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Huddersfield Town 1 Watford 0 (13/04/2018) 15/04/2018

Posted by Matt Rowson in Thoughts about things.
15 comments

1- Huddersfield doesn’t look like Watford, feel like Watford, smell like Watford. For one thing it’s tentatively and occasionally gloriously sunny as we arrive, which is something that Watford hasn’t been on matchday for a while. For another it’s, like, hilly and that. Daughter 1 blinks away her sleepiness as we emerge from the car… “is this really Yorkshire?”, as if we were in Narnia or Magrathea.

But as far as the Premier League landscape is concerned there are commonalities between two small(ish) town clubs whose support is very much rooted in their local community… even if the degree of Huddersfield’s smallness becomes a matter of some debate in the Rhubarb Cafe Bar as Wikipedia has decided that it’s the eleventh largest city in the country. Daughter 1 prefers “like London, but smaller”, because there’s traffic.

Similarities or not, there’s a shared purpose in the mutual and wholehearted celebration of Chelsea coming back from behind to cement Southampton in the relegation zone. Celebrating Chelsea goals feels a bit dirty of course, but such moral compromises have to be made at the business end of the season. As Will later points out, given Mark Hughes’ arrival at Southampton there is joy to be taken in many of the potential relegation outcomes. Not all of them, obviously.

2- The Stadium itself is a beautiful thing, whatever it’s called now. The arched stands are distinctive and elegant, woods form a striking backdrop to the stand to our right.

The most impressive feature of the stadium however is that impossibly, claustrophobically noisy. The home side have been talking up the atmosphere all week; with Chelsea, Arsenal and Manchester City to come in their remaining games a lot was riding on this and the troops had got the message. This racket dwarfs anything we’ve been exposed to this season, quite extraordinary.

It had an impact on the game from the off which after a tentative couple of minutes is similarly oppressive, the home side’s pressing game being bellowed on from the stands. In truth there was a lot of bluster and not much end product, a garbage crusher bluntly forcing the play towards us without much in the way of clear chances coming with it. Principle obstacle was the immaculate Craig Cathcart, making his first start since forever and once again turning simply being in the right place into an unelaborate art form. Our full backs look particularly vulnerable; Daryl Janmaat has three good goes at getting booked before finally sealing the deal, after which he looks surprisingly disciplined and realises neither of the gloomy predictions prevalent in the away end – “he’s going to get sent off” and “he’s straight off at half time”. Meanwhile on the left Aidy Mariappa is standing in for the injured Holebas and looks almost exactly like a centre back playing on his weaker side as full back for fifteen minutes or so, but he too settles down and stifles the Terriers’ threat on their right.

3- The bigger problem introduced by Mariappa being at left back is our lack of balance in attack. Kiko Femenía is our only source of speed, and whilst Roberto Pereyra sidesteps and twists we inevitably come inside from the left; he has no pace, and no crossing option bombing past him. Nonetheless, the biggest achievement of the first half is the gradual subduing of the home crowd to merely boisterous levels; by midway through we are the side making the better chances. Deeney has a vicious shot blocked at close range, Doucouré cuts into the box and drives straight at Lössl. Pereyra draws a free kick to the right of the goal as we attack prompting fanciful speculation about a Neil Cox tribute goal in memory of a freak goal eighteen years ago from the same position, but alas we got a rehearsed move that didn’t quite come off instead, more prosaically.

Nonetheless, come half time there are reasons to be positive. We’ve weathered a storm that has proven to be more of a passing, aimless squall and we’re beginning to get on top – a platform to build on. Instead… the second half never really gets us anywhere. Certainly we’re never under the cosh – and as you’ll have noted, Huddersfield don’t manage a shot on target until, critically, they do. But we’re not getting very far either, albeit we’re not getting very far with an increasing amount of the ball. Our tendency to go long is in part pressured by Huddersfield’s pressing and in part deliberate, seemingly, since such balls are played under little pressure. Perhaps to bypass a midfield in which the still-missed Jonathan Hogg is charging around doing his thing, in part, perhaps, to expose what is perceived as a vulnerable backline. Either way it’s ineffective.

Richarlíson is brought on for the presumably tiring Femenía. Coinciding with another lull in the home stands he gets a noisy ovation; I’m all for this, poor form or otherwise, but can’t help but feel that our captain has earned slightly more patience over the course of several seasons and a very large number of goals. He gets no such support, albeit he’s again entirely ineffective. No more so is the newcomer, whose only strong performance in five months came in the anomalous demolition of Chelsea.

4- We’ve been starting to toy with Huddersfield, moving the ball around tidily and looking like the better side for the first time. We don’t look desperately like scoring, though whirligig Will Hughes once again runs himself into the ground and occasionally dances through promisingly into the box. If someone’s going to score though, it’s us. Except it isn’t.

Which casts a whole new perspective on the game, obviously. Gloomily reviewing email and social media accounts on the way back down the M1 I’m surprised (for some reason) by the negative tone. The game wasn’t of particularly high quality and neither side looked potent but it was intense and there was no lack of commitment on show. We’ve all seen much worse in terms of entertainment, put it that way.

Nor did we play particularly badly, as has been the case in the majority of the recent run of games. Defensively we were absolutely fine at worst for the most part (although someone who shall remain nameless was calling Seb Prödl every name under the sun for his flimsy response to Depoitre’s challenge in the build up to the goal). Nor can Doucouré, Capoue, Hughes, Femenía, Pereyra reasonably be lambasted, though they’ve all had better games.

The problem is that the team doesn’t know how to score goals. This doesn’t really reflect upon Troy either, much as he was ineffective; he competed well with what he had, which wasn’t an awful lot, and neither Andre Gray in his brief cameo, nor Okaka in recent games have done markedly better.

The problem, and the challenge for Javi Gracia, is that we’ve played pretty well over the last three games and earned one point from them. It’s not that we’re playing badly as much as that we don’t have an effective or efficient way of playing, particularly away from home as reflected by no away goals since he took over (and scarcely any decent chances in those games). And whilst it’s true that any one of our missing players would have given us something that might have made the difference here – balance from Holebas, speed of thought and feet on the counter attack from Chalobah, raw terrifying pace from Deulofeu, energy from Cleverley – the problem is more fundamental than missing players.

5- It’s hard to begrudge Huddersfield their win, much as I’d argue they didn’t really do much to deserve it on the pitch, much as being trapped in the stand to witness the celebration by slow-flowing aisles was something we could have all done without. There was a single-mindedness to their support that’s rare in a home crowd and could only be borne of a situation in which everyone knows they’re punching above their weight and mucks in accordingly. We’ve lost that a little bit I suspect, which is where the parallels with Huddersfield fall down, at least for now, and the complaints borne of unreasonable expectations start.

Nonetheless, it would be nice to think that we could enjoy the end to a season for a change, and confirm our safety through our own actions. “More or less safe” and “Absolutely safe” aren’t the same thing, and the distinction becomes more critical as the number of games dwindles. We’d have to work very very hard to go down from here, but getting nothing out of reasonable performances isn’t the best platform.

Yoorns.

Karnezis 3, Janmaat 4, Mariappa 3, Prödl 3, *Cathcart 4*, Doucouré 3, Capoue 3, Femenía 3, Hughes 4, Pereyra 3, Deeney 2
Subs: Richarlíson (for Femenía, 58) 2, Gray (for Deeney, 81) 0, Sinclair (for Hughes, 90) 0, Gomes, Britos, Kabasele, Okaka

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Watford 2 AFC Bournemouth 2 (31/03/2018) 01/04/2018

Posted by Matt Rowson in Thoughts about things.
9 comments

1- I’m in a play this week.

I love acting. Being someone different is amazing, escaping completely into a story and thinking like someone else, getting into someone else’s head. Better still, doing it with a bunch of idiots who laugh at the same things as you do and have done this enough, done this together enough to know how to help each other and when to suggest things. It’s awesome.

It can become all-consuming. Enough of a focus to completely dominate your waking thoughts, quite apart from the practical considerations of a rehearsal schedule that is necessarily focused on evenings and weekends.

Enough of a focus that, whilst I was able to make both Arsenal and Liverpool I knew that I wouldn’t have the clarity of thought let alone the time to pen words. Hell, three paragraphs in and I’m still talking about the play. I’d apologise, but you know I wouldn’t mean it…

2 – So two weeks after that painful and memorably cold evening in Liverpool the question was how we would react. All of us… team, support, head coach. The Everton and West Brom victories had made the two subsequent defeats if not entirely affordable then at least not a disaster but the closing scenes of the last couple of seasons haven’t been particularly engrossing. A positive, vibrant finish, particularly from the point and assuming that safety is confirmed, would be a welcome thing.

The cast list revealed a return to 4-2-3-1 and most significantly the much-discussed-amid-awkward-shuffles-of-the-feet benching of the long-since wrung-out Richarlíson with Will Hughes starting behind Troy. The curtain rose to a bright and breezy encounter, but it was the visitors on the front foot from the off; quick movement earned a free kick on the right, an orchestrated slight of hand earned an angle to get a cross around the “wall”, Nathan Aké was ahead of the defence and should probably have done better than twonk a header off the bar and out. Minutes later and Stanislas slung a shot from left to right which Karnezis pushed away.

A statement of intent, so it was encouraging that we settled very quickly and were on the front foot, as ready and capable as our visitors of capitalising on an open game. Our first rattle into the open spaces in Bournemouth’s half seemed to make them slightly nervous and the game took on a new shape with the Hornets dominating territory and possession, but the Cherries screaming out on counter-attacks. One of these briefly saw the visitors escape beyond our backline only to be denied by a combination of Prödl and the flawless Karnezis.

Instead it was the Hornets that took the lead, José Holebas sent in a cross following a corner and Kiko Femenía, whose dynamism continues to remind us how much we missed during his spell out, took it on the volley. It would have been a routine save for the keeper, but Kiko was rewarded for his ambition and execution by King not having time to set himself and his crucial deflection left Begović helpless.

