Football's bubble close to bursting

Reading the increasingly depressing stories that seem to appear weekly about the latest club in huge financial trouble and our own unnerving, yet inevitable, accounts is it possible for clubs nowdays to compete outside the Premiership?

Theoretically if every club outside the PL is skint there should be a natural correction where by every club stops paying silly wages beyond their means and let the market equalise and operate at a sustainable level where they break even if not turn a small profit.

Because the gulf is so vast and ever widening between the PL and the rest there seems to be a mentality of get there at all costs. For 3 teams that will pay off. For those that miss out it's damaging and can set you back years financially and as a result on the pitch where it matters.

Catch 22 of the cliche of needing to speculate to accumulate but if the gamble doesn't pay off you're lumped with players on hefty contracts many of whom won't be snapped up by top level teams and won't necessarily want to walk away for the less rewarding contracts offered by rival teams in you're league or below.

Years back as Curbs and co demonstrated it was a realistic and possible option to craft a team together capable of promotion and survival in the PL with a and still turn a healthy profit or at least stay in the black. It's changed since then as we know too well having being lauded as the perfect model of how a football club should be run to where we were a couple of seasons ago and the slightly healthier in the short term position we find ousrselves in now.

It's a no win situation for clubs at our level and below. Dont spend the money on assembling the squads required for the best odds of promotion and chances are now the team will struggle to win their league if rivals are splashing the cash. Combined with that another downside being that crowds dwindle as floating fans bore of mediocraty or lack of instant success and vital revenue decreases further lengthening the odds of promotion.

Whilst management obviously plays a part in it and those shrewd in the tactical department compensate to a degree for lack of funds it is also requisite to be equally adept in the transfer market. And of course such managers are few and far between and likely to be highly sought after.

I think CP is a very good manager and whilst still cutting his cloth has done extremely well for us to have us competing and (perhaps over optimistically) not rolling round in hysterics at the notion that scraping a play off spot wouldn't be beyond the realms of possibility. However had he not had the money which presented the financial clout over rival clubs and allowed him to fund our promotion winning team I'm not sure he or many other managers would necessarily have achieved it.

That is not of course taking anything away from the manager but I think the money aspect is such a determining factor in success in the game today. You can sense the frustration amongst fans that if funds had been available to bolster the squad with extra class this year then we probably would be soaring higher in the Championship.

I can only see it getting worse next season with the ridiculous money involved in the top flight. £70m for a team that finishes bottom?! How can any team compete with a relegated club that has the money to keep top flight players on hefty contracts for at least a season or two.

I can see in 5 years, if not sooner, an increase of yo yo clubs with the same 6 or so clubs trading places in the PL each season perhaps with a few lucky one offs who may somehow get their but by which time they won't have a snowball's chance in hell of even competing against the accumulated wealth of the other 19 teams who have soaked up the PL gravy train's rewards for a couple of seasons.

For anyone outside of this gold plated bubble it will probably be a case of the least worst run clubs "prospering" in the lower leagues as opposed to being well managed. Maybe similar to having a top league of 20 Rangers and Celtics whilst everyone outside of it will mirror Cowdenbeath and Raith Rovers on the pitch and on the balance sheets.

Maybe the masses don't care and "football" today is all about the big clubs, the soap opera and Balotelli's new haircut. We have Super Sunday pitting one millionaire who's shagged someone/said something/ snorted something on the box in a bit, who cares what is happening to Rotheram?

Unless there is a collective acknowledgement of the reality of the situation the game outside the PL will implode and without a drastic correction of the finacial situation there wont be any competition because there can't be.

Why we will continue paying the penalty

Gutted but expected is how I feel sitting here 7 beers in with less than 7 hours before work.

Good effort and England did well to get this far but nationalistic pride aside we were not in the same class as the remaining teams. I am club AND country. Support both equally. Losing tonight is as painful as when Charlton get knocked out of a competition 2 games from possible glory (albeit very rare that Charlton get within 2 games of cup final glory).

I'm proud of the players and Roy has shut up a lot of people including myself this tournament with putting out an organised and spirited team. It would have been daylight robbery if we had nicked it but such reasoning doesn't make it any less crushing to go out on penalties again.
However it once again underlines the necessity to really sort out our game at grass roots level if we are ever to be serious contenders at international level.


