Good luck Graeme... (One from the archives)

Good Luck Graeme…
by Craig R. Haydock, 9th September, 2004
(roversactive.co.uk)

Thursday, December 3rd, 1998 - I was itching for a fix of the latest football news. Grasping the remote control in my hand - I keyed in those hallowed numbers, three-zero-and-two; with such speed I may add, that I often impressed myself.

There it was, in glorious pixels, a headline initially startling, but impressive all the same: ‘KIDD FOR ROVERS!’ Uncle Jack still meant business after all.

Fifteen months, twelve days, one relegation, a new stand at Barnsley and a sack or sixty of cash later and I was tapping in those same three numbers - only this time I wasn’t so astounded, never mind impressed. I’d been let down too many times over the last five years, high hopes dashed; champions to relegated, promotion favourites to mid-table mediocrity, down amongst the dead-men of Division One – handing the Ferrari back because we couldn’t afford the repayments. They say every good relationship needs trust and while my love for the club was still strong, I was growing more and more suspect of its fidelity by the day.

It took me just three days to change my mind - it’s a fickle game after all, swiftly convinced that Graeme Souness was the right man to instil my faith once more, the moustachioed messiah, ready to lead us from the wilderness, back into the promised land – waxed and primed, tooth-comb and all. It wasn’t the auspicious point that was earned in the Craven Cottage sunshine that brightened my spirits, but rather the man himself.

Certain men have a presence, an aura that commands respect and glows with poise. For all of his recent misadventures in football management, when Souness led his players across the pitch at Fulham - he had all the conviction of a man who looked geared for success. The cool-arrogance in his stride, the stylish cut of his tailored suit, the glint in his eye, and of course - the famous moustache, maintained to perfection. He looked a far cry from the crazed madman who planted the flag of Galatasaray in the centre circle of their fiercest rivals, Fenerbahce, only seasons earlier.

Fast forward a few more months and the clearance sale was well under way – weaknesses were quickly identified and in came a clutch of impressive signings; Brad Friedel, Stig Inge Bjørnebye, John Curtis and Craig Hignett, before the likes of Mark Hughes, Marcus Bent, Henning Berg and Eyal Berkovic confirmed our promotion aspirations at the end of an impressive first full season in charge (and there we were expecting Aly Dia to pop through the door).

His team was built around the trio of skilful young players that Brian Kidd had chosen to ignore: Matt Jansen, a £4.1m Kidd signing, complemented by the fledgling David Dunn and Damien Duff, three players visibly improved under Souness’ stewardship - combining to form the ‘Crown Jewels’ at Ewood Park.

Rovers struggled at first - in coming to terms with a Premier League they had not been part of for two seasons. Things had changed, times had moved, although the arrival of Andy Cole and an unexpected Worthington Cup triumph brought parity and hysteria, in that order.

European football was subsequently achieved two seasons running, although the jewels had begun to fragment over the course of the 2002/03 season. Jansen had failed to fully recover from a motorcycle accident in pre-season, Dunn was no longer on speaking terms with the manager and Duff, who had somehow survived the vultures after his World Cup heroics, was about to become the first pawn in a Russian revolution at big-spending Chelsea, after firing Rovers to a sixth place finish in the Premiership.

The well was drying up and a lack of finance was tempered by training ground bust-ups and failed signings; last season proved to be a frustrating one for Rovers, buoyed only by the arrival of Jonathan Stead. A giant sword and a gleaming white horse would have been fitting, as Blackburn’s knight in shining armour struck the goals that kept his new club in the top-flight.

A disappointing start to the new campaign, coupled with the last, allowed the Ewood faithful a grunt or two at puzzling team selections. The equivalent to playing Vratislav Gresko in midfield and Dominic Matteo on the left wing would be to tell Alan Shearer that he’s playing sweeper when Souness finally takes the reigns at St James’ Park next Monday.

It’s been suggested that the passionate Scotsman jumped before he was pushed, but for all the mutterings from the discontented, the chant of ‘Souness Out’ never once echoed around the terraces, and was never really likely to either.

There are two memories of Graeme Souness’ time at Ewood Park that best stand out: the shared sentiment to the late Jack Walker after promotion was achieved at Deepdale, and the celebrations in front of the supporters that Souness himself led at the Reebok Stadium, following another last gasp equaliser in August 2003.

Tears are yet to be shed in the blue and white sector of East Lancashire, yet while Souness may have gone ’stale’ as some have suggested, the club always possessed a level of stability that he’d helped, in large part, to maintain under his tenure. The new appointment must do likewise. His first task will be to appease the current members of the squad, Barry Ferguson in particular, who would be a great loss now he’s back to full fitness, not to mention the current club captain.

You couldn’t help but realise that Ferguson’s signing was due to the lure of working under Graeme Souness, the temptation to follow him to the North East might be even greater. There exists a mutual respect between the two and it would be hard to see Ferguson staying at Ewood, unless a man of similar stature can persuade him otherwise.

Who that man is, we’ll just have to wait and see, with a deadline for the new appointment set to two-three weeks, my thumb should be primed for the remote control when the time comes. Let’s just hope the trend of appointing a successful and popular manager continues. By the way, good luck Graeme and thanks for the memories, it’s been emotional.

TV Nightmares: Saturday night and Sombre Sunday.

My ‘friend’ was round last Saturday night – although I can’t keep calling him ‘friend’, but in the interests of preserving his identity (the suffering of watching Rovers is bad enough) I’ll grant him an adopted alias, something jovial and left-field perhaps, Cornelius for example.

Alas, Cornelius was round on Saturday night – there, much better. Over the course of a few Bacardi and cherry Vimtos (don’t ask), he was rather insistent that we tuned into the X Factor at 8 o’clock, or whatever time it was on, it’s all relative.

It must have been oh, well, a good five minutes in before I offered the abrupt, yet astute volley: ‘What are we watching this crap for?’ A camp Scouser crying about something or nothing, a prepubescent girl-band that appeared as if Topshop had vomited over them, one of them dressed as Miss Piggy from the Muppets and the other one that I care to forget. ‘Turn it off Ma.., I mean Cornelius, for Shearer’s sake!’

