Why Cardiff will lift the trophy, the definitive truth

The common Football supporter is an interesting breed. They spend a small fortune each year buying tickets, travel and of course investing in questionable meat patties that reside uncomfortably between two pieces of stale bread. Hours on uncomfortable coaches or on cold plastic seats getting battered by the elemnts. So someone who spends so much time and money on one thing must really take huge enjoyment from their expensive hobby? Not so – instead the Football supporter prefers to spend his time bemoaning his team’s lack of skill and guile or the number 9’s inability to hit a bovine based animal with a small guitar like instrument. Treating each victory with grudging surprise and each defeat with wails of relegation infested turmoil, the football supporter lives a perpetually dark existence, always on the brink of annihilation and despair.

Until they have absolutely no chance of victory what so ever. Take Cardiff City – they aint going to win on Sunday and what a wonderful situation that is for us fans. There’s no need to take deep breaths as we saunter up Wembley way, no need to fiddle with the insanely expensive programme and no need to look at the floor for 80 of the 90 mins. No, when defeat is a done deal only then can the football supporter truly relax and open their heart to the beautiful game.

And sometimes just sometimes the deal collapses, the handshake fails and the no hoper triumphs. That’s why we love football after all – we love the fact that Wrexham can beat Arsenal, that Palace can win at the theatre of dreams and that those left for dead by the so called pundits can come back to life to prove the world wrong.

So it is with great excitement that I can now confirm that Cardiff will triumph at Wembley. Here’s the proof;

Red rag to a bull

Cardiff simply love the colour red.  Whether it reminds the players of romantic nights with their other half’s or they enjoying stopping at traffic lights to pose in their cars our players love the colour. This season alone Cardiff have played 11 teams with red on their kit and only lost twice.  It’s a given.

God is a Bluebird

Since November 2010 Cardiff have not lost on a Sunday – if they were an American Footie team they’d be flying. In fact Cardiff have turned their last 8 Sunday outings into an impressive 5 wins and 3 draws.

Indeed some of Cardiff’s most famous victories have come on the Sabbath – victory over Leeds in the FA Cup 10 yrs ago, at a time when the visitors to Ninian Park were top of the Premier League and in the Semi’s of the Champions League.

Chopra’s injury time goal to secure victory against bitter rivals Swansea was also on the seventh day.

Infact boss Malky has an even better record – he hasn’t lost a Sunday game as skipper since March 2010 – amazingly when his Watford side lost to Cardiff.

Home advantage

After our slightly fortuitous 3-1 win against Peterborough Announcer Ali proudly stated, over the tannoy, ‘Please remember that our next home game will be on the 26^th Feb against Liverpool at Wembley’ – a little presumptuous perhaps but he has a point. We’ve visited the iconic stadium 4 times in 5 years and even though our win ratio aint so great we know it well. The players are used to the wall of sound and roar that greets them at the end of the tunnel, they know the changing rooms and the rituals of the day. On these things a cup final can be won.

Okay so it's not a great group of facts, and perhaps the piece looking at how Liverpool will win is 3 times longer but the hope can be strong for this one. I think if we play this game 10 times we’ll win 2 draw 2 and lose 6.  But who’s to say  that Sunday wont be one of those wins. Who's to say that the football gods wont smile on us, the referee wont give us a soft penalty and dis-allow a 'pool goal. Who's to say we can't win it in the 90th minute with a ball that flies in off the arse of Kenny Miller?

At least we're there - it's a 2 horse race.

Bye Gary

There I was, a grown man of 32, driving a slightly battered Modeo down the A470 breathing as deeply as possible in a vain attempt to stop those bloody tears again.

The last time I cried was probably in 1996 when my dog was put down. Since then I’ve been through break-ups, relegations, football and nut collisions, watched countless chick flicks and numerous X-Factor sob stories without even the hint of a tear leaving my eyes. I don’t do that sort of thing – some men cry and some don’t and I just don’t. Not because I’m well hard or pwoper Nawty but because I just never feel like it – my emotions never get to that level. I am able to treat situations in a cold heartless way that enables me to leave endless emotional situations with a dry hankie and a clear head.

