Why Alan Shearer should be the next Blackburn manager…

These are suddenly exciting times for Rovers, fan power has belatedly conquered and we’re talking about a whole pack of manager names, rather than just the one. In my shortlist so far however, there can only be one and Shearer be thy name. Allow me to explain...

Timing...

I can allow for a certain degree of scepticism, because four years ago I shared the same beliefs: ‘too risky’, ‘not enough experience’, ‘talks bollocks on Match of the Day’, ‘will probably piss off to Newcastle again’ etcetera, etecetera.

However, this time it’s different. For starters, Shearer wouldn’t be succeeding a hugely popular and successful manager in Mark Hughes. Paul Ince’s mini-revolution was a catastrophe, but he was stepping into big shoes after Sparky had worked minor miracles on an increasingly tight budget.

In 2008, Rovers had just missed out on European qualification and had a queue of admirers for star players such as Bentley, Friedel & Santa Cruz. The difficult task for John Williams and the board told its own story, Ince was fired and the rest is history.

Four years on and the only way is up. We’re in a forgiving league for starters, so much so that we’re able to drop five points in two games and still be in touching distance of the top. If ever we had a year for a manager to cut his teeth and still achieve results, then this is it.

Quality...

It’s not often you’ll hear our beloved owners praised on these pages, or anywhere in fact, but in avoiding the usual relegation asset-stripping, we’ve managed to hang on to some key players and many would argue that the current squad is stronger than the one that suffered relegation in May.

If Shearer was to take the reins, he’d be inheriting a very useful group of players requiring only minor cultivation. Robinson, Olsson, Givet, Murphy, Etuhu and Gomes could all comfortably play at the highest level and the impact on Jordan Rhodes’ fledgling goal-scoring career could be deadly. Dare I say, Shearer and Dalglish all over again.

History...

When a young Alan Shearer became Britain’s most expensive player in 1992, he arrived at a ramshackle ground, however romantic, and played as big a part in the foundations of the modern Blackburn Rovers as Uncle Jack himself.

I count myself very, very, VERY fortunate to have witnessed the world’s best striker at the peak of his powers. I still haven’t seen better and doubt I ever will. Shearer could walk on water and when he left in 1996, I can remember exactly where I was as vividly as 9/11. Yes it’s sad, but it’s true and if I’m honest, it’s probably taken me this long to get over it.

Without him, we wouldn’t have won the Premiership title, in fact we wouldn’t have come close. I would still argue that we’d have won it two years earlier had he not suffered serious injury against Leeds on Boxing Day 1992. Sixteen Premier League goals before the New Year - he really was THAT good.

Team Shearer...

If the rumours are true, then Super Al has already got his management dream-team in place – with old pal and strike-partner Mike Newell lined up alongside housewife favourite Ian Dowie, who himself was close to the role when Hughes was handed the job in 2004.

His main rival for the Ewood hot-seat is currently Tim Sherwood, raising obvious concerns that Venky’s are simply working from a team-photo of the 94/95 champions and scratching off faces with a coin until they get to Richard   Witschge. I’m looking forward to seeing Robbie Slater dish out the half-time oranges already.

If it boils down to Shearer Vs. Sherwood, then there can only be one winner. Sherwood was the archetypal Marmite player, arriving as another flash southerner tapping up teenagers in local nightclubs. While he would eventually become a key player, and a fine one of that, he was crap when he first arrived in the old Second Division. Like most of the title winning squad, he was also found wanting in the seasons that followed. It’s quite poignant that he was on the losing Spurs side that Souness’ Rovers stunned in Cardiff, in winning the 2002 League Cup.

Shearer Factor...

Either appointment would represent a huge element of risk and there are naturally concerns raised about handing the job to another unproven coach, with limited or no experience at managing a club still geared for the top-flight.

Judging Shearer from his eight-game spell at Newcastle is almost impossible. Any Geordie will tell you that that team was already doomed, devoid of any spirit, unity, confidence or form. For all the talk of the messiah and miracles, he’d have needed better magic tricks than turning water into brown ale – although it may have helped.

I’d argue that the same risk could be applied to any willing candidate and what works at one club, doesn’t necessarily work elsewhere and vice-versa – just look at poor Sparky now?

Alan Shearer is a born-winner, that’s a fact. Cue the ‘only one medal’ brigade – well, there are only five teams to win the Premiership title and he played for one of them. Shearer won’t take to losing very well and the players will know about it, he won’t suffer fools either or put up with any crap. He would also command instant respect and I’m sure he’s made a friend or two in the media.

