to the manor born racing away as we broke swiftly. Ballard is a key player. Without him we're a lesser team. Joseph is rapidly becoming a massive asset. He's selfless and selfish at the same time. He creates, he holds, he runs, he flicks. He never stops. He was sensational today. 

I don't know if beating Exeter with a last minute goal is enough to get carried away with - but I do know that we looked both motivated and organised. Keogh has to take a deal of credit for kickstarting something. Bruce looks to have begun to shape what Keogh unearthed into something forward looking with a bit more of a foundation than the all out mania of what went immediately before. 

I didn't think I'd like it. I did. The best thing about Blackpool is you almost never get what you expect.

Sometimes that's a brilliant thing. Today, it was. 

Onward!

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Madness (continued) - the Mighty vs Wycombe Wanderers

These blogs have fallen into a certain format over the years. The advent of chaosball has made me wonder if I should make like the big doe eyed grizzly fella in the dugout and rip it up and start again. Usually, I bang on for a bit about what I was thinking before the game, then I describe stuff in linear order then I sum it up at the end with how I felt afterwards. 

That all seems a bit '5-3-2'.

It's what I did 2 weeks ago and that doesn't have to be what I do now. 

I could start at the end if I wanted because what you were isn't who you have to be. (If that's not a song lyric then it should be) - Were I to do that I'd say...

---

... I fucking love Richard Keogh and that it was 90 minutes of exquisite torture today, where I felt throughout that we could score almost any time we got the ball and concede almost any time we lost it. That is precisely what I want from football. It couldn't be any closer to the way I see it if it were a pair of glasses perched on the end of my nose. 

Football is, first and foremost a game. A game is not reality. Reality is shitty stuff like databases and the pricing structure of train fares, small print, getting up in the morning in the dark only to find the milk has gone off and you can't even make a brew to help you face the anxiety of the day that weighs on you like the lead shield of a Chernobyl liquidator. I could go on with how shit life can be but that's not why you are here, that's not what you're reading this for - You're reading it because football and because football isn't that real world and that's why I'm writing it and not writing something else because football and because football is not that world for 90 glorious and agonising minutes. 

I could then completely sack off the linear structure and just chuck in some random events in any order I wanted because, like the players in our team, I'm free. To do what I want. Any old time. 

---

Half time. Fuck me, how are we not 3 or 4 goals up?

---

Some point in the first half - I bellow 'fuck off to your sunbed you fake tan twat' at the ref. My child is not impressed. The me that is looking at the me from outside himself is not impressed with me either but the fact is, the ref has a fake tan and is a twat so really, I (the me in the football ground) am absolutely within my rights to bellow such a thing because this football and football is not the rest of the world where I'd never actually shout that at anyone, fake tan or not. 

Numerous points in the first half - Go on Robbie... the little man's best moment is probably the raking pass he picks out of a tight space that puts us through early on. It's a divine bit of football that shows us that he's got more than just the running at people, though he does plenty of that. 

I'm falling into a trap here. I'm sticking to the first half. Let me show you how free of convention I am. 

---

Before the game I'm driving and I'm probably going too fast because I want to be there. I want to get there. I want to see what we can do. I want more of what we've had and I want us to tear into them and score 6 or 7 because we could do it. I actually believe that. I also, simultaneously belief we could lose 2-0 and not have a shot because lads, lads, lads, this is Blackpool and you never fucking know. Maybe that was Critchley's big mistake. He tried to make us reliable, professional and worthy. Maybe this Keogh shit is just a mirage. Perhaps we'll offer nothing and fall to bits under the weight of a little bit of expectation?

Then I see the team. Even the defence is attacking. We're not going to die wondering. I love it. I practically sprint up Bloomfield Road. 

--- 

Second half - Fuck me, they've scored again. Gary Goalie has thrown himself full length and he was saving it. I saw him saving it but he didn't save it, the ball brushed off the side of his glove and into the net and the tinny cheer from the away fans grates like chalk dragged down the blackboard of my soul - shitty stupid rugby kit wearing fucking where the fuck even is Wycombe and have they ever even had a good player and no, Steve fucking Guppy doesn't count as good cos he's hardly fucking Stanley Matthews, he's not even fucking Trevor Sinclair for fucks sake and nor does that fucking novelty fat bloke striker they had fucking fuck off there's a fucking non-league crowd  dancing about with 30 seats each in the east stand to jump on and it's not fair. It's not fucking fair. I'm a kid again with no control over my feelings and I'm gutted because why is always fucking like this and why can we not win things and why is football shit? I hate it.  