Less than twenty-four hours later, in the comfort of my Dad’s conservatory, drink by side, cigarette in shaking hand, painstakingly taking in ten blue & white shirts, desperately entrenched in their own half for the worst part of an hour and I was saying the same bloody thing.

Salgado and Dunn were back again, our own answer to Steve Brookstein and Joe McElderry, once adored by the masses, kings of the stage - serenading mums in triple-X fleece pants, warming the heart of Gran with a sparkly tooth – the next big-thing, ‘you’ve got the X Factor!’ Louis Walsh would scream. These days you can find them playing to diners in the Maidstone branch of Pizza Express or side-by-side with Pay Day Loans - shoving their Christmas carol cover album down the throats of the unemployed: ‘Another Aldi mince-pie with that? They’re only 18p for a box of thirty-two’ Yes, please.

At half-time, things were looking a little rosier of course; Cornelius turned to my Dad and asked, rather daringly: ‘If we win this Co.., I mean Craig’s Dad, will you give Kean another chance?’ ‘No’ he said, ‘he’s a wa…, I mean wally’. We didn’t win of course; sitting back for the entire half, waiting for the siege on goal that never really came, yet rather predictably waiting for the defensive errors that would.

A misplaced defensive header here, a needless handball and free-kick concession there - Robinson beaten by anything remotely long-range once again, or twice again. 1-0 quickly became 1-2 and ninety minutes that we’ll never get back compounded a miserable weekend of TV viewing.

So to the positives - we’re used to those this season, well, there was choosing not to make the early-morning trek up to the North-East for one. I didn’t half feel sorry for those that did. While they were boarding coaches or finding their cars in the frost, I was able to take in Stoke Vs. Spurs, putting the back-to-back in Sky’s Super Sunday – seeing as the ad-breaks received more air time than the post-match analysis; at least I was spared Steve Kean.

He caught up with me later of course, scanning Sky Sports News on another ad-break, seeing what insightful excuses the tactical mastermind had to offer this week. I forgot what he said as soon as he said it, ‘something, something, scored a perfectly good second, something, something else’ – I was more mesmerised by the fact that either Keano conducts his interviews sitting down or he’s being interviewed by André The Giant; looking up at the interviewer like a schoolboy being reprimanded by the teacher towering over his desk.

I’ve never noticed the scale of his size before, although it’s hard to judge when he’s lurking in his technical area, yards from anybody else – although come to think of it, I suppose that Clement chap does tower over him every now and again; I just figured he was a big bugger. I’ll keep my eyes-peeled the next time a player of average height is in close proximity, not just for the shorts and satchel either.

Watching the Stoke and Spurs game resembled most other Premiership games not involving our bad-selves – leagues, not just places, apart. Sunderland, as they have been most season, weren’t all that. The stands were packed for O’Neill, but there didn’t seem to be much noise about what they were seeing on the pitch. We got our noses in front and despite Jason Lowe’s air-shot allowing Richardson to fluff his lines in turn, we seemed to have gone beyond that nervous stage whereby we look as if we’ll concede as soon as we score.

The tactics in the second-half were more disgraceful than disappointing. I believe it was Brian Clough who offered the simple charge that ‘If you’ve got the ball, the other team can’t score’. I’m not expecting us to spray it around like Barcelona, or Brighton even, but even the slightest inclination of retaining possession would have been a bonus. In reality, we probably put two passes together at any given moment, before Pedersen launched another one into the channels for the invisible man. It wasn’t exactly wave-after-wave from Sunderland, more so the occasional ripple in a murky puddle. I’m still puzzled, or puddled, four days on.

A point would have sufficed, but seeing as Robbo left a gap the size of the Wearmouth Bridge and neglected to place a man on the post - we got what we deserved: bugger all. A seagull crapping over St. James’ Park, twelve miles up the road, could have foreseen what Larsson was about to do. What else was he going to do? It was that obvious, it defies logic. We were screaming at the telly when he was lining up, Cornelius, my Dad and I, more so than the night before when Barlow was busy licking himself – except for my Dad of course, he wouldn’t watch that tripe.

We did find some enjoyment in our Saturday-night viewing as it happens, courtesy of the Football League show after Match of the Day. Basic psychology would probably tell you that we were preparing ourselves for the inevitable next season. That aside, we were highly amused by the long-range punts, bouncing over defender’s heads, scrambled into empty nets past helpless and often useless goalkeepers, which pretty much accounted for all of the goals throughout three divisions. Come to think of it, it was a lot like watching Rovers over the last few years – although it’s more palatable in quick-fire highlights. The soggy pitches and rain-sodden crowds soon romanced us: ‘Doesn’t look so bad down there Cornelius, we’ll have a laugh if nothing else – pass the Bacardi will you?’

The Christmas tree finally went up this week: a white affair, gloriously decorated in blue and silver tinsel – interpolated by the occasional splash of a red bauble, she looks after me ‘our lass’. There aren’t many gifts under it yet, so it must represent a ghost of Rovers’ past, and not present. My Rovers Santa is also out in force, showing his colours in the garden – although my last check on him revealed an adverse reaction to the inclement weather – the paint on his hat flaking away in the rain; maybe it’s Formica in disguise. When I tried to plug him into the mains, I also discovered that the light had gone out – very fitting.

Fear not, once more unto the breach and all that. The behemoth of Baggies and Bolton await - two games that will either fill us with festive cheer for another fall or put us out of our misery once and for all. Bah, humbug.

By the time I write again, we should have a better understanding of our seasonal fate and in the absence of X Factor on Saturday night prime-time, what other joys are in store? Harry Potter and Westlife; on second thoughts, I may not be around to write again at all. ‘Pass the bottle again would you Cornelius?’ Uncle Jack give us strength. We are the Rovers.

Feeding frenzy in white and blue...

 

What a difference a win makes; a weekly routine usually spent ranting on forums, ranting to friends, ranting to myself and ranting at the cat, has proved to be fairly meek in comparison. The high winds have passed like a gentle breeze and weather frankly described as ‘bastard freezing’ has pleasantly translated to a more muted sense of feeling ‘a bit fresh’.

Feeding time for the Yak proved to be the big talking point and in particular, his celebration for the first of four, count them again, watch them again, savour them again, yes, four goals.