This is what worries me. We have acknowledged a fundamental problem in our national game from youth up to the top but have failed to address it.

Was watching the game with mates and family and my brother (in his late 20s) said at training with his amateur Saturday team last season he asked his Portuguese team mate what he thought of their training session and how it was different to training in Portugal. They were doing passing drills and his mate said that in Portugal they had all that down as 7 or 8 year olds and became accomplished at such technical aspects from an early age.

Our game is very much around the physical aspects which is evident when you see the kids who make it at academies in this country...usually the big, athletic kids who have a growth spurt ahead of the their peers. Thing is the top class nationals sides seem to nail the technical and tactical aspects from an early age and then grow physically whereas ours seem to rely on the getting stuck in attitude. It makes for an exciting premiership but we come unstuck when it matters at international level.

I remember  Craig Johnston, a member of the all conquering Liverpool sides of my youth being really passionate about this issue a few years back ...

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=l0aBiTnUqW8


but nothing changed. We talk a good game but we need to really change our game at a fundamental level.

I despaired when the post match pundits didn't address this after the game tonight and instead just made blaise comments about World Cup qualifiers.


Everyone makes mistakes but only fools repeat them.

It is about mentality, approach and attitude towards the game.

I love our national side as does any red blooded Englishman and it is so painful to see us repeating the same mistakes again and again. Someone needs to rock the comfy shirt and tie brigade at the Sweet FA and really shake up the game over here from top to bottom.

We have the population, the facilities and the interest in this country to achieve better than we do so something in our current system or psychology is inherently wrong and hindering us from doing so.

It's unfair as we are such a passionate football nation but we are being failed. Until we really address the football development from the parks to the premiership in this country we'll continue to be the almost rans.

15 seconds of fame defending Charlton's honour on the airwaves.

From 129.30

http://lbc.audioagain.com/player_popup.php?channel_id=0&user_id=57280&sec_id=95dfe4ee047dc9dec34da4bf00044ca9dae12848&guid=2011-07%2F02%2F781540da16426604f5d3aef31c15bd01

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

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

Home or Away....you still gotta pay.

“Your support is f**king sh*t”, “Your ground’s too big for you” and even the introspective “Where were you when we were sh*t?” are some of the familiar songs belted out at grounds up and down the country every weekend without any sense of irony or self awareness.


There’s a lot of debate and oft derision about low crowd attendances home and away amongst football supporters.
If you watch the Pathe films on t’internet or similar sentimental footage that gets reeled out on Football Focus it is common to see packed out stadium full of rattle- waving, rosette- wearing men and women jostling for position in vast crowded stands.

So why the decline? Surely now the average football fan has more leisure time and expendable dough than ever before and certainly more than in the black and white era of rosettes and flat caps?

The difference from those days and now are that back then is that those scarcest of commodities, time and money, are actually rarer now for many than in days gone by.

.

Whilst people probably had less money years ago they also generally had less expectations of expenditure and certainly didn’t have exotic foreign holidays, two cars and all the expensive mod cons that a lot of people wrongly feel pressured into paying for in modern life. People have got themselves into debt by getting everything on credit in recent times to satisfy these perceived necessities whereas that was unheard of in previous generations where the common ethos was “If you can’t afford it you cant have it”.

The cost of games has increased disproportionately too. Whilst before ticket prices were more affordable it is the whole package of going to football that has become a pricey affair nowadays.

Charlton has always been good value for money even during our pinnacle in the Premiership yet even following the addicks is a costly duty for many but even so a £300- £500 season ticket is still out of reach for many.



It is not just the initial lay out for a ticket that hits the wallet. There are costs involved before you even set foot in the stadium.

With more people moving away form the areas of their roots and out of the built up inner cities to suburban dwellings clubs now draw a lot of their support from further afield. Whereas before the majority of West Ham followers may have inhabited the East End and other areas a stones throw from the Boleyn Ground many of their faithful now reside out in various parts of Essex. Same with Charlton who now find a large proportion of their fan base travel from the commuter belt of South East London and even deepest darkest Kent. Travelling to home games for many is no longer a half hour walk down the road at 2pm but a train or car journey which isn’t gratis.