I’m buggered now – the last week I have been acting like a pregnant WAG. All hormones, tears and moments of bizarre realisation. All this because a man I never met had died. That happens on a daily, infact hourly basis. In the last minute about 30 men I’ve never got to know have met various ends, so why has the death of Gary Speed had such an effect on me and thousands of others?

On the radio came a minutes silence from the City of Manchester Stadium. As with almost all other tributes to Speed the fans weren’t happy to sit silently but instead started cheering and chanting – ‘There’s only one Gary Speed’. This from fans who have no affinity to him what so ever, neither as a club or nation. This phenomenon was echoed throught the UK as fans who rarely sing their own players names joined as one to sing about a player that has united the footballing world in grief and bought vicious rivals together.

I have never known anything like this before. After 3 decades of football obsession I’ve seen many players come to the end of their glittering lives. Often sadly, in the case of young players taken in their prime and often in a haze of historic glory, such as John Charles. Minutes silences have been beautifully observed and fans of clubs joined together, statues erected and books writen. But this is different. This is unique. This is Gary Speed.

When Liverpool fans stood at Anfield singing Speed’s name, moping tears from their brows I knew something was up. Speed had played for Pool’s rivals Everton with some aplomb. He had figured in countless midfields that had taken to the Anfield turf to take on the home heroes, with some success, yet they still sang his name as if he was a returning hero being laid to rest.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_baqt3jDJSI

They didn’t sing his name because of his deadly left foot. They didn’t sing his name in memory of his Leeds triumph and they didn’t sing his name because of his record breaking Welsh career. They sang his name because he was a truly good bloke, a man that had time for everyone and a man who smashed the stereotype of ‘The Footballer’ to smithereens every day of his career.

Countless pro’s have taken to our screens and each has been caught breathless, telling tales of the day they were taken under Gary’s wing, or the day they received an arm round their shoulder from Speed. Men who have played through the pain barrier with broken limbs, who have never pulled out of a meaty challenge  have been left in tears as they recount their own personal trubutes. And each tribute, to the last has been positive.

Commentators and presenters were left on the edge of breaking down, and some couldn't make their way through their pieces:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HVQoUpo9rX0

But the most emotional aspect of this terrible story was nothing to do with football. Gary seemed, to all those who knew him, to have it all. He was the man we wanted to be and our wives probably did as well. Hideously good looking, viciously well mannered, sharp suited and charismatic he made us average men look bad.  He had a fantastic family and home, and a career that was going into the stratosphere.

He was well balanced and while he felt emotion he never let it cloud his judgement. He smiled constantly and helped out charities, such as the one I work for. He had time for all and a word for each.

So just why would he do such a thing?

What would make him decide to never see his children again, to never see his grandchildren, to never sit down for Christmas dinner or share a beer with his son’s. To never celebrate his children’s graduation, or just share a hug. To never hold hands with those he loves or shake a fist at those he doesn’t. To never simply wake up again.

What makes anyone make that choice? And that is the saddest thing. The thought that Gary Speed, loved by so many, felt so alone in those last minutes.

If he had asked for help a stampede would have made it’s way to Chester. If he had asked for a word of advice he would have got an essay.

Gary’s death is horrendously sad and a true waste – he should still be here. If only he’d known how well loved he was when he was alive we wouldn’t need these amazing tributes.

RIP Gary – just why?

Preview of Reading game

Well after a two week break I can’t wait for 3 o’clock Saturday and the return of some ‘proper’ football. This weekend the Royals face Cardiff, a team that we beat over two legs just six months ago to reach Wembley. A lot has changed in that time and Cardiff have started this campaign the better of the two teams but Reading’s recent form gives us cause for hope. Ahead of the game, Cardiff Simon Richards has again kindly helped us out with his usually brutally brilliantly honest thoughts about the how he sees the game going.

How have you rated your season so far?