The Rovers' saviour chose to toast his first by embracing public-enemy-number-one, high-fiving manager Steve Kean in a romantic embrace – a thank-you if you like, thanking him for failing to land at least half-a-dozen other striking targets, before his eleventh-hour olive branch at the close of the last transfer window.

Ok, fair enough, I’m being a tad harsh on old Keano - we’re a fickle bunch after all. Last week, in the red-blooded rage of his ‘forfeit’ comments, which we are now told were taken out of context, I admit to being a little forthcoming and emotional with the occasional insult or five. I may have suggested the hope that Paul Clement whispered to him: “Steve, you’re shit” – although, I too must profess that those comments were taken out of context. If it works for footballers and managers, then it must apply to me Steve? ‘No? Okay, bollocks to you then.’ That was also out of context, for the record.

After a thumping victory, I could have been forgiven for not knowing what to do with one's self – so I did exactly what any thirty-year old male, devoid of off-spring and freshly coined from pay-day would have done: I went out and got absolutely bladdered.

The ensuing Sunday hangover took in several viewings of Saturday’s highlights, several amounting to around twenty-six; yes friends, it really has been a while. The more I watched, the more sympathy I garnered for Kean – not to mention the Yak, although if blasting in four is his reaction to being jeered, then I suggest we all chip in and make a habit out of it.

I didn’t boo, it’s not in my nature – and to be honest, I’m not sure what I made of it. I was too eager for the replay to appear on the big screen, bouncing on heels and embracing myself. Well, not myself, not in public anyway – more so a good friend, although ‘friend’ somehow sounded worse than ‘myself’ when I just wrote it.

Anyway, I digress - it didn’t anger me particularly either, although a few of the old boys around me took exception to it, a sight that is becoming more apparent and more amusing by the game. Old legends boiling with blood, calmed down by a neighbouring hand and a cough sweet before the grim reaper takes his seat at the other side: “They want their bloody heads testing that lot. Get behind em’ you buggers”. It would appear that Ewood remains divided when it comes to the protests.

Unless of course your name is David Gest – where did he come from? I thought I was still half-cut when I saw YouTube footage of the Pop-Presario - or whatever he is, I care to forget, or care at all – parading himself at the throne of the protesters, yellow t-shirt and all. They’re attracting all sorts down there these days.

Aside from the obvious, oh go on then – I’ll mention it again – the Yak and his four, yes four goals, the other pleasing points from a much needed-win were the return of the big man himself, Chris Samba, and the long-awaited cameo of the Montenegrin-in-the-mask, Simon Vukčević, offering a hand in two goals after replacing the injured Rochina.

If the magic sponge fails on the Spaniard this weekend, then it has to be an opportunity for Simon to get some much-needed playing time. We could have picked a better weekend of course, as opposed to the fanfare and furore that awaits Martin O’Neill and the crowning of the Mackems’ new king.

The defensive frailties were still there against Swansea, although Sunderland would appear susceptible to much of the same. Their back-line resembles a ghost of Manchester United’s League Cup past, although the atmosphere is likely to be white-hot, white-and-red-hot in fact. Make no mistake, this won’t be the same stadium that had turned on their previous manager, Steve Bruce, greeting Wigan’s smash-and-grab with V-signs at the exits a fortnight ago; a stern test awaits.

Back to those four goals (again), statisticians of the world correct me if I’m wrong, but the last time a Rovers player achieved that particular feat, I was a mere blue-eyed boy – five years old and visiting Ewood for the first time, something I’m not likely to forget. It was fitting that I was sat in the Nuttall Street stand that day, besides my brother, dad and granddad, the inauguration of three generations of Rovers fans – as I was the Jack Walker Stand on Saturday, minus relatives, but with said 'friend' - savouring a 6-1 victory over this weekend’s very opponents.

It was Simon Garner who etched four more in the record books that afternoon, who else? - adding weight to my dad’s boasts that we were ‘the greatest team in the world, lad’. We weren’t of course, in fact – most of that season was spent listening to the mutterings and mumblings of kindred old boys, cough sweets and all - although admittedly they were cut from slightly different cloth-caps back then, at the opposing end of the protesting spectrum to their modern-day incumbents: “Piss off Saxton and take them buggers on the board with you!”

Nobody was getting carried away in 1986 and they certainly won’t be this weekend. Alas, it’s an opportunity for the pendulum of popularity to once again take a surprising swing in Steve Kean’s favour. With two more winnable home games on the horizon, three more of the same will do very nicely, or one – we’re not greedy; feed the Yak. We are the Rovers.

Time to forfeit yourself Steve. Enough is enough.

 

I love midweek games, always have done. It dates back to my days as a schoolboy, unaffected by financial pressures and fatigue, happy to watch the Rovers every living day of the week. School was notoriously crap, the girls would sooner fight you than look at you and there wasn’t much else going on. Come to think of it, as an adult – nothing much has changed, well, apart from the financial pressures bit.

The illumination of the floodlights, the mystical magic in the air, the atmosphere and intensified excitement, breaking the working week up and more poignantly, allowing an immediate opportunity to make up for a Saturday defeat. Unless you get dicked again that is.

Yesterday’s trip to Cardiff proved to be exactly that, comprehensively outplayed for the third time in succession – leaving a bitter taste in the mouths of 1,000 foolhardy fans. A frosty evening in Cardiff was interpolated by sporadic outbreaks of rain and hail, though it was the shower on the pitch that caused most concern. Unlike the weather, poor performances and poorer results are becoming more predictable by the day, or night.

I see Kean’s been at it again, reinforcing stereotypes about footballers and managers - well, some of them - being essentially brain-dead, spouting the usual clichés and nonsense, only to contradict himself twenty-four hours later. ‘I WON’T SACRIFICE CUP SUCCESS’ boasted the headline of the local rag on Tuesday, while Wednesday’s edition offered the contrast of ‘LEAGUE COMES FIRST’ and the alarming admission that Kean had ‘forfeited’ the match through his equally alarming team selection and tactical ineptitude.

