The Premier League – Tuesday 30th December 2008

Five minutes remained and still the deadlock was unbroken. After two severe hammerings at the hands of Sunderland and Manchester City, the time had come to be pragmatic and play safe. So, off came the adventurous Nick Barmby and on was slung Bryan Hughes.

Two minutes later, Aston Villa managed to force an own goal from the Tigers and the need for pragmatism had died. Craig Fagan was quickly urged on to the park. City forced set-pieces and hammered up long balls. Crikey, even Boaz Myhill went forward for the final corner.

And then …

Urgh, it’s hard to not dwell on the apparent injustice of a ref giving a penalty and then, er, not giving it after all … but the point is that he was right, ultimately, not to give it. That he went about it in such a cack-handed, provocative, weak way is not really the issue, not for the sake of the result anyway. He will be carpeted by his bosses for choosing to give a decision he clearly wasn’t able to make, but he will point to his willingness to take on advice from his team – and officials always harp on about the quartet of men with cards and whistles being a team – before changing his mind. That the correct decision was actually a corner (and he gave a goalkick) seems to have bypassed all the thinkers and apologists, and should also be added to the list of charges. “Yes Mr Bennett, we know it wasn’t a penalty, but you didn’t seem to know what it really was, did you?”

City lined up with a remarkably changed and reinvigorated side after the classless bit of death-by-football dished up at Manchester City. Out went Geovanni, Marlon King, Dean Marney, George Boateng and, least surprisingly of all, Dean Windass. The first two can feel unluckiest, though the Brazilian certainly has been less influential lately and probably just needed a lie down while someone waved a fan in his general direction. In came Richard Garcia, Daniel Cousin, Peter Halmosi, Nick Barmby and, with Bernard Mendy back in the midfield role where he causes more damage to others and less to us, Sam Ricketts. Garcia played centrally, while Villa’s adoption of two non-fullbacks at fullback clearly was behind Phil Brown’s plan of having natural widemen, playing wide, doing widey type things. Plus the most exciting sight in City colours right now is Bernard Mendy dementedly going at a defender with nobody – supporters, team-mates, defender, and especially Mendy himself – having a clue what he is going to end up doing.

Essentially, the game could be regarded as controversial at the beginning, controversial at the end, and intricate and intriguing in between. That it wasn’t a classic is obvious, but it was engaging. Villa possess a lot of pace and a progressive midfield, so City simply cut out the supply line and used the extra man in midfield to squeeze out Villa’s time on the ball. You could almost hear claret and blue pips squeaking, to borrow a political soundbite from the bad(der) old days.

The controversy at the beginning involved Barmby, light as a feather, somehow managing – according to Mr Bennett – to floor Brad Friedel, a mighty, powerful Yank goalkeeper who could do to Barmby what Spitting Image would have David Owen doing to david Steel. But, of course, staring with evil intentions at a goalkeeper is as wrong as all wrongnesses in the game, and Friedel got the free kick when Barmby challenged him to Cousin’s high header with enough offputting endeavour to see the ball trundle into the net. A scandalous, wimpish but not unexpected decision.

At the other end, Ashley Young does Paul McShane with ease but Michael Turner completes his 1,458th headed clearance of 2008, then Gareth Barry volleys a right-footer over the bar. It’s not a thriller from the Villa, this. They’re compact and patient, but they don’t like teams establishing their strengths and trying to nullify them. City are succeeding. Villa are annoyed and start doing things all green-booted Premier League teams do when they’re annpoyed and cold and unworthy of their rabble-rouding opponents – they start falling over.

Young is the worst culprit, while Gabriel Agbonlahor, starved of serious service all evening, also embarks on a few repertory coronaries. That these players are supremely gifted young Englishmen makes it all the more disappointing. It’s not a foreign trait any more. Brummies and Londoners are doing it. Thank goodness Dean Windass has never dived in his long career. Our city’s clean and wholesome reputation is secure. Yes.

Halmosi aims a weak header at Friedel from Mendy’s swerving cross, just after Ian Ashbee seemed to be fouled - without protest – as he shaped to meet Cousin’s fine centre. The alicebanded Hungarian then stretches agonisingly not far enough after Mendy gleefully makes Luke Young look what he is - a good right back out of his depth on the left - and zips a low, unsaveable cross right the way through the six yard box and out again.