Should the headlines confirm my hopes in the coming days or weeks, then I remain utterly convinced that even the most sceptical of supporters would get behind him, which is half of the battle, and only Tugay could achieve the same level of backing and hero worship. If you disagree, dust down the 94/95 season review and give yourself an education. Just try and fight those heart-strings from tugging, we need a bit of romance in our lives. In Shearer I trust. We are the Rovers.

91/92: Ipswich Town 2-1 Blackburn Rovers

Rovers travel to Ipswich Town this weekend, in the opening fixture of the new Football League Championship calendar.

Portman Road has proved to be a barren ground for Rovers over the years, recording only two victories from a possible twenty.

Over twenty years ago, Jack Walker's millions had tempted former Liverpool boss Kenny Dalglish out of early retirement, bank-rolling a host of expensive signings and aiming for an immediate promotion into the new Premier League.

Fellow promotion hopefuls, Ipswich Town, would take the spoils on this occasion however, with Jason Dozzell hitting a late winner to break Rovers' hearts.

Both sides would eventually secure promotion and a place at the top-table, Ipswich, by means of the title itself, and Rovers via the play-offs and a Wembley appearance.

Risk of the Rovers: 2012/13 Season Preview...

It’s been a long summer, longer than most. England’s meek yet satisfactory showing at the Euro’s seems like an age away (where was it again?) and while Team GB continue to collect medals left, right and centre – we have to ask ourselves, do we really give a shit? As of this weekend, football is back.

The Olympics has served its purpose, naturally, but we’ve been spoon-fed the bugger; it’s everywhere. As I find myself scanning the channels for handball and hockey, basically anything resembling two teams and a pair of nets – it becomes immediately obvious what I’m really yearning for: Jeff Stelling, betting slips, bovril, six pints and a ‘your support is fucking shit’, oh yes, I’ve even missed the mundane anthems of the moronic. I’ve missed Gary Neville for Jack’s sake, Gary bloody Neville. Saturdays, no wait, life – it just hasn’t been the same.

Not everyone’s as keen of course. In fact, there’ll be as many empty seats as groans inside Ewood Park this season. Last year’s relegation from the top-tier sees us playing Championship football for the first time in eleven years. Manager Steve Kean remains at the helm, in turn maintaining his status as public-enemy-number-one.

Our cunning Indian owners have brought in some Malaysian bloke wearing a pair of glasses from the local joke shop to improve communication, Shebby Singh swapping the TV Studio for a new role as Director of Global Football Advisor Operations to the Senate, or something like that. Shebby’s been a busy boy this summer, charming fans and journalists alike and in part, managing to keep Kean away from a microphone.

There have been other changes behind the scenes, but we don’t really care about those… yet. In the transfer market, Kean has spent most of the summer seducing Portugal’s youth over a case of Mateus rosé, following the impressive early captures of Danny Murphy and Leon Best.

Three-million-pound-man Best has since been ruled out for six months without kicking a competitive ball, leading to the protracted pursuit of Huddersfield’s Jordan Rhodes for £5m. Somewhere, somehow, there’s a suitcase of cash that’s been discovered.

Pre-season has been typically uninspiring, the highlight being the cancelled fixture in Holland last Sunday. Tricky winger Fábio Nunes has caught the eye, if you can pick him out amongst the twenty-six other Portuguese signings. Amongst them, veteran Nuno Gomes looks as if he will play a bigger role than initially expected, particularly in light of Best’s injury.

As far as expectations go, the only way is up – but that’s not saying much. Rovers supporters still have no idea what to expect come opening day. On one hand, the club has been active in the transfer market and thus far, only Yakubu and Hoilett have departed. Come the end of the month however, vultures may well have circled and chewed on the cut-price carcass of Premiership past. Robinson, Dann, Olsson (the good one), Nzonzi and Pedersen all look favourites to leave if that is the case.

On the other hand, Steve Kean is still in charge. It’s unfair to judge a team on pre-season, but it would have been a bold statement of intent to put a sequence of victories together and stick a few goals past lower-league season. Feeble defeats to Accrington Stanley and Rochdale have done little to whet the appetite and suggest that Kean can find a winning formula, learning from the team’s failings last time around.

On paper, both sides in fact, we have a strong squad – clearly one of the strongest in the division, but there’s no denying that there’s a bit of deadwood floating around. Last season’s fringe signings have been complemented with more fringe signings and while we have more attacking midfielders than you can shake a Carlos Villanueva at, nobody has much of an idea where, if or why.

Defensive cover remains our weakest link, amplifying concerns about the side’s defence in general. Olsson and Dann could still be sold and the bearded Givet remains an unsettled enigma. Even poster-boy Grant Hanley has been linked with pastures new.