We’ve grown accustomed to Kean talking bollocks, or at least attempted to, but this latest line is one giant slap in the face to the travelling fans who rebuilt their hopes, piece-by-piece, after a mauling at Stoke, embarrassed by Wigan a week earlier, making the 400 mile round-trip on a bitterly cold Tuesday night.

In testing economic times, capping off three away trips in nine days and with an expensive festive season on the horizon, the much-maligned manager has gained yet more enemies with his latest PR disaster. Witnessing it was bad enough.

In reality, a place that Kean appears to have completely disconnected himself from, and considering that both Olsson and Samba aren’t fully fit anyway - this was his current first-choice defence that shipped their 8th goals in 3 outings, the 38th of the season so-far and the 73rd of one of the worst years in recent history.

One of his key summer signings, Simon Vukčević , – a winger deemed ‘not-yet-fit’ for the Premiership – was overlooked for a player who is evidently not fit for League One in Blackman. Mauro Formica looks like he’d be more comfortable in front of a roasting fire, while the rest of team would be more comfortable with a roasting fire up their arse.

A goal-down at the interval and still in with a shout, we were expecting changes at half-time. We really should know better. They didn’t come of course, not after the second calamitous goal went in, not until the 70th and 80th minutes. ‘Too little, too late’ – never mind key players, it’s the fans that need a rest.

A manager increasingly showing the strains of pressure, Kean spent most of the game patrolling the technical area in his mackintosh. A bag-of-tosh would be more fitting.

Seeing as the action on the pitch was non-existent, unless you were a Cardiff fan – who themselves appeared sympathetic to our plight – I spent a lot of the second-half observing the manager’s body language. He demonstrated a disconnection to his own bench, a lack of unity and support perhaps, flailing his arms around as Real Madrid, sorry, Cardiff forged another frenzied attack on the Rovers goal. Paul Clement eventually had a word in his ear, the first signs of movement from the bench all night. I don’t know what Paul said – but I hope it was something along the lines of: “Steve, you’re shit”.

By the time his team had recovered possession and had bored the living daylights out of each other with the sideways passing speed of a tortoise carrying a piano up an extensive flight of stairs, Cardiff had predictably re-organised. Defending as a unit, attacking as a unit, picking their way through static opposition – Premiership? We’re not exactly having a laugh, but the team would appear to struggle at Championship level, should the increasingly inevitable threat of relegation loom. Key players won’t be available for selection at all next season, so the dynamics of last night’s selection would be the same.

Plan B was to launch a series of balls ten-yards over Goodwillie’s head – cutting a frustrated and forlorn figure at the blunted spearhead of a toothless attack. We can’t even play the long-ball game these days.

The team lacks leadership, a motivator, a Robbie Savage to have a word and pick them up. By his own admission, Savage wasn’t the best player – but that was his greatest impact and compliment – rousing the players when the going got tough, berating mistakes and congratulating a good tackle or play, setting the tempo of the last great Rovers side under Mark Hughes. Samba tries his best, but much like his fitness and fidelity, we can’t rely too much on the big man.

Like most of the season, Kean was tactically outwitted by his counterpart, this time by a manager who has barely more experience. Every time Cardiff won possession, there were three or four bodies asking for the ball. They were organised, passionate and completely deserving of a one-sided victory. The 20,000 who paid their respects beautifully to Gary Speed would have been expecting a stern test against higher-level opposition, although it was the home team that appeared superior in every position on the pitch. In truth, it was as easy a victory as they’re likely to experience all season.

So where to now? Can we beat Swansea on Saturday? On recent showings, the answer is particularly blunt. Enough is enough. The team is going down, a shock win on Saturday or not; shock being the key word. Fearing the visit of Swansea tells its own story. Realistically, we need to take nine points from the next four games. Can we see that happening? Kean probably can and he’ll probably follow it up with more excuses.

Individually, we’re not that bad – we can all see it – but collectively, as a team, we’re a disaster and the buck has to stop with one man. The football is getting worse, the results speak for themselves and the baby-steps taken against Chelsea and Spurs are but a distant memory. Patience has been abandoned and the protestors were right all along.

It’s time to unite and up the ante, it’s time to make that voice heard all the way to India. Venky’s, we’re pleading with you, crying from the stands: it’s time to put your money where your mouth is, get your fingers out and try and salvage something from this mess while there’s still time. Cardiff are laughing at us, B*rnl*y are laughing at us and the powder-keg of emotion is exploding all around us. You don’t need to be a football expert to come to the very real conclusion that it’s not working. It’s not getting any better. It won’t get any better. We’re embarrassed and we’re hurting, lying in the gutter, angry and dejected. It’s time for the axe to fall. Steve Kean: get your mackintosh - it’s time to go. We are the Rovers.

Gary Speed: Legend of the game. Rest In Peace.

Slumdog Millionaires...

I like to embrace the unknown, always have done. New pins to stick in the map, sights to see, sounds to absorb, people to meet, places to marvel at, etcetera , etcetera, etcetera. You get the gist. By the same token, I’ve always welcomed visitors from foreign lands – whether they be ten miles down the road (not East though, obviously) or from a different country entirely. My best mate at college was from Bolton for example, not that exotic admittedly – but he spoke differently, one of those plastic Mancunian accents, quasi-Liam Gallagher, you know the one.

I’m the kind of chap who’d give a lift to a bloke in a balaclava because I liked his accent, blissfully unaware of the semtex obscenely sellotaped around his chest.

I routinely talk utter bollocks to taxi-drivers for similar reasons, usually about cricket - breathing ale and chilli sauce all over them, leaning through the seats – instantaneously presuming that they’re all in love with the sport. Some entertain me, most simply play along as I’m pouring shrapnel out of my pocket in a blind-drunk moment of charity. I like doing my bit.

“Cheers mate, it’s been emotional. I promise I’ll visit Bangladesh one day”. My change magically disappears when those collectors with tins pass me by; I daren’t move a muscle for the slightest rattle of a five-pence-piece embracing a pound. I turn into Bob Geldof when I’ve had a skin-full.

It was the same when the Venky’s arrived, amused by the Rao brothers’ solitary wave to the cameras - one of them dripping in gold, looking like he had a mini-Uzi tucked into his blazer pocket, the other one looking a bit ‘special’, not too sure where he was and what he’d let himself in for. Turns out he was right.