Cousin hovers underneath a startlingly accurate Ashbee cross, only for tabloid tagged “ex-pub player” Curtis Davies to get a brave head to it first and concede the corner. Villa have further half-chances through Barry and James Milner, but Boaz Myhill remains cold and inactive. Half time is level and goalless, but more than hopeful.

The rip-off of Crossbar Challenge at half time needs to be re-thought. Ten grand is up for grabs to anyone who can hit the bar with a ball from the halfway line. Trouble is, only people incapable of kicking the ball out of the centre circle were recruited. I think the money is going to stay safe if this remains club selection policy for the contest. Bring back that mime artist who used to frighten kids in the Well.

Back to the action, or inaction, if we’re honest. the second half is a taut affair. City are better, but Villa seem to be an impeccable exercise in patience, waiting for the chance and knowing exactly when it will come. Still, while people chew the back of the seat in front of them as the night gets colder and the clock ticks further, it’s the Tigers who still most likely to earn the first goal.

Garcia, mostly ineffective but certainly useful, heads a free one wide from Barmby’s corner. Halmosi gets on to his largely sentimental right foot and scuffs a shot which Davies still chooses to block, despite the lack of power or direction making it less than perilous to Villa’s net. Chances, not being taken. This is nerveracking. It’s also thrillingly dramatic, without being dramatically thrilling. It’s a game which, if a winner is to emerge, will be through either a stunning piece of outwitting, or an error. Hang on to your woolly hats – haven’t you noticed how cold it is?

Still City press. They fancy it and Villa are giving them ample submissive reason to fancy it. Turner begins and ends a fine, idiosyncratic passing sequence involving Barmby, Mendy and Cousin, but the central defenders’s shot is skied and sliced. Cousin is then withdrawn for King, whose immediate impact on Davies prompts the former tavern protagonist (that’s the Independent’s version of “ex pub player”) to give away a corner in the most panic-ridden manner ever. Turner heads Halmosi’s kick back across goal and Davies gets ahead of King to clear slightly more icily.

Ashbee, with a crushing and yet reassuring sense of inevitability, hawks a shot high, high over the bar after King had laid the chance off. Barmby chucks himself at a Ricketts centre and doesn’t connect as meatily as he would desire, but still a defender feels the need to concede another corner.

Five minutes on and Hughes is introduced. City have slogged and strived, but no goal appears to be forthcoming. Hughes’ introduction, greeted jeeringly by the visiting fans as they recalled his Birmingham City antecedence, is indication that City are ready to shut up shop and accept a point.

Then Ashley Young gets away from Ricketts, for the first and last time, gets a low early ball in which Kamil Zayatte, erratic but talented, swings a leg at with Agbonlahor finally sniffing the chance he’s never had. The swing does Agbonlahor’s job for him as the ball flies apologetically past Myhill and send the away fans utterly potty with relief as much as joy.

Despondent, City battle back but then the decision, indecision and non-decision of the refereeing team put paid to a final hope, in the 93rd minute, of an equaliser. Gutting. Annoying. Galling. But, somehow, enlightening also. If City play like this, especially at home, on enough occasions for the rest of the season then the slump which people now fear – a la Reading last season – won’t happen. And three defeats in a row, two of which were of the crummiest kind, won’t and should never tarnish the greatest year of our lives. (MR)

The Premier League – Friday 26th December 2008

Wigan: a freakish game when a team scored five goals from four shots on target.

Chelsea: a smooth and assured performance from one of Europe’s best teams

Man U: a spirited defeat against the European and now World Champions

Bolton: an unfortunate reverse largely down to goalkeeping heroics

Sunderland: a level game settled by a fluke deflection and Mike Riley

Thus did all of our previous Premier League defeats provide some solace. Some cite ill-fortune, which sounds churlish as we did have a reasonable splash of good luck in the early weeks of the season. But it also explained some of our previous losses. Comfort always came crumb-sized or greater.

No such consolation can be taken from our first ever trip to the City of Manchester Stadium. And if it sounds profoundly ungrateful to appear cross at a time when City lie seventh in the Premier League in our first attempt at this level, so be it. This was poor, very poor, and let us not shy away from getting our hands dirty discussing it.