3 – Key in all of the good stuff that followed and the biggest plus in what remains a positive afternoon despite the galling finish was the performance of Will Hughes. Long in the wings waiting for a chance to play the lead role but denied by selection and injury, he’s looked great in virtually every minute he’s been afforded and here he was an absolute joy. Full of energy and movement, capable of deft one-touch lay-offs when moving at high speed thanks to his dexterity, balance and awareness but also willing to put his foot in, to work and to hound after possession. What’s not to like, frankly; this was his fifth start of the season and he’s already a hero.

As an aside to which, you can’t help but look at that midfield, add Chalobah, Cleverley and Deulofeu (fingers crossed) to it and feel rather comfortable with the murmurs coming out of the forum this week that the traditional summer flow of ins and outs might be more restrained this year. Sure, Doucouré may not stay (and to reiterate, I feel cheated that we might only get five games’ worth of Chalobah and Doucouré at the back of the midfield) but if he does go it’ll be for a great big wedge and you’d be confident in our ability to dig up a replacement. What an array of talent we have available.

Hughes’ effervescent calmness was at the centre of our second goal as Bobby Pereyra, once again looking far happier and more potent on the left flank, squirrelled in a shot to restore the lead surrendered meekly at the end of the first act. There’s been disbelief at Holebas’ actions but misjudged as they were it seemed to me that he was simply surprised by the trajectory of the ball, lost his bearings and decided that the threat of Jordon Ibe getting a decisive touch was greater than it probably was. So… a bit crap from Holebas who otherwise had a decent enough game, but not baffling… not like the ongoing bawling at the referee from those around us who clearly hadn’t seen the handball (fair enough) but lacked the self awareness to pick up on the comments and shrugs around from those who had.

4 – There’s a lot to like about Bournemouth. They’re positive and bold, try to win games with their actions rather than merely by default, and what this game showcased was two sides who were expected to be relegated on promotion (nearly) three years ago but weren’t and have dropped anchor in mid-table. That doesn’t guarantee you anything of course (ask West Brom) but nonetheless… an enjoyable engaging game from two clubs with every right to feel pleased with themselves that betrayed some limitations but also a lot of positives. For the visitors, Lewis Cook was absolutely terrific, a dextrous, nimble fulcrum in the centre of the park. Aké got his head to everything and looked like the centre-back in everyone’s heads and Ryan Fraser did a dynamic, purposeful job of filling in at right back. So… lots to like.

The reason that we don’t like them, then, is because they’re a bunch of cheating scumbags. Or to put it slightly less pejoratively… there’s something in the mentality of the club (the coaching?) that will grab any advantage that’s going. You can argue that every club does that (and Aidy Boothroyd isn’t far enough away for us to be getting too self-righteous), perhaps that they should… but with Bournemouth it’s so systematic that you can’t help but feel that it’s coached into the team. So… if cutting towards the edge of the penalty area as a ball-winning tackle comes in is merely giving yourself a chance then returning the ball to the opposition after a stoppage by kicking it halfway to the opposing keeper, forcing him to emerge into his own half is deliberate and cynical, and of course the repetitive throwing oneself down over tackles and springing up when a foul has been won is well established over recent seasons. One positive to come from this today was in Daughter 1’s reaction… she has a tendency to drift through games, combining attention to the matter in hand with contemplation of the social ins and outs of every eleven year old and any number of other things. Ryan Fraser’s swallow dive in front of us in the second half grabbed her though and she was potently outraged to the extent that she insisted in re-enacting the moment to her bemused mother in the living room later in the evening, several times, and accompanied by her younger sister who had been paying no attention at all but found the whole thing quite fun.

Dad had drawn a comparison with the Australian cricket team which those of you who know and care about such things might be able to comment on. I don’t, and so can’t.

5 – So the closing scenes here were demoralising for a number of reasons. Firstly because Richarlíson, who had entered stage left with ten to go, had looked vibrant and determined and quite capable of extending our lead as well as wrapping the aggravated Charlie Daniels in knots, but didn’t. Second, because a last minute equaliser is a last minute equaliser what every the context and the visiting support rightly celebrated accordingly – we’d have been pissed whatever. Thirdly because of our failure to just hold the line from a long ball for a few more bloody seconds. But also because of Steve Cook’s predictably over the top reaction to Okaka’s challenge which conned Andy Madley. It should have been innocuous, a challenge in the middle of the park and we should still have bloody defended it (see point three) AND it was a more aggressive challenge on review than the non-event we perceived at the time. Nonetheless, it was the latest in a growing list of such incidents against Bournemouth in recent years and we were particularly sensitised to it.

Instead, the natural gravity of the draw between these two sides prevailed – the seventh in the ten League meetings since Bournemouth’s promotion from the third tier in 2013. Consequently we’re still a few points from that mystical 40 point threshold (and yes, of course, 40 might not be necessary but “probably safe” is where we are already, “Safe” is better). It would take an awful lot though, and most Watford supporters will already have their relegation thoughts occupied with Palace and West Ham – the latter with a stinking run in despite their result yesterday.

When the curtain comes down on the season, you suspect that these two dropped points won’t matter much; the fact is that it was a good game and with more to like than to not. Doing the double over Bournemouth would have been a fine thing though. Next time.

Yooorns.

Karnezis 4, Janmaat 4, Holebas 3, Prödl 3, Mariappa 3, Capoue 4, Doucouré 4, Femenía 4, *Hughes 5*, Pereyra 4, Deeney 3
Subs: Cathcart (for Prödl, 64) 3, Okaka (for Hughes, 75) 3, Richarlíson (for Femenía, 81) 0, Ndong, Gray, Lukebakio, Gomes

Watford 1 West Bromwich Albion 0 (03/03/2018) 04/03/2018

Posted by Matt Rowson in Thoughts about things.
7 comments

1- The one item that I associate with Ethiopia, my wife’s home, more than anything else is the Gabi. A vast white cotton sheet with a braided hem. It has many uses, from blanket to dressing gown, windshield to sunblock… comparable to the ubiquitous towel in the Hitch Hiker’s Guide to the Galaxy. Everyone has one, and you don’t leave home without it.

Mine was in the back of the car as I braved the journey to Vicarage Road today. That, and a number of other precautions. The week’s extraordinary weather had dumped itself rather heavily on my village further north and a relatively undisturbed cul-de-sac always looks arctic under such circumstances, it’s easy to be fooled into thinking that the rest of the world is similarly buried. The journey to Vicarage Road was like emerging from winterlocked Narnia to, well, a rather damp and rather chilly but not terribly inconvenienced town in Hertfordshire. I’m not Ethiopian, the Gabi isn’t a regular travelling companion and must have felt rather underwhelmed by the trip.

2- This was a precarious match for both sides. For Albion, for their manager, surely a last chance. Easier to sympathise with the former than the latter, a supercilious preening charlatan. But as discussed in last week’s report the season’s story is one of a lot of fairly rubbish clubs jostling for position and in the absence of a truly rubbish side three relegation places would go to whoever didn’t have a chair when the music stopped. Albion slowly slipping away from the pack have dropped that number down to two.

For the Hornets meanwhile and bearing in mind our forthcoming trips to Arsenal and Liverpool this was perhaps the difference between spending the rest of the season scrambling away from the relegation places, and being able to enjoy those high profile away trips rather more. Javi Gracia’s games so far have showcased a flexibility with styles, but if a consistent pattern is emerging it’s of patience in possession, containment as a first priority and allowing that continuing teasing around of our opponents will yield chances. We look an awful lot more solid, and a few more games like this are a reasonable price to pay for that.

3 – Such was the pattern of the first half. The Hornets had more possession without ever taking enough risks or moving the ball quickly enough to turn that possession into chances. Albion looked to counterattack and did so successfully early on, Rodriguez dancing down the left and being only partly waylaid, the resultant deflection falling to Krychowiak. His low drive from the centre of the penalty area was denied by a fearless block from Mariappa who crowned his 250th Hornets appearance with a first half masterclass. It’s been said before, but we had no right to expect this level of performance from a nominally sixth choice centre-back who has nonetheless been a regular in the squad since this fixture last season. Given the limitations imposed by our injury list we’d have been in serious trouble had he not been up to the task.

The other characteristic of the first half was the lingering influence of Pulis in our visitors, and Craig Dawson in particular, getting the odd reducer in early doors. Étienne Capoue in particular seemed derailed by this and spent ten minutes or so wincing at and avoiding potential challenges before settling back in and doing a solid enough job alongside Doucouré. The best of the Hornets’ chances came to Janmaat, whose cross-shot brought a crucial fingertip from Ben Foster on one of few occasions that we moved Albion out of shape in the first half, otherwise Prödl headed over from a corner, Pereyra saw a stabbed effort deflected to safety and the half ended very nil nil without an awful lot to distinguish it from the first half against Everton a week ago.

4 – Albion were more impressive than Everton in many ways, not that that’s saying much. More fight about them, certainly, and solid and organised defensively. That’s all, though. They looked horribly blunt, low on confidence or of any reliable means of scoring a goal, at least from open play. The likes of Craig Dawson and Matt Phillips are decent players, stalwarts, but the sort of player that you build a promotion side around. Even the Albion support, admirably filling their allocation despite the weather and their team’s form and in boisterous voice had a relegated air about them… not gallows humour, as such, but the sort of “we’re making more noise than you” theme that has to be relied upon when you know that your team’s not going to give you much to sing about themselves.

As against Everton we gradually imposed ourselves in the second period, and as a week ago substitutions were effective and generated a threat. Albion did have chances… a wasted header by Rondon, a scruffy shot from a narrow angle by Evans but it was all a bit desperate and stretched, as if this was the most they had and even that was an effort. Okaka replaced Richarlíson, who worked hard and had more impact than of late but still looks forlorn. We could all have done with his ambitious scissor kick dropping the other side of the post; instead he was left to react with frustration as his number came up ten minutes into the second period, Okaka again a force for good and Roberto Pereyra much happier on the left flank than he had been down the centre as we switched to 4-4-2.