I blame that Danny Boyle. I’ve wanted to visit India ever since ‘Slumdog Millionaire’. I’d be no good in ‘28 Days Later’ mind, staggering out of the kebab-shop, hunting in those deep-pockets whilst the living dead are gnawing my arm off. You never could tell friend from foe at 2am on Darwen Street.

Back to the Venky’s – where was I, ah yes, initial thoughts being positive. Bit of cash finally, no more Herold Goulons, exposure in the middle-east, ‘We’re gonna do X, Y and Z’ – you know the script by now.

All that chicken stuff pissed me off and yes, I was absolutely delighted when they axed Allardyce (I make a point of not calling him ‘Big Sam’ – to do that, would express some form of affection towards the man, or myth, whichever way). I’ve argued the points on numerous online forums – but the simple fact is thus: the football was crap. Nobody can argue with that. We’ll leave it there and agree to disagree, or agree, which would be better.

I’m also a champion of the underdog, besides the unknown – so it will come as little surprise that I was a fan of Steve Kean to begin with. His managerial inexperience intrigued me, I wanted to know more – Uefa Pro Licence, nice; played and coached abroad, interesting; speaks several languages, fluent in Portuguese, sold! He’s not the best-looking mind, but never mind all that, this is football lad: ‘There’s only one Keano!’

…and then he opened his mouth to the cameras every week. Now, don’t get me wrong – I’ve risen above this more than most. All football managers talk nonsense. Wenger’s made a career out of it; Ferguson, although mildly amusing and witty in recent years (must be the wine) used to be a right…, well, we won’t go there; Mourinho: once the charm has worn off, soon becomes very tedious, probably explains why he buggers off to a new country every few years; as for Capello, who’s teaching him English? Ranieri?

Maybe we’d love Kean more if he lost it every now and again, did a Mike Bassett or Keegan – or Big Ron when he threw his toys at Richard Keys and then threw the microphone at the cameraman, only to realise what he’d done and apologise. That’s how you do it.

I still feel some sympathy for Kean, I really do. I don’t hate the man and want him to burn in hell (read the forums) – he’s a human-being after all. What’s it matter if we’re second from bottom in the league and in all likelihood, heading down to the football league? Ah, okay then, where did I put that pitchfork?

It’s been a turbulent year, at first they couldn’t say enough – talking of Beckham and Ronaldinho, Champions League and other rubbish. These days, you can’t get a word out of them edgeways – a blanket of silence. Either way, it’s the fans that are suffering.

Last week, I talked of ‘Wigan or Bust’ – we didn’t bust in the end, but we didn’t win either, in fact, I don’t think we know how to win anymore. We got off to the perfect start, instantly surrendered it and were completely outplayed from that moment on. Samba, Lowe and Olsson were big absentees, although I’m still at a loss to explain how the latter managed to play 90 minutes for Sweden in midweek. Fergie wouldn’t have it, pissed or not.

To further unsettle what had become a settled team, Kean, in his infinite wisdom – dropped Formica for Dunn. We love you Dunny, we always will, pissed or not – but watching every attack break down whilst you’re busy trying to keep up is becoming increasingly painful. It’s like watching the family-pet deteriorate – he wouldn’t look out of place with one of those giant cones round his neck, so he can’t chew on his stitches. In truth, the ten-men were better than the eleven and we were better for his absence – although it helped having an excuse as to why our fellow strugglers continued to give us the run-around. As for Salgado, I give up – time to get the message Steve, open your eyes and realise that he’s finished; a complete and utter liability.

We can’t even take a crafty corner right can we? Crafty enough though. Much like Andre Marriner (very exotic, until you discover he’s from Sheldon, West Midlands), I had my back turned too.

I was busy trying to diffuse another argument in the stands at the time. I ended up splitting it up, by telling them to watch the match, although I may have been a bit more choice with my language in all fairness and one of them was my Dad. Anyway, five seconds later: goal. Hugs and kisses all round. In football, that’s all it takes.

Venky’s to Dunn, Kean to Salgado and finally, to complete our series of heroes turned villains, or indeed vice-versa, Paul Robinson: we salute you. There was a collective release of emotion that greeted both award and penalty in the 53 ^rd minute of stoppage time, with a sustained period of buttock clenching in-between, and at moments like that - it’s easy to confuse injury-time equalisers with winners. Sure felt like it though, however glazed with fortune.

And so to Stoke, a ground that has been far from kind in recent years; Allardyce’s Rovers were completely outplayed there three times, out-mastered and out-fought by his very muse, the special one himself: Tony Pulis.

Despite the fact that he looks like he’s been let out on day-release, I secretly admire Pulis. Where as watching Rovers under Allardyce resembled Alex De-Large in Clockwork Orange, strapped to a chair, eyelids pinned open, being force-fed re-runs of Wimbledon, John Beck’s Cambridge and snippets of Ian Ormondroyd whilst screaming with terror -  Pulis’ at least appears to offer added extras to his direct style of play. He combines it with pace and craft on the flanks for instance and a decent striker or two. He’s worked wonders at Stoke and were it to change, you suspect they’d be back in the lower leagues – probably with us at this rate.

The game’s on TV, so I don’t expect many to be there – less arguments at least. There’s certainly one fan who will be absent on Saturday and let me close in taking a moment to remember one of our own, a fellow member of football’s family, a lifelong Rovers supporter: John Taylor.

John tragically lost his life at the Britannia twenty-one months ago, through what can only be described as a freak accident. In times of supporter discontent, it really puts things into perspective. Football shapes the mood of our daily lives sometimes, but it’s incomparable to life or death. There’s only one John Taylor, may he rest in peace. Let our thoughts be with his family and friends. Raise your glasses ladies and gentlemen. As long as we all stick together, this famous club of ours – and it is OURS, not theirs - will always have a heart-beat. We are the Rovers.

When the Rovers fought each other on the pitch, not just the stands...

Outdone, but not forgotten... Morten Gamst Pedersen Vs. Wigan 31/12/05

Blink... and you'll miss it. Steven Reid Vs. Wigan 31/12/05

Pies, pubs and points: Wigan or bust.