I’ve heard tales that back in the day many South East Londoners would go to Charlton one week and up the road to the Den to watch Millwall the next when Charlton were away and vice versa. This practice appears now to be extinct  (for a plethora of reasons I would imagine) and many people choose to follow their “one” team around the country which in itself is very expensive.

Once you have bought the ticket, travelled up to whichever Northern outpost the boys are playing at, had a few pints and a dodgy black pudding pie the bill is usually near the £100 mark.

A home game for example may cost £20 a ticket, add this to said beers and travel and God forbid a programme then you are looking at around £40 a game.



So on average with 2 home games and 2 away in a “quiet month” it will cost in the region of £300. In a busier month, for example we are scheduled to play 5 times in September and 6 in November the cost of following Charlton will be around £320- £380 and £420 respectively.

Even if you can afford the initial outlay of a season ticket and therefore null that cost you would still be looking at about £200 to £300 and month on away games not to mention the further cost- incurring cup games that crop up frequently.

Now when you consider the demographic and income of the average football supporter of Charlton, Millwall or Crystal Palace the cost of attending every game their club plays becomes somewhat unachievable without purging themselves further into debt.



Additionally time, or lack of it, is a key factor in the decline in attendances. Many folk are now working longer hours every day than before to secure much needed overtime or just because their jobs have evolved whereby they are wary of leaving at 5.30 on the dot for fear of giving their employers any reason to satisfy criteria for redundancy. Many self – employed football fans have to work 6 or 7 days a week to even keep their heads above the water. And this is all before they fulfil their commitments outside of work to their families, friends and other elements important to their lives.

Traditionally games were scheduled for 3pm on a Saturday allowing the largely working class supporter to finish up their graft on Saturday morning before heading to the pub for a well earned pint before heading on to the game.

Gone are the days when small clubs like Millwall could get dispensation for late kick offs to allow their dock worker support to finish their shifts and make their way down to watch their team. Now the fixture lists are dictated by Sky, the Police and other authorities and the common fan has to fit their lives around it rather than the games being organised for their convenience as before.

Now to attend every away game over the course of a season often involves the use of numerous days of holiday for midweek evening clashes in awkward locations followed by a day of work after a few hours of sleep or negotiating the ever so efficient Sunday service so helpfully provided by the national rail network.



Whilst it is inevitable that there is an element of “plastics” who turn up for the big games or when a club is entertaining world class players on opposition teams in the top flight this perceived crowd swell is often deceiving.

Whilst Manchester United and Chelsea may enjoy revenue- inducing sell outs at every home league game it isn’t definite that the 60,000 in attendance each fortnight are the same punters. Success attracts interest and whilst they may be sold out each game I very much doubt that it is the same 60,000 die hard, life long supporters from Salford and Shepherd’s Bush filling those seats each time. More likely is that they have garnered enough custom through their years of success to give the illusion of a consistent faithful but the reality is it us unlikely that the average person could afford to pay the extortionate price of going to Old Trafford or Stamford Bridge each week which would surely run into the thousands each year.



Added to this those fortunate souls, many of whom will have only boarded the football bandwagon post Euro 1996, and whose substantial income allows them this luxury are more likely to be drawn to the success and glamour provided by the big clubs rather than parting with their cash to provide much needed income to grittier clubs such as Charlton, Millwall and Palace. If you were a late comer to the game and didn’t have a club “in your blood” like we do then it’s academic that watching Drogba and Lampard battle against Torres and Gerrard is, albeit superficially, a more enticing proposition than spending your hard earned to witness a season of hit and hope affairs against Scunthorpe and Tranmere.

I am currently part way through training to be an accountant. The hours and studying are long and cut into a large part of my time and the remuneration isn’t rewarding at present but in two years when I hopefully qualify I will be in a position where I can financially afford to follow Charlton home and away without fail and so the attendance at Huddersfield will increase from 450 to 451.

At present I don’t have that ability and instead spend my Saturday afternoons and many weeknights glued to Charlton Life with the radio on in the corner hoping result goes are way and holding my breath every time the commentator says lets go to X now for an update on the game between X and Charlton Athletic.