But it was the arrival of Hughes that was the catalyst for the victory. As with Femenía’s return last week, the Spaniard missing ill today, it was gratifying that the transformative effect that injured players are inevitably imbued with in our mind’s eye had a basis in reality. Hughes announced himself with a resilient holding off of aggressive Albion attention, and then set about his nimble, clever, precise work from the right flank. It set a tone… Okaka was unlucky not to score, receiving Holebas’ cross, stepping across a challenge and slamming a low drive past Foster only to find Gibbs on the line. Either side of him and it was in, such was the ferocity of the drive. Then Krychowiak and Brunt were getting into a mess in the middle of the park and whilst it’s natural to highlight their mistake it was an innocuous error they’d have gotten away with but for the alertness and belligerence of Hughes nipping in between them and quickly getting the ball out from his feet to release Deeney…

5 – He looked offside. That was our first thought from the Rookery, how could he possibly have found so much space? Had it been the other way around folk would have been screaming blue murder, but Thierry Henry’s breakaway goal in 2000 was the one that taught me to hold fire on such snap judgements. That one was miles offside in real time, but not, as it turned out, in reality. This wasn’t offside either.

Deeney isn’t Henry, but he does have one thing worth highlighting early in a week in which “cojones” are likely to enter sportswriters’ vernacular once again. Plumber Gaz came over this morning. He’s a good bloke, the sort of bloke who would give up his Sunday morning to sort out a dodgy boiler despite being a Spurs fan. “What’s Deeney doing still playing?” was the question. I didn’t ask him to expand on that, to clarify whether he meant “not good enough” or “not scoring enough” or “too old”… there are all sorts of answers of course but a lot of them are tied up in that goal. There’s nobody, absolutely nobody you’d sooner place in a position where holding your nerve is a prerequisite. Keeping your temper, another conversation. But holding your nerve… he had so much time. With any number of other players you’d be watching through your fingers fearing painful and expensive deliberation but there was never any doubt whatsoever here in his mind, in ours, in the outcome. He finished it perfectly, his post-match assessment revealing a calm and rational decision making process at odds, presumably, with Gaz’s picture of him. We had fifteen minutes or so to survive which we did comfortably, an uncharacteristically underhit Mariappa backpass as close as Albion came to altering the result.

A huge win. The Chelsea result was spectacular, but our resilience in picking up two scruffy wins and two clean sheets over the last two weekends is as significant and as important. Anything less and we’d still be going into these next two games edgily hoping that the chasing pack will be dropping points. Now, instead, we’re looking at maybe taking the margin between us and Arsenal down to a mischievous six points.

Yoorns…

Karnezis 4, Janmaat 3, Holebas 4, *Mariappa 5*, Prödl 4, Doucouré 3, Capoue 3, Carrillo 3, Pereyra 3, Richarlíson 3, Deeney 4
Subs: Okaka (for Richarlíson, 54) 4, Hughes (for Carrillo, 66) 4, Britos (for Holebas, 95) 0, Gray, Zeegelaar, Lukebakio, Gomes

Watford 1 Everton 0 (24/02/2018) 25/02/2018

Posted by Matt Rowson in Match reports.
7 comments

1- This was supposed to be a grudge match. Borne of the fact that five months ago we had a manager that Everton wanted and pursued rather gracelessly. Following which he was betrayed to be as precious and narcissistic as his compatriot at Old Trafford, our form disintegrated and unexpectedly Marco Silva was on neither touchline which, for all his evident coaching ability, both sides might have cause to be grateful for.

Any sense of blood and thunder and scores to be settled was short lived. The teams arrived to a particularly densely packed wall of flags in the Rookery and an unexpected cannonfire of yellow and black streamers from the base of the stand. Briefly this had the desired effect as the crowd roared the Hornets on, until it became clear that said streamers had been fired with sufficient welly to reach and entangle themselves into the hooks and anchors in the ceiling of the stand which has never received more attention during a game as the tendrils of streamers blowing in the wind provided an unusual frame to the action, a garish new Instagram filter for the rest of the evening. Occasionally one would detach itself and float serenely down into the stand, distracting from the action on the pitch.

2- Which in all honestly didn’t take a lot of distracting from. Further tension was sucked from the event by a few seconds waiting in the merciless cold, presumably for a BT Sport commercial break; when the game was finally permitted to commence a casual glance at the pitch (or, indeed, a TV screen) might not have revealed that much had changed. Everton employed a pressing game, congesting the centre of the pitch and allowing our centre backs to patrol with the ball without yielding space or avenues for them to attack. Adrian Mariappa in particular twice fell foul of the need to switch play quickly to beat Everton’s covering by placing hurried balls into touch. It was a pressing game of sorts from Everton, if only executed from a certain point, but never has a pressing game been so soporific. No better summary of the half can be provided than an early Toffees free kick, from memory the only one yielded in a threatening position by a disciplined defensive display. As Sigurdsson’s ball came over en route to somewhere inconsequential Wayne Rooney shoved Jose Holebas two handed in the back. The ball drifted off somewhere. Not to suggest that Rooney in particular or Everton in general were particularly dirty – although Doucouré was taken out by one vicious tackle later in the half – but that was the motif of the first forty-five minutes. Lumpy, shovey, lack of quality.

The principal exception to which was Gerard Deulofeu who flew at Cuco Martina relentlessly and was our best hope of Something Happening, of upsetting the ugly, stable nature of the half but it didn’t happen. The game was balanced in the way that a skip full of dung is balanced. A skip full of dung with “nil nil” spray painted grumpily all over it.

3- On the subject of faeces, this Everton incarnation is a fetid turd of a football team. Yes, yes… you can read too much into one game, an Evertonian who knows only yesterday evening of Watford might level similar accusations. However we don’t have a squad half-filled with, to use a well-worn but appropriate analogy, Fantasy Football picks from five years ago (and a manager from longer ago than that). Even that rarest of things, a home grown kid or two, doesn’t relieve the stench. What a joyless thing to be an Everton fan with aspirations of being one of the big six (seven?) but with a team as lumpy and leaden and wonky as any we’ve seen this season. Not awful… just, in common with much of the division, not very good. Burnley, eleven games without a win and stillseventh, tell a story.

Gueye was an exception, a fine little metronome ticking away at the back of the midfield. Niasse too charged around endearingly, propelling himself between the path of the ball and the incumbent Watford defender but the rest was ghoulish, and even Niasse as the spearhead betrayed the side’s limitations. A bloke that charges around a lot is a fun thing in a bad side, but that’s all. Meanwhile in Theo Walcott you’ve got another vital component of a bad team, a quick inconsequential winger, and Cenk Tosun’s second half cameo was hilarious. Jonathan Wilson’s take on the advisedness or otherwise of big strikers coming to the Prem from places where Big Blokes are a rarer thing and thus less capably defended against seems prescient – Tosun looked bemused by proceedings, crumbling under challenge, giving up on the escaping Capoue… that’s what £27 million gets you in the current market it seems.

4- Mercifully, we improved in the second half. It didn’t happen straight away, and Everton had the best chance of the game to that point when Keane’s header drifted wide… but after a bit we noticed that Everton hadn’t crossed the halfway line for a while. Then, the subs happened.

When in the grips of an injury crisis it’s tempting to imbue the missing players with superhuman qualities that would undoubtedly propel the team upwards if only, if only… then said player comes back, runs into someone, falls onto their backside and gets sucked into the morass. Heartening then to see Kiko Femenía’s flame on so quickly after the best part of three months out. His rusty, “getting back into it” spell lasted a matter of minutes rather than games and he provided us with a real outlet down the right. No less impactful was Stefano Okaka, on like Femenía after barely ten minutes of the half and re-introduced to the fold after his failed attempts to secure a move and more gametime in the window. This was the Okaka suggested by his cameo debut at West Ham eighteen months ago and glimpsed occasionally since… combative, abrasive, direct, irrepressible, a wrecking ball of a performance that Everton couldn’t cope with.

Sadly, we only got to see seven minutes of the vaunted link-up between Femenía and Deulofeu before the latter limped off, ominously, providing the biggest downer of the evening. We cross our fingers and wait… in the meantime, a bleach-blond Andre Carrillo entered the fray and gave a decent account of himself. Now, for the first time, we were demonstrably the better side… Janmaat tried to reprise his Chelsea goal by bludgeoning his way through Everton’s defence but found slightly stiffer resistance than the Champions had offered. Pickford cleared carelessly and Femenía screamed onto it and down the flank, opting to shoot instead of squaring to his unimpressed skipper. A minute later Femenía was involved again as he and Okaka combined to find Deeney who took a touch around a defender, span on the ball and slugged a violent shot past a partly unsighted keeper. Everton’s fightback was pathetic, non-existent. Game over.

5- A massive win. Really, really important. We all know how tight it is down at the bottom, much as we’ve not dropped any lower than twelfth, and the Chelsea result showcased what this team is capable of. Nonetheless… our fixture list for the rest of the season is peculiarly unbalanced and picking up the points we need at home takes any pressure from the challenging away fixtures. If Javi Gracia manages to secure his third home win on the hop against Albion next Saturday we’ll be on 36 points going into trips to Arsenal and Liverpool. Not safe, not quite… but you’d fancy us to do what’s necessary in our remaining home games, rendering those two trips a free punch to be cherished.

An ugly, horrible, forgettable game. But you’ve got to win those too, and we did.

Yoorns.

Karnezis 3, Janmaat 3, Holebas 4, Mariappa 3, Prödl 3, Doucouré 3, Capoue 3, Pereyra 3, *Deulofeu 4*, Richarlíson 2, Deeney 3
Subs: Okaka (for Pereyra, 56) 4, Femenía (for Richarlíson, 56) 4, Carrillo (for Deulofeu, 63) 3, Zeegelaar, Gray, Britos, Gomes

Watford 4 Chelsea 1 (05/02/2018) 06/02/2018

Posted by Matt Rowson in Thoughts about things.
19 comments

1.

