this suddenly seems a millenia ago
shoulder hurt for a week after sending my fist a trillion miles an hour into the air
and not just after Ebanks’ goal, but Foley’s sweet volley as it whistled into the net
it seemed a tide had been turned
perhaps the deflections might nestle past wrong-footed keepers
perhaps the posts would turn inward
but then…

Watched online via some stream or other. Had usual bouts of depression and struggles with faith in humanity before turning off online chat. Spurs666: Arsenal wankers yeah! We winzzz!! Wolfywolves: WOLVES. Hoddle4lyfe: 3232323232323-2!!!!!! MU4eva: All you filthy arabs stink of shit, give English COMM. Wolfywolves: WOLVES.

Screen splutters on, pixels gyrating. First half in English. I’m barely into vague wonderings regarding live streaming before Hahnemann’s diving backwards and the ball’s looping in. Straining through the mesh I swear I see the ball hit the advertising hoardings. But the commentary catches up, Varney’s celebrating and we’re one nil down in the first five minutes for the third match in succession.

Seems like we have the ball for most of the rest of the match. Blackpool get it sometimes and run really fast towards us before bobbling it up somehow. We meander prettily about before laying it wide to overused winger who wafts it in towards increasingly fed-up striker / the space where the midfield should be running on behind / nowhere in particular. The fantastic move is completed in the imagination of an errant blade of grass on the penalty spot, wishing beyond hope that it had limbs to belt it in for this whimsy excuse for an attack. Hunt still offering nothing. Still, for some reason, mildly optimistic we can get something. I mean, with so much possession in the opposition half, something’s gotta give? Right? Oh, right, Hahnemann flap, 2-0.

And when nothing’s going for you… just about saw Milijas’ shot hit the post. Commentary now in another language entirely twitters on chuckling. Ebanks-Blake was waiting 4 yards out but of course it bounces out to a Blackpool player. If this was CM97/98…And didn’t Milijas get blatantly fouled in the box? But no. Of course we score eventually to give us that excruciating few minutes of hope, the cruel irony not missed on Doyle as he looked to the heavens. I swear he asked, ‘why me?’

The concept of ‘deserving’ something seems outdated in our current run. It’s certainly meaningless. Fact is, we were toothless. Knocked to our knees from the beginning, we were sucking cock from the outset. And it got us nowhere. It’s hard to keep making excuses.

One of the main paradoxes of our current tenure in the top flight is the common love of the underdog vs. good fortune for said underdog undermining our own fight for survival. This was epitomised for me on the opening day of last season watching Chelsea vs. Hull before our kick off with West Ham. Stephen Hunt scored within the first few minutes at Stamford Bridge to a chorus of minor cheers and happy surprise from sections of the Royal London Pub, only for them to be rebuked and called chuffing idiots for supporting relegation rivals by many others present. Regardless of the ability of fifty wolves fans to affect a match already ongoing 100 miles south by mere superstition, it did illustrate a certain conflict. Watching and following other matches in this league was no longer a straight forward choice of anti-top four allegiances.

And so to our opponents on Saturday. Blackpool are the ultimate Premier League underdog. Newly promoted, tiny stadium, shoe-string budget, outspoken manager, they’re a journalist’s dream, bumbling through the season in a film of cliché. Match of the Day’s third choice right back piles into a coach of celebrating tangerines as the patronising superlatives rain down after another unexpected victory. The manager offers an outlandish sound byte to feed Lineker’s trite smirks. It’s hard not to get caught up in the romance of the story. Hard, indeed, until last Wednesday:

Ian Holloway stands by threat to quit Blackpool over team selection

The Blackpool manager rests 10 players from the previous line-up for a tough away game ahead of a match against fellow relegation potentials the next Saturday. After putting their “peddle to the metal” in the previous fixture. Sound familiar? Apparently not:

“How can people liken that to what happened at Wolves, when Wolves went away to Manchester United and their manager openly said: ‘I can’t beat Manchester United so I’m going to play a lesser XI’?

Words never spoken by McCarthy. His reasoning, right or wrong, was much of the same as Holloway’s: my players are knackered after an exhausting performance on Saturday, I’d prefer them to be 100% for the next Saturday.