During a pre-season meeting at a rain soaked, sodden field the coach told us the terrible truth that our son’s football games would now kick off at 2 on a Saturday afternoon. A Saturday afternoon? Who the hell organises kids to kick off on a Saturday afternoon? He must have been a Liverpool fan.

However in truth this little bit of news was somewhat of a relief to me. After last seasons beautiful failure and the season before’ s and the season before’ s and the seas…(repeat to fade)…….a chance to break the unflinching circle of desperation that enveloped the club at every final hurdle came as a welcome break. I can only liken it to that feeling you get when giving up smoking. You know you’re going to miss it, it’s been a big part of your life for so long – but you can’t wait to run through lush green meadows, blinking in the sun and breathing in lush fresh air. I thought finally I can take a step back and not get engulfed in the hopes and dreams of promotion only to see them slip away – I’d be a safe distance, still interested but not engulfed.

Just my sodding luck then that Jones has upped sticks and left a wirly, charismatic Scotsman in charge.

Stupendously hardworking, marvellously full of effort this new dressing room is thankfully no longer busting at the seems with the leading light ego’s of last season’s gut wrenching capitulation.

The men whose shoulders were heavy with the burden of gigantic gambling bills, England caps and bottles of Crystal left and in came a new beast. An animal seldom seen at the Cardiff City stadium (apart from in opposition teams), an animal that fights, bites and never gives up in the single minded search for the ball and 3 points.

It’s been an impressive start to the campaign, far more impressive than most dreamed. I’m sure most City fans would have been happy with mid table mediocrity in return for a picture of the back end of Jones and his overpaid darlings. However we’ve shown our selves to be a side that has a fair amount of attacking flair, and while our defensive backbone creeks with every billowing attack we have exciting options and goal scorers across the front 6.

So while I may be watching my son take on the bruisers of Bargoed FC Under 11’s this weekend I will secretly be refreshing my twitter feed hoping to read a ‘It’s only bloody Miller time again’ tweet. I might just have a drag or two before May.

Has there been a big change now that the Dave Jones era is over?

Everything has seemingly changed. Malky doesn’t stop shouting on the touchlines – while Jones would have stood there arms crossed.

Malky has a high tempo in training – while Jones would have stood there arms crossed.

Malky talks to the Welsh media with the Charm and wit of a performer – while Jones would have stood there arms crossed.

In short Malky has bought a positive new vibe to the place, he doesn’t want big name players and neither do we. He’s a no nonsense, baulchy Celt just like us and he clearly loves the game just like us.

Best memories of Cardiff v Reading

I remember arriving late at an evening kick off during Ninian Parks ill- fated final season and finding the Bob Bank terracing jammed to the rafters.

We had just signed a speed king called Wayne Routledge and were starting to play some blinding football.

Routledge, who was to become the perfect pantomime villan at the club after jumping ship for QPR and finally signing for Swansea, lit the touch paper with run after run at the Reading back 4. He scored his first for the club after only 10 mins after great work from Chopra.

The game ended 2-2 after a Bikey sending off and Hunt equaliser but it was a fantastic advert for football and a great tub thumping atmosphere.

And the worst.

It could have been an episode from Mr Bean. A howler from the Keeper, players sitting on their arses and 3-0 home defeat in the play-offs second leg.

Who should Reading look out for on Saturday

Got to say the man that makes us tick is Whittingham. He has been faultless this season and indeed added the dimension of tackling to his game.

He pulls the strings in a midfield that should also contain a fair measure of Slovakian and Icelandic Steel.

Upfront Miller has hit a fine patch of form, culminating in a fantastic goal for the Scots last Friday night, however don’t ignore a young buck called Mason. A £250,000 steal from Plymouth the youngster has been a revelation this season.

Who will Cardiff fans worry about.

Kebe is always a worry, Federeci tends to have stunners against us and your Welsh contingent will be up for it. Don’t like the look of your Number 13 though.

