From 129.30
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Sunday 3 July 2011
Thursday 30 June 2011
The Charlton rollercoaster continues....
If Charlton was a girlfriend I would have got shot of her many moons ago.
In fact I would have probably sworn off relationships altogether and resigned myself to a life of non- iron shirts, pot noodles and paying over the odds for high speed broadband.
If i wanted to spend my weekends thoroughly depressed and frequently humiliated in an environment of misery and despair I wouldnt bother leaving the office on Friday evenings.
Unfortunatley this football club is like no woman or job that I have have encountered in my relatively short time as an adult. No matter how much misery it has bestowed upon me I haven't been able to give it the Spanish Archer, cant fathom the possibility of changing it for another and to be honest dont think I ever could keep myself away for any sustainable period of time.
Whilst not yet wed myself I view marriage as a commitment entered into by both parties voluntarily with the obvious exceptions of certain cultural arrangements or those prompted by unexpected pregnancies and encouraged by shotgun- wielding fathers in Rednecksville.
Even in those scenarios there is usually a get out clause when one or both parties decide to call time on their union.
When it comes to your football team you don't necessarily have the luxury such of such deliberation.
You may luck- in and happen to be born into a family with roots in supporting a consistently successful club and legitimately enjoy the rewards of that particular silver spoon.
Alternatively you may decide to declare alleigance to a glamour club of your own election and whilst this spoon may be plastic in its compostion it is as equally shiny.
However for many of us your football club is something you inherit from your old man either out of blind, misguided loyalty or sheer insistence of your elder and supposedly wiser. A stigma which can often cause the same resentment and shame as a hereditary thrid nipple. Thanks Dad.
The start of a long and oft painful lifelong bond is entered into as a child without suitable knowledge or any understanding of the full facts, implications and consequences. And without any real chance of escape. You would get slaughtered for giving your 7 year old son a crafty sup of your pint when his mum's not looking. Yet take him to Selhurst to see them annhialated by Liverpool, sparking an unquenchable addiction to Charlton Athletic thus condemning him to a lifetime of ups and downs, cheers and tears and no one blinks an eyelid. What a sick world we live in.
I was a privileged young Addick. My marriage to the club was formalised with us on the up returning to The Valley and my blushing bride was the radiant Curbishley who took me on a whirlwind romance through the football leagues and taught me how to love. He certainly knew a trick or two. I was spoiled and although he sometimes bored me I was happy and knew he was a keeper.
Unfortunately we grew too comfortable and the unthinkable happened.... he left our happy home. We didnt give him what we wanted and we parted amid emotional scenes.
The Charlton ship started sinking and we were left clinging like Kate Winslet to her makeshift raft with only memories to see us through the storm. And what choppy waters they turned out to be.
The age old adage of you dont know what you've got til it's gone rang true with deafening ferocity as our slow descent commenced. Dalliances with posible replacements proved tumultuous. We stumbled into the grasp of Ian Dowie, not the greatest looker but hey we were desperate and we greeted him with all the enthusiasm of a lonely, frustrated drunk in a kebab shop at ten to two eyeing up the ropey chubby bird ordering double chips.
It was unsatisfying and somewhat unpleasant and we awoke from our drunken slumber to an almighty hangover and called her a taxi.
Desperate for comfort and reassurance we fell into the arms of Uncle Les, a familiar figure at a time of uncertainty. But it didnt feel right and we agreed to just stay friends.
Then as we continued to mourn for our great lost love, along came a silver fox whose charm knocked us bandy. He splashed the cash and flattered to deceive but there was
no substance there and he was dangerous, damaging even and so he got the boot.
This left us with Phil, his nice mate. A great man. Perfect for Charlton on paper and an absolute gentlemen. But it just didnt feel right. The spark wasnt there and
it didnt seem like the Curb's magic we so longed for could be renewed under his tenure.
Just as we thought we would never love again a short, dark, (not much of a) stranger emerged from the tunnel to a spine- tingling roar of the voiciferous Valley faithful.
Appearing as if he had just walked off a catwalk this dapper young pretender was instantly cast into the role of the would be hero in the Charlton fairytale.
A five game winning streak singalled that we were in Disneyland and the good times had finally returned. Unofortunately fairytales tend to contain a Brothers Grimm element of horror
and this was played out in the remaining games of the season leaving us once again feeling bewildered.
Time will tell if Chris Powell will be the Prince Charming to lead us to a life of happily ever after.
The impressive activity in the transfer market in recent weeks and fervent reaction and speculation has certainly ignited flickers in the hearts of many addicks.
The new board, whilst still somewhat obscured in dark shadows of their own choosing, have offered a suggestion that they are more well- intentioned knights on white steads rather than the money- hungry, smoke- blowing dragons some of us fear.
Whilst there will no doubt be chinks in their armour their actions of the past months should speak louder than their words including those both said and left unspoken.
We are being wooed and seranaded and there is a lot of love in the air around all things Charlton at the moment it seems . A seed has been planted and it is now down to Powell, his players and us to nuture it and ensure that it bears fruit in 9 months.