First half - Corner. Kyle JOSEPH!!!! YES! YESSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSS! Easy as you like. How we deserve that. We've been all over them. It's a miracle they've kept us at bay and even Jesus got fucked over in the end so even miracles can't keep us out forever. We've been pouring forward, we've missed chances, we've been aggressive and the crowd has stayed with us but we needed to make that pay and we did. I let out a huge sigh of relief. 

Second half. HOW. DID. HE. MISS. AGAIN. Around me everyone looks like I feel. Blinking, open mouthed, heads shaking in mute acknowledgement that what we've just seen defies logic. Ash Fletcher was free, all he had to do is guide a header into most of the goal with almost any contact at all but instead he's guided it, like a defender cushioning it with great care back to the keeper. First half he passed one back like it was 1987 and he was Alan Hanson nipping in to calmly between defenders to knock it back to Bruce Grobbelaar. I like what he does in the build up very much but fuck me Ash, put your foot though it or something because wow... 

---

Right now as I'm writing this - I've confused myself now with this attempt at chaosblogging. I don't know what is going on and what I've got to do next because without the familiar structure to guide me, it's difficult to remember what I've said and haven't said. I feel a bit like Zac Ashworth who, thrown into the chaos looks a bit tentative and at one point runs in 3 complete circles as if locked in a complete meltdown in terms of decision making. Maybe it's the freedom. So many choices maaaaan. It's like seeing all the realities at once in a hazy psychedelic fog of tangerine. 

---

First half - I beat the seat in front of me. There is no one in it so it makes a good vessel for my frustration. FUCK. All that good play and we let a shit goal in. A nothing goal. A defender pushed off the ball and a tap in goal. Fucks sake. Kyle Joseph turns to the North Stand, he raises his arms in exhortation. C'mon. C'mon. 'C'MON POOL! 

Second half - I don't like the subs. Rhodes has looked rustier than a bike dragged from the canal after a few years in the silt and Embleton has given off vibes of a man who has eaten mostly crisps in his recovery from injury. They both need games but I don't get it right now. There's Bees on the bench. There's Sonny fucking Carey. This game is made for them. It's loose, it's chaotic, it's energy and our energy is flagging. I don't want it calming down with experience, I want us to grab it and make it more manic. Recreate the storm of before. 

---

Before the game again- I have to think to myself 'If it was 3 o'clock, when would I leave, so if it's kick off at half twelve and I deduct that same amount of time, I would leave at....' and I don't like having to do lower tier GCSE paper questions to work out when to get to a match for no reason other that SKY are desperate to monopolise the entire sporting world and make sure everyone has to pay for watching anything that moves or has a ball in it or involves anyone throwing something or getting a bit sweaty and I think that, whilst smoking isn't big and clever (ok, it is) and banning it might save the NHS some money, perhaps the Government could, instead of being mealy mouthed fun sponges (nothing says 'fun' like a slow suicide, but hey, you look like a cowboy and that is fucking cool) they could perhaps think about addressing the general health situation whereby in the world's richest footballing nation, there aren't enough football pitches and you can't watch any football on the normal telly because that's also a fucking health risk if you think about it and just cos some telly cunts get rich off it and it helps make about 3 clubs slightly better in Europe doesn't make that ok. Fuming to be honest. I should go to the pub and start smoking just to calm down. 

---

Second half - Norburn is dicing with death here. He's been booked and he's still charging round like the grumpy foreman of a roadworks site raging at some tardy young lads and smashing up stuff they've done badly to make them do it again but this time properly. I hope he doesn't get sent off cos I like this Norburn much more than the Norburn of two weeks ago. They're doing my head in with their time wasting and they're falling over at nothing. Joseph breathes on one of them and he goes down. CJ makes a great tackle (he's looked committed today, he's won two (yes! two!) headers as well and the lad goes down as if CJ is Gary Brabin in a bad mood. Even CJ is riled up by it and gives the ref a mouthful shouting at his creosote face. I don't think I've ever seen that before. 

Still second half - A cross, it looks initially hopeful, a whip into the box that is designed to save the move from breaking down but then, Beesley rises and the net is billowing and he's running back and it's relief and delight again because not only do we deserve not to lose, it's really a travesty we aren't winning it. Evans' ball being met is a just reward for his superb midfield work and any time Bees scores, the world feels that bit better because Bees is Bees and that's all you need to say. I knew he should have come on before. Maybe I should manage us. I'd be awful. Couldn't hack it. Keeeeee-ogh. 