Murphy and former Fulham team-mate Dickson Etuhu should reinvigorate the centre of midfield and the signing of a striking talisman remains key, with Goodwillie shielding himself from rotten fruit all summer.

Taking Rovers back up at the first attempt will be a bigger test than keeping them up in the first place and there remain serious doubts that Steve Kean is the man to do it.

In addition to being the most unpopular manager of all time, Kean has to contend with rebuilding team spirit after relegation, bedding in new signings and demonstrating that he has any clue whatsoever in setting a team up. The facts are that Steve Kean’s Blackburn aren’t accustomed to a winning habit and to avoid another disastrous campaign, that’s a trend that needs reversing; quickly.

The league itself is as capricious as the team. It’s about who will flop, as much as who will shock. Once more, the Championship is wide open. Nottingham Forest and Leicester were both expensive flops last season and expectations will continue to weigh heavy. The bookmakers make Owen Coyle’s Bolton favourites, who should feature, and logic tells you that Wolves will also be in the mix. Cardiff have been backed with funds, and another stab at Bellamy in return for a red kit, and it would be a major surprise if they aren’t at least in a play-off spot come May.

Leeds have been unusually quiet, but are likely to make a bit of noise, especially with Warnock in the hot-seat, while Birmingham look likely to target the play-offs with a similarly solid base; Lee Clark appearing a sound appointment for the Blues.

Brighton will be hoping to continue their ascent and become the new Blackpool, while the old Blackpool will still be capable of ruffling feathers as long as they hang on to Ian Holloway.

Middlesbrough showed a few glimpses last season and won’t be a pushover, along with Hull, who have appointed promotion specialist Steve Bruce to achieve their aims. Ipswich, Derby and B*rnl*y are all capable of flirting with the top-six and history tells us not to discount the three promoted teams from League One. As far as the Championship goes, ambition is in abundance.

So, how are Rovers going to do? Quite honestly, I have no idea and I suspect that most fans feel the same. How could we possibly? Blind optimism aside, they haven’t made a pair of blue and white tinted glasses large enough. We really are stepping into the unknown, with serious doubts hanging over the manager’s ability and the owners’ insistence on standing by their man. Many are still forecasting a doomsday scenario, casting grimacing glances at Portsmouth and Rangers. It could be that Venky’s have finally realised that they have to speculate to accumulate, or it could be one giant disastrous gamble – staking the lot on one season.

Danny Murphy should justify his earnings and it’s the image of him patrolling the midfield alone that allows for any real optimism. Many are expecting Murphy to really shine through at this level, me amongst them. Lose him to injury like Leon Best however, and it’s a different story.

The team’s style of play relied heavily on Yakubu’s firepower last season and Best seemed a perfect replacement, scoring a wonder-goal in the 2-1 friendly win over AEK Athens before suffering anterior cruciate ligament damage.

Rovers now have the task of replacing not one, but two strikers and if the tug-of-war with Rhodes fails to see him land on our side of the Pennines, then the pressure to panic-buy may became too much of a temptation. Until that role is filled, then expectation remains on ice. Either way, let’s get it on. Rowing, cycling and dressage my arse. We are the Rovers.

We've never been more blue and white...

Usually, Rovers fans would be waiting until late Autumn to get their mitts on the new replica shirt; traditionally abandoned at the back of Umbro's production line behind Manchester City baby-grows and a small child's England shirt for Gazza.

Alas, in addition to the early summer launch of the uninspiring, yet traditional home and away jerseys, comes the bumbled launch of a white third strip for the 2012/13 season.

Rovers' three major transfer coups: Danny Murphy, Leon Best and Nuno Gomes were on hand to model the new strips, which have a particularly blue and white flavour this time around. It may be bad news for parents and slightly confusing for others, but it's a nice touch that the team will be represented in blue and white wherever they play this season.

Have a shave. We're doomed...

So, we’re doomed. It’s nothing new of course, we’ve been relegated before – in fact, we’ve been relegated over a dozen times this season; written off, all hope abandoned, ‘turn us off Mum, we’re down’.

It was the same last season of course – in fact it’s been this way since Steve Kean was handed the reins in the first place. There’s a marked difference naturally; at this stage, or any stage, last year – I was convinced that we’d stay up. We had Phil and Jermaine Jones, we had Chris Samba, Brett Emerton and a half decent Salgado. We didn’t have the Yak, granted, but we didn’t ship goals for fun and need to score two or three to get a result.

West Ham away, Man Utd at home and Wolves away? Piece of piss, and so it turned out. Having endured a miserable campaign this time around however, Spurs away, Wigan at home and Chelsea away aren’t exactly holding the same belief.