9. Chelsea next. That might be fun.

Ian Grant, BHaPPY Stoke Report

I went down on the train. Sally (#notafootballfan) had dropped me off at the station. Her track record’s pretty good, Arsenal (A) last season was her previous drop-off. She left me with a promise to put money on Troy as first goalscorer as I grabbed the clockwork shuttle across from Bedford to Bletchley.

The route home was slightly easier; Dad dropped me at St Albans, I made the train waiting at the platform, grabbed the only cab on the rank at Bedford, home at not-quite-silly’o’clock.

And then lay in bed, staring upwards in the dark. For hours.  Completely wired.

2- A long time ago, Ian compared trying to describe the last 20 minutes of a particular game as being akin to trying to trap a hurricane a matchbox. 19 years on, another game that defies description, defies all attempts at meaningful summary. Appropriate, perhaps, that it was under the lights… Vicarage Road takes on a different feel at night, the dark seems to suck itself into the old quarry, claustrophobic in the way that sunlit games just aren’t.

There will have been intakes of breath at 7pm when the teams came up. No evidence of Tom Cleverley despite optimistic portents. No Christian Kabasele either, another hamstring victim. A 3-4-3 it seemed, with Holebas as a left-sided centre-back… but much as it’s easy to be smart after the event there was a lot to like about what Gracia had patched together. Janmaat and Zeegelaar as wing backs, for one thing. Following Bournemouth’s successful lead in matching Chelsea’s shape was another. As Chelsea launched an early attack and Janmaat was exposed on our right requiring Mariappa to sweep up I was briefly reminded of Sam Allardyce’s graceless deflection of blame onto his own team for their failure to follow Swansea’s blueprint for beating Arsenal. Would we suffer from aping someone else’s successful plan? No. This was very much not to be the tone of the evening.

Because we were brilliant. Have I not mentioned this yet? And of all the things to reflect on with glee, all the things and people to praise, surely the new head coach is at the top of the list. What a way to make an entrance. Not only did he cobble together a side, a team of all things, capable of thrashing the League champions, he injected a vim and vigour such as hadn’t been seen since, arguably, November. Gone was the nervous, hesitant, unconvinced shambles of recent weeks. Gone was the rigid adherence to a certain way of playing – we’ve played three different formations in three games. And throughout the first half – Christ, there were no goals until the 41st minute – we were on the front foot. Deeney sliced a chance wide as it came quickly across him, Richarlíson committed people, Deulofeu slammed a shot into the side netting. Chelsea didn’t have a shot on target in the first half.
They were nowhere.

3- It would be wrong to pretend that this was all down to Watford. The visitors looked as unlike defending League champions as its possible to look. Blunt, yes, without a focal point, this accentuated by our flooding of the midfield and forcing Chelsea into wide positions for the first half hour from which they couldn’t hurt us. But limp, too. Uncommitted, unconvincing and unconvinced. Eyes down, negative body language. Not unfamiliar, in other words, but if we’re honest it was latter day Silva Watford turned up to eleven by expectation and the nothing-to-loseness of their opponents’ circumstances.

Tiemoué Bakayoko’s hapless half hour is prominent in assassinations of Chelsea’s performance; from the Rookery, where even Chelsea are just a collection of Their Lot (plus David Luiz) it was less straightforward to highlight his culpability but certainly we stomped all over the midfield. Twice his loose control necessitated recovering challenges, twice he was penalised. You boss the midfield like that and you force such situations, impose them. At least one of those was soft, it turns out. Fine. We thank Lady Luck and maybe remember this next time an Eric Dier handball is missed. Nonetheless, as exhaling faces emerged from the concourse at half time reporting the generous decision you could help but worry that Mike Dean might seek to even the score in the second half.

He didn’t. Perhaps he would have penalised David Luiz more harshly for his kick at Doucouré in other circumstances but Dean had an excellent game and we never gave him the opportunity to even the score. By then, in any case, we were a goal up… Janmaat released Deulofeu, Courtois came bundling out and took out the winger. As an aside, if I could have wished for an extra cherry it would have been a red card for the odious Fabregas, not that he did anything to earn one beyond existing. But Thibault Courtois’ plaintive bleating about the penalty was a decent next best, and Jamie Carragher calling him out in uncompromising terms for having utterly messed up and taken Deulofeu out was an enjoyable part of the denouement. Troy smashed home the penalty, of course, the fallout from which was recorded on Sally (#notafootballfan)’s voicemail but in vain. She hadn’t placed the bet.

4- It would, equally, be wrong to pretend that this was all down to Chelsea. Of particular note is the number of individuals whose contributions were simultaneously ramped up significantly on recent showings. Least surprisingly perhaps Sebastian Prödl looked infinitely more comfortable in a three, more akin to his imperious best than the nervous giraffe of as recently as Stoke on Wednesday night. Daryl Janmaat, also in a more suitable position, was a rampaging rhinoceros on the flank rather than the rather clumsy, sedate animal of recent weeks. Abdoulaye Doucouré’s form had dipped to merely adequate levels but here he was again best at everything… passing, movement, awareness, tackling, driving the team on, big thumping twonks towards the top corner (we’ll come to that). Richarlíson was to be withdrawn in the second half as the visitors succeeded in prickling him but his flame was back on too, direct and uncontainable. Étienne Capoue… we’ve seen this before of course, but we thought this version of Capoue had left the building for good. Not so. A storming performance from the Frenchman worthy of pairing his compatriot in the middle. And Troy. Obviously Troy. For the first time in all the transfer windows where he’s been the subject of attention it felt as if he might actually be on his way this time. That the draw with Southampton was his sign-off, a reminder of what we were losing. Here he was magnificent, every inch the focal point that our forward line has been screaming out for all season even when he’s been in it. He murdered David Luiz, and led the line superbly… Jonathan Lieuw in the Independent summed up his contribution most appropriately:

“Troy Deeney scored a first half penalty and performed an essential role up front, part battering ram, part talisman, like the carving on the bow of a warship”

Jonathan Lieuw, The Independent

5- The second half, and more of the same. Except… from the moment when Chelsea went down to ten we were doing The Stuff That You’re Supposed To Do in such circumstances. Suddenly it was us getting it wide, switching it, making our opponents move. And as they were forced to push on bluntly we galloped back on the break… Deulofeu shot narrowly wide, Doucouré seized possession and hammered down the centre of the pitch before twonking it towards the top corner. Courtois, a better goalkeeper than he is interviewee, adjudicator or analyst, flung himself at it to paw it away. Chelsea still hadn’t had a shot on target.

The balance shifted when Giroud came on. This was preceded by some more fine refereeing by Dean, playing advantage despite Fabregas’ characteristically sulky, disruptive foul, ignoring Pedro collapsing in a heap under no challenge and then when Janmaat screwed the resultant effort wide booking the former and allowing treatment and ultimately replacement of the latter. And suddenly Chelsea had a focal point. Even the most exalted teams benefit now and again from a big lad up front and Chelsea’s threat was no longer theoretical. Perhaps conscious of it we looked a little deliberate for the first time. Sitting back, smothering the space. In fairness whilst we looked nervous there was still limited evidence of a threat… it was going to take either a rare lapse of concentration or something unprecedented and brilliant. Ultimately it took both… Janmaat afforded Hazard too much space, Hazard gobbled it up and slung an extraordinary shot past the blameless Karnezis. We’d have gotten away with that against anyone else. Olivier Giroud hared after the ball to retrieve it and the memory of late defeats to the Blues in each of our last three encounters loomed large.

6- The last ten minutes were ridiculous. They were what kept me awake last night such that I’m too tired to type as I write now, why this didn’t get written at lunchtime as a parade of visitors to the office wanted to discuss them.

But the turning point wasn’t Janmaat’s goal, magnificent and significant as it was. The critical moment, as called out by my brother watching dazed and exalted and frustrated in the distant northern wastes was slightly earlier… as Hazard was rudely dispossessed as he edged Chelsea towards their inevitable winner and Capoue, who we’ve so often screamed at to impose himself like this, changed the script again. He surged upfield leaving Chelsea defenders reeling in shock… memories of Arsenal’s hapless Tony Adams chasing Luther in 1987. This wasn’t the script. Capoue released Deulofeu’s brilliant run, the Spaniard clipped the ball over Courtois and wide but… we were still in this, boys and girls. No rolling over here.

And in our next attack Janmaat is careering into the Chelsea area, reminiscent of his pinball goal at Stamford Bridge last season but with the added bonus of an exquisite 1-2 with Roberto Pereyra (another who suddenly looked like the player in our heads) around the Chelsea bollards. A fabulous finish and the roof came off because now it was definitively All Going To Be OK. Not just this game, but the rest of the season, the rest of our lives, all sorted. All concerns blown away… the game, your job, your money concerns, whatever’s in your head tattered and blowing in the wind. In the Rookery, absolute carnage. On the pitch, Richarlíson has bombed down the wing from the bench to pile into the celebrations.

Then Doucouré’s doing this delicate dance around Chelsea tackles in the middle of the park and gets the ball out and somehow, who knows how, finds Deulofeu escaping down the right. His number’s up and he knows it, Andre Carrillo is stripped off and ready. So he keeps running, and keeps running, pointing either to Deeney or merely to confuse his marker who doesn’t need any help in that department. Troy’s run drags the defence apart, ties their shoelaces together and Deulofeu keeps going and again we get a break, a scuff of Cahill’s boot and Courtois looks a pratt as it rolls past him which is a shame but our luck is IN and you almost feel sorry for our opponents except it’s Chelsea. Deulofeu stands in exalted exhaustion, his last touch to roll the ball into the net.