 

Ah, Wigan: Bastion of the North, a beacon of light shining gloriously through the grit and dirt of the mills and mines; nineteen times league champions, eighteen times cup winners: the country’s finest, ancient and loyal, glorious and great – a working-class hero is something to be.

Hang on a minute… there’s something not right there, allow me to begin again.

Ah, Wigan… well, that’s about it really. Even Kipling himself would be hard-pushed to come over all poetic about the Latics, Lazarus references aside.

If the Rovers have long been viewed as a Premier League imposter, stubbornly denying the bigger city boys of a tenancy at the top-table, then Wigan must be the steadfast squatter; immovable and emotive, they shall not be moved.

When they clambered up in 2005, nobody gave them a chance of staying there. Dave Whelan’s millions or not, times had changed since Uncle Jack and 1992. Two opening defeats, however narrow, did little to dispel that theory - until a run of eight wins from their next nine games propelled Paul Jewell’s charges to second place in the table and twenty-five points from eleven games; relegation was no longer on the menu.

An impressive casserole of a side, blending the pace of Chimbonda and Camara, the menace of Scharner, the athleticism of Roberts and Baines, the experience of Kavanagh and the looks of Bullard - allowed Wigan a team that the Warriors would have been proud of.

Not even a post-winter slide could hinder a journey to a Cup Final - embarrassing Arsenal in the height of Semi-Final Olés at Highbury – and a tenth-placed finish to cap a sterling first season in the top-flight. Not bad for a team that didn’t join the Football League’s ranks until 1978.

As would become the norm, the revolving doors greeted old with new and while the likes of Bullard, Roberts and Chimbonda would predictably head for arenas with less reverb, their places would soon be warmed by internationals in Landzaat, Heskey, Kirkland and future Manchester United wing-ace Antonio Valencia.

Second-season-syndrome has taken many a victim and it almost copped for Wigan too. A final day nail-biter at Bramall Lane will live on in Latics folklore for eternity and while Carlos Tevez and Sean Bean would go on to earn the headlines that day, Wigan’s outstanding achievement in the face of adversity was not to be overlooked. It proved too much for Jewell however, resigning the following day and handing the reigns over to assistant Chris Hutchings.

If there was a feeling of déjà-vu about that moment, then it was reinforced when Hutchings only lasted until November, as had been the exact case at Bradford seven years earlier. Steve Bruce was to follow, heralding in 14 ^th and 11^th place finishes respectively and more comings and goings in the transfer market.

Bruce’s departure to Sunderland saw the arrival of former terrace favourite Roberto Martinez, fresh from cutting his managerial teeth at another former club, Swansea City. Under Martinez, Wigan have been capable of beating Chelsea, Liverpool and Arsenal only to suffer the likes of a 9-1 humbling at Tottenham and an 8-0 sacrifice at Stamford Bridge.

Last season, it appeared that they had finally outstayed their welcome – demonstrating a similar kind of self-destruction that even the empty seats would shy away from, including an opening day debacle at home to Blackpool (0-4) and another horror-show against Chelsea (0-6).

When West Ham rolled into town in May, the capital-centric media were still hoping to avoid the mop and eggs from their Footballer of the Year award, only to see the league’s ‘best player ‘ and the hapless Hammers undone by the miracle of N’Zogbia’s eleventh-hour solo to condemn the East-enders and keep Wigan’s hopes alive.

Rodallega did the rest at Stoke and the footballing gods proved to be fond of a steaming hot pie once more.

When you’re down there, as both Wigan and Blackburn currently are, then you tend to take solace in the belief that there are three teams worse off than you, and while the JJB / DW Stadium has proved to be a popular journey in victory or defeat, Rovers fans will begrudgingly hope that it’s time for Wigan to finally go in for their tea.

Goals and drama have certainly been served up in the past, too many to mention in fact, and the form guide would suggest more of the same, at either end.

Patience was still on Kean’s side when his team were on the wrong-side of a seven-goal swing in February and this has been a ground where the ashes of another reviled manager were previously scattered, or rather violently discarded, as Paul Ince’s head collapsed onto the chopping board three years ago.

There’s a fondness for Wigan, that travelling Rovers fans hold dear – filling the void of a brief courtship with Oldham in the early nineties, or the promenade fumble with Blackpool last term. Bolton is getting tedious now, yet while there would be short-term rejoicing if the Wanderers bit the dust, we’d secretly miss them in time. Naturally, we don't mention the other lot.

From Stephen Reid’s thunderbolt to Santa coming early, there’s always been plenty of drama in these parts. It’s usually an occasion whereby Rovers take their best away following of the season, whether it be the lynch-mob that called time on Ince or the raptures that greeted Bellamy and McCarthy making it three. The icy streets of Wigan town have routinely been filled with supporters in good voice and spirits, relatively free of trouble and absolutely full of drink. It’s a fixture that most supporters would bypass completely, but for Rovers - it’s one of the first that we look out for.

Local sentiment aside, the discontent continues in Ewood circles and while some supporters have chosen the week ahead of Venky’s one-year anniversary to mark the death of the connection between fans and club, laying floral tributes outside the Jack Walker statue, nobody can argue that the last rites on Kean will be chanted aloud should we fail to convince and take the points.

It’d take more than a victory to turn a few heads, but it will go a long-way in convincing others that there is hope after all. Performances are on the up, the team finally appears settled and it’s now time for results: football’s bread and butter.

The importance of this game cannot be underestimated; defeat is almost unthinkable in the bigger picture, and if Rovers are to climb the table sooner rather than later, then they will have to step on a few heads to get there – starting on Saturday: Wigan or bust. We are the Rovers.

If you didn't rant, you'd cry...

 

Blood boiling, frantic key-tapping, delete, re-type, brain, mouth, fingers: completely unengaged; it’s all part of being a modern football fan these days. From forums to Facebook, from Talksport to Twitter – football supporters have never had so many podiums from which to offer their opinions or shoot down others.

We used to do these things indoors, amongst close contemporaries, back in the pub after a game or on the walk back to the car. By the time the second pint had touched lips, or the heat from the engine had melted into an ambience of early-evening sky, sweetly serenaded by the passing traffic and crackly radio – we’d usually resigned our attentions to something else – there’s always next week: ‘we’ll do them then’ – there are more important things in life – aren’t there?