But wait, I hear you cry? We beat Norwich last time around! We’re on fire! Believe, grow a grizzly Givet beard, pray to the Gods, give Jack’s statue a kiss – we can do it! Can we shite.

I was at a wedding last Saturday unfortunately (or fortunately, whichever way you look at it), and while I was naturally delighted as the goals filtered through and had the usual sense of satisfaction when the result was confirmed, it didn’t change my thought process an awful lot.

Rather predictably, it was soon confirmed by the news of QPR’s victory over Spurs, made even worse after viewing the winning goal and wondering how Friedel (Friedel for Jack’s sake!) was beaten by such a tame free-kick. Spurs didn’t turn up apparently – that was good of them. Good day for an off-day eh? Can’t wait for Sunday’s backlash. The bastards.

We’ve seen it with Wigan of course, beating Liverpool, United and Arsenal on their off days – nice one. Suddenly Villa are in the mire, but it comes courtesy of gifting Bolton an unlikely win in midweek. Somebody somewhere has got our card marked.

Of course, we only have ourselves to blame. We’ve been in and around the relegation zone all season – we’ve kept three clean sheets, never put more than two wins together (once) and even when we managed that, we then embarked on a five game losing streak, which is relegation form at any stage of the season – never mind the business end.

There’s been a few highlights, if you count them on one hand, and through the protests - we’ve at least had something to shout about, but the time for believing in miracles has long diminished.

Thus, all those hours spent watching The Football League Show, which is far more entertaining than watching Shearer and Hansen talk bollocks, will prove to be handy research. I only hope Keano had the same idea; scratching that nasty rash on his face, whilst pondering over Barnsley away.

Do you know, it doesn’t look all that bad in any case – as long as we have a club to follow: Blackpool, Middlesbrough, Hull, Leicester, Derby, Leeds, Forest, Barnsley, Wolves, Birmingham - all north of erm, Birmingham. One, if not both Sheffield clubs, should be there as well - not to mention two more dates against our beloved neighbours. Not bad at all.

Who wants to watch games of chess in the Premier League anyway? The rich get richer, the poor get poorer and everybody grows more mediocre. It depresses me watching everybody else play on Sky and then watching a totally different level of football down at Ewood – so nothing will change there. What actually happens if we stay up? It’ll still be the same next season.

Kean will still be there of course, in fact – he’ll probably be handed a new ten-year contract and Venky’s (remember them?) will erect a golden statue of him outside the ground; rash free of course.

So bring it on I say – I’ll still be there, moaning and grumbling. What else have I got to do on a Saturday afternoon? Shopping? Bollocks to that.

Of course, beyond the bravado and acceptance of fate, there’s a tiny glimmer of hope tucked away in the darkest, dustiest corners of my mind – of course there bloody is. I wouldn’t bother otherwise. I can see the Yak wheeling away with the dove of love, arse-faced Redknapp throwing his arms in the air in frustration, Martinez taking another dodgy decision on the chin and Drogba screaming ‘it’s a fucking disgrace’ when Scott Dann finally bags me two hundred and fifty big ones.

Of course I’ll miss the Premier League – you don’t exist otherwise. ‘Sheffield Wednesday – who are they? What league are they even in these days?’ I know. I watch the Football League Show.

I think the key is, and I’d imagine most fans are with me here – to not be surprised when the inevitable happens. ‘Do’ be surprised if we do stay up however – pop the Champagne, sing your heart out, hug strangers, fall in love, get leathered and don’t think about next season all summer. Either way, forever and ever – we’ll follow our team. We are the Rovers.

Samba, the big black void...

Like a fuzzy montage in a romantic film, my thoughts this week have centered on the sugar-coated come bitter-marmite highlights of a recent love-affair, or rather the end of one. Bitch. I saw it coming of course, I always do – but it didn’t stop me clinging on to the hope that differences could be resolved, that things might just work out and the magic would reappear, blinded by faith, a big heart and memories of better times.

‘Twas the 27 ^th of January, 2007, when I first caught a glance of my true love - a Saturday to be precise. Beyond the hills of Mordor and terraced streets of Luton, Bedfordshire, there the object of my future affections stood: Six-foot-four-inches of dark muscle shimmering like leather, as tall as the floodlights, a true thoroughbred, a real black beauty, a real beast. If Nietzsche’s Übermensch had evolved onto a football pitch, then it was stood before me now. Cupid had peppered me with arrows, the thunderbolt had struck, there was no turning back - it was love at first sight; Samba: the big black man.

