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.