I can’t speak for everyone, but a look through the forums and social networking sites tell me that I’m not alone and as a Blackburn Rovers supporter in troubled times, I simply cannot turn off.

There’s perhaps something inwardly perverse that keeps me wanting to come back for more – it’s like a drug, a bad one. I spoke to a good friend the other day, mulling over which away dates are looking appealing – a normal being would say none – and yet, the sadomasochist in me fancied them all; ‘glutton for punishment’ doesn’t do it justice.

When all is well with your beloved, we have a tendency to get complacent. A quick analysis is enough, smug in victory, tails up for the rest of the week – perhaps a cheeky glance at the league table just to tell ourselves how wonderful we really are. Tumbleweeds blow over keyboards, pins drop on radio phone-ins, all is well with the world – well, with football anyway. Match of the Day can be enjoyed for once, or bypassed completely – what’s it matter? ‘We won, I was there, the box is ticked, see them again next week’.

The above sentiment may puzzle some of you, there may be a sense that I’ve made the whole thing up and you’re probably right. In truth, I have no immediate recollection of what that feels like – I can only hark back to a golden age that probably never existed in the first place. I probably wouldn’t want it to exist – where’s the fun in that?

It’s fitting perhaps that one of our most loyal custodians, a player who has divided opinion for the last five years and has been loved and loathed in equal measure, allowed us more coverage on Match of the Day on Sunday night, than we received when we won the title in 1995. I was immediately inspired by Jason Roberts’ positivity – yet I have no doubt, that the next man probably thought to himself ‘what a load of b*ll*cks’.

Back to 1995, I defy any Rovers fan that has watched Sky Sports’ Premiership Years not to feel utterly empty and cheated from that year’s offering – it’s as if it’s a footnote at the end: ‘Klinsmann blah, blah, Cantona, blah, blah, Fowler, blah, blah, Wright, blah, blah, Venables, blah, blah, oh, there’s Shearer and by the way, Blackburn Rovers won the title in their third season since winning promotion’. Yes, it’s personal and yes, I hold a grudge. It wasn’t Manchester United’s failure; it was history in the making – not forgetting the fact that had we not been completely robbed of points in both fixtures against our title rivals, we’d have romped to the title – Ludek Miklosko or not (legend).

Anyway, I digress (and breathe), the sacking of Allardyce, the appointment of Kean, ‘Kean out’, ‘give him a chance’, ‘we’ve given him a chance’, ‘give him another’, ‘the football’s better’, ‘the results are sh*t’, ‘we’re going down’, ‘we’re staying up’, ‘we’ve got no money’, ‘we’ve got money’, ‘the owners are w*nk*rs’, ‘well, at least they’ve got a few bob’, ‘no, they haven’t’, ‘the plane’s a good idea’, ‘the plane was a sh*t idea’, ‘bury your head in the sand’, ‘you’re a wanker’, ‘you are’ – can you see where I’m going with this? If you didn’t rant – you’d cry.

I guess that’s my point, whatever the true intentions of the owners are, whether the manager is up to it or not – it’s got us all talking again, it’s got football talking, about us – that little club in East Lancashire buried behind terraced houses, the one that won the Premier League once (If you stay up to watch the credits on Sky’s Premiership Years 1994-95 that is).

It’s not exclusive to fellow supporters ranting at each other online either, club legends and players have been ridiculed for speaking out, and in recent weeks, I’ve witnessed pensioners arguing with middle-aged men in the stands. Only today, the local paper’s own blogger has used his weekly offering to openly abuse the protest organisers, despite demanding that the manager had to go only a matter of weeks earlier.

The irony to all this, is that the protest organisers are the hard-core group that felt ‘enough was enough’, that something needed to be done many months ago. Kudos to them for keeping things fairly amicable, xenophobic chicken jibes aside.

In truth, the aeroplane stunt backfired. Initially, I felt it was admirable that they had stuck two fingers up to the banner ban – but for various reasons, the main one being that we were actually outplaying Chelsea at the time – it just didn’t work. The whole thing felt a tad awkward after the initial impact and to be honest, I actually felt a bit of compassion and embarrassment towards the manager – he’s a human being after all.

So where do the protesters go from here? It’s all very well demanding them to stop, but as Blackburnians and Rovers fans, giving up isn’t embedded into our nature - we’d have left for sunnier climates or bigger teams some time ago if that were to be the case. It’s a matter of principle and if performances dip and the results don’t come, then we’ll be wishing they never went away.

There’s further irony in the fact that Steve Kean may be cut from similar cloth – say what you will about the man, but his loyalty and strength of character are proving to be admirable qualities; virtues that will be well suited in the months to come. Of course, he’s earning more money than he’s ever earned in his life – but a pay-out, subsequent gagging order and stress-free life would be an easier and cosier option. Strip it all down and it boils down to one fact – that the man wants to succeed.

By the same token, the Venky’s continue to back their man. Call it stubbornness, or born out of the fact that they made such a bold step in the first place -  that may well be – but it’s the same stubbornness that will ensure that the protests are on-going; we’re all human.

As Jason Roberts pointed out on Sunday night – if the team is winning, then everybody is happy. When we were losing earlier on in the season, nobody was happy. Now, we’re playing well – but not achieving the results that our performances merit, some are happy and some aren’t. That’s football.

I’ve climbed up and down from my fence a few times, landing on either side – I’m back on the bugger at the moment, for performances alone - but I can’t rest there too long. The splinters will get me before the fortnight is out, yet there are three words flashing through my mind at the moment that will say more than any argument could ever do, wherever your opinion lies: ‘WIGAN OR BUST’. We are the Rovers.

Sad Ken: Putting the glamour into gambling

 

 “If you can make one heap of all your winnings,
And risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss,
And lose, and start again at your beginnings,
And never breathe a word about your loss”

O'rate lads. Old Ken's rough as robber's dog this morning. Yer know it's bin a good nate when you wek up on't kictchen floor cuddlin' whippet's water bowl.

Crystal bollock din't pick yers any winners las' week, fear not - I've given't bugger a wipe wit' old lasses drawers, they're bloody big enough. Hopefully we'll be spendin't winnings in't boozer leter. Bloody hope so, az all I cem back wit' last nate were a pocket full o' copper an' a brocken fag end. Pisser.