First half - Dom (not Dan) squeezes a shot onto the inside of the post. It's physically painful that it bounces out and into the keepers arms and not into the back of the net. I sink to the ground and look at the roof of the stand. 

Late in the second half. They've got a free kick. This is their chance. They miss. We go to the other end. We're fast, we move, centre, left, cut inside, cross, here's our chance... Joseph again.... save, it's spilled, Rhodes (I think) onto it from two yards out and somehow, somehow, somehow their keeper keeps it out.

The seat gets it again. 

I am on my knees. Literally. I look up at those around me. They look down. We share the moment like passengers on a ship or a plane passing through a storm. We don't need to speak to say everything.

Fucking hell 'Pool. 

That was torture.

More please. 

--- 

I'm not sure this approach was a good idea. I should probably sum it up again as I haven't a clue what I've actually written. 

We were excellent for quite a lot of the game. We tired though and had a spell where we weren't and again, we let mistakes and poor defending take what should have been a comfortable win from us. There's so much to build from though. Evans, looks terrific, Gabriel was excellent, we made a hat full of chances and the front three looks a proper force. We've got another keeper who, by most accounts is a very good one and we've got a fast defender in the wings and that can surely only help us because the defence is not going to get the same kind of cover it got previously and we will get done on the break so the ability to stay with attackers when you get turned around is a prerequisite that some of the players at the back don't possess and thus look exposed. 

Do I want to write this same blog every single week trying to make sense of how the fuck we didn't win? No. Things (blogs included) do work better with a bit of structure.

Could I get used to things being a bit looser and free-er? Fuck yes.  Do I want this business of us having shots and stuff and more than 3 things happening in a game to carry on?

Very much so. It feels so much more like us. 

Onward!

---

If you want to waste your money supporting a football blog that spouts unstructured shit and then who asks if you'd like to pay cash in return for quite literally absolutely nothing you wouldn't get for free anyway, you can do so here. 

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 You can follow MCLF on facebook or Twitter or use Follow.it to get posts sent to your email If you appreciate the blog and judge it worth 1p or more, then a donation to one of the causes below which help kids and families in Blackpool would be grand. 

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Comeback delight! - Blackburn Rovers vs the Mighty

We're in a squat little milltown full of squat little milltown houses. There are no mills any more, just industrial estates and the ubiquitous big Asda and Matalan type retail parks. 

Has anyone ever been to Blackburn on holiday? What is there in Blackburn? I can't think of any things of note. Even the standards of depressing East Lancashire post industrial blight towns, it seems a bit of a vacuum of things. Preston has a concrete bus station they can't be arsed to update and Burnley has some oddball sculpture on a hill. Bury has a market where you can buy rubber gloves and potatoes, Bolton has a museum with some random Egyptian shit in it and an aquarium even thought it's Bolton and not by the sea or in Egypt. They have, at least made some kind of mark on my memory. 

I don't ever remember going to Blackburn for any reason other than to buy a car. In fact, I don't think anyone has ever been to Blackburn for any sort of leisure activity ever. I've never heard anyone say 'Ooh, we had a lovely Saturday in Blackburn, you should go, make a day of it' - I've only ever heard people say things like 'I'm going to the part worn tyre place in Blackburn' or 'I've got a job lot of radiators from a house clearance in Blackburn and I need to pick them up by tuesday so I'm taking Kev's van. £100 cash, but I have to load them myself' 

To be honest, I can't think of anything even slightly 'fun' that defines Blackburn other than Blackburn Rovers. 

We don't seem to have any great enmity for Blackburn either. They're actually closer to us than Burnley but they're not such a big deal as they are. I don't really know why that is.Probably because Burnley were kind enough to be a bit shit at the same time were shit for ages so we played them more. Maybe. I do feel a certain sense of resentment at being charged £6.25 for a pint of lager like it's London or something. Surely they should be serving warm flat beer for 2 and 6, not hyper fizzy Italian stuff for a million quid. Everywhere is aspirational these days, even Blackburn. 

Anyway, enough of 'tRover's - this isn't Radio Lancashire is it?