With 4,000 Cardiff fans making the trip I think they’ll be more worried that the Bar Manager has ordered a few extra barrels of Brains than anything else.

Match Predictions.

Probably a draw but I have to go for a 3-1 Cardiff win

Miller x 2, Conway x 1

God I hate footie

I wrote this for a Reading Blog after Cardiff City's disasterous defeat against Reading in the play-offs last year

Before the play-offs got started we asked a Cardiff Fan Simon Richards what he expected from the ties. Now, Simon has kindly agreed to give us his reflections on what might have been for Cardiff and what Reading fans can expect at Wembley.

Firstly congratulations and enjoy Wembley – after 3 visits I’m sick of the place and can only thank our inept team of bottling primadonners for ensuring I don’t waste my money on another trip up the M4 and to glory. Sincere congratulations and enjoy the day – it’s a truly awe inspiring place.

Something quite strange has happened to me over the past couple of weeks. Something that’s only happened to me a few times in my life. The first time was when, after weeks and weeks of begging, I opened my brand new BMX bike on Christmas morning only to discover that what looked like red paint in the catalogue was in fact bright pink – I was 11.

The second time was when I was snogged under the bridge by Sandra Sandy  – she had diamond cut braces. And the third was when one of my flatmates at Uni turned up on the Jeremy Kyle show, to ask his mother to stop stripping on buses.

I am lost for words. I don’t mean I don’t know what to say, no I actually can’t scrabble around in my head to find meaning from our last 2 home performances. If this was the first time this sort of thing had happened then I’d be able to laugh it off jauntily, blame the god of football and happily shout ‘we’ll do it next year Sandy’. But no – worse than losing is the realisation that exactly the same thing will happen again next year, at least under Jones

Football is a game of winners and losers, sometimes you celebrate, sometimes you commiserate that’s the contract we all enter.  As a fan you’ll happily sit through hours of painful dirge for that one flashing moment of glory, that one celebration when you embrace strangers and cheer in perfect harmony. But it’s meant to have an element or randomness about it. You’re not meant to be able to look at the fixture list in July and say ‘Well we’re gonna lose 5 in Novemeber but win all our matches there and in May we’ll f@@k it up in an almighty good fashion’ – there’s no fun in knowing the ending before you go to the cinema (he’s already dead).

Last week Neil Lennon pleaded with his Celtic team ‘Don’t do a Cardiff’ before they, rather predictably, did a Cardiff and lost to lowly Inverness. I would put money on the phrase ‘Do a Cardiff’ entering the dictionary in 3 years time.

‘I tell you mate, I was carrying the pane of glass all the way upstairs when right at the last minute I tripped and did a Cardiff’.

Legend has it that a witch was told her coupons were useless in the Costco opposite the stadium and placed a curse on the pitch. The only way to rid it to force Dave Jones to eat sheep testacles. Sam Hamman has volunteered to cook them and it looks like he’s been practising on Chopra who is quite literally twice the man he was last season.

Sorry I can’t talk about the games – you won, we were awful – but I have banished them from my memory for my sanity’s sake, and placed them in a box deep in my sub-conscious.

Onto Wembley – get the £65 tickets as they’ll grant you a great view – eat loads before you get there and don’t stay in room 76 of the IBIS – that’s where my daughter was conceived prior to the FA Cup final , it’s still talked about to this day.

Cardiff fans all over are desperate for you to win, not just because of bragging rights but a Jacks victory could have a negative effect on our club for generations. It would ensure they got the best local youngsters, all the floating support and obviously a huge war chest.

Swansea are a very good team, but don’t get put off by the radio pundits who verbally masturbate about their passing game ‘Arsenal of the Championship’ they scream in crowing unity. Bollocks -  Like Arsenal they don’t like it up them. If a team chases, harries and tackles like their lives depended on it they retreat, play aimless balls and become blunt.

If there was one team I would choose to face them it would be you guys (well no actually it would be Barcelona but let’s be realistic). If Cardiff had 10% of you team work ethic we’d have finished in the top 2.