And we’re not finished, because in the sixth minute of injury time Bobby Pereyra turns Azpilicueta inside out. That’s César Azpilicueta, not Jack Hobbs or Liam Fontaine or Darren bloody Purse. And Azpilicueta having been turned inside out he slams a ridiculous shot past Courtois and it really is all over. “We want five” shouts the Rookery. “Barcelona, we’re coming for you” replies what’s left of the away end.

7- Hugely significant, obviously. Changes the outlook, changes the mood… no, screws the mood up and drop kicks it into the nearest bin with a click of the heels. But in isolation, out of context, this is why you watch football. Nights like this, which are completely brilliant and really don’t come along that often. Not like this. Bring on the rest of the season. Bring on the returns of Kaboul, Femenia, Chalobah, Hughes and the rest. Bring on, suddenly, improbably anything

Yoorns.

Karnezis 5, Mariappa 5, Prödl 5, Holebas 5, Janmaat 5, *Doucouré 5*, Capoue 5, Zeegelaar 5, Deulofeu 5, Richarlíson 5, Deeney 5
Subs: Pereyra (for Richarlíson, 65) 5, Carrillo (for Deulofeu, 89) 5, Gray (for Deeney, 93) 5, Ndong, Lukebakio, Bachmann, Mukena

Stoke City 0 Watford 0 (31/01/2018) 01/02/2018

Posted by Ian Grant in Match reports.
6 comments

1. The last time I saw The Fall was in April 2015. They played in Hastings; next to nobody plays in Hastings. I bought a ticket and I went…and I wondered why I had. It was one of those evenings when middle-aged parenting catches up with you, when you can’t escape the grey fog of the cold with which you’ve had an on-off affair for about two months, when fatigue is all you’ve got to offer. I took a seat in the balcony, bought a beer that immediately made me feel worse. The support band were irritating, and not in a good way. I hadn’t been a really proper Fall fan since they changed my life at the age of sixteen; I’d seen them more than once since then and left feeling largely indifferent, happy that they still existed, happy that I didn’t need to worry. I looked forward to enduring an hour or more of their incorrigible riffola with, at best, a sense of duty.

And – you knew this was coming, but I didn’t – they were effing brilliant. Urgent, concise, vital. Mark E Smith stumbled in from the dressing room after a song or two, then spent a while to-and-froing like someone cooking a meal in the kitchen while keeping an eye on a football match in the living room; eventually, he decided that the evening was worthy of his presence and committed to it more fully, if no more coherently. The balance was perfect. Left to their own devices, no set of proficient musicians would be able to steer so far clear of complacency, to keep it all so compact, so devoid of frills; they’d become an unremarkable bar band within a week. Left to himself, or in charge of a less resilient group, Smith would’ve been a tragicomic sideshow. They needed each other: despite that ‘granny on bongos’ line, The Fall was at the meeting point of those two trajectories, the two things shackled together, wired and ramshackle, loose and furious. All and nothing.

When I started writing that, I was going to work it into a metaphor somehow. But Mark E Smith resists all of that nonsense, won’t be wrestled into anyone’s game. The idea of taking The Fall, holding them in the palm of your hand and then grasping for something comparable with the other hand…it doesn’t work. They won’t have it.

Rest in peace, you old curmudgeon.

“F*** off, pal.”

We’ll have to start again.

2. Reading an article in the Guardian about Grimsby last week, it struck me how much football has shaped my view of the world. I haven’t travelled very much; maybe I ought to, but I’ve no appetite for it, no bucket list to speak of. Most of the towns and cities I’ve visited over the years have involved a game; most of them aren’t seen at best advantage on a freezing Saturday afternoon in December. Grimsby, particularly. Perhaps you’re one of those who travel to away fixtures simply to join with others in singing about wanting to go home again, but I appear to have absorbed a certain amount of each of these places, a few mental images, a certain fondness that’s outlasted the result. A nearly-forgotten holiday, just fading echoes. I imagine many of its inhabitants would quite rightly and robustly spurn such advances from an affluent middle-class Guardian-reading metropolitan liberal Southern tosser, but I’ve an inexplicable soft spot for Grimsby.

I’ve never been to Stoke before, so they’ve no spot, soft or otherwise. I’m here as the result of a phonecall from fellow former fanzine editors at Stephen Todd’s funeral back in October, suggesting that we take on the season’s least inviting midweek away trip in his honour. Toddy knew how to do football supporting better than pretty much anyone I’ve ever met; I’ve lost the knack, but something in the idea has remained sufficiently appealing that I haven’t wheedled my way out in the meantime. We arrive in Stoke at not long after four o’clock, settle into the local Harvester, avail ourselves of the salad cart, try to build a list of every goalscorer from the Pozzo era. Shenanigans and indeed misdemeanours from away trips of yore are mentioned; Dave keeps that flame alive by ordering gammon with egg and pineapple.

3. My first game of the season, then. It’s all very well pootling down the road for a bit of crumbly-terraced non-league action of a Saturday afternoon and being back home before the end of Grandstand, but can he cut it on a cold Wednesday night in Stoke? I realise how long it’s been since I’ve entered a Premier League ground when I empty my pockets in preparation for the journey and find a small collection of interesting pebbles from the beach that I’ve been carrying around with me since the summer. I haven’t checked but suspect that you’re not supposed to take stones into grounds these days, even if they are pretty, even if they do have holes in them.

4. By curious coincidence, it’s a curtain-raiser (of sorts, in the League, go with me) for the Javi Gracia…well, they’re not really ‘eras’ as such, are they?  The Javi Gracia sojourn, perhaps? He’s a new bloke to replace the old bloke who didn’t want to be our bloke any more, or something. That’s roughly the gist, I think.

I have the broad outline of the season, little more. Speaking of broad outlines – and no, please don’t tell him I said that – there’s Troy Deeney wearing the captain’s armband rather than, for example, a West Brom shirt. The signing of Gerard Deulofeu from Barcelona signals the owners’ continued desire to look upwards rather than downwards; those more inclined towards panic might’ve been trying to find themselves a Danny Cullip at this point. Even with that injury list, a glance through the teamsheet suggests that there ought to be cause for optimism, although not having sat through a thumping home defeat to Huddersfield probably helps.

(A doff of the cap to the departing Ben Watson while we’re here. There have been many more spectacular signings in recent years; there have not been that many better. Good luck to you, sir.)

5. It isn’t a very good game. Returning to the top flight after spending time in the depths of non-league, it’s startling how theatrical it all is; the pitch is neatly, cleanly edged as if it were a stage rather than an expanse of grass. So many people too: in the crowd, obviously, but in the supporting cast of coaches, medics, stewards, officials, in the spaces created to accommodate them all. It’s slightly mad. And quite fun. But it does tend to throw something as, well, unrefined as this particular contest into sharp relief. I’ve seen better games this season, put it that way.

6. It’s hard to say who has the best of the first half. It’s one of those, one that either manager might reasonably claim. Indeed, it’s one of those games overall: you’d have little cause for complaint at a one-nil defeat, you’d find enough to justify a one-nil win. Nil-nil it is, then.

But we’re getting ahead of ourselves. Stoke are energetic early on, with Paul Lambert jumping around on the touchline in violently nylon sportswear like the kind of PE teacher who’d want to you to call him by his nickname. Diouf wastes their best chance with a glancing header across goal, before a break is initially foiled by a superb block from Adrian Mariappa, the first of at least half a dozen such interventions, and ended by Choupa-Moting curling very narrowly wide. Sebastian Prodl looks a terrified shadow of the player I remember, visibly shrinking away from the ball on occasions; you wouldn’t say that a goal is ever imminent but neither would you be confident enough to dismiss the idea.

But while those nerves never fully disappear, the game begins to form in our favour. The midfield gradually takes shape and takes hold, with Etienne Capoue playing a notably more disciplined, less loose-limbed role than I associate him with (at least until it all starts to unravel in the last ten minutes), Tom Cleverley biting in, Abdoulaye Doucoure rumbling about threateningly, Gerard Deulofeu flitting in and out. Only very occasionally can you look at it with genuine admiration – a fine move ends with Cleverley shooting over – but it has purpose and it has influence.

By half-time, then, we’re a little unfortunate not to have stolen a goal. First, Doucoure’s drifting header from a Holebas free kick is cleared off the line; later, Deulofeu scampers down the right and delivers a low cross that Richarlison ought to smack past Butland at the near post rather than blasting over the bar. None of it requires a thesaurus-full of extravagent adjectives, but it’s decent, it’s workmanlike. We have reason enough to be encouraged.

7. The second half begins with a protracted spell of low level, childish tetchiness that’ll rapidly test the patience of all present, particularly those who haven’t paid to watch over-grown men cry to teacher about someone pulling their hair. I oppose the introduction of VAR so fervently that it sometimes keeps me awake at night but I have to say that if it brought an end to players pretending to have been elbowed in the face, with the inevitable five minute break for pushing, pointing and tale-telling, it wouldn’t be entirely bad. You half expect to find that someone’s drawn a willy in chalk on the referee’s back when he’s been distracted. Football breaks out in between, fitfully and briefly, like a badly scratched Napalm Death record.

While it never settles down entirely – Doucoure and Crouch have a playground tussle late on, for instance – the ratio of football to not-football does improve as the half settles down. Neither side makes much headway, both rather willing an error of the type which lets in Shaqiri to blast straight at Orestis Karnezis. For our part, Troy Deeney is swamped by a combination of Shawcross and Zouma in every aerial challenge, like Father Jack being mobbed by angry crows; it isn’t his finest game, but he does at least keep his rag intact.

He’s helped by the arrival of Andre Gray for the rather sullen, subdued Richarlison. Given that both of the opposition’s central defenders are concentrating on piling on top of our centre forward, there really ought to be space to exploit elsewhere and Gray’s aggressive runs in behind begin to do just that. But at all of its outward edges, if not at its centre, this is a nervous, hesitant performance and that applies to the finishing as much as anything else. The best chance falls to Roberto Pereyra, on for a depressingly crocked Cleverley, who scuffs his shot sufficiently for Butland to make an easy save.

