Cod Almighty | Diary

If you don't blame me then I won't blame you

19 February 2016

Retro Diary writes: If anybody hasn't read Wicklow Diary's Wednesday contribution yet, do so now. It is sobering, but shows us the future – a future with some point. A finer manifesto I cannot imagine.

Talking about the struggle against football's insuperable problems is very apt in a month when our sporting heroes and ambassadors have done their best to bring the worst out in us. On Sunday, for example, were we so bored by the same old order that we were screaming for diving Leicester over Arsenal? I suspect we were.

Then there was Lincoln keeper Farman, whose ball-juggling disaster against Altrincham provided such a free hit for us that it was almost no fun. As we know, the lot of a goalkeeper can be a thankless one, which generally predisposes me towards sympathy in cases like this. Playing for Lincoln is punishment enough – there doesn't seem any need to burden the bloke any further, once the initial snigger is out of the way.

Lincoln's charming official Twitter response constituted what would in the outside world be seen as a touching, if futile, bit of humanity. But in the context of football, it was so hilariously naïve that sympathy was impossible. Come on Lincoln – make a game of this bragging thing, you numpties.

Then there was the spat between Leeds's Steve Evans and Ipswich's Mick McCarthy after their match on 12 January. Leeds hilariously lost the game in 90+2, having taken the lead after just 12 seconds. Evans's petulance on the final whistle showed what we already know – that he hasn't got the temperament to cope with pressure. McCarthy, unable to let it lie, responded by describing Evans (I paraphrase, but only slightly) as gobby and fat. He showed admirable restraint by not mentioning the eyeliner, I thought. I'm sorry, Steve – sympathy might stretch to Lincoln, but Leeds? No.

So is all this glee at the weaknesses, problems and dishonesty of others funny, tragic or something in between? Is it why we love football, or the very reason why we must never let it become the only thing in our lives? Are we to live only by the law of the playground or aspire to something more civilising? Or is this what football is actually for – to act as a harmless outlet for our worst instincts?

Of course Town aren't getting off the hook after last week's horrible afternoon. If anybody in Cleethorpes felt something like a small earth tremor shortly after five o'clock, that would have been everybody shouting at their radios simultaneously as Hursty blamed not himself, but us the fans, for that stultifying non-event.

Is all this glee at the weaknesses, problems and dishonesty of others funny, tragic or something in between? Is it why we love football, or the very reason why we must never let it become the only thing in our lives?

Actually, for me, there was no excuse needed – the performance was entirely predictable. Every year, the first home game after we realise that the title is effectively gone marks a grand motivational collapse. You can feel the anticlimax before you even step inside the ground. You may remember, last year's equivalent was the home defeat to Wrexham, when they wore that yucky green kit, and Town never got out of the traps.

The poor result was the fans' fault, according to Hursty, because we couldn't see the wind blowing, and because we've been spoilt. Well, actually, no-one can see wind, but we did see its effects perfectly well.

And yes, we have been spoilt. We've been spoilt by Waters, Bonetti and Mendonca. We've been spoilt by winning at Anfield, Goodison and Stamford Bridge. And going further back to when we were even better still, let's remind ourselves that tomorrow marks the 79th anniversary of Town's home tie with Wolves in the FA Cup fifth round, which a record home crowd of 31,651 saw us draw 1-1. This is our history, in black and white – our eternal benchmark – although I can see why it's in Hursty's interest to play it down.

I'm not on some rabid anti-Hurst trip here. We have experienced a considerable upsurge in optimism on his watch. For me he does seem too happy with draws, and his substitutions are consistently mystifying. But he's family now. And if he sometimes makes management look difficult, it may be because it is.

I do understand that you can't win every game. I know you can't sign players who don't want to come. I know you can't let the shouty bloke in the Main Stand pick the team. And I know that trying to get a fifth division starting XI to purr like a Swiss watch will sometimes turn into a sort of cat-herding mess. I know that football has its natural rhythms, and the lows will always have to be ridden out. Fans must sometimes be patient, and make allowances for the ups and downs associated with perpetual change.

And I know that off-the-cuff wording in an interview will sometimes come out slightly wrong. I'm sure I would be the worst offender, so I sympathise entirely. Which is why I can even forgive Hursty for blaming me for freezing my bollocks off watching that crap.

In new recruits Anthony Straker and Ryan Jennings, I'm hoping that the missing width, which, had it been present, would surely have beaten both Boreham Wood and Guiseley, will return. Oops – there's me telling the manager his job again. I'd better do as I'm told and sit demurely with an accepting smile, lest I should make myself look foolish by failing to identify wind or something.

Tomorrow's opponents Halifax have undergone a miraculous upturn in fortunes since we beat them 7-0 back on 13 October. On that evening, I accept, we were spoilt. Podge scored four. At that point Halifax looked dead certs for the division's wooden spoon, but they have now (but only just) hauled themselves out of the relegation places. Having said that, the sale of striker Shaun Tuton to Barnsley a couple of weeks back has left them looking a bit toothless up front, and it should be well within Town's capability to shut out (he says with everything crossed) what is now quite a ponderous-looking forward line.

Expect to be treated like a criminal at Halifax, as West Yorkshire Police continue to make their struggle to extricate themselves from the 1980s everybody else's problem

The Shay has changed out of all recognition since I first went there. Nowadays it's not the bleak and desperate expanses of hillside that are the problem – there are nice stands all round now. It's the playing surface. It is a bit of a mess, having been shared all season by Halifax's league code egg-chasers.

For us, Captain Diz is suspended, forcing a change in midfield. Speculation in today's Telegraph on the return of Alex Jones seems to have little going for it, and Town have been turned down for safe standing at Blundell Park – another blow for fans, and common sense.

If there are more than eight people in your Halifax-bound vehicle tomorrow, expect to be treated like a criminal, as West Yorkshire Police continue to make their struggle to extricate themselves from the 1980s everybody else's problem. It is worth remembering that the Traffic Commissioner's Guidelines for football supporters – on which the police will be basing their draconian control over where you stop, drink and eat – are not actually legally enforceable, although they are capable of giving you a whole load of hassle. It would seem about time somebody forced some case law to end this anachronistic nonsense. Let's hope it doesn't mean a riot: that might be counterproductive.

Finally, back home, the Telegraph continues to try to solve the mystery of the identity of Grimsby's very own "world's worst Neil Diamond impersonator", who was outed on the Jonathan Ross show. He was the man responsible, it seems, for finally convincing Sacha Baron Cohen that the people here are nutters and it was a perfect place to satirise.

"Name a song and I'll sing it," he is said to have asked the star on his visit to the town.

"Sweet Caroline?" Baron Cohen suggested.

To which our man replied: "How does it start?"

What's this got to do with football? We hope, nothing. We hope.

UTM.