Enjoy your day, win and make sure you haven’t got memories to hide in that little box. I don’t want people to say ‘Yeah he did a Reading’ in years to come – that’s our special little skill.

Thanks again to Simon and you can follow him @SJRichards79

Duck you

Did you know that if a duck quacks and farts at the same time it makes no noise? The sounds cancel each other out. So next time you’re in Roath Park feeding a noisy, chattering flock of ducks and a sudden hush descends move away quickly, very quickly, and find a bird with a less impressive wind cloaking technique.

Now my daughter loves ducks, to a point where we have over 30 types in our house. Big fluffy ones, robotic ones, ducks on strings, magnetic, rubber ones, vomit inducing calendars, animated ones and a sneaky one with Hoisin sauce in the fridge. She loves nothing more than to mimic them whenever and wherever possible.

I came down to the kitchen this morning to the sound of the little one running around pretending to be a duck, arms flapping and legs ablur. That’s very sweet you may think, however Anika often mixes up her ‘Q’s with ‘F’s. So when she runs around shouting, what she thinks is, ‘QUACK QUACK QUACK’ at the top of her voice you could be forgiven for thinking you wandered into the backstage ‘creche’ on Jeremy Kyle.

Now in our kitchen it’s fine because we know what she means however in certain circumstances it can cause issues.

I was in Tesco last week when she passed the book stand, and there in pride of place was a book called ‘The Duck Patrol’. One look at the book was enough to send the store into chaos, mothers covered their children’s ears, men with skull tattoos turned crimson and grandmothers plunged pineapples into their ears. I tried to explain that she was trying to quack but I’m afraid it fell on deaf (and covered) ears.

Swearing’s a funny thing though. It’s interesting that a collection of letters can create such pandemonium and cause so much outrage. I guess a lot of it depends on where the swear word is said, for example if you shouted ‘For F**** sake get on the end of the cross’ at the Cardiff City Stadium no one would blink an eyelid. Shout that in church though and you’re in trouble.

I’ve been in certain pubs in the past where you get thrown out for not swearing. Where ever big groups of men get together every other word seems to be an F or an S word. Everyone knows that between men a continual league table exists. This league table hovers about 3 feet above everyone’s head and is updated after every anecdote, joke and tale. Top of the tree means you are the legend, the alpha male – other members of the group will groom you, buy you pints and give you their chips on Facebook poker. While if you are bottom, you sheepishly follow the crowd at the back, bemoaning your lack of intimate meetings with middle aged strippers, failure to down 5 pints in a row and lack of knowledge of the workings of a classic Mustang.

The scoring method is shrouded in mystery however tales that end with whoops of joy and laughter, back slapping and shouts of ‘You never did that’ or ‘I’d go and see the doctor’ generally score well. Plus there’s one extra point per swear word. So as many as possible are shoe horned in, even if there’s no need for them – ‘She gave me some ******* crunchy nut corn flakes’ one person shouts out. Swear words are used so often they’ve lost their meaning. Originally created to show a high level of uproar and anger they have now just become words used to get other people’s attention. A way of creating a sign that says ‘Look at me I am both mature and hard enough to utter this word’ .  There’s a time and a place for swearing but may I suggest that children’s playgrounds aren’t one of them.  

One of life’s little ironies is that teenagers spend half their life telling people how mature and grown up they are and the other half sitting around in children’s playgrounds, messing about on the baby swings and pretending to be 2.

Last week while in a park pushing a 2yr old in a swing  I was able to witness the mating ritual of the teenager.

‘Oh butt, do you want to neck Joff – he’s the one with the afro’

‘No way’

‘Oh go on he’s desperate like’

Interestingly this whole conversation is carried out while the boy is hanging upside down from a metal bar, no doubt a sign of strength and agility He is one stage away from beating his chest and bringing out a great big club. I heard years ago that when you drink you basically start knocking out nerves in your brain – they cease to work. The more you down the more of these you knock out. These nerves control the part of the brain that makes us human and as such it’s the difference between us and cave men. So by the end of a night some men have regressed a million years and are left with 3 rudimentary survival needs, they must find food, a mate and somewhere to pee. That’s why on any given weekend Caroline Street seems so appealing, it’s a one stop shop for all three.  I wonder if perfume knocks these nerves off in the teenage boy.