Good luck lads!

LEYTON ORIENT (21/20) Vs Hartlepool

 
I don't usually back them flash cockney buggers, but I'll make an exception for the Orient. Leyton Orient are unbeaten in their last 7, whereas Hartlepool have lost 5 of their last 6, including losing their last 2 without scoring and conceding 6 in the process. Hartlepool are a team seriously out of form after a solid start to the season. The monkey hangers should find it tough going here.
 

 
SHEFFIELD WEDNESDAY (4/5) Vs Brentford

 
Sheffield Wednesday's home record is impressive to say the least.  7 wins from 7 games. This is the Wednesday of course, and the Owls are liable to implode at any given moment. This one could come with a health warning, preferably not one with some poor bugger's insides hanging out. Brentford's away record is very good, but of late their form has dipped, picking up only 9 points in their last 8 games, winning only 1 of their last 5. Wednesday should have too much on home soil.
 

 
SOUTHEND (EVNS) Vs Oxford

 
Two of the most inform teams in the division.  Southend are unbeaten in 9 (W8 D1). Oxford have lost only 1 in their last 10 and boast an impressive 17 points from their last 8 games, that loss being on their last away day to 10th placed Gillingham. Take the Shrimpers to inflict back to back away defeats.
 
CHEEKY TREBLE - Pays 13/2 with Victor Chandler.

SOCCER SATURDAY SEVEN UP - Feeling lucky?

ASTON VILLA Vs. Norwich
MIDDLESBROUGH Vs. Watford
IPSWICH Vs. Doncaster
MK DONS Vs. Rochdale
NOTTS COUNTY Vs. Wycombe
GILLINGHAM Vs. Northampton
AFC WIMBLEDON Vs. Barnet

All the best,
Sad Ken

Blackburn Rovers 7-1 Norwich City, Saturday 3rd October, 1992.

Blue & White Time Machine: One from the archives...

Ahead of this weekend's trip to Carrow Road, here's an article from the archives from 2004 - originally written as a weekly columnist for the now defunct www.roversactive.co.uk

We used to score seven... 
by Craig R. Haydock, 3rd November, 2004

 

Cast your mind back to Saturday, 3rd October 1992. Its days like these that the tabloid headlines have a tendency to write themselves. When Rovers thrashed seven goals past a hapless Norwich City it was more than a ‘lucky’ number, it was more than ‘magnificent’ and the Ewood faithful was in more than ’seventh heaven’.

I strutted with pride the whole of the following week at school. You’d have thought that I’d managed an under the table peak up Dayna Harrison’s skirt in double Geography or finally discovered my first pubic hair. 7up had become my latest break-time tipple and I became the scourge of my next-door neighbour’s garden in a vain attempt to re-create Alan Shearer’s glorious chip over a startled Bryan Gunn.

I’m a tad large for a back-garden slog in the mud these days, but last Sunday’s hangover viewing took in a dusted down copy of Rovers’ 92/93 Season Review, one word: bloody marvellous (okay, two). My mouth literally watered as I basked in the glory of better days, by the time the Norwich demolition came onto the screen my eyes were already aglow with the feast of football unfolding before me.

Scoring seven goals in football is the ultimate definition of a complete and utter rout and watching your team score seven goals can only be described as pure unbridled joy, watching them concede seven goals? I wouldn’t know, touch wood.

Norwich was the first, since then Rovers fans have enjoyed similar routs against Nottingham Forest 7-0 (95/96), Sheffield Wednesday 7-2 (97/98) and West Ham 7-1 (01/02). More acute finishing and our not-so-friendly neighbours from the other side of Accrington may have suffered similar humiliation (00/01) and the ’suicide squad’ may have had a more realistic meaning, although five against our bitter rivals did indeed feel like ten.

Incidentally, Rovers nearly managed it on my debut appearance at Ewood Park in 1986. Six goals against Sunderland and four from a certain legendary Number 10 was ample enough to make me fall in love with Blackburn Rovers and Simon Garner forever. We’ve managed six a few times since as well, but six just isn’t seven, is it?

The win over Norwich sent us to the top of the Premier League, replacing the Canaries as a result. This weekend we’ll be hoping to do likewise - although nineteenth spot and above is the aim of the day, how the times have changed.

Was it really that long ago when Roy Wegerle fell on his arse before slotting home and Gordon Cowans (god bless him) curled a delightful free-kick in off the post? Alan Shearer twice, another from Wegerle and token gestures from Ripley and Sherwood completed the scoring that day. One look at the Norwich back four and the appearance of a beleaguered Chris Sutton and time tells it’s own story. Twelve years is a long time in football, evidently so.

A point against Liverpool last Saturday was satisfying enough for a louder than usual home following, who had braced themselves for the worse. After the game we were talking ’sevens’ again, but it was the ‘Number 7′ not seven goals that had captivated the Blackburn End with a series of dazzling runs and potent play. While Brett Emerton was busy tormenting the opposition, doubting Thomas’s everywhere were hanging their heads in shame.

I’m a fully signed up member of the Brett Emerton appreciation society, I was delighted when we signed him from under the noses of a host of top clubs for the paltry sum of 2.2 million, ecstatic when he notched on his debut with a 20 yarder and well, okay, he’s not been brilliant since but the talent is there, believe. With quality players around him, Emerton, not unlike Barry Ferguson, has the promise to excel.

That quality will be needed in East Anglia if Rovers are to overcome their away-day blues and not suffer the indignity of becoming Norwich’s first Premiership scalp of the season.

The last time the two sides met, Mark Hughes was sent off on New Years Day 2001, with Marcus Bent securing a plucky point. The last time Rovers played at Carrow Road in the top flight we were humbled 2-1 en route to the championship, while the Canaries would go on to be relegated. A prediction for Saturday? ‘One nil to the Millionaires.’ Nostalgia is a wonderful thing.

(Footnote: The game would end Norwich City 1-1 Blackburn Rovers, Paul Dickov earning ten-man Rovers a point, after Jay Bothroyd had been sent-off for kicking Mattias Jonson)