As I gaze back on rose-tinted memories of picnic baskets and rowing boats on the Leeds-Liverpool canal, a last-minute curler at White Hart Lane, skipping hand-in-hand through Witton Park on glorious December afternoons, standing in the Upton Park goalmouth, banging his staff repeatedly on the pitch and screaming ‘YOU SHALL NOT PASS!’, candlelight suppers at the top of Darwen Tower and that big beaming bugger of a smile, oh, the smile – I can do little to stop the salty tears from forming in the corners of my eyes. Why did it have to end this way Samba, WHY?

In truth, I already know the answer to that question – we all do. In modern football: money talks. Contract renewals, increased wages, signing-on fees and loans for home improvements had become a regular occurrence. Each and every transfer window, the hand that taketh was open once more, never satisfied, never settled and always with a wandering eye on tabloid interest from a suitor with a bigger bank balance and a bigger boat.

Samba, like most footballers, had become Rod Tidwell at the beginning of Jerry Maguire, like Willie Beamen in Any Given Sunday; pay-check players, an agent in one ear and a diamond-encrusted headphone in the other.

Big fishes are sometimes best advised to stick to their little pond, if only to avoid being eaten by even bigger fish in larger surroundings. For all his talent and obvious adulation from the Ewood faithful, there was always a creeping doubt that Samba was never really good enough to play for a top-four club.

Footballers don’t think that way of course, nor would I expect them to – their ambition to perform at the highest level is what drives them to succeed, week in, week out. Matt Le-Tissier is often cited as one of the last dying breed of one-club men, but he couldn’t be arsed most of the time.

Alas, if Spurs had found the surplus funds for another addition to their subs bench, or Arsenal had been prepared to lavish millions on a player not still in puberty, I remain convinced that the big man would have been found out. Careering runs through the middle of the park were often met with much amusement and surprise, by both fans and opponents alike – and then there was the stint when he masqueraded as a lone-striker, galloping around the frontline like a supporter who’d won a competition to play up front for the day.

Like most players of middle and lower order teams, he was susceptible to the occasional error of course, such as being out-jumped by Nani, setting up Bolton’s first goal in December and tripping over himself with Peter Crouch lurking behind him, a personal battle that he rarely won.

We forgave him of course, and rightfully so – because in his finest hour, he could be an absolute colossus, battering defences, blocking everything that moved and providing an invaluable weapon from every set-piece, well, the ones where Pedersen managed to clear the first-man anyway.

Ewood Park was Samba’s arena, he was our most-prized gladiator, not without his flaws, but ultimately – a true warrior, a reassuring name on the team-sheet: ‘We’re alright today, Samba’s back’. Supporters of other clubs, bigger clubs, wouldn’t have had the same relationship, the same affection. Like so many before him: Dunn, Duff, Bentley, Santa-Cruz, to name but a few, he would never have received the same level of complete worship from the stands above.

When deadline day had passed, with only survival rivals QPR and former mentor Hughes willing to offer degrading sums, it appeared that the love-affair would live to fight another day, and yet there was still no sight of our hero.

Yes, he’s behaved appalling by our own ‘working-class’ standards – texting in sick, kicking his heels, sulking into his Rolex, pondering over his future in his gold-plated Range Rover, something like that.

We’ve suffered and seethed at the Venky’s regime, and on the level that he’d been lied to about ambition and broken-promises, we can certainly all empathise. Yet, while the sight of an ex, parading around with an ugly new interest can at first be amusing, when it all sinks in – it will no doubt make us feel even more worthless inside.

Not all the blame can be levelled at Kean and Venky’s door, Samba has wanted away for some time now, dating back to Allardyce and the Walker’s Trust. The day will always come when our best players are sold the dream of Champions League football, only to end up in the Championship – that’s football, but Russia? Pull the other one Chris.

The only comfort about Samba’s ‘big’ move to Anzhi Makhachkalalakalakakala (I’m pretty sure that’s how you pronounce it) is that we won’t be bumping into each other in our usual romantic spots, casting green-eyed glances as he gives Roberto Carlos a piggy back in the park; some comfort at least. That said, in four months, when he’s ran out of films on his solid gold iPad for the 1,250 mile round-trip for home games, grown stagnant in the shadow of the limelight, the ramshackle stadium and grown tired of having to pass to Eto’o and Eto’o only, then I wouldn’t be surprised to see the headline: ‘HUGHES READY TO END SAMBA’S RUSSIAN HELL’.

Hopefully, time will have healed the wounds by then – and Samba shall remain in our hearts and memories, as he always was – a true Rovers legend. Good luck Chris, you might need it. It’s better to have loved and lost, than never to have loved at all.

The importance of being modeste...

Wild boasts of Champions League football and marquee signings are but a distant memory these days, the alternative becoming a blanket of silence from Venky’s HQ in Pune. Europe, never mind India, suddenly seems a universe away.