8. Thing is, and perhaps I can see this more clearly than those of you who’ve been more closely involved in the season’s ups and downs…but there’s very little wrong here that a good, bracing blast of confidence wouldn’t fix. You look through that side and you see a really significant number of players – Holebas, Prodl, Capoue, Richarlison, Pereyra, Deeney, Gray – who have proven themselves to have plenty to offer at this level and yet are desperately out of sorts, out of form, short of fitness or various combinations thereof. When you think of some of the precarious positions we’ve found ourselves in the past – hell, some of the flat-out hopeless positions – this doesn’t even begin to compare. Not even close.

In a perfect world, you’d sign Tommy Mooney and get him to lead the charge, everyone falling in behind, no option but to join the ride. Maybe it doesn’t work like that any more. Maybe it never did at this level. Whatever, the only way forward for this group is to chip away at it. Adrian Mariappa shows the way here, relishing a new role on the right, clearing his head of nagging doubts and digging in. A clean sheet, a point away from home, something to build on. It needn’t matter that it was a bit scratchy, that it could’ve been more (or less); all that matters is what you do with it, how you build upon it. This still looks like a bloody good side to me, just a bloody good side that needs to believe in itself again.

9. Chelsea next. That might be fun.

Karnezis 3, Holebas 3, Prodl 2, Kabasele 3, *Mariappa 4*, Doucouré 3, Cleverley 3, Capoue 3, Richarlíson 2, Deulofeu 3, Deeney 3
Subs: Gray (for Richarlison, 67) 3, Pereyra (for Cleverley, 72) 3, Carrillo (for Deulofeu, 87) 0, Bachmann, Janmaat, Zeegelaar, Jordan Stewart (not really)

Silva Bullet (and coup de Gracia?) 22/01/2018

Posted by Matt Rowson in Thoughts about things.
15 comments

OK, so there was supposed to be a Leicester report. Sorry about that. Birthday drinks on Saturday night delayed that exercise and by the time I got round to sitting down events had moved on apace and an account of events at the KP Stadium had become almost superfluous, like a restaurant review of a curry shop that shut down a week ago. In brief then… Leicester’s always a great away trip even though we always lose. Karnezis done great. We looked tough and pretty competitive and could have nicked a point but didn’t; Leicester had enough to exploit the cracks in our side and deserved the win. Oh, and Lee Probert did well enough; we moan when they’re awful so credit where it’s due. Yes, the Deeney “goal” was probably onside but a marginal decision advised by his assistant. Andre Gray and Troy together worked again, but Gray needs some of whatever made Luther so indifferent to missing chances back in the day. He missed loads, of course… but was always there for the next one and never seemed to let it bother him. Each open goal that Gray’s positive running earns looks like a traumatic experience for the striker.

Some of those cracks are long-standing of course, not news. Which brings us to the decision to get rid which disrupted our Sunday morning. It is a decision, first and foremost, which is a Good Thing. Some might argue that this is overdue but even those would surely concede that this is decisive action taken with a new guy lined up and engineered with minimum fuss. None of Everton’s hapless floundering in search of a new coach, job done.

So…that’s a good thing. Handled well. As for the decision itself? There’s regret there, I think, probably on all parts. “A shame”. The opening couple of months of the season saw the best football we’ve played for a very long time, certainly the best football we’ve played in the top flight since GT’s time. The contrast has been the most startling thing, the contrast between that and what has followed, much as there were steps of decline that featured a flattering win at Newcastle, a forgivable defeat against United. Leaving Evertongate aside for a minute, there’s stuff to be learned about how a manager reacts when things stop working. Alex Neil at Norwich suffered from this, the best young manager around until Premier League Norwich lost a game or two and then he wasn’t. Silva never looked like recovering his position, of righting the ship.

The persistence with a system that patently doesn’t suit the situation or available personnel is surely high on the charge list. A high energy game looked fabulous with a (largely) fit squad in August, less so with leggy players in December. Richarlíson has faded to nothing, I don’t remember the last impactful game he had, our fullbacks are repeatedly exposed, our forward line doesn’t really work for ANY of our forwards (excepting the point against Southampton, won by Troy Deeney through force of personality). Injuries, yes, and that’s another question altogether. But we have a stronger squad and better players available than performances have reflected.

You suspect that Silva would have been afforded more time but for the Everton thing, and the fall out therefrom. Indeed, for all the Pozzos’ tiresome reputation as hirers and firers their stated preference is to execute managerial changes at the end of a season, it would have taken more than this to disrupt that policy. In attributing blame however, the wording of a club statement pointing the finger squarely at Everton was odd. Certainly the Toffees’ conduct was graceless, unfitting of a proud club and worthy of every bit of disdain that we’ve thrown at them… but the problem wasn’t the approach itself. It was Silva’s response to it. Had the Everton thing not happened, the potential for such an issue would always have been there.

At the time we observed that going to Everton would do his reputation no favours, since big budget or no he’d scampered too quickly up the ladder; should he fail at Goodison any chance of another Watford going for him thereafter would be tampered by his shameless ambition and lack of judgement. Now he ends up in the same place without the Everton pay-off. He’ll get a job somewhere of course, and may well learn from this experience but his inability to deal with Stuff Going Wrong – be it on the pitch or the failure to secure his preferred targets off it – will be as much of a concern to any potential employer.

As for the Hornets… an interesting range of reactions from media and pundits. That there are those saying “who do Watford think they are, tenth in the League and getting rid of a bright young manager” should be no surprise… this is the sort of stuff you expect from your mate who doesn’t really follow Watford and only pays attention when Something Happens. Forgivable on your mate’s part, less so on the part of those paid to be experts on the back of half-arsed pub talk (that’s you, Michael Owen). Martin Samuel’s odious clickbait is at one extreme beyond that – rather than reading it, why not click on “Daily Mail” in NewsNow and do yourself a favour by Hiding Publication?

But otherwise there’s been a refreshingly balanced take on the affair from the Times (behind their paywall), the Guardian and the Independent. Reassuring that someone’s paying attention. Not that the Pozzos and Scott Duxbury care, particularly.

The paradox remains, however, that in this which is surely the second most successful period in the club’s history (much as definitions of success may vary), we look back arguably at only Slavisa Jokanovic of our managers under the Pozzos in a positive light. All managers leave clubs eventually of course and that will almost always take a sheen off… but of those that preceded the Pozzos certainly Dyche, Mackay, Lewington are generally regarded positively. Circumstance and expectation plays a part of course, but nonetheless.

To reiterate, highly significant that Javi Gracia is already in place. Indicative that this has been in the pipeline for a while, and casting a new light perhaps on the lack of incoming traffic thus far in January. Quite what the future holds, whether we add to our numbers, whether players return from treatment to strengthen the fold or whether Carrillo and Richarlíson’s contribution is damaged by their mentor’s departure we will have to wait and see.

Either way, change was needed. Change has arrived.

Yoorns.

Watford 2 Southampton 2 (13/01/2018) 14/01/2018

Posted by Matt Rowson in Thoughts about things.
15 comments

1- Leeds. September, 1991. Tentative steps being taken into the outside world, a world not constrained by living at home or by the accident of which school you happened to go to, who you happened to sit next to. Into this noisy, exciting, anxious world of the Old Bar in the Student Union I saw someone arrive wearing this.

Leaving aside the questionable kit design for one moment footballing loyalties were always going to forge friendships, particularly this footballing loyalty in Leeds in 1991. Over the next few years Felix’s Yugo shuttled a small but committed (in several respects) crew from Leeds to any away games vaguely within striking range. Occasionally he would persuade it to start by opening the bonnet and clouting the engine with a piece of wood. There was a chaotic trip to St James Park – an eviction, a car crash and a red card. The Baseball Ground, and an unwanted encounter with a uniformed “firm”. Oakwell, Boundary Park, Roker Park. Vicarage Road, too, once or twice, including the win over Leeds in the League Cup.

Vicky was often part of that crew. In the 25 years since lots has changed, I’ve lost touch with many friends and scarcely see others. Vicky and Felix are both in the Rookery today though, we’re sat together with scarves held aloft commemorating the anniversary of Graham’s passing. They’re connected to a common thread through all of our lives the profoundness of which doesn’t change whilst everything else churns beyond recognition. That’s why there’s such an eerie, absolute commitment to this stunning tribute to Taylor; a reflection of his extraordinary legacy, but also of everyone’s connectedness to it from those who date back 25 years or more to my kids, Felix’s kids, not old enough to remember but plenty old enough to “get it”.

Warmingly, as well as the scarves creating a stunning tableau in the home stands there are Saints scarves aloft in the away end. I’d like to think that these represented solidarity as well as a statement of pride in their own team. Being proud of what and who you are doesn’t obligate you to hate anyone that’s something different whatever the current political climate might imply.

2- “Elton John’s Taylor Made Army” thunders around the stands for a couple of minutes until the nervousness on the pitch in front of us reminds us of our current precarious situation. Both sides look nervous, actually… and there’s a collective fit of scruffiness until both sides settle down and start to attempt to land punches. Southampton’s counterattacking is evident quickly, a laser-guided Kabasele tackle robs a flying but baffled Shane Long of the ball to vociferous approval from Daughter 1. At the other end we build up a cautious head of steam; Carrillo feeds Gray but the ball surprises him, he swipes and misses; we work it out and around and find Janmaat who thunders a drive across the face of goal and narrowly over.

Better. Not convincing, not refined, but as against Leicester it was something that might conceivably have gotten us somewhere had the visitors not gone and scored. In what was to become a recurring them we were exposed down the flanks, Zeegelaar on this occasion; the resultant firefighting in the defence saw bodies flying left and right but none got sufficiently close to James Ward-Prowse who threaded a shot through and past Gomes.

