Best forgotten: the Mighty vs Luton Town

To be honest, this is one where I’m just typing to get it over with. I sometimes wonder what it must be like being an actual writer. I think it must be a bit shite sometimes cos you are just pressing keys to fill the space to pay the bills. Them absolute wrong un's that have an opinion everyday in the paper about current affairs can't actually have than many opinions. I only have about 6. That wouldn't get me through a full week... This isn’t paying the bills but it’s become a thing I have to do. For me, not you, cos you don’t not pay me to type this shit for the sake of it but it seems I have to do it to fulfil some kind of obligation I’ve invented in my own head.

Is anyone still reading?

My head is mashed before the game. My soul feels like an old bin bag caught on some barbed wire, shredded and blowing in the breeze. What’s the fucking point of anything? I need this game to be an uplifting experience. Something to set the tone for the week. I’m sure the Mighty will oblige.

I’m a bit tired. Feeling a bit sorry for myself. You may have guessed from the opening bits... The wind buffets the car, the rain runs in rivers down the windscreen. A sudden squall of starlings swirl round a skeletal tree as if in search of the summer that has vanished. It’s all very gothic.

Someone has scrawled graffiti on three consecutive motorways bridges. You’d think the dedication that would require would mean that the individual had some deep and meaningful attachment to an important cause. The text goes from the polite “Keep lef (sic) unless overtaking” to the rather more impolite “Why are you a middle lane moron?” as we pass beneath the trio of bridge spans. Imagine hanging upside down with a spray can in the middle of the night over a live carriageway to write that. The mind boggles.

It boggles (I don't like that word) again when I learn Gary is nowhere to be seen. Please don’t let him be back to Call of Duty with a pack of tinnes on the sunbed for the next 4 months. I’m already too cold to think.

—

The game starts with swirling wind and balls being sliced out of play. It continues thus for a while. Luton look pretty shite. They don’t seem to have any strategy at all. Their only effort for ages comes during the 6 minute applause prompting a weird moment where no one quite knows what to do. Such things put life into perspective. I’m fuming at it but really, what have I got to fume about? Grow up you melt. (that’s me talking to myself. That’s the sort of bonus content you don’t get from Matt Scrafton or that Lancs Live hipster)

Gradually, Pool make sense of the conditions. They create a simply beautiful chess like move. Actually, it’s more like draughts, the ball worked diagonally forwards and backwards until Luton are dizzy and the it’s lifted from wide left to Dujon Sterling who is free at the far post. The ball is half a yard too heavy. Nearly brilliant though.

That’s the story of the next 15 or 20 minutes. We do everything except score. Their keeper summons the spirit of Lev Yashin to keep out a drive from distance from (I think) Wintle. He makes a stunning reaction stop from a flick header by Dale who is about four yards from the goal line. Even when he saves one and turns it into the path of Demi Mitchell the ball is somehow smuggled onto the post.

We are really good (even allowing for the conditions) for that little spell. Keshi looks like a proper no 10. Jerry is all twinkling toes and tricks, full of invention and running. We do everything you’d want us to except score.

Then, just before half time Luton go and score one of those horrific, painful goals that comes against the run of play at the worst moment possible. The ball goes in. They score. It’s fucking freezing and they’ve been absolutely anonymous but here they are wheeling away and celebrating. This is apparently what I’ve chosen to do for fun on a Saturday. Get really cold and watch us concede a sloppy goal to a shite time at the worst possible time. 

—

I’m too cold to think tactical thoughts but we don’t have any big strikers or brilliant midfielders on the bench and to be honest, we could have been 2 or 3 to the good so we’ll stick with it for now. He will anyway cos he always does.

—

They make a change. Why do I always feel a bit worried when they change things? We seem very keen to change between games but never seem to take the initiative with them. They seem a bit better. They are quite physical up front and win the ball with a bit more intent than they did in the first half. We start ok too though, Jerry lashing a decent effort that is deflected over the bar and looking like we could get back into it.

We don’t. We just get washed away by the weather. Their second goal comes from a ball that is flung into the box, catches on the swirling wind and falls perfectly at the far post. We look confused. They look delighted.

The game is done. We send on Bowler and then Lavery but it doesn’t really make a whole lot of difference. With a two goal lead, they can just let us play and block everything that comes in. We make quite a few positions, but we look sluggish and the final ball isn’t what it should be. Maybe that’s unfair on the final ball, I’m not sure cos it’s all up the other end, but it feels like we are putting it in quite often but we’ve got no one who, like their big forward who puts Ekpiteta on his arse with a little shrug, who can cause much chaos.

Sonny Carey is the one little bright spark. He comes on and plays a deeper role and is noticeably quicker to move the ball and keen to run with it. One lovely burst where he motors right through the midfield and looks to be through is sadly cut short by a cynical foul at a point where a goal might just have given us a chance.

Luton score again. I’m past noticing. All I can remember is it’s another close range finish. I could look it up, but I can’t be arsed. You don’t get such searing insight from the mainstream media.

This game can fuck off.  

—

Bloomfield Road is wind blasted and the gale brings us the sound of Luton celebrating. I’ve been quite uncomplimentary about them but to be fair to them, they took their chances and were quick to understand that we huff and puff but we’re probably not going to blow any houses down and also quick to understand that in the weather induced maelstrom, A big lad who can unsettle a defender who is already trying to deal with the unpredictable flight of the ball is probably a useful thing.