As much as I would love to be up among the small number of faithful wherever and whenever we play, to share first hand both the joy of a win, despair of a loss and indifference of a goalless draw, I simply can’t afford it at present.



If that makes me or others in similar situations less of a supporter than those who can afford it or sacrifice other things in their lives to ensure so then so be it. But to say that our support is better or worse than Millwall or Man United is based on numbers and doesn’t give the bigger picture.

Give me those 450 who made the trip to Yorkshire yesterday over a ground full of tourists at the Emirates any day.

Viva La Railvolution

After 8 long hours of being subject to the latest enforced doctrine of my rulers I wearily found my way out of my temporary prison into an overcast Docklands evening.

I had fought the good fight and gallantly battled to keep the dogma of my keepers from permeating my consciousness. I had struggled with all my might so as not to be deceived by the “inspirational” slogans, and slick sound bites which had polluted my environment for longer than I wished, secretly knowing that behind the name badges, free biscuits and role plays something sinister was afoot.

Seeing through the wholesome smiles and enthusiastic deliveries of those charged with instilling into their subjects the latest core values and beliefs, I had escaped with mere fragments of my soul and independent thoughts unscathed.

I looked through pitying eyes at my less fortunate peers who had been captured by the rhetoric, milling around like an army of labotomized Randall P McMurphys and made my exit before Nurse Ratched noticed that one of her flock had eluded the latest bout of indoctrination.

Corporate training was over for another day and I had survived….just.

In the shadows of the glazed towers that encompass Canary Wharf, I hurriedly made my way to the DLR station, glancing over my shoulder occasionally to ensure I wasn’t being tailed by one of Big Brother’s heavies.

“Lewisham 1 minute” read the digital timetable as I reached the top of the escalator. I let out a sigh of relief, safe in the knowledge I would soon be away from these soulless, sterile surroundings and returning to the oasis of South East London.

As the train approached, I spared a thought for those poor beings still toiling away in front of their identikit computers in the offices up above me. Enslaved in the homogenous, open- planned workhouses tapping away at meaningless spreadsheets and reports, telling themselves it is not forever and that one day they, rather than some faceless fat cat, will benefit from the fruits of their labour. Praying every morning that lottery win will come and rescue them from this grinding existence before drowning their sorrows that evening in All Bar One grounded by the realisation that their numbers haven’t come up and once again faced with the stark reality that they must return for yet another week of spirit- crushing endeavour.

As the carriage rattled along the elevated track I realised that in my haste to escape the concrete jungle I had forgotten to swipe my Oyster card. I contemplated the inevitable confrontation that would ensue with a ticket inspector, involving me squirming as I tried to explain that I was not in fact a common criminal intent on defrauding Transport for London but rather an honest, law- abiding citizen who had just absent mindedly forgotten to tap in after a day of having my brain infused with futile jargon.

It occurred to me that if I was fortunate enough to make it the ten stops to Lewisham national rail station, avoiding said inspectors, I would not need to swipe out at the other end and thus avoiding the disproportionate penalty fare.

The Gods smiled on me.

As we pulled into the station I noticed it was 5.26pm. My train was due to depart at 5.27 and missing it would involve a 30 minute wait on a crowded platform staring into space and trying to avoid the obligatory crack addict that inevitably finds his way to me and acts like I questioned his parentage when I refuse to part with £2 so he can “phone his nan in hospital”.

It was not a risk I was willing to take so with gusto and vigour I battled my way up the stairs, fighting my way through the crowds and got to the barriers catching sight of my train ready to depart. As I got to the platform the doors began to close and I feared than my heroic efforts had been in vain. Just as I was about to fall to my knees in despair, a spotty teenager stood aboard the train, saw my plight and shouted “Come on mate” before mustering up brutal strength to prise the doors open allowing me to join the party. A true hero and an act that has gone a long way to restore my somewhat lapsed faith in today’s youth.

So after a wretched day of mind- numbing, toe – curling obedience to the powers that be I had scored a small result.

Free travel and I made the early train against the odds. Victory for the ordinary man.


Fuck the system.


Today has been a good day for the People.