Had the goal come up the other end, things might have been very different. Well… reversed, inverted. As it was the Hornets’ confidence visibly collapsed and a newly buoyant Southampton looked to take advantage. They were well set-up to do so… this could have been our game at Newcastle again, a home side blunt and lacking in confidence having to push on against a visitor very happy to counterattack. Long again found space and time to pitch a tent on the right flank but took a touch allowing Zeegelaar to block. Saints looked for Gomes wandering off his line and twice attempted to drop balls over his head, once forcing the Brazilian to tip over. It felt very difficult for us to find a way through compelled as we were to play short, whilst Southampton were finding it horribly easy to threaten. Someone over my shoulder had clearly decided that Everything was Andre Gray’s fault with the perhaps unintended consequence in hardening the support for our lone striker of everyone in earshot.

Marco Silva made an early substitution decision, ostensibly intending to bring Pereyra on for Ben Watson to introduce a little more craft but forced instead to replace the ailing Cleverley to murmurs of disquiet from the stands. Finally, inevitably, Saints scored again and again Ward-Prowse popped up on the right to convert. The stands emptied in search of half-time respite, the scoreline not flattering the visitors one bit, apt reward for our flimsy lack of resilience.

3- Coming back from two goals down in any circumstances is a Good Thing; there’s a theoretical danger in papering over the cracks by overdoing celebration of the second half performance but actually, after one League win in whatever it is that risk is perhaps minimal.

Therefore, given the desperate need for a bit of positivity why not celebrate the monumental second half performance of our captain. True, such performances have been fewer and further between this season but if there was any definitive riposte to the murmurs suggesting that maybe Troy’s time has come at Watford, that it would be better for all concerned if, you know…. well, this was it. As ever on such occasions it was the how as much as the what… but let’s dawdle on the what for a second.

Suddenly, with two up top, we looked cohesive. Saints boasted two big lumps at the back but not only could neither do much more with the ball than kick it in the direction they were facing (often into the crowd), but Troy absolutely destroyed both of them in the air. Fitting that it was against Saints, as an aside, since in the reverse fixture two years ago Troy got absolutely bossed by Virgil Van Dijk, the first time I’d seen him so comprehensively shut down since he established himself in our side. Not this time. This time they got it back in spades.

And it wasn’t just the what, as above. Here’s a leader. Here’s someone grabbing a flagging side by the balls and dragging it along and grabbing harder on any suggestion of protest. How on earth could we be better off without this?

It wasn’t a rout. Richarlíson looks a shadow of the irrepressible force earlier in the season, any suggestion that he’s merely suffering from lack of protection dispelled by the recollection of quite how aggressively he’d fight off such attention when his flame was on. But otherwise… things started buzzing around Troy, not least Andre Gray who reacted quicker than the leaden Saints defence when Deeney found Janmaat, the full back clubbed a shot against the bar and Gray snapped up the spinning rebound.

4- We got a break with the equaliser, quite obviously, though I’m far from convinced that any contact with the arm was consequential much less intentional. As we’ve reflected before on these pages we’re acutely sensitive to such breaks going against us so shouldn’t perhaps feel too guilty when fate smiles upon us, certainly in such circumstances where we’ve not gone and duped anyone. In any event, respect to Saints’ Ryan Bertrand for maintaining the ten yard defensive exclusion zone around the left side of the Rookery End penalty area that we’d so diligently upheld in the first half, allowing Doucouré to latch onto Troy’s flick unattended.

The incident inevitably provoked much screeching and demands for immediate VAR from predictable sources, including the Daily Mail of retired referees Graham Poll. What continues to baffle, as ig reflected on these pages many years ago, is the lack of any balance in assessment of merits of this or any similar system. TV and radio in particular go no further in their evaluation than “mistakes are bad, VAR will correct some mistakes, therefore VAR is good. I don’t understand why we don’t use it already, it must be them luddites what are stuck in the dark ages. Look at cricket…”. Bloody cricket.

The thing is, if your digestion of a football match is based on highlights and talking points it’s natural to focus on these incidents but such shouldn’t be the basis for evaluation of VAR. Nobody could reasonably argue that preventing mistakes isn’t a Good Thing. The downside that’s ignored is the interruption to the flow of the game… not just delay, not just the practical questions like “what happens if this happens then that happens” although they bear consideration too. But the cutting off of the adrenaline, the breaking up of the play, the depriving of those actually paying attention and digesting the spectacle of the vital unpredictable momentum of a game of football.

Anyone in any doubt as to this threat need look no further than the consequences of the absurd performance of Roger East in this one. Painfully aware of the direction the wind was blowing, Southampton were slowing the game down throughout the second half. No fingers to be pointed here really – any side in such circumstances would have attempted similar, ourselves included. But it is cheating and it does disrupt momentum and give the side with an interest in defending a lead, say, an unfair advantage by interrupting the avalanche, not just by using up time. East’s ludicrous tapping of his watch in response to increasingly hysterical protest from the stands betrayed a complete indifference to the game of football. If you don’t want to be here Roger, feel free to sod off home and see if we can’t do a better job of it without any officials at all. The addition of (only!) five minutes at the end didn’t counterbalance the disruptive effect of Southampton’s approach, unhindered as it was by any yellow cards until much too late in proceedings. A disappointment of course that the winner didn’t come, or that the late equaliser didn’t occur in the fifth minute of injury time earned by such nonsense, as at the Hawthorns earlier in the season.

5- A point, then, and a much less miserable outlook than it might have been. It is, still, pretty miserable though. Less so for the lack of signings, though they would be nice, nor for the lack of evidence of return of our many waylaid players (to which add the name of Tom Cleverley, perhaps), though these would be more welcome still – Filippo Giraldi’s assertion that we have a very strong squad is difficult to argue with. This is surely the best squad we’ve ever had – it’s just that so many of them are unfit.

The two gravest causes for concern are our continuing inability to win The Sort Of Game We Could Be Winning. If you’re going to write off games against the big six – a third of our opposition, more or less – as free punches, nothing to loses then you really have to get points from the others and our ongoing failure to do so sees us slide ever closer to the morass. Secondly, the apparent lack of harmony behind the scenes. You can place whatever trust you like in accounts such as that in the Times on Saturday suggesting disquiet both at the Silva-to-Everton thing and at his lack of people skills, credible though it sounds. But the inconsistencies in Silva’s communication vs that of the club are beyond dispute, semantics aside. You don’t respond to an experienced player getting a new contract with “it’s nothing to do with me”, whatever you think of it. “Very glad to have José tied down” surely a no brainer. The stark contrast between the vibrancy of September and October and the pathetic last twenty minutes of the first half tells its own story.

We will, of course, all continue to watch this space. For many years.

Yoorns.

Gomes 3, Janmaat 2, Zeegelaar 2, Kabasele 3, Wagué 3, Watson 2, Doucouré 3, Cleverley 3, Carrillo 3, Richarlíson 2, Gray 3
Subs: Pereyra (for Cleverley, 35) 3, *Deeney (for Watson, 45) 4*, Okaka (for Gray, 73) 3, Prödl, Mariappa, Holebas, Karnezis

Watford 3 Bristol City 0 (06/01/2018) 07/01/2018

Posted by Matt Rowson in Thoughts about things.
6 comments

1- I was in a band when I was at school.  It’s fair to say that I wasn’t the creative engine of the enterprise…  a “functional” bassist would be the kindest description but it was tremendous fun.  Performing live, particularly;  recording stuff too, even if my role amounted to plucking the bass strings in the order that I was told to at the time that I was told to.

Recording sessions and rehearsals, from memory, rotated around parents’ homes, perhaps to informally share the burden.  One session sticks in the memory particularly,  a sunny day at my parents’ place;  they were both out, perhaps understandably, as were my siblings.  The musical creativity was interrupted for a cup of tea on the patio, and an epic discussion ensued on the subject. Ben (lead guitar, vocals) argued forcefully that the taste of tea was the taste of tea, unadulterated. Howard (drums) insisted that his cup of tea, milk, sugar, the works, was tea as he understood it.  His cup of tea.

This went on for some time.

Perhaps perversely whilst I was largely impassive in this discussion I’ve spent a reasonable proportion of the 25-plus years since working for a company that sells a lot of tea, studying and assessing consumers’ opinions of our tea.  This hasn’t resolved the argument in my mind, an argument that would doubtless have lodged in your mind as it has lodged in mine had you been there to experience it.

But the value in Howard’s point of view was laid out clearly at around 2.45pm this afternoon.  Hovering in seats that were kind of close to our season ticket seats but not actually our season ticket seats which had somehow been sold before we got there (to folk who never showed, as it turned out).  Around us… some familiar faces, waving awkwardly from similarly not-quite-the-same seats a few seats, a few rows away.  Plenty of others significant by their absence.

There are obviously obstacles to the club providing Season Ticket holders with priority booking for their seats, not least the need to offer the visiting club the entire Vicarage Road end thus displacing Family Stand season ticket holders.  Nonetheless, these challenges have always been there and the club has navigated them before.  And winning or losing, first team or reserves I would feel a little bit more valued – hell, this would be a bit more like my cup of tea if I was able to sit in my regular seat.

2- It comes to something when it’s the Premier League club that fields a virtually full-strength side – or as close to full strength as injuries permit, Richarlíson’s overdue rest aside – and the Championship upstart that makes seven changes in gives debuts to a couple of kids.  Such was the situation on this steely cold afternoon however, and with a brief sigh at the lack of our own kids in the side and a wonder if Walter Mazzarri had everything wrong after all it’s difficult to criticise either decision.  City have an injury overload of their own, are chasing promotion and have a semi-final against Manchester City on Wednesday.  However tall an order two legs against Manchester City are for anyone at the moment you don’t get to a semi final and not give it your best shot.