Richard Keogh has ditched Critch's dodgy roulette wheel and basically picked the team on the basis of who felt right when he gave them a big man hug. The result is a bit weird, but promisingly so because it includes Rob Apter, Jordan Gabriel and what appears to be a back 4. It's a revolution within a revolution.  All hail the eyebrowed one. He is change and change never stands still. 

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Ewood is sparsely populated but the Pool end (to be strictly accurate... the Pool bit of one end that is mostly closed off) is pretty packed and in good voice. Songs are traded with the home fans whilst not a great deal happens on the pitch. Blackburn's fans give up fairly quickly and we sing alone for a while and then the game falls into a kind of League Cup lull. 

Rovers have one of those moves that reminds you they're considerably higher in the pyramid than we are where they seem to pass it forever and we can't get near them. It ends in a low shot that's comfortably wide but it makes them look good and us look a bit leaden footed. 

They press some more, we make mistakes. Pennington first and then Finnegan gift them opportunities which thankfully they don't take. Perhaps this isn't the dawn of a new era after all. Maybe we should get a proper manager. Rovers play a slide rule pass and Gueye (who looks every inch a world class footballer if such things could judged purely on physique) nabs in between two men and slams it into the side netting. 

We respond with a run from Rob Apter that ends in a tame effort that bobbles through to the keeper. It is very much 'all Blackburn' aside from that and when they split our defence open again and Casey clatters into their foward and clearly upends him, the penalty seemed the inevitable result of the way the game was going. The big athletic no9 puts it on the spot. I visualise Gary Goalie going down to the bottom right hand corner and tipping it wide. Gary Goalie does indeed go that way, but the ball goes down the middle, just to the left a bit and my vision of a heroic feat of Gary Goalkeeping is shattered. 

It's going to be tough this. 

It's made tougher by Casey going down very shortly afterwards and then, weirdly, Finnegan appearing to suffer exactly the same injury at exactly the same time. Maybe they're so close they can feel each other's pain? Who knows. On comes Husband and Evans, two players we were probably quite keen to give a night off to. 

The subs seem to strengthen us a bit. There's a penalty shout at the other end. I'm way too far away to sense anything definitive and I shrug it off. Later someone tells me it looked nailed on on the the telly. Who knows? Apter grows into the game a little, trying some darting runs, first getting a decent cross in that Beesley gets underneath and then scything across the box and smacking one hard and wide. It's a a bit more intent from us. 

Rovers continue to look quite competent at football and smash a shot just past our left hand post. We continue to work pretty hard but we don't conjure much at all until Apter again is set free and absolutely belts one the keeper can't hold and Embleton pounces on the loose ball, only to smash it miles over and probably wide as well into the bargain. 

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We've been second best but we've kind of grown into the game a little bit. It's a good run out for some of them at least, but it doesn't look like we're getting much more than that so far.  
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The second half is more of the same in that we work quite hard, we move the ball steadily but not altogether dangerously and Blackburn although definitely in a game, don't look hugely discomforted by what we're doing. 

It takes quite a while before we really come alive. We have to survive a few more efforts from Blackburn, before a decent move that looks initially to have broken down until Evans rescues it by whipping a fizzing ball in that is beaten away, falling to Norburn who, spotting the keeper down, picks a spot from 25 yards and lofts a floating effort that smacks fully against the bar and away. 

It's a sign we're still in this. 

Blackburn freshen it up and Keogh responds by stirring the pot. The group around me have just decided we want to see the front three set up and Crazy Uncle Richard has the crazy idea of doing exactly that, chucking on attacking players and changing the formation. Neil Critchley isn't dead, he's just pottering around a bungalow in Cheshire trying to keep himself busy by doing the guttering for the third time since Tuesday and checking the creases in the curtains with a spirit level, but if he were, he'd be spinning in his grave. What is this man doing? It's almost as if we're going to try and win the game by risking something! (I know! Weird! I'm not used to this either)

Almost instantly we look more dangerous. The pressing has been decent enough all night but the extra man gives Blackburn less time on the ball and someone else to think about. Robbie Apter takes control, he's doing a kind of darting, shuffling, teasing run - he's not graceful like some wingers are, he's more like a tiny battering ram, there's a kind of momentum to him, the ball closely to his feet, he's not scared to draw the defenders to him and then just dare them to show - it's all quite simple, repeatable, reliable and really quite thrilling - he has such good feet that you know if he gets even a tiny chance, he'll skip through and this time, though the Rover's lad gets his foot to the ball, Apter's force carries him on and away and he's arrowing the perfect near post ball and Beesley is stepping into it and then away, dragging the committed goalkeeper out of the game and sitting him on the floor and now, Beesley has an open goal and now Beesley can't miss and he doesn't! 