Many times bitten and many times shy we will proceed with cautious optimism taking tentative steps with our new suitors. Whilst they might make us feel eighteen again only time will tell if this will be a long and happy courtship.
But so far the signs are good.
Whilst we are not yet shopping at Harrods we have appeared to have moved away from the discount bargain aisle at Liddles and Im sure our shopping cart is envy of many managers and fans up and down the country.
With all the talk of price tags and undisclosed fees the recent signings have provided an intangible feel good factor amongst fans which is priceless and hopefully the euphoria evident on the forums can be used to snowball the momentum at the club over the coming season.
Whether it be five or ten years another honeymoon in in the top flight seems to be a distinct possibility rather than the beyond reach flirtation as it did six months ago.
Whilst we are not yet dining out at The Ivy with Pippa Middleton I no longer feel like im sat across the table from Kerry Catona watching her devour a plate of egg and chips only stopping to light up another Sovereign in a Welcome Break somewhere near Scarborough.
Cheryl cole up the oxo tower perhaps is a good starting point on our way back to greatness.
Instead of wishing that the ground would swallow me up every saturday at 4.45pm I am looking forward to leaving The Valley this season on a Saturday, head held high with our dignity, pride restored and a real belief that romance is no longer dead at Charlton.
COYA
In fact I would have probably sworn off relationships altogether and resigned myself to a life of non- iron shirts, pot noodles and paying over the odds for high speed broadband.
If i wanted to spend my weekends thoroughly depressed and frequently humiliated in an environment of misery and despair I wouldnt bother leaving the office on Friday evenings.
Unfortunatley this football club is like no woman or job that I have have encountered in my relatively short time as an adult. No matter how much misery it has bestowed upon me I haven't been able to give it the Spanish Archer, cant fathom the possibility of changing it for another and to be honest dont think I ever could keep myself away for any sustainable period of time.
Whilst not yet wed myself I view marriage as a commitment entered into by both parties voluntarily with the obvious exceptions of certain cultural arrangements or those prompted by unexpected pregnancies and encouraged by shotgun- wielding fathers in Rednecksville.
Even in those scenarios there is usually a get out clause when one or both parties decide to call time on their union.
When it comes to your football team you don't necessarily have the luxury such of such deliberation.
You may luck- in and happen to be born into a family with roots in supporting a consistently successful club and legitimately enjoy the rewards of that particular silver spoon.
Alternatively you may decide to declare alleigance to a glamour club of your own election and whilst this spoon may be plastic in its compostion it is as equally shiny.
However for many of us your football club is something you inherit from your old man either out of blind, misguided loyalty or sheer insistence of your elder and supposedly wiser. A stigma which can often cause the same resentment and shame as a hereditary thrid nipple. Thanks Dad.
The start of a long and oft painful lifelong bond is entered into as a child without suitable knowledge or any understanding of the full facts, implications and consequences. And without any real chance of escape. You would get slaughtered for giving your 7 year old son a crafty sup of your pint when his mum's not looking. Yet take him to Selhurst to see them annhialated by Liverpool, sparking an unquenchable addiction to Charlton Athletic thus condemning him to a lifetime of ups and downs, cheers and tears and no one blinks an eyelid. What a sick world we live in.
I was a privileged young Addick. My marriage to the club was formalised with us on the up returning to The Valley and my blushing bride was the radiant Curbishley who took me on a whirlwind romance through the football leagues and taught me how to love. He certainly knew a trick or two. I was spoiled and although he sometimes bored me I was happy and knew he was a keeper.
Unfortunately we grew too comfortable and the unthinkable happened.... he left our happy home. We didnt give him what we wanted and we parted amid emotional scenes.
The Charlton ship started sinking and we were left clinging like Kate Winslet to her makeshift raft with only memories to see us through the storm. And what choppy waters they turned out to be.
The age old adage of you dont know what you've got til it's gone rang true with deafening ferocity as our slow descent commenced. Dalliances with posible replacements proved tumultuous. We stumbled into the grasp of Ian Dowie, not the greatest looker but hey we were desperate and we greeted him with all the enthusiasm of a lonely, frustrated drunk in a kebab shop at ten to two eyeing up the ropey chubby bird ordering double chips.
It was unsatisfying and somewhat unpleasant and we awoke from our drunken slumber to an almighty hangover and called her a taxi.
Desperate for comfort and reassurance we fell into the arms of Uncle Les, a familiar figure at a time of uncertainty. But it didnt feel right and we agreed to just stay friends.
Then as we continued to mourn for our great lost love, along came a silver fox whose charm knocked us bandy. He splashed the cash and flattered to deceive but there was
no substance there and he was dangerous, damaging even and so he got the boot.
This left us with Phil, his nice mate. A great man. Perfect for Charlton on paper and an absolute gentlemen. But it just didnt feel right. The spark wasnt there and
it didnt seem like the Curb's magic we so longed for could be renewed under his tenure.
Just as we thought we would never love again a short, dark, (not much of a) stranger emerged from the tunnel to a spine- tingling roar of the voiciferous Valley faithful.