Not so long ago, in a galaxy far, far away, big Balaji and his sheepish brother Venkatesh – or is it Venkatash? - were promising Ronaldinho and delivering Ribeiro, making mysterious Spanish agents millionaires overnight and according to the holier-than-thou ‘super-agent’, Jerome Anderson, the club was ‘absolutely rocking’.

We were promised champagne football, recording our third win in five at home to West Brom – although the ‘rocking’ would soon grind to a creaky halt, embarking on an alarming slump that wouldn’t see us record another victory for over three months, recording just four points in that entire period.

The champagne fizzed as much as a flat brown ale in that time and it’s during this spell, that the first wave of doubts began to emerge regarding the new manager. A previously resolute defence was now shipping four goals at Wigan and Villa, trailing Blackpool by two goals in a six-pointer (sound familiar?) and failing to take the initiative against fellow strugglers Birmingham. Fortress Ewood could no longer be relied on for points and an overnight desire for enterprising play was leaving us desperately exposed at the back, the vacuum of the drop-zone sucking us in with frightening ease.

All of a sudden, we were marked as dead-certs for the drop by a plethora of pundits and experts, the irony being that the so-called ‘experts’ have more support for us now, in a much worse position. We’d forgotten how to win, how to defend and how to grind it out. We were done for, down amongst the dead-men, ‘get em off Mum, we’re going down’.

…and then a switch went off in Kean’s head: we were suddenly tighter, tougher, more determined, played to our strengths, pace on the break, cutting out the fancy stuff, bodies were put on the line, knowing when to defend and when to attack. In our final four games, we beat Bolton 1-0, practically condemned West Ham to relegation with a draw at Upton Park, outplayed the Champions-elect and then took Wolves apart in their own backyard on judgement day.

We’d suddenly realised who we were, the predicament we were actually in, abandoning fanciful notions of seducing an entire subcontinent with sexy football and sexier signings. It was a learning curve, something to build on, strengths and weaknesses identified, ‘we’ll never be in this position again’ they yelled – and then the new season arrived and we were back to square one.

Our best results this season have arrived through similar adversity, against better opponents and ball-players. Swansea have quite rightly taken the plaudits this season, for their possession and short-passing, but at Ewood we exploited their weaknesses at the back and in the air, scoring four goals with relative ease. We stopped Liverpool playing at Anfield and the counter-attack and set-pieces played a major part in our surprising success at Old Trafford.

Against Fulham last weekend, we benefitted from going a man down; we suddenly dug-in, took the initiative and once again negated Fulham’s advances, scoring from another set-piece, combined with clinical and thoughtful counter-attacking. When our backs are to the wall, we’ve achieved much better results.

It was always going to be a difficult task transforming a footballing philosophy overnight, which under the previous manager, Sam Allardyce, was built upon a static but solid system, devoid of flair and creative thought, but benefitting from avoiding needless loss of possession and a risk-free strategy. Many fans loved it, but in equal measure – myself included – many more loathed it. A need to entertain was secondary to holding a blank scoreline, until a set-piece or defensive error could be profited upon. Games against the big-boys were written off, players rested, others not giving 100% - but come the following week, results against the also-rans would duly arrive. It was depressing to watch at times, too-negative, too-safe, but safe all the same.

Thirteen months, and we’re still none-the-wiser about Kean’s own philosophy – other than it’s been crap. It’s true, that had the owners put their money where their mouth is, then he may have had more opportunity to express himself. In reality, it’s the same core players that were used to more direct-thinking, suddenly expected to be able to move the ball around like a puck on an ice-rink; there have been glimpses in games where it’s come off, but more often than not – it hasn’t.

At Old Trafford, the victory was almost jeopardised by Pedersen carelessly giving possession away for their equalising goal – he did likewise for Cardiff’s opener in the League Cup. Against Bolton, Samba inexplicably setup their first goal in the opening four minutes with a weak clearance, falling over for Crouch’s opener weeks later – sloppy individual errors that have compromised our game-plan before it could begin, immediately forcing us on the front foot. Salgado was the chief villain early-season, an unsettled Givet likewise. I’m no Allardyce fan, but would similar errors have consistently occurred and counted against us? Quite simply, no, they wouldn’t.

Last season’s trip to Goodison, was in the height of the three-month slump, once again conceding two careless goals – although the team were comprehensively beaten that afternoon, once again in two minds at what was expected of them.

