black cats blog No room for manoeure

Posted: January 29th 2009
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The kitchen doorway in our house has little hatchings up each side where we’ve marked the height and age of the kids. Last season my shins resembled the doorposts. Bruises, dents and scars recorded our numerous winners and equalisers during injury time (in which I got injured) as I obliviously smashed my legs to a pulp on the backs of the seats in front whilst jumping and flailing about. I did consider tiny tattoos alongside each battle wound to commemorate the scorer, game and date of euphoric moment but blue on the legs is unwise on a woman of my age given the proneness to varicose veins of my peer group.

This season I have been concentrating on avoiding ripping out the back of my legs trying to sidestep out of the confines of my row as fast as humanly possible on 90mins. How on earth does anyone over 6foot get through a game without deep vein thrombosis? I’ve nearly lost my balance celebrating goals in such restricted space and that is without a pre-match tipple. And then there’s the anxiety about inadvertently windmilling surrounding folk into the stratosphere. It’s possibly lack of practice. We see so few goals at the SoL.

I’ve not really enjoyed this season. I seem to be perpetually underwhelmed. Apart from beating The Mags, the biggest buzz I’ve had this season was switching on my mobile after a lengthy meeting at work. After days of speculation about the state of his mind and facial hair Roy Keane had done a flit when I wasn’t looking. Bemused colleagues looked on dimly at the constant vibrating in my bag as if I’d been shoplifting in Ann Summers. One of my text pests informed me that he was sure Keane would go because “he had a more haunted look than you after the Bolton game”.

After feverish speculation and a liberal sprinkling of thrilling names, enter Ricky Sbragia from Inter Backroom. Lawdy, I feel stupid for ever believing the godlike–in–my–misty-eyes Bilic would turn up like Santa down the SoL’s chimney. I read a heartening, balanced account in our A Love Supreme fanzine about our new gaffer. It then ended by highlighting managers without strong playing credentials who worked their way up behind the scenes. The names Ferguson, Mourinho and Wenger cropped up. No pressure Ricky…

Many of our games have been forgettable; 0-0 against Blackburn on Boxing Day after a rubbish 3 and a half hour journey was a particular waste of time. Not only do they drive on the wrong side of the road in France but they clearly have a different offside rule. Djibril just can’t get used to steering through a Premiership defence.  I thoroughly enjoyed the game against Villa and the rebirth of A Good Dean Whitehead, but losing the match was an issue.
 
I’ve just missed two home games on the bounce and feel like a dirty rotten skiver. I think even my mam would have written me a covering note to allow me to miss our Cup game against Blackburn. I felt a little less comfortable about nicking off our important league game against Fulham, a lesson in which we would revisit the classic equation where we prove that 3 points in fact equals 6. We would also learn about formulaic plots; our hero who has resisted temptation from the red headed, sponge-faced baddy pledges his allegiance to his true love and lo! he scores a winning goal! Cheers Kenwyne.

Another 6 pointer on Sunday. Should I hear “great season for the neutrals” once more I’ll faint with worry. As my Uncle Danny observed “the Prem’s tighter than a gnat’s chuff”.   Even the mighty Hull might have been found out. I have invited fellow exiled Mackems plus Nottingham friends and neighbours, high on Forest’s recent exciting adventures, to come and watch me drink myself senseless in front of Sky Sports. No neutrality allowed. It’s The Mags. Again. Based on previous drunken shenanigans on derby day I’m grateful for a Sunday game. Tattoo parlours should be closed.