“I went there believing I could win. It’s not the same scenario, I find it absolutely absurd. I’ve never been the manager of Wolves, Mick McCarthy’s the manager of Wolves, and he said: ‘I can’t beat Manchester United.’ More fool you Mick, because I believe I can. Maybe you don’t believe in your team as much as I believe in mine.”

McCarthy’s selection shook the league so hard that even capitalist monger come Daily Mail football columnist (errm) Piers Morgan, he acolyte of all things football, emerged from his own rectal juices to slam the manager of our ‘minnow’ team, harping on about McCarthy’s ego (!), his attention seeking (!!) and the integrity of the Premier League (!!!!!!).

By contrast, Holloway’s changes, while reported, haven’t come close to the same stir. Is this because we were playing Manchester United, whose every step and relation is immediately under intense scrutiny? Or because, vast sweeping generalisation coming up, people just like the entertaining Holloway much more than the dour, often abrasive McCarthy? Will he get away with this purely on personality?
I’m struggling to see much difference in the facts.

The FA set a dangerous precedent by fining us. Holloway came straight out fighting after the final whistle a week ago, stating how a manager should be able to pick any team he likes. Fair enough. Personally, I completely agree, there shouldn’t be anything to get away with. But to drag us into it to save himself leaves a bitter taste.

So Holloway, another paradox. Standing up to the FA, great. Retaining individuality, great. Selling out a supposed friend to further own gains: utter twatdom. Threatened by the big boys, he comes out bawling and throws his mate in the middle. He has since apologised to McCarthy privately. I’m yet to see it public from himself as promised.

As if we needed any extra incentive for Saturday.

At the end of it all, with the dust settled, we lost to the better team. Few will argue with that I’m sure, but more will believe we ought to beat teams like Bolton, have it pencilled in as a three points for the taking. This is now fifth place Bolton, who have only lost twice all season. Bolton who have been consolidating in the Premier League since 2001. Nine years.

They were well organised and had that extra bit of skill and class when it counted. Elmander’s goal was devilish, that shuffle of feet felt light years beyond anything we could produce. I know; it’s fucking Bolton. But with Muamba and the outstanding Holden controlling the midfield we were never in the game. So many asked for 4-4-2 back. Fucking congrats. Henry couldn’t contain them on his own. Milijas may have had three decent long-shots but was bypassed for long periods and failed to regularly play in Hunt and Jarvis, who surely should have been the basis of our attack in such a formation. Jarvis ended up with two assists, but was barely given the opportunity until it was too late. Hunt sadly, when he did get the ball, still looked off the pace. Doyle, disinterested? Maybe that’s too harsh, but incredibly frustrated at least. Dangerous in phases but below his admirable best.

Anyway, it’s hard to blame McCarthy too much for this, as many were around me (though perhaps it’s just hard for this staunch McCarthyist…). An impossible to account for injury to Berra in the warm-up, followed by an equally baffling own goal, throws any game plan out of the window. Suddenly any sympathy from the stands for mistakes and the like evaporates. The pressures on from the off, suddenly you’re losing a game you were targeting winning. Worse still when you were losing for 90 minutes straight on Wednesday night. Especially when you’ve lost 7 of the last 9, 5 of those last minute kicks in the teeth. But still, we were, for long periods, desperately poor and second best. It’s hard to justify. But there are some huge tests coming up and it might be best to judge us thereafter.

The next six:

Sat 20th November – Blackpool away
Sat 27th November – Sunderland home
Saturday 4th December – Blackburn away
Sunday 12th December – Blues home
Sunday 19th December – A***n away
Sunday 26th December – Wigan home

One cause for hope is that this time last season we had but one point more and still had that barren wasteland of a performance against Blues to come. We are yet to hit a performance that bad. Our third win didn’t come until December and we had a goal difference four worse. And we got slapped by Chelsea and Arsenal. This year, in addition to these, we’ve got United away and City at home out of the way already, and even come out with three points from them.

And so on to Blackpool. One nil penalty box ricochet off Elokobi’s knee, please.