This weekend, we need to build on the Fulham win, going back-to-basics and setting out with a solid foundation. David Moyes’ teams are always hard-working and there will be long-periods were we are without possession. However, goalscoring has been their biggest problem and we need to exploit those frustrations, be solid in defence, make the most of our set-pieces and their own insecurities and more importantly, break with pace and purpose when the opportunities arise. Then again – what do I know? The pundits and experts can dip in and out, judge us off the highlights, climbing up and down from their high horse in studios and news-desks – as supporters, we’ve only got decades of experience in living and breathing it, analysing every ball, second and tackle in the flesh; managers, players, systems and tactics have come and gone, we’ve won some, drawn some and lost more – but what do we know?

When the transfer window opened, we knew better than to expect the cheque-book to open and a flurry of new signings to whirl through the door, and Kean’s press conferences have long been doused in salt. Is the big man leaving? Of course he is. Come the end of the month, I fully expect Samba and the red-rose to have parted ways. He’s been a tremendous servant to the club and although previous windows have ended with yet another improved contract, his cards have been on the table for some time. He’s absolutely right to question the club’s ambition and broken promises – we’re all with you there Chris.

My only hope is that Paris is his destination, or Arsenal. There would be a tinge of sadness in seeing him on the same bench that David Bentley used to sulk on at White Hart Lane, just so Harry Redchops can stockpile more players. In any event, I don’t think Spurs could afford him.

That leaves QPR of course and an opportunity to reunite him with the man who first brought him to these shores. It’s hard enough watching Mark Hughes at Loftus Road – without the sight of the big man joining him. It would be a catastrophic error in judgement strengthening a rival for Premiership survival and weakening our own team in turn, and thankfully two bids have thus far been rebuffed.

And so to the arrivals lounge – where we seemed to spend all summer chasing Papiss Demba Cissé, Newcastle’s shiny £10m signing, but we are now well-aware that loan singings and bargain buckets are a more realistic proposition. Another summer target, Vierinha, has joined Wolfsburg of the Bundelsiga, although we have welcomed a new striker to the club in Anthony Modeste.

At just over six-foot and a couple of months shy of his 24^th birthday, Modeste could be a useful signing – especially with Yakubu suspended, Roberts frozen out, Goodwillie struggling to make an impact and Formica itching for a return to a sunnier climate. He could even be in line for an immediate debut this weekend, according to Kean, although it could be time to reach for the salt again.

Our expectations have been grounded and in keeping those feet on the ground, we can go to Goodison as supporters and simply enjoy the match. If we lose, well, we knew we weren’t good enough anyway – but were we to get a result? You just never know. We might be capable of staying in this division after all; there I go with the false hope again. The key is not to expect too much, modesty is the best way – in performance and expectation. We are the Rovers.

Fags, booze & a rubbish football team. Old habits die hard.

Ah, the New Year – a time to hit the scales, stockpile unopened bank statements, go easy on the grog and not look at another turkey butt for eleven months. It’s also a time for resolutions, planning one’s goals and targets for the year, hopes and dreams that are bound to never come true; my fingers are currently crossed for a lottery win, a speedboat and a pet tiger - aim high.

Well, now that’s covered – what about the bad habits? Now, let me see – I drink too much, I smoke too much and I support a shit football team. All of which I have no desire to give up. It wasn’t always this way of course, five years ago I still drank too much, smoked a little less and supported a decent football team in Europe.

Ten years ago it was much the same, and seventeen years ago – seventeen you ask? Okay I know it doesn’t really correlate with the previous five year time shifts, but I didn’t put that much thought into this, it’s January for Samba’s sake - give me a break. Anyway, where was I? Oh yes, seventeen years ago, I only drank cider on weekends, albeit in parks and playgrounds, didn’t smoke at all, well apart from that one time when I was sick on my Kickers, and I supported the best team in the land, the Champions in waiting, the pride of the nation, the king of kings, the premier of the Premiership, alright, alright - and the point to all this? There is no point, but like all Rovers fans, I just like to point that fact out every now and again.

Anyway, back to the present – the shit football team. Well, we are aren’t we? Shock draws and wins at Anfield and Old Trafford respectively, did little to dispel that theory, we simply benefitted from the opposition failing to turn up and we still did our best to bugger it up. It was the three home games over the festive period that ultimately defined us, home losses to West Brom, Bolton and Stoke – becoming masters of the 2-1 home reverse; making an art out of giving the away team a goal or two start.

The straws have long been clutched for Steve Kean’s tenure – a better style of play used to be my favourite, but that went out of the window a long time ego. We’re now back to where we were with the glutinous one, only without the clean sheets, without the solid home form and halfway down the league table, the end of the line in fact, rock bloody bottom.