YESSSS! 

What a change and what a moment and what a goal. So simple and yet such a delight to see us score a close range effort, to get in close to the byline, find the right and the striker make the right run and finish so calmly. 

There's general pandemonium and what was becoming a slightly sleepy cup tie is now a rousing, life affirming experience. 

We're on the front foot now. (I'm never sure exactly what that means, but I think it's this) - we're racing at them, chasing everything. The crowd are right behind, roaring them on. 

Rovers with the ball. Suddenly Rover's without the ball as Hayden Coulson appears, like a cannonball and just charges through his man, takes the ball and he's fucking in! He's in... the Pool fans are on their feet already, but everyone tenses, there's a collective intake of breath, this is the chance and YESSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSS! 

He's absolutely buried it, lifting it high into the corner, curving it for good measure, a finish of an absolutely exquisite quality and the players race towards us and we scream into the east Lancashire gloom as the realisation hits. We've come from behind. Away from home. When was the last time we did that? I have no idea but I don't think it was recently. 

How long left? Enough time for it to turn to shit. Gary Goalie wisely goes down for some treatment. A cynic would suggest he's just buying that bit of time for us to calm down. I am a cynic. He's fine when he gets up and we kick off again. 

Then... the ball is slipped down the right, Apter is tunnelling through a gap, he's emerging into the box, he's shaping to shoot, his shot is swerving, bending from past the far post to inside it and the keeper is forced to make a superb stop. Fuck me. Are we actually good now? This is superb stuff. 

That's the last we make it out from under the pressure that Rover's inevitably put on us though. The clock seems to go so slowly at times like this. It's a cliche, but it's nonetheless true. They force corners. They force us into heading away, twice the referee waving play on for challenges in the box looks from the other end like he's pointed to the spot. Rovers force two really good saves from Gary Goalie, one to either side of him in quick succession. 

Injury time brings 8 minutes. Maybe the ref was wise to our keeper's efforts to slow things down. How dare he besmirch the good name of Gary Goalie. What sort of a cynical bastard reads a keeper going down as gamesmanship? Twat. More corners, more heading, more not being able to get it clear. Every time we give the ball away, I feel like being sick in my hands. There's an absolutely stunning block from someone at the back. I don't know who it is, Blackburn is one of those grounds where the other end seems a million mile away. There's a weird free kick conceded seemingly for no reason by Jimmy, yet more corners, the keeper is up, there's a countdown on the phone next to me... this is it, the last chance, it's hoofed in, the keeper lurks, we get a touch, we scramble it away and... 

...the ref blows the whistle and it's over. 

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That was fucking great. 

We showed so much spirit. Keogh comes over, he's a raggedy man with his wild eyes and forever unkempt hair and greying beard. Those wild eyes are warm though and he embraces player after player after player. He turns to the masses. He smiles, he seems almost shy, sheepish perhaps, not quite sure what to do. He puts his arms in the hair, He sort of punches the air, big shovel like hands clenched into fists. It's far from the staged choreography of some other manager's post match celebrations. There's a real joy but a sense of humility about it too. It all feels a bit absurd to him perhaps. He doesn't quite know how to milk this. Perhaps he doesn't want to. He's loving it though. So am I. 

We worked really hard tonight. Keogh was again brave and he was rewarded with some brave performances. His subs were the formation I wanted but I was surprised by who he took off and how he left certain attacking players on. He's not predictable in his decisions.

Apter was probably our stand out player tonight from the starting 11 and he will gain so much from the way he stuck at it, on a night where he wasn't initially getting much at all. Jake Beesley ran his legs off and deserved his goal. Lee Evans definitely impacted the game when he came on and gave us that bit more range in midfield in the way we used the ball. Jordan Gabriel was back to being himself, getting forward, getting tackles in and occasionally getting caught out behind and racing back to cover himself. The never 90 minutes will do him the world of good and the full 90 will do Elliot Embleton the same. 

All of that is secondary to the elation, the sheer pleasure of a superb atmosphere and an unexpected 'Pool away win. 

He's got us scoring. He's got us coming from behind to win, he's without doubt got the players playing for him and he's got the crowd right at his back, roaring him and them on. 

Experience? Who needs it?! 

Onward!

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