Wolverhampton Wanderers vs. Bolton Wanderers. On the surface a complete nondescript Premier League match, shoe-in last game on Match Of The Day regardless of result.

But behind empty form guides and stats and quickfire newspaper previews and possibly/probably unbenownst to players on both sides, victory over Bolton still tastes a little sweeter to a certain generation. Who had to suffer, this:

What that doesn’t show is Wolves’ host of missed chances in the first leg and McGinlay punching David Kelly in the second leg (see above). Arguably Bully’s best chance to play in the Premier League cruelly taken away.

The current managers may well remember. McCarthy sold McGinlay from Millwall to Bolton before that infamous spell, whilst Coyle was his strike partner. Fifteen years on, but how things could have been different…

At least these three points helped keep us up last season after a similiar testing run of fixtures:

The golden waves didn’t return for at least fifteen minutes. Regardless of any controversy towards the end of the match; the spirited come-back, collection of spirit, another ‘played well but lost’ scenario… we should have been two down within ten after some woeful interplay between Mancienne and Stearman left Arshavin clean through. Saved. Early in the second half the gift was offered again. Fabregas missed when you’d bet your treasured Jody Craddock head-bandage. Football Manager 2009 scale – three clear cut chances, at the very least. One scored.

As such it was easy to believe in one of those much spouted clichés, that they would rue these misses, and it would be our day in the end. I could imagine Wenger’s comments after the match, hear the gears of the wind-up pundits cackling on about how they always try and walk it into the net, another two points dropped, ETCETERA.  Eventually we developed some semblance of shape; passes finally stuck to gold shirts with Milijas, Henry and Mancienne nipping and tucking and slowly grinding against the red sub-conscious to the extent of turning the ball over in midfield. The volume, reeling from the early goal, gradually recovered. Even more so around Fabregas’ snapshot in the second half; Doyle and Berra finding Fabianski in excruciatingly terrific form. We huffed and puffed and rained balls in, flashing right and left across the box as Hunt and Jarvis set their sights on the heaving mass in the Arsenal penalty area. In one agonising moment it fell to Stearman four yards out, keeper stranded. But before he knew what had fallen on his plate the ball had bumbled away, towards the goal, but an easy punt for Song on the line. In the closing stages Doyle clearly thought, fuck it, stuck his head down, stormed through the static and drove a wicked shot inches wide. The angles in my head had said: goal. Sylvain was screaming at him to play him in but you wouldn’t want your star striker passing from there. It would have been the perfect way to open his league account for the season. Not to be.

As for the Fabregas tackle:

“You’ll get what’s coming to you one day, mark my words” screamed a fellow member of the North Bank in the immediate aftermath. But he won’t though, will he. It will be forgotten in a Total Football cover shot or articulate Football Focus interview.

Now, personally I think Fabregas is a wonderful player, and has looked it since tearing us apart at Highbury in that 5-1 League Cup match back in 2003 when he was just seventeen. Usually, it appears, through whatever untrustworthy media medium you’re using, the Arsenal captain (lest we forget) lets his football do the talking.

But it was awful. He’d been yapping on all game about negligible incidents, including a baffling full-on rant over a fifty-fifty throw-in call on the half-way line, which got worse as Arsenal’s hold disintegrated. It appeared in the pit of his sulk that not pulling out of an incredibly late challenge was the epitome. Apologies accepted, but Stephen Ward, with several stitches in his shin for good measure, will be doubtful for Saturday now and can count himself lucky if that’s the worst of it. Wenger’s circle of hypocrisy complete. Arsenal play lush football with an admirable mantra of developing youth, which can be almost wholly attributed to him, but, frankly, as McCarthy alluded to post-match, mind your own fucking business Arsene. Rounds of “If that was us, you’d send him off” for once seemed wholly justified. Certainly if one Dirty Karl Henry had been flying in…

One final Fabianski save on 92. Each Wolves player despairingly held hands on head in unison, spelling the end of the resistance. They barely noticed Chamakhs’s breakaway second, put through by the aforementioned Spaniard. The Arsenal celebration seemed more tentative this time. Perhaps it was one of relief rather than superiority.