Appearing as if he had just walked off a catwalk this dapper young pretender was instantly cast into the role of the would be hero in the Charlton fairytale.
A five game winning streak singalled that we were in Disneyland and the good times had finally returned. Unofortunately fairytales tend to contain a Brothers Grimm element of horror
and this was played out in the remaining games of the season leaving us once again feeling bewildered.
Time will tell if Chris Powell will be the Prince Charming to lead us to a life of happily ever after.
The impressive activity in the transfer market in recent weeks and fervent reaction and speculation has certainly ignited flickers in the hearts of many addicks.
The new board, whilst still somewhat obscured in dark shadows of their own choosing, have offered a suggestion that they are more well- intentioned knights on white steads rather than the money- hungry, smoke- blowing dragons some of us fear.
Whilst there will no doubt be chinks in their armour their actions of the past months should speak louder than their words including those both said and left unspoken.
We are being wooed and seranaded and there is a lot of love in the air around all things Charlton at the moment it seems . A seed has been planted and it is now down to Powell, his players and us to nuture it and ensure that it bears fruit in 9 months.
Many times bitten and many times shy we will proceed with cautious optimism taking tentative steps with our new suitors. Whilst they might make us feel eighteen again only time will tell if this will be a long and happy courtship.
But so far the signs are good.
Whilst we are not yet shopping at Harrods we have appeared to have moved away from the discount bargain aisle at Liddles and Im sure our shopping cart is envy of many managers and fans up and down the country.
With all the talk of price tags and undisclosed fees the recent signings have provided an intangible feel good factor amongst fans which is priceless and hopefully the euphoria evident on the forums can be used to snowball the momentum at the club over the coming season.
Whether it be five or ten years another honeymoon in in the top flight seems to be a distinct possibility rather than the beyond reach flirtation as it did six months ago.
Whilst we are not yet dining out at The Ivy with Pippa Middleton I no longer feel like im sat across the table from Kerry Catona watching her devour a plate of egg and chips only stopping to light up another Sovereign in a Welcome Break somewhere near Scarborough.
Cheryl cole up the oxo tower perhaps is a good starting point on our way back to greatness.
Instead of wishing that the ground would swallow me up every saturday at 4.45pm I am looking forward to leaving The Valley this season on a Saturday, head held high with our dignity, pride restored and a real belief that romance is no longer dead at Charlton.
COYA
Monday 7 February 2011
My new Sunday team
Rubbish game yesterday. Had to play against my old team. Left them because I didn't get on with the new manager. He's a legend at the club apparently but I don't know why because I couldn't understand a bloody word he said. Plus I was sick of never winning anything and didn’t really like the kit. The manager of my new team has also said if I score a hatrick I only have to pay half my subs so it was a bit of a no brainer.
There was a lot of bad feeling from my old teammates and they all tried kicking me and gave me constant abuse for a good hour. In fact they only stopped when we left the changing rooms and got out onto the pitch.
My new lot weren’t much better. To be fair I didn’t have my best game and if I am being honest it was really cold and I would have much rather been indoors with a packet of Monster Munch watching a Touch of Frost on Gold. Love it although it does make me sad when I see how old Delboy is now.
Always hard when you are the new boy and my new teammates were wary. None of the African guys would pass to me and the moody French bloke with the dodgy tache had a right strop when I wouldn’t give him my orange segment at half time. He kissed his teeth at me and muttered “Zut Alors” (perhaps that was the name of the bloke I’ve replaced and they were good friends?)
Having said that there was a really friendly chap called Ashley. He stayed behind chatting to me whilst I was showering and we had a good natter about mobile phones. I thought it was slightly odd because he was fully clothed but was glad he made the effort to make me feel welcome. Sounds like he’s had murder with his ex and said it had left him feeling all confused about stuff. Said that she didn’t understand him and he couldn’t be his true self with her. Poor guy. He winked at me and promised that he’ll take good care of me here so that made me feel better.
I had a big bust up with the missus afterwards because I offered to stay behind and help get the nets down...I thought it was the least I could do after my abysmal performance. She got the right hump moaning that she was hungry and wanted to head off to get something to eat. Luckily my new captain offered to give her a lift and mentioned something about taking her up the Oxo Tower. Her eyes lit up at that suggestion and she seemed happy enough. She won’t be laughing tomorrow when she realises I’ve nominated her to wash the kits this week.
Really nice that the captain made that gesture and I think we are going to be great mates. My missus told me that he even popped round this afternoon to see me but I had just missed him as I had stayed late at training.
I must remember to thank him for the present (a pair of club boxer shorts) he left in my room for me. Strange I thought but apparently its tradition and they obviously do things differently in London. Ha, I remember in my first week at my old club when Captain Stevie and his mates were caught taking things “out” of my house when I first joined so obviously a better class of folk down here.
Anyway diary I’d better sign off now as Ashley has promised to take me down to Clapham Common for an extra training session this evening. The captain and his wife are coming round to keep the missus company...although he did say he wasn’t sure if his wife could definitely make it because they were struggling to get a babysitter but he’d do the honours whatever. What an absolute gent that man is.
I think I’m going to be very happy here.
F
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