But I know one thing for sure I won’t be taking my daughter to Roath park any time soon. Firstly because you can never trust a duck and secondly there’s a time and a place to shock.

Thoroughly Modern Man?

I once fell asleep during the Lord’s Prayer. Not as a bored child sitting in a stuffy school hall or a partied out teenager dragged to church by my well-meaning but ill-advised parents. No I fell asleep during the Lord’s Prayer when I was a teacher, a proper grown up adult man. I found that closing my eyes for any longer than a routine blink sent sleep crashing down on me like a great big, warm comfortable avalanche. Now my relationship with the big guy in the sky is tenuous in the least, apart from the odd conversation during injury time at the Cardiff City Stadium  or screamed references during rare ‘romantic’ nights in, we have a questionable bond  but I cherished those moments in that school hall. When I bowed my head reached out a hand to the all mighty and fell fast asleep for 30 seconds, until either Mr Harshaw dug me in the ribs or a small ginger child yanked my tie , causing me to head but myself with my own knee.

Now I’m not a cruel man, I catch spiders in cups and let them out of windows (from the top floor bathroom mind but once he’s out of my property he aint my concern) but one of the cruellest things I’ve done occurred around this time.

During a conversation with a female co-worker I actually started snoring – mid talk. Not just small mouse sized whimpers but great big Homer Simpson style grunts that made windows shake and rodents run for cover. I had my eyes fully open and was even standing bolt upright but somehow my body had listened to details of the British Canal System for long enough (about 3 seconds) and went into automatic sleep mode, a well know survival mechanism normally reserved for sky tv boxes and laptops. It wasn’t that I was particularly bored but that I was lacking that most valuable of human assets – Sleep.

It’s one of life’s cruel ironies that just when you finally get to a stage when you can sleep to your heart’s content, when you can enjoy lazy mornings reading pointlessly massive Sunday papers or when your lie inns upset nothing but your tv watching schedule along comes a bundle that is (all though undoubtedly joyful) an earth shattering mammoth dollop of WOW.

My daughter is a chortling, giggling bundle of joy but she really shows little respect for my sleeping schedule. It’s as though she doesn’t even care if I need to get up at 5 for a meeting or got in late after a night out. I’ve tried reasoning with her, offering her extra scoops of Actimal or on more extreme occasions kidnapping Mr Donkey but nothing works. My only hope is to book in a lie in for 2018.

My son, who is about to go to comprehensive school, will fight against the coming of the sleeping hour with ever more ingenious stories – ‘My teacher has asked me do a report on the 10 o’clock news for Journalism club’, ‘ Good god I’m 11 I should be able to live my life free from rules of any kind thank you very much’ and ‘I’ve just done my nails and have to wait for them to dry’ (that last one isn’t true but is inserted for reasons of gender balancing) and I try to tell him how wonderful sleep is but to him it’s just 8 hours not spent on the X-Box.

Of course naturally you only truly value sleep when you have none of it and when you have plenty of it you don’t really need it. It’s one of life’s cruel paradoxes that exist around every corner.  Like only being able to afford nice sports cars when you’re too old to look good in them, being told off for farting in the toilet or being at your physical prime at the same age you spend every night in the pub.

For instance what kind of cruel sense of humour decides that men will reach their sexual peak at 18 while women will have to wait till they’re in their mid-30s?

Women all over the country are wearing their best nighties and snuggling up to their men, ‘Hey big boy’ they whisper into the lug whole, the man fiddles with the remote gently, retracts the finger from the nose and replies ‘Where were you 15 yrs ago?’ Is it cruelty of the biggest order or the reason Kiwi’s was invented?  

Of course I’m always at my peak – perhaps that’s why I’m so tired all the time.