Shorn of the services of both Andy Dawson (injury) and Sam Ricketts (Mike Riley), Phil Brown elected to restore Paul McShane to the side at left-back, meaning Mendy slotted in at right-back. Dean Windass made his first ever Premier League start for City, as we lined up on a chilly afternoon in Greater Manchester thus: Myhill; Mendy, Turner, Zayatte, McShane; Ashbee (c), Boateng, Marney; Geovanni, Windass, King.

For the home side, £32m signing Robinho was fit again as Mark Hughes’ struggling charges lined up with Shaun Wright-Phillips, Vincent Kompany and their star man at the Circle Stephen Ireland in the side.

The match started with City kicking towards the far end of the ground from which the sold-out away watched the game, but closer to us a worrying portent came about when Mendy and Myhill involved themselves in a fearful miscommunication that ended when the former French international wandering across the edge of his area with the ball when the City keeper ought to have been allowed to claim it. Troubling.

City responded quite well though, and a neat interplay between King and Windass seeing the former blat a well-struck shot at Joe Hart – he coolly pushed the shot for a corner. From another attack, Boateng saw a shot deflect wide for a corner, which like our previous set-piece by the flag came to nothing.

It was an open start to the game, with the two flanks coming in for particular attention as Bernard Mendy showed a lack of positional sense that was quite extraordinary for one with caps for the French national side, while McShane was clearly struggling on the left. With Robinho and Wright-Phillips sensing blood and City struggling to stem the tide, it did not bode well. And our increasingly sense of foreboding was eventually justified.

Robinho collected the ball in space on the City right; swept it across to Ireland in space on the left; he transferred it to Caicedo in space in the middle who had an easy tap in.

Space, see? City were offering it with excessive of festive spirit, and the home side were eagerly tucking in to it. The home side nearly doubled their lead when Robinho neatly cut inside and sent a shot flashing towards Myhill’s goal – he palmed it to safety. The Tigers nearly fashioned an equaliser decidedly against the run of play when Michael Turner almost fastened onto a corner from the left, but the ball was played to safety.

The respite was temporary. Mark Hughes’ men scored again when Ireland was given space on the right with Caicedo was also in space in the middle – the former passed to the latter, who scored a goal of truly depressing simplicity.

It was becoming a rout. City squandered possession in midfield, a particularly unwise move with Ireland on hand to collect it. He set Robinho free in space, who cut past Turner with uncommon ease and had a straightforward chance to shoot. He made no mistake, and with half an hour gone the game was over.

Caicedo fluffed a great chance for a first half hat-trick when, in space, he headed straight at Myhill. The visibly furious Phil Brown then dragged off the hopelessly outgunned George Boateng in favour of Nathan Doyle – he trotted over to the right-back position, allowing the horribly exposed Bernard Mendy to push forward.

It was 0-4 minutes later. Wright-Phillips advanced in space on the City left, who flicked it inside to Robinho (in space, if you can possibly credit it) who diverted it past Myhill.

This provoked the first murmurings of discord in the away end, though much of the commotion was of those heading off for much-needed alcoholic sustenance. The home side were still in total control, and even the occasional burst of activity from Mendy and Geovanni failed to offer any realistic hope of a comeback.

The half-time whistle was finally blown by referee Marriner, and with it came one of the most surreal sights ever seen even at a City match – no mean feat given the rollercoaster nature of the past fifteen years. Phil Brown, now incandescent with rage, stalked over to the away end, beckoned his players over, sat them all down and delivered a firm bollocking.

The players sat in stunned and meek silence while Brown delivered his deeply unamused verdict, before dismissing them from the pitch and down the tunnel to continue his tirade in private.

An astonishing episode. We’ll touch back on it later, but for now, the second half. It was a non-event, really. Craig Fagan made a welcome appearance for the final forty-five in place of Dean Windass. His thoroughly rotten first-half display suggests it may be the final time we see Deano in black and amber.

We also tweaked the formation, the familiar option of Geovanni moving to an orthodox left-wing position as we changed to 4-4-2. For the Mancs, Jo and Onuoha replaced Richards and Caicedo. It was a quiet half, City playing for pride and achieving it, sort of. Chances were few and far between as the home side also settled for what they had. Cousin trotted on for Geovanni, whose ovation came from all four sides of the ground.

Mendy and Zayatte picked up bookings for rash challenges before City at least ensured that our fantastic record of scoring in every single away game this season when a Cousin shot fell to Craig Fagan, who smartly tucked the ball away.