We had a really good spell, but for much of the game we looked a bit ponderous. At one point, I shouted ‘and GO!, for fucks sake!’ in frustration of our wingers appearing to be possessed by the spirit of Ollie ‘check back and maintain possession at all costs’ Turton instead of chancing their arm against the full back. Possession is great, but it felt like a game for just taking a chance and seeing what happened in the chaos to me. As much as Bowler frustrates, he has a go and gets us over halfway or into the box. 

If there’s no Gaz, there’s no Goal Machine and we don’t have anyone else who can do what he does. I actually wanted to see us chuck Marvin up front or lump it at Crazy Uncle Richard just for the sheer thrill of it once we were 2 down. We looked basically small and slow in moving the ball. I know I bang on about wor Gaz, but twatting it at Jezza and Shayne in a hurricane was a hopeless ploy.

There was a short period where we did play quickly and with incisiveness but much of the game seemed to be our midfield taking a few extra touches and then playing the pass they might have played 2 seconds earlier anyway or Jimmy and Marv knocking it to Maxwell in a way that looked a bit dicey. To be honest, defensively, we were a bit dicey today. I don’t really want to go through who was to blame for what, but we just didn’t dominate the box like we can.

We weren’t very good apart from a portion of the game when we were. We did a lot of clapping each other and exhorting ourselves but once it had gone, we had no way back. They were very good at taking what fell for them (that’s maybe a bit unfair but they didn’t exactly cut us to ribbons time and time again) and ultimately won comfortably because they managed the game far better. We’ve got a massive squad, but it seems to be made up of about 20 wingers and fullbacks and we really couldn’t find any other way to play other than trying to score the perfect goal on a day that really didn’t seem made for that. Another day, we’re 2-0 up at half time but this was today and we weren’t. It was cold, wet and shit. 

Life goes on. You can follow MCLF on Twitter and Facebook or subscribe directly by email on the homepage

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GROUP CHAT: The greatest piece of football media ever.

What is time? Maybe that is too complex (or perhaps too simple) a question. Time itself is kind of unknowable. Brian Cox says it's a force but he says mental shit I don't get at all so I'm not sure I trust him. And he's a bit creepy in the way he doesn't age, seems to be varnished and always thinks everything is amazing... With time, all we can really do is understand the way we measure it. Days, hours, minutes. Tides, sunrises, seasons. Life according to the clock is rhythm. 

A rhythm is but an invitation to dance, and (unless you're line dancing or something) we all express ourselves differently. This is a very long winded way of saying, perhaps time itself is not as interesting as the way we experience it. 

Half an hour is not long. You can imagine half an hour passing and nothing really being said at all and yet it's also long enough to cover a myriad of topics. The strange thing about time is, the more you fill a space with substance, the faster it seems to pass. 

Describing the content of 'Group Chat' is kind of impossible. It's like trying to explain the pictures made by a kaleidoscope as it turns. One minute we're on red triangles and yellow dots with green lines, the next it's blue squares that getting bigger against a backdrop of tiny green diamonds but now it's all turning yellow... 

(I should have added the 1953 FA Cup final)

We're discussing the very fabric of reality. We're discussing whether Chris Maxwell's t-shirts are too small. We're questioning if Richard Keogh can actually handle any negativity at all. We're admitting we're all a bit frightened of Gary. Gary is being disarmingly self effacing. He just traps it and gives it to the better players. Richard is looking to the camera with those big wide eyes that give him the look of a puppy who has had a tough life. Jimmy is anchoring it all with an impish nature that bursts through his down to earth solidity. His eyes light up whenever Gaz says something a bit idiosyncratic. You can tell he really likes that Gaz does that. You can tell they really do like each other. 

What is this thing? Why? I don't really know. It's the easy chemistry of a bunch of lads who get on. It's people who don't pretend to have all the answers asking questions about stuff that people who pretend to know all the answers don't really know either. It's a big whiter than white tracksuit. It's comfy. It could be awful. It could set your teeth on edge and make you want to smash your laptop and curse whoever thought 'club TV' was a good idea but instead it offers a rabbit hole shaped window into a closed world of wonders.  

Footballers are stereotyped because it's easy. They take each game as it comes. There's no easy games in this league but we're going to dust ourselves down Clive and go again. Footballers don't do this sort of thing. They don't just act like people. They don't chat shit and if they do, they don't let themselves be seen. They're guarded and cautious. They're weird. They're not normal. Not just lads like any others. Not like you or me with our mates. They're stilted and coached in front of the camera. Either a bit too earnest and serious or dull and boring like a kid who doesn't want to speak out loud in class reading an answer to a teacher. 

Jimmy, Richard and Gaz could talk for hours. About anything. I could listen to them forever. Nothing happens. Time passes. They wonder at things. They shoot the breeze. They gently poke fun and gently knock each other down and pick each other up. 

They must never leave this club. I'll pay double my season ticket price to give them contracts long after they've ceased to have any use as footballers as long as they keep talking about nothing and everything and anything. 

Sometimes you dream stuff and it feels like it's really happened. Sometimes real life can feel like you've dreamt it. Did it really happen? Did Jimmy really lean forward and, through fits of laughter insist "I didn't see a pistachio nut in the gaff?" Did Gary listen with a look of incomprehension to the discussion on Jay-Z purchasing a ludicrously expensive avatar and then ask the most pertinent question you could ask about a million quids worth of pixels "Why? what can [it] do?" before launching into a coherent explanation of the difference between humans and 'animals and that' and what divides us and why that might be... 

I might create a looping sample of Jimmy Husband saying 'You're not in control of your own actions' and set it to a driving beat. A piece of filthy Detroit Techno or something. 

"You're not in control of your own actions....? (duh, duh, duh duh, duh, duh, duh, duh, duh) "You're not in control of your own actions....?" 