Thus, and I knew there was a point here somewhere, back to my New Year’s Resolution – put simply, it’s to stop caring so much, to stop putting my hopes and energies into thinking we might actually get a result at the weekend, to tighten my wallet and stop wasting my time on fruitless away trips, eating up my weekend and putting me in a foul mood for the rest of the week. I didn’t go to Anfield, or Old Trafford, but I didn’t regret it either. I certainly didn’t bother with the FA Cup trip to Newcastle, I wrote that bugger off when the draw was made. Fleetwood Town away? Yes please. Newcastle United? No chance.

I didn’t even keep track of the score and I’m not ashamed to admit it, I didn’t have to. Another 2-1 defeat, one up from a scrambled set-piece, concede a last minute winner, under the cosh as soon as the other team decides to have a go, it’s just oh so predictable and damningly depressing, if you let it.

So where to now? Well, Fleetwood Town away if we keep it up. The manager should have been packing his bags after the Bolton debacle, the Indians should have wired a big fat cheque to Nuttall Street and Mark Hughes should be facing the flash photography outside Brockhall, with that snake Kia Joorabchian slivering by his side, rather than Loftus Road.

Like New Year’s Resolutions, none of those things came true. We were promised immediate signings as soon as the window opened, in reality – it’s been a re-run of the summer. Harry Redknapp trying to get his sticky mitts on more additions to his subs bench, although that could account for every player in the Premiership in fairness, players linked to the exit door left, right and centre, without a single name of any worth remotely linked to the club.

According to news reports, Venky’s opted to placate the fans, not by replacing the manager, but by announcing a major signing. For once, their footballing insight might actually be correct. We’re easily appeased by new signings, always have been – as football fans it’s embedded in our nature, it’s what sells newspapers, give us the reins on Football Manager and we’ll clear the entire squad out, spending every last dime on the quick fix of another useless signing; new signing not doing it? Sign another.

In the days of no transfer windows, we used to sign a new player every week, collecting them under King Kenny, those were the days (again). Brian Kidd got away with it the last time we were relegated, spanking Jack’s cash on a new striker every week. The truth is, we haven’t announced a signing at all, and Steve Kean is still in employment. I almost wish we’d sign Jerome Anderson’s neighbour’s dog, sod it - give him the player manager’s job while we’re at it.

In yesterday’s local rag, Kean offered the assertion that we will “get ourselves out of this position that we are in and I am sure we will do that in the next few weeks.” How often have we heard that line this season? He’ll still be saying it in June, celebrating a new contract because we’ll be third in the Championship on alphabetical order.

Unless Ronaldinho’s flight has been delayed for twelve months, unless we sign two full backs and a whole central midfield, unless we sign another forward, unless Steve Kean gets jailed for nailing another case of wine with a Budweiser chaser and going for another spin his motor, unless I wake up and it’s 1995 again, unless, unless, unless. We’re going down and the sooner we start preparing ourselves for it, the less it will hurt – and it will bloody hurt.

I could be wrong of course, I hope I’m wrong; I’ve just grown tired of false hope. False hope that we’ll win two consecutive games, false hope that we’ll ever keep a clean sheet and false hope that Steve Kean will ever decide on his best team, without having to change it around at half time when we’re already two goals down.

The toothless display against the Baggies was hard to stomach, the defeat to Bolton an all-time low and the feeble defending allowing Peter Crouch’s brace at Ewood, was an echo of those failings. We’ve now lost eight of our ten home fixtures and the comforts of fortress Ewood are crumbled ruins, covered in moss and bird muck. We can no longer count on our home form, which fills me with more trepidation ahead of the visit of Fulham on Saturday.

The protests are set to return and hopefully it will motivate the players in turn. The positive results at Liverpool and Manchester United succeeded boiling point in the previous home game and it didn’t go unnoticed that Kean opted to send his players out for those games in yellow and black, against red opposition, potentially in a psychological slant at the adoption of the club’s change colours by the protestors.

Why are the protests returning? Because Venky’s haven’t said a bloody word and we’re still propping up the rest of the table, listening to the same old broken record week after week. Blackburn isn’t known for trend-setting, but it appears that other fans are following suit now – Coventry fans for example, some of which chose to miss the opening fifteen minutes of their Cup tie at the weekend, to call for the manager’s head.

Sunderland supporters campaigned for all of five minutes before they got their wish – and look at them now? I suspect that most of Loftus Road are still getting to grips with the laws of the game, but their chairman acted as soon as they hinted at sliding into the bottom three. I like Neil Warnock, but the chairman was right – they were in free-fall. Worryingly for Rovers, that could be another club boosted by a new manager and climbing the league, while we’re on our tenth assistant manager of the season, still learning how to defend. If Mark Hughes does accept the job this week, I’ll be close to tears. Still, there’s always Saturday to look forward to eh? Anyone? No, me neither, can’t bloody wait. Happy New Year everyone. We are the Rovers.