Sadly the defensive ineptitude was not over for the day: the home side swept straight up to the other end with Robinho, whose clever drag-back found Ireland – wait for it – in space, and he got the goal his fantastic performance deserved.

And that was that, for the home fans at least. With the match entering injury time at least 15-20,000 of a 45,000 crowd had already left, a startling show of ingratitude. Manchester City supporters and their media friends would have us believe that they are among the most loyal and marvellous in the country – a kind of Mancunian Newcastle United. The swathe of empty blue seats as their team completed a superb victory will forever stand as a contradiction of this claim.

At the actual end of the game, Phil Brown against stomped over to the City fans and rather showily applauded us. The players remained some distance away, showing their appreciation from what they gauged was a safe distance. An unnecessary precaution, really. We’ve seen worse, known worse, and however shocking a defeat and performance this was, all was being steadily forgiven and placed into context during the torpid second half.

But the first half…oh dear. This was comfortably City’s worst display of our first crack at the top-flight. Ashbee had a stinker in midfield, Boateng looked several yards off the pace, McShane was ruthlessly exposed in an alien position, Mendy cannot defend, Windass looked a spent force, Geovanni was subdued, Marney was characteristically tireless but submerged by blue, while Turner and Zayatte looked like strangers.

King emerges with credit for an uncomplainingly and unstinting shift up front despite the unending series of fouls committed against him – one wonders if Mr Marriner was trialling a new FIFA directive of “any offence outlined in Law XII will be considered acceptable play if committed against players named Marlon King”. When it got the stage at which the home side were simply hacking him safe in the knowledge that no foul would be given, it grew simply comical – a dash of dark humour on a dark day.

Myhill too looked secure, and could not be blamed for the failings of those charged with shielding him. Fagan looked nippy, and will hopefully start against Aston Villa on Tuesday.

For we have arrived at an interesting crossroads in this season. We still sit in the top half, but less securely than for many weeks. We remain clear of the chasing pack – not quite snapping at our heels yet, but our stumble has brought them into sight. Of course, the pack frequently turns upon itself and slows it own progress, but they are gaining.

Phil Brown’s actions at the interval may, to the uninitiated, appear desperate and unwise. That is not an assessment this observer shares. We made the Premier League and prospered here courtesy of an adventurous manager willing to do the unusual, prepared to take risks. Would we have won at Arsenal with 4-5-1? Do four successive away wins at this level come with playing it safe? They don’t. Phil Brown took a gamble, one entirely consistent with his philosophy, and he deserves it to succeed.

The players, whose efforts thus far have been magnificent, must now respond. Our high standards have fallen throughout the team. If we react with a good performance and a point against Aston Villa on Tuesday, we’ll know the team remains stoutly with him. There are those outside of East Yorkshire who are smugly forecasting a rapid descent down the table and relegation for the most refreshing entrant into English football’s top table for many years. Let us hope that we’ll use the break before Tuesday to clear our hands and, yet again, prove our doubters and detractors wrong. Over to you, City. (AD)

Myhill 7; Mendy 5.5; Turner 6; Zayatte 5.5; McShane 5; Ashbee 5; Marney 5.5; Boateng 5; Geovanni 6; King 8; Windass 5; Doyle 6; Fagan 7; Cousin 6

The Premier League – Saturday 13th December 2008

Ooooh, get us. Winners at the Emirates, probably the greatest ever losers at Old Trafford, and now giving England’s most successful club one of its biggest frights within its hallowed reddened walls.

How dare we? Upstarts, urchins, hobbledehoys of the Premier League. That’s us, isn’t it? We’re supposed to turn up at these heritage sites of football, look committed, allow the opposition to steamroller us and be grateful for it, maybe picking up a souvenir mug and a round of applause from head-patting locals on the way out.

Bollocks.

We are Hull City, colossus of the Premier League. The real deal. Not just better than the other two teams who were promoted with us (one of whom is going back down through naivety, the other through imbecilic brutality) but a lot of the establishment outfits too. As for the Big Four, the bloated, spoilt gluttons of this business, we are matching all of them on their own patches. It’s absolutely terrific. Football’s very fabric, its foundation, its modern tradition, is being rocked to the core by us, a club that once got really excited when we found the money to afford Ryan Williams.

Heh.

City turned up at Anfield to play for a typically throaty