Meanwhile the Hornets are short of options and short of confidence, so a full-strength side both “respects the competition”, as Marco Silva has emphasised, and gives us a chance of a confidence building victory.  Since surely, surely this would be the outcome in the circumstances.  For all that City and the Hornets have been regular adversaries over the years the current state of it is that we’re a Prem club with all that entails, and our strongest(ish) available side against City’s patchwork could only end one way?

3- Lee Johnson commented afterwards, slightly peevishly, that 3-0 maybe flattered Watford.  Not knocking the decision he made, as above, but on this one he’s completely kidding himself and should really have had the courage to stand by his convictions.  This was as one-sided an affair as it ought to have been, the only disappointment being that we spurned opportunities to record a more comprehensive victory still.

That we were so comfortable owes a lot to the superiority of the weapons we had on show, but a lot also to the way that the approach that failed us against Swansea a week ago paid dividends this afternoon against less experienced, less disciplined opponents.

The emphasis in the first half was on possession;  most of the play was at the Vicarage Road end and clear openings weren’t hunted down or gambled on.  Instead the ball was swung from side to side as we patiently waited and City chased and blocked and retained their shape.   But we teased and probed and pulled the knots apart and the chances came, eventually.  Pereyra, irrepressibly on his game in the first half, teased and danced and cut inside whilst Zeegelaar thundered down the flank, unhindered by any defensive responsibility.  On the other wing Carrillo continued to fizz and with Deeney relishing a physical scrap with Aden Flint it was only a matter of time.  The striker had a header go over under challenge.  Then Capoue cut in from the left and fired a low shot for Steele to field comfortably.  Opening salvos, but it was always going to escalate and when Carrillo received a Pereyra pass and snapped a smart shot home in the penalty area to give us the lead you had the sense of us picking up speed.

4- The second half was less cagey, partly because City had to push forward and partly because their heads and legs were being tested by being given such a relentless run around.  This is what Swansea should have been like.  The gaps came and came quickly;  Pereyra, I am advised, hit the crossbar whilst I was queuing for crisps to sustain Daughter 1; I scurried back to the “oohs” and “ahhhs” of the coconut shy that followed.  “What did I miss?”.  “Nothing….”.

Ten minutes later it was 2-0; Cleverley escaped attention to gain space on the right and pulled back a terrific cross to Deeney whose diving header provided his first goal from open play of the season.

The rest was just detail, a procession of chances against an underequipped and tired opponent.  You might be concerned with the ease with which City’s hesitant forays forward created a threat but eleven shots on target to one tells its own story.  The next effort was technically off target, but not much in it… Deeney stealing in again at the near post to nod the ball into the side netting.   A left wing cross found Wagué and sub Richarlíson getting in each other’s way.  Richarlíson hared into space and didn’t clock the keeper’s position, dropping a shot into his arms rather than over him and into the net. Holebas, on at left back to give Pereyra a rest, was afforded too much space and slung a shot towards the top corner that Steele clawed out.  Finally Capoue exchanged passes with Deeney and slapped a third into the bottom corner.

5- The very definition of routine, then.  Lots of context, lots of circumstances;  City won’t and shouldn’t lose a lot of sleep about it and the game doesn’t tell us an awful lot about our ability to cope with Premier League opposition more successfully and profitably than we have been but it might contribute to our ability to do so.  This was a thoroughly professional, unfussy performance that might have reminded a few of our lot how good they are.   It might also be the kick off of a decent cup run, we’ll see.

Either way, a comfortable win with no injuries incurred is the ideal outcome.  Just our cup of tea, in fact. Now bring on the Saints.

Yoorns.

Gomes 3, Janmaat 3, Zeegelaar 4, Kabasele 3, Wagué 3, Doucouré 3, Capoue 4, Cleverley 4, *Carrillo 4*, Pereyra 4, Deeney 4

Subs: Richarlíson (for Carrillo, 69) 3, Holebas (for Pereyra, 69) 4, Watson (for Doucouré, 81) 0, Prödl, Gray, Okaka, Karnezis

Watford 1 Swansea City 2 (30/12/2017) 31/12/2017

Posted by Matt Rowson in Thoughts about things.
20 comments

1- For f***’s sake…

2- Friday had been a good day. A day with the girls, hanging out. Having lunch, spending Christmas vouchers, going to the pictures. Lots of fun, lots of laughter. The happy afterglow got me through the weekly trip to Sainsburys in the evening, got me to the petrol station to fill up for the drive down to Watford the next day, got me to sticking the unleaded nozzle in the tank and squeezing and just about to the point where I remembered that I drove a diesel.

For f***’s sake.

3- If Leicester on Tuesday was The Turning Of The Corner, this was to be the point at which we picked up speed again. Swansea, one win in twelve, bottom of the table, Not Good Enough by general consensus were perhaps the ideal opponent. The “new manager bounce” thing was there at the back of the mind, but quickly dismissed as the game started. We were on the front foot quickly; Cleverley came close, Richarlíson had an effort saved. Ayew thundered a shot off Gomes’ bar but this had come from nowhere, there was one team in it. Martin Atkinson even saw fit to completely ignore two Watford fouls in the middle of the park; this was officially going to be our day. When André Carrillo met a rebound to a Richarlíson shot to open the scoring the passage of events thenceforth seemed set out. Only one way this was going to go. We’d found our mojo again, and Swansea were the fall guys.

4- It didn’t turn out that way, obviously. With the benefit of hindsight it’s tempting to suggest that… we stepped off the gas. No urgency. Complacency. Certainly the pace of the game, of our game, dropped. Our visitors had something to do with our failure too, mind; whilst there was little attacking threat to speak of they were disciplined defensively and more competitive than advertised. Rather than chasing down possession or jumping into challenges they would sit back and cut off options. A sort of “come on then”, affording us a lot of possession and challenging us to do something with it. Meanwhile our slow pace will have been influenced by the knowledge that we’d already created chances, that the onus was on Swansea to fashion an opening, that this was the third of four games in eleven days.

The fierce, swirling wind limited options; the visitors fell foul of it frequently, any attempts to lift the ball accurately over distance stymied by the conditions. This forced us to keep the ball on the floor and we retained possession more successfully than we created chances. The first half saw Richarlíson get on the end of a Janmaat cross but head straight at Fabianski. Then at half time Swansea changed their shape, removing the volatile Mesa and bringing on a winger in Narsingh. Perhaps as a consequence we made less progress in the second period but whilst it was aggravating there was little obvious threat and we still made the better of the chances. Molla Wagué’s disallowed header was preceded by a push that seemed more apparent at the time than it does on review.

5- Stefano Okaka’s widely demanded start had given us some physical presence up front, but even allowing for understandable ring-rustiness his impact was disappointing. There’s stuff to ponder here, not just in terms of our attacking options but more generally in the role of the lone striker in this team. We have three senior strikers of quite different styles and backgrounds and none has looked consistently comfortable. It may be just a coincidence of circumstances – Deeney having a poor season, Gray not settling, Okaka not featuring to which you can add Richarlíson out of position, maybe. But this lone striking role, reliant on support from relatively distant quarters – out wide, or a supporting midfielder – is a big ask. Quite how Silva proceeds with it in the remainder of the season will be interesting.

Meanwhile, Andre Gray replaced Okaka for the final quarter hour. There had been murmurs of “we could do with another goal” but Swansea’s genius – if such it was – was to provide no evidence of a threat until it was too late. We could have, should have put the game to bed, sure… but the lack of nervousness in the crowd until the deeds were done evidenced the peculiar set of circumstances.

The first real anger greeted Gray’s miss. It was a bad one, for sure, but much as I’m still to be convinced by Gray it was disproportionately harsh – certainly the prolonged hysterics over my shoulder that cited Gray’s Luton heritage as explanation of his perceived lack of commitment were on the ludicrous end of the spectrum. First and foremost this was our most convincing attack of the half… a bit of direct running by fellow sub Pereyra, committing people and executing an outrageous pass with that outside of his foot that blindsided the defence and left Gray through one-on-one. His run had been excellent, a different threat, hovering like a falcon waiting for the pass but he had too long to think about it, long enough for the seed of doubt to be sowed and for Fabianski to hurtle out, brilliantly, and block. His reaction was desperate, anguished. It was the single most significant moment of the game.

6- Since had that gone in, or had Wagué goal been allowed, we’d surely be talking about another performance that was far from perfect, but constituted another tentative but solid step towards some kind of form. Instead, another capitulation. Again, the circumstances were unfortunate; Ayew probably was offside but you can’t really go complaining about that, or blame the officials in that instance. The offside rule wasn’t introduced to isolate such fine margins. What it did, though, was rattle us more than it might otherwise have done. Our soft underbelly was exposed yet again and all of Tuesday’s fine work was undone. There were floods towards the exits as the winner went in, a piece of clumsy goalkeeping from Gomes after an otherwise solid game contributing, and boos at the whistle only interrupted by a warm reception for our goalkeeper who had the guts and grace to do a full circuit saluting what was left of the crowd.

The biggest questions here are to be faced by the head coach. The echo of Hull’s season are now deafening, particularly given the evidence in front of our eyes of a high energy, vivacious and exhilarating style collapsing to dust when players’ legs go. Leicester provided evidence of the manager’s ability to vary his style to the circumstances but we need more of that. We need evidence of a backbone, of an ability to hang on to a lead; we need a solution to the attacking quandary and we need a means of navigating Tuesday night without another hammer blow to our fragile confidence.

Who knows, the stripping away of all expectation – a problem on and off the pitch in this game – might be just what we need.

For f***’s sake…

Yoorns.

Gomes 3, Janmaat 2, Zeegelaar 3, Kabasele 3, Wagué 3, Watson 3, *Doucouré 3*, Cleverley 3, Carrillo 3, Richarlíson 3, Okaka 2
Subs: Prödl (for Wagué, 64) 2, Gray (for Okaka, 77) 0, Pereyra (for Carrillo, 83) 0, Sinclair, Holebas, Capoue, Karnezis