The crowd sweating. Teeth grinding. Beats and bass vibrating your bones. We're all just fucking people after all. Just people. That's all we are. Pretending to be all sorts of things and finding all sorts of ways to fall out and divide ourselves, but really, we're just people. Chatting shite. Full of ignorance and wonder. Lost and confused on a massive rock going 'what is all this anyway?' All we can do is chat shite to those stuck on the rock with us who like us, know next to fuck all other than the stories we tell ourselves and each other... Dance to that beat....You're not in control...... 

Group chat asks questions. It answers questions. It's completely mental and absolutely fucking brilliant. I love Crazy Uncle Richard, wor Gaz and the Topknot God even more than I already did for doing this and whoever thought of putting them in front of the camera and just leaving them to it is a genius. 

Many questions remain that the group's wisdom and wonder could be applied to, but there's a key one that needs to be asked more than any other...

When is the next episode? 

Am I in control of my own actions? Sometimes, I think not... Dance fuckers. Dance. 

ONWARD! 

You can follow MCLF on Twitter and Facebook or subscribe directly by email on the homepage

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Not going out: the Mighty vs Swansea/WBA

It's dark and cold. What is? The universe? My heart? No, this time of year.... It's particularly dark when you don't have the (flood)light of football to lift your spirits either.

I've been locked indoors being surprisingly ill. Either there's actually something to this 'covid' thing or I'm just a melty melt. Either way, my life has mostly been dealing with people from track and trace who talk really slowly and ask the same questions as last time they rang and woke you up or trying ineffectually to work from home.

Like last year's lockdown, but in a minature personal form, the one bit of shape to my 10 day house arrest has been the football.

Swansea, I probably wasn't going to anyway so that wasn't so bad. It was a dire game as well which softened the blow. We did well in stopping them playing but not very well in playing ourselves until the end when we played quite well for a bit. Keshi is becoming a legend for his ridiculous ability to make goals happen. He found a catflap sized gap in a crowded box, then put the ball into it, on the volley, with curve and spin. He's just filthy, he's a veritable pool shark of a footballer.

Other things that I took from the game include such observations that their scorer looked a bit like a baddie in a film about space soldiers in the future and that I still don't get the fuss about Russell Martin. Swansea (and MK Dons) prior to that apparently play good football but everytime I've seen them, they've been about as exciting as I find the idea of listening to Adele bang on about getting divorced.

It wasn't the best game of football ever in terms of lifting me out of the fug I was in. Luckily, the West Brom match was ace and for a minute there, I forgot I was living in a dystopia.

WBA are on my list of teams that aren't Blackpool that I don't mind. They seem to be absolutely at the point where small and big intersect. They've got loads of noisy fans and a decent history but if you popped back or forward in time and discovered they were in any of the top 3 leagues, you wouldn't be surprised. There's a certain swagger to them but also a certain homeliness. Also throstles. Everyone loves a throstle.

There were no goals but there was frankly ridiculous double save to deny the goal machine and then Keshi. There was also the frankly heartbreaking moment when Gary Goals had a diving header blocked late on. I might have died on the spot had he scored that, but I'd have died happy and I could have had 'killed by the ridiculous beauty of a Gary Madine diving header" on my tombstone. Which would be grand. We did ok, but the excellent Keshi aside, our real heroes were defensive.

We had chances but we conceded a lot of possession and played with our back against the wall for quite long periods. West Brom played fast, almost a bit too fast and I can't help thinking that as intense as their play was, it was very one paced. Their manager had the air of a villain from a Disney channel original drama, stalking the touchline and scowling in a really long quilted jacket. He gave off abusive ringmaster vibes, as if he might be about to whip someone if they stopped running very hard for even a split second.

Jimmy Husband's doubters were once plentiful. Last night, he was playing in his third best position and was immense. Again. Jimmy is class. End of. He's an even better left back than he is a centre half as well.

One privilege of watching on TV was the close up of him having his head bandaged and him removing it from the ear the physio kept insisting on wrapping it over. Loop over ear. Jimmy removes. Next layer over ear. Jimmy removes. Repeat. I might make an animated infinitely repeating gif of it. I feel it could be hypnotic. I don't know why I'd need to hypnotize myself or anyone else but it would be better than facing reality.

Jordan Gabriel as usual gave everything despite having a bit of a torrid time due to Josh Bowler being about as effective in the tackle as damp tissue paper. I like Josh though. It's easy to moan that he's not Neil Bishop and wor Neil had plenty of games where he was shite at dribbling past players like they weren't there so it equals itself out. It is a bit frustrating when he replaces doing useful stuff with waving and throwing his hands in the air, but he's mad good when he's good and it is what it is.

Marv made several frankly wonderful interceptions with one piece of tracking back in particular where he found himself wrong side and got back to make the block anyway acting a perfect demonstration of how defending is as skillful as attacking really.

Reece James had an excellent game at left back. He looks to me a bit like he's actually an old fella with a zimmer frame, all bony hunched shoulders and bowed knees, like one of those mad ancient blokes who don't seem to age and are still playing for a Sunday league team in their 70s. Despite appearances, it's becoming increasingly clear he's actually a nippy and combative young man with a good touch and a nice delivery. Which is handy.

We haven't won for a few games now but we've fought for everything in those games. We've had a run of decent opponents and stood up to them. We will continue to do so. We spoiled at Swansea and gave WBA a decent game. We're still way ahead of where I thought we might be and we still haven't really been shown up particularly by anyone.

The world is still our oyster and anything is still possible. 

Onward.

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The evolution of Neil Critchley

About a year or so ago, I wrote a smart arsed piece of shite blogging about the questions I had for Neil Critchley. I 'hilariously' imagined meeting him at a cafe in the Cheshire Oaks retail centre, where I hit him with the sort of interrogation that suggested I knew an awful lot about stuff and things.

I am, after all, responsible for such football achievements as writing a blog where I imagined someone's nan on the phone to Nathan Delfouneso worrying about whether Teddy Howe was underfed or not and if he could benefit from a good portion of Jam Roly Poly.

My qualifications to question Critch, were, it seemed at the time, impeccable. 

In other words, I was convinced, this was red hot soccer analysis. 

In retrospect, that blog looks a bit silly cos who the fuck am I to question Neil 'he does what he wants' Critchley? In my defence, at the time, the impish, twinkly eyed tactical wizard seemed a little bit more like a lost garden gnome than the puckish promotion winner he would prove to be. I wasn't to know that, what at the time, manifested itself as a an incredible dedication to coaching the team to pass sideways and not much else would prove to be the foundations of something really special. We'd barely uttered the phrase 'masterclass' yet. 

I'm a football fan. For all the reason and sensible comment. I want to win. Ideally now.

(C'MON POOL! FOR FUCK'S SAKE GET INTO THEM!) 

We weren't winning. Critch wasn't really impressing me. It wasn't just that we weren't winning, it was that we weren't playing particularly inspiring football, we didn't seem to really understand what the division was about. We were making odd decisions. 

His early interviews were polite but his words seemed so carefully measured as to resemble bits of machine cut flat pack furniture. Put a few sentences like 'We'll be expecting a challenge' 'the lads have been great in training' and 'we've done a lot of things right' together and you've assembled yourself a football manager being interviewed. Glue it all together with some long pauses and pop in a few looks into the middle distance and it's a build-your-own Neil Critchley.  

At no point did I ever dislike Critch. It's just it was difficult to actively like the fella initially. He gave so little away. He was, at first, just a little bit, well, underwhelming. Him and Mike Garrity watched on impassively as we flapped and flopped our way through a run of defeats and comical mishaps. Full backs in the middle of defence! Bez! Ollie Super Seven Soccer Star Sarkic! Ipswich ripping us to bits in a matter of minutes! Gillingham flicking our ears and making us cry! (and so on) 

All of this was greeted with a kind of impassive calm that fostered a doubt. Surely we need someone to kick arses. Someone to snarl and growl and shake things up. Not someone to tell us after the game that we had good possession and the group is great. Possession isn't wins Neil! If the group is so fucking great, why do we keep losing? C'mon man! 

All the while though, it felt like, despite the somewhat timid manner, there was something else to this lad. I couldn't put my finger on it but the closest I could get to was the fact that no matter how badly it was going, and how bland the words seemed at times, every week, in the interview before the game, his eyes twinkled with a kind of excitement. His talking might not have lit any fires, but that twinkle was a spark of something. Always next week, always next Saturday. No matter what. 

Gradually, slowly, beautifully, we've seen that little glimmer infuse his whole personality. Gone is the little fella in a body warmer watching mutely as we get mown down by the big lads on the other team. He's vanished. Gone. Forever. Instead, there's a quietly burning wee man who will explode into life if anything goes against us. There's a diminutive figure who points and yells where to play the ball and the players actually listen to him and play it where he says. There's the little bloke who when we win seems to share the moment with everyone, the clenched fist to the crowd, the players hugged close to him, words for everyone, words you can see really mean something. The body warmer that used to give him the air of a bloke stood on the hard shoulder waiting for the AA now carries the aura of some kind of chainmail vest worn by a dwarven warrior. 

There's a stubbly chin and sense of going toe to toe with anyone. What initially came across as impassive, we now recognise as a self belief like no other. If it didn't work this week, we'll just make it work the next. What initially seemed to be intransigence and unwillingness to change has become an uncanny ability to not change when everyone else would and in turn, to swap it about when everyone else would change it and get results by doing so. Critchley is a master of showing a bit more patience than fans have, of giving a tactic or a player that little bit extra time. Fans see bravery as making sweeping changes (and he can and does do that) but sometimes, the boldest thing to do is hold your ground and trust in yourself. 

A fella who seemed at first, out of his depth, a kids coach failing to get through to men, has got serious respect from serious characters like Gary Madine and Richard Keogh. The cuddle he shared with Keogh after a victory was one of the most moving pieces of blokish mutual respect I've ever seen. Madine says he's taught him how to play football properly. Chris Maxwell clearly loves Critch like a good dog loves a good owner. I think Maxi would probably do anything Critch asked of him without questioning it for a second. 

Where once it seemed that he didn't really know what he wanted, now, we just assume that if his plan isn't instantly explicable, that there's some kind of impish tactical mastery going on that mere mortals like us don't understand. Where once he seemed tentative, he now talks passionately. The beauty is, that passion retains self control. To hear him speaking about Blackpool, about us, about the atmosphere, to see that he 'gets' how much it means to people, that he feels the same things we do makes him special. Managers can say 'the fans were great' and then trot off home, but Critch really says it. He says it over and again. He's impassioned. He tells the SKY cameras that we've got the best atmosphere in football and he means it. We get louder every time he does it because he's a good man. A carefully spoken man. A man not given to just running his mouth and saying whatever comes into his mind. What I first took to be a kind of caution or, dare I say it, dullness, now comes across as respect for the people he's addressing - he'll take the time to say exactly what he has to say, with precision. What at first were strange pauses, where he looked to be staring into the middle distance at nothing, now come across as moments of authority where he's looking beyond the immediate. He'll answer in his own time. 

He's talked about what the club is and what it means and now, he's put that in black and white - he's signed on the line. He's pledged to be here and to take us further. He's made us feel like there's no limit. He's given us a team that will never let us down, will leave nothing out there. A team that might not win every game but with a wave of noise behind them everywhere we go seem to feed on the belief we have. I've had some of the best feelings of my life this year. I've never really felt like the fans and the team and club have celebrated as one like this when we've won before. 

Football is fucking ridiculous. It's a stupid thing to get so het up about. Underneath it all I still don't really know who Neil Critchley is but I feel like he knows exactly what football is. He seems to keep it entirely in perspective, he seems to keep it all on an even keel. He brings a kind of measured, controlled intensity that shows no sign of wavering. He never seems fatigued or stressed. He just seems resolute. He seems to believe in absolutes and simplicity. You practice the right things, you work hard when it's time to train, you take care over the game plan and you give it your best. That's as much as I really know about him. 

The greats make things simple. When you read about Pep, it's the endless rondos in training that made Barcelona what it was. One exercise, repeated ad infinitum. Clough was a kaleidoscopic character, a complex and contradictory person but his coaching was really straightforward. Liverpool were build on a three word mantra - pass and move. 

Critchley may not become 'a great' but he has the manner of someone who is captivated by his mission. He seems at one with his purpose, at one with the club. There's no edge to him, just a steely determination to do the best job he possibly can. That's what is so deeply lovable about him. He's just there to do the level best he can. It's not an ego trip, it's just the basic understanding that a football club means a lot to the people who follow it and therefore you owe it to them to give of your best. 

I can't ever have King Billy usurped, his position on the throne is eternal, his dark mahogany, smooth as stout north east tones are the sound of the ultimate human being in my mind, but little Neil has a lot in common with him. He's a man with principles, a man who seems to be able to bring the best out of others, a man who seems to care about the people around him, a man who seems to be loved by the people around him. A man with dignity who believes others should share that dignity with him. A manager who never makes excuses or forgets what his job is and never forgets (where many others do) that football is only there because idiots turn up and cheer it on. A man who improves players and maybe even improves people. It's about context - Billy spun silk from the fewest of threads, Critch has turned base metal into gold. They're both magnificent. We needn't rank them above or below each other. 

In his recent interview, he spoke beautifully and my favourite phrase in it was when he mentioned that we'd had 'a bit of success' so far. That's Crich encapsulated - he exudes a modesty about his own achievements - some managers would still be living off that promotion in 2 years time. At the same time, he has a tremendous ambition - a play off win, is, to him, merely the start of things. 'A bit' of something. Few people can show such ambition without it making them look pretty ugly. 

Critch wears it bloody well. He shares the credit with everyone, he's keen to cite the players, the staff, the board and the people who it's all for - us - at every turn. A victory is never celebrated with the word 'I' - it's always explained with the use of 'we' - it's a collective we, not a royal one. He's got enough ego to believe in what he does, but enough humility to understand he's part of something bigger. For me, the question of what role Caderwood played in the turn around is a moot point - it was Critchley who took on board whatever advice Calderwood gave and Critchley who continues to listen to his entire team now Colin has gone. All he sees is the job - all he has around him is people who want him to succeed and he knows how to use them. 

Lads and lasses of tangerine persuasion... 

Five more years. (FIVE!) (5!) (F.I.V.E) 1.2.3.4.5! FIVE!!!!! 

I actually cannot believe it. 

ONWARD! 

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You can follow MCLF on Twitter and Facebook or subscribe directly by email on the homepage

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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After match aftermath

I don't often write like this so bear with me please. I'm going to try and keep it to the point. If you read the blog, you'll know, that's not really my preferred style so it could be a challenge. You can find the actual football stuff I'd prefer to write about here. 

The policing at Bloomfield Road has been an issue bubbling under for some time. There's several strands to it but I want to focus on three major issues. 

1) The post match plan against Preston was appalling. Put simply, fans were sent away from the ground to meet each other in an unpoliced area. This isn't heresay or rumour, this was my own experience. My lad has been to lots of away games and for the only time since I've taken him to football, I felt in a potentially unsafe situation. I didn't witness any actual violence or suffer any physical ill effects, but it was clear the threat was present and indeed, according to videos, at that self same flash point, trouble did occur, not long after I'd left it. 

My issue is not that trouble happened. I appreciate as someone who has attended football matches for more than 3 decades, that sometimes trouble happens and a small number of people may be actively seeking it. Usually it happens away from fans who are only there to enjoy the game, the elderly, kids etc. Having herded fans en masse, together, to meet (without warning) the opposition fans (who were in the same situation and many of whom expressed the same incredulity at the arrangements) was a bizarre decision at best. 

2) Communication has been poor. In the aftermath of that game, the Police issued a statement seemingly suggesting that the comments received were little more than moaning about having to walk a bit further. The main thrust of the post was celebrating how well they'd managed the situation.

Having read many comments from supporters (and offered my own), I would say that the ratio of comments complaining about the plan itself and the issue raised above outweighed those about the extra walking by at least 10 to 1. The response gave no indication of taking on board the feedback offered by supporters, even though it directly related to public order and safety. This seems at best, disappointing.

Supporters are frequently urged to behave responsibly and to listen to the instructions given to them (and do) and yet, the police don't seem to see this as a two way street. Fans are merely there to obey and be herded and they, the police are thus above mistakes. We all make errors. It is human. A uniform is no insurance against fallibility. 

What also is also contributory is that the plans aren't communicated before they happen. Fans are simply met by a roadblock and ordered to head in a particular direction. No announcements are made, no reasons given. Just orders. 

It is not the fault of officers on the ground but frustrations are vented at them because they've been left with the job of not only policing but also explaining the plan in the heat of the moment. This inflames a situation that is already challenging. I do not envy a police officer positioned in between two sets of supporters and I sympathise with them bearing the weight of justifying orders given from afar. 

3) The plan has shown no consistency at all. The Preston game, the Stoke game and the QPR game have all been completely different in approach which means that supporters do not know what to expect. Whilst this may seem a small point to the police, people attend football games with infirmities, disabilities and conditions like autism. Routine and access is important to some. Children attend games who can be easily frightened. Across three games, supporters have been herded up a road into away fans, then allowed to walk freely (with away fans able to intimidate etc) then penned in a small area and refused to be allowed to leave the environs of the stadium freely.  

As pointed out above, a lack of communication compounds the issue. This is, to my eye, also putting these officers into an unfair situation. No routine develops. They are put under pressure with fans who want to know what, where and why.

I'm not interested in writing a blog about policing at large or commenting on anything other than this situation. This is not a politically motivated statement. This is something that directly affects me and other supporters. I am only writing this because 

a) I believe the situation is potentially dangerous - In addition to the 23/10 local derby concerns, on 6/11 the crowds outside the South Stand were tightly packed and had someone (an elderly person, a child perhaps) tripped and fallen, the situation could have been extremely unpleasant. This isn't hyperbole. This is a concern widely felt by reasonable football supporters. 

b) I believe this can impact on the growth of the club. After a long period of stagnation and turmoil, the club is firmly on the up. It is being run well and becoming something for the people of Blackpool to be proud of. It has huge potential to grow further and stimulate the area around it. Would a new supporter or someone taking their child to their first match have felt that being penned in outside the stadium for a length of time with snarling dogs and stone faced police scanning them suspiciously was an experience they wish to repeat? 

Effectively criminalising people because they have attended a football match is unacceptable. It should not be the case that the tremendous experience of attending a game comes with a counter experience such as this. It also has to be said that these are home fans. It is becoming increasingly surreal to learn that I am expected to be penned in a tight area or diverted away from a usual route instead of away support being kept in the ground for 10 minutes. If the police have intelligence that lead them to believe trouble is likely, I accept that they have the right and duty to attempt to prevent it. 

However, doing this by kettling people on a street, forcing them through a narrow path or into unpoliced flashpoints they wouldn't otherwise encounter is a very odd way of 'protecting' them. As an away fan (and this isn't about home vs away fans, though it has to be said, it seems logical to focus resources on the significantly smaller body of away support), I would rather remain in a ground for a short period of time (a well lit place with facilities) than be unnecessarily penned and corralled on a dark street with uneven surfaces and moving crowds.

We've heard that the police 'can't' keep fans in the stadium, but it seems they 'can' keep them penned in aggressively on the public highway. I'm no legal expert, but I can't really see a distinction. In fact, the latter seems worse than the former in terms of the issues I raise above. 

In short, the club pays the policing bill and the issues around the exit from the stadium are undermining the potential for the club to grow. I think it needs addressing by the club and whilst I recognise the club may not have the power to make an instant impact to the situation by themselves, I think it would be well received by supporters to hear the club acknowledging a need for discussion and change. To simply hear they are seeking clarifications or review would be very positive. We all enjoy the updates the club make and the quality of the media offering, but all the slick marketing in the world will be undone if the experience of leaving the ground remains as it is. The 'hardcore' may put up with it and attempt to mediate the situation themselves, but the new supporters the club is working hard to attract will not. 

With regards to the police, a similar rule applies. I sympathise with the difficulty of policing football matches but in 30 years of attending games at Bloomfield Road (and many other venues in England and Scotland) I have rarely experienced the issues described, particularly when attending the game as a home fan. It is genuinely strange and needs addressing with some urgency because there is a real danger the police will lose consent and/or a serious issue will occur. This is the only reason to write this. I have no wider axe to grind. The success of the club is a success for the town and if the town is doing well, the job of policing is made easier. 

I don't know the underlying reasons for this situation and whilst the conclusions below may be inaccurate, they are only conclusions available to us in lieu of meaningful open dialogue in the public realm. We can only therefore guess that 

a) the situation is badly managed 

b) there is a desire (for reasons I cannot fathom) to actively disrupt the experience of football supporters or football itself in Blackpool. A kind of strange provocation or a display of power. 

c) a combination of both exists. 

I would very much like to believe that the answer is actually

d) - something else that is not understood fully and can be resolved through working together

Unless we see a proper dialogue with the club, supporters and the police aiming at creating a better solution than the current disruptive policing approach bingo it is natural that supporters will use the evidence of their own eyes and experiences to form one of the first 3 conclusions

Policing is not easy, only a fool would suggest it is - but listening is. Fans will listen to reason and the situation has been demonstrably unreasonable.

Will the authorities do us the same courtesy? 
.

If you don't hear from me again, the dogs have got me

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I'm claiming a victory: the Mighty vs Queens Park Rangers

Our push to European glory 2024 suffered a minor blip on Tuesday but as the below diagrams illustrate, there's a thin line between victory and defeat. The performance wasn't all that different to the Sheffield United game, aside from Keshi's effort went in and Jerry/Sonny's didn't. As the sagest of pundits (i.e. all of them) say in a knowing voice - "Fine margins" 

In fact, if they really fancy themselves as top notch analysts, they'll stretch to "Fine margins at this level" which doesn't make any sense because at any given level you are at, the teams will be matched as they're also at the same level and thus the margin of difference between teams won't alter at different levels. 'Levels' is some bullshit people twat on about on telly getting paid for. We're at this level, we're of this level and we're equal to who we play because they're at this level too. Our players have 'stepped up' and all of that shite. I've got that off my chest now. I feel lighter. 

I don't have any prescient feeling at all about this game. If the weather keeps up, it will be challenge in itself. I'm sad not have the chance to see Richard Keogh sweep his rain drenched hair across his head, but looking forward to everything else. Jimmy must play at left back and someone else come into the middle. It's ok in an emergency but we've got 5 centre backs at the club and we don't need to play a left back there, not least because that left back is very good at playing left back. Will Dan Grettarson be the new Jordan Thorniley, banished to the dreaded and mysterious 'Bez Lubala/Ollie Sarkic/Joe Nuttall void' or will he make a triumphant return today? Is Callum Connolly simply the third choice right back and the fella who comes on with 6 minutes to go in midfield? Is Ollie Casey a thing? 

It could be a classic night under the lights or a cold windy mess. The beauty of the whole chaotic beast is finding out what happens next... 

--- 

Critch obviously picks Jimmy at CB. He does what the fuck he wants. He also picks Dale, Bowler and Keshi in a sexy as fuck midfield three behind the man, the myth, the legend that is Gary Goals Gaz Maz Goal Machine Madine. 

I really like this line up. I don't like Jimmy at centre back, but I'm always excited to see something new so Reece James playing his actual position at LB will keep me from worrying to much about Jimmy not playing his. I feel like this is a team to get at the opposition and when you are attacking, you don't need to defend. 

The atmosphere is good. I naturally balk at any changes to kick off time to accommodate Sky TV. Football is ours, not theirs and they can fuck off and take their squarials and their Gary Nevilles with them but it has to be said, there's a certain buzz in the air. We're on show. A minutes impeccable silence is observed. I sometimes flippantly use the phrase 'louder than war' to describe Bloomfield and the noise we make but nothing can be as loud as the death and horror invoked by the bugle call. 

--- 

Pool are on it from the off. We're snappy, sharp and everything we weren't against Stoke, winning the second ball, looking to find space, moving it crisply and playing with some verve. 

We even manage to take a good corner. It's whipped from the left, flicked on and Kenny Dougall storms in and crashes it home. YESSSSSSSSSSSS! 

NO! What? Eh? How? Why? Who? It seems like 30 seconds has elapsed before anyone realises it isn't a goal. I have no idea why it isn't a goal. My phone buzzes and my mate has sent me a still of what looks like a goal plus a knowing comment about how I bet I wish we had VAR (ha ha ha). I hate VAR. VAR is deathray bullshit. It's soul eating shite. And yet... 

Let's get the ref out of the way first. The team deserves not to have the rest of the blog be punctuated by my fury at his ineptitude. Refs have a hard job. This lad was, to use a technical term, fucking shite. So was the linesman on at least one side. Fucking shite is kind. My 10 year old suggested 'corrupt' as an alternative to foul language. I'll go with the profanity but you do wonder sometimes...

We keep playing. Dale has got a lovely trick where he flicks the ball up and spins past players with it. He's like a little whirlwind. Keshi is loving being in the middle and Bowler is revelling in their defence having to worry about other players aside from him. Gary is trotting about in the middle playing the role of nucleus to the charged electrons around him. It's a delight to behold. 

QPR have a little spell. They knock it about a little bit. They look quite handy if you let them play but we're doing a good job of not doing. That is, until one of them comes inside, kind of out of nowhere, cuts across the box and launches a wicked curling effort that Grimshaw has no chance with. It smacks the post with a taut clang and hits the back of the net. It's a superb finish. It's a horrible papercut of a goal that happens without you fully being aware of it then stings long after it happens. 

We keep playing. Dougall is at his best tonight, finding that tiny space to play it in a crowded middle, making the tackles and disrupting their possession. Wintle is an able foil. Around them we play. James and Gabriel get forward. Marvin and Jimmy sit in and tidy up. Everything is good. Except the scoreline. 

There's another ball from wide. Marvin sliding onto a Madine knock down. It's bundled away via the post. Bowler drills through on the right. Dale torments his man on the left. James skids it in, it's hacked away. Marvin pulls some incredible skill out in the box. to keep an attack alive. He's a central defender and he's dropping his shoulder and spinning, laying it wide. That's how we're playing. That's how we play more of less the whole half. 

Madine wins a header. The referee books him for winning it. 

QPR break a few times. That's about as much as you can say about them. We're either knocking it about probing and shaping attacks or we're attacking. The whistle is greeted by a hail of boos for the referee. They're deserved. 

--- 

It's been good. Aside from the referee. More of this but without the misfortune please. 

--- 

QPR start quite well but their pressure only lasts a few minutes and yields one effort. Keshi gets absolutely scythed down. Poleaxed. The referee reaches for the obligatory yellow. He books someone for just about every whistle, regardless of the incident. Shoot a player (yellow) accidentally brush a sleeve (yellow.) I hate to say this, but Keshi gets up too quickly. It's a horrendous challenge. 

I'm losing my head a bit. I'm losing my voice a bit too, even in the genteel surroundings of the south stand, the noise is swelling around me. This is one of those nights where the game could last forever and I wouldn't mind. The singing rolls around the stands, the fireworks cast a magic spell above them. For every flat, turgid, bad tempered game you've been too, where a grumpy crowd shivered and grumbled their way through a tepid match that never got going, there's a night like this, where it's sheer, unadulterated magic to be there. 

Gabriel has been outstanding. He's been at his marauding best, playing full back centre back and right wing all at once and doing it well. He's gone again and this time, Husband spots him with a long raking pass. Gabriel controls superbly, goes inside his defender, suddenly he's in, he pokes it past the keeper who takes his legs. 

PENALTY!!! We probably won't get it with this jester of a referee. YES!!! HE'S GIVEN IT. 
Shit it's a red card! It must be. Gabriel was about to tuck it into an empty net, the keeper was on the floor, he'd sold himself totally. We were going to score. That's a red card. Don't bottle it. Don't bottle it. Don't bottle it. 

FOR FUCKS SAKE YOU BOTTLING TWAT YOU FUCKING BOTTLED IT. FUCK OFF. FUCK OFF. FUCK OFF. 

Big Gaz places it down. Big Gaz, steps back. Big Gaz is calm. Around him swirls a storm of nerves. Big Gaz is beyond such things. He strolls in. He strokes it in the bottom corner... YES!!!! 

A goal is a goal but a Gary goal is a goal and a little bit more. Madine is cool as fuck as everyone leaps on him. He was done, finished, an injury liability and all that, but here he is. Slotting it home. It's the least we deserve. 

Lets go and win this. A ball over the top. Keshi races away, but it's just a touch too wide and we can't get players up to him so far advanced is he. Madine coaxes it down from the sky, shimmies inside and cracks an effort wide. Bowler and Gabriel just cause nightmares for their full back. Bowler runs round him, then loses the ball, so Gabriel picks it up and runs round him instead. Gabriel cuts inside and throws some incredible skills, before just over running it. Gabriel again goes inside then wins a corner except the lineman doesn't give it because, well, because it's like that. They run it out of play and he doesn't give a throw. Because it's like he's not really watching the game as intently as I am which is odd cos I'm no getting paid to do so and am further away than him by quite a distance.  

The game goes a little bit flat for a few minutes. I'm worried about us tiring. Critch channels that worry and sends on Carey and withdraws Dale, he's done pretty well for me but Carey excites the hell out of me too. He's not been on long when he fluffs a moment. There's a little groan of frustration. Get behind him. Get behind him! Have we sent a kid into a moment he's overawed by? Get behind him! 

Have we fuck sent him on to be overawed. He gets it. He gives it, he gets it back. Look at the space he's just made, stuttering forward, then back peddling, finding the optimum angle and the most freedom he could in that little square of pitch. One touch, a half turn, he's set, he's cracked it. It pings against the post, it makes the same high tensile 'ding' sound their goal did, but it takes the wrong turn this time, bouncing into the boards behind the goal. 

Mitchell comes on for Bowler. Demi draws fouls. Another booking. Demi crosses one outrageously well with his wrong foot that's arcing towards a far post tangerine but is scuffed away from him. Time is running down, but Pool keep going. 

One more chance. We deserve it. One more chance. That's all we ask. We're on the left. We're crossing, it's come off someone and Madine is coming in. He must score. The Goal Machine, at the far post. It's what he does. Somehow the keeper flicks out a palm and turns it away. It's one of those saves that Maxwell makes. He shouldn't be on the pitch. Maybe Madine was slightly hesitant or caught a little flat footed, I don't know, but I know for certain that their keeper shouldn't have been in goals to save that. So close. That was the moment. 

They go up the other end. There's a horror show as they shoot from distance, it's the sort of effort that's from far enough out that you have time, in your minds eye, to see it going in and feel a taste of the horror of an undeserved cruel winner for the opposition before your actual real eyes transmit the truth to your brain. (it went over the top)  

--- 

I have nothing critical to say about any of our players. We could have won that 3-1 and no one could have complained about it in the slightest. From Madine backwards, the attacking was superb from everyone. Every single player was on the front foot but with patience and control, not manic play. There was movement, balance, intelligence, individual skill, teamwork, bodies on the line and anything else you'd want to see. In some ways, that was one of the most enjoyable performances I've seen under Critchley (the final result aside.) 

The ground was fucking sensational again. It's the highlight of my life at the moment to be there. Whatever that may say about my life, I don't care. It's hair on the back of your neck stuff. It's just pure support. It's something hard to put into words. These players give everything, so we give everything. There's pride. This is Blackpool. There isn't always pride in everything here. Sometimes it's all a bit cut and run and no one gives a fuck about i being any good. But this is something to be so very proud of. This is the opposite of what at times Blackpool can be or has been like. This is solid foundations, hard work and respect given. This just feels special. It is special. 

QPR looked like they might be quite good on another day. I don't think they were bad today at all. We just bossed the game. It feels weird in that I'm writing as if they lost. They didn't, they got a point, but they got away with it, it was stolen from us, not so much by them, but by the officials. It feels for all the world like we won that match and I don't care, I am saying we did. If the ref and linesman can make it up and the police do what the fuck they want after the game*, then I'm having that as a 3-1 victory. 

Onwards. 

utmp  

*summat on that tomorrow. Don't want to be some self important cunt writing shit cos like I matter and my opinion is worth anything in particular cos I don't and it isn't but it's got to be said and I've held off saying it assuming naively that it would get sorted and if anything, it's been a new level of shit and it's potentially dangerous. Update: I wrote it. Read it here

Let the game be the game though. That's why we're here.

. 

You can follow MCLF on Twitter and Facebook or subscribe directly by email on the homepage

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.

Home-Start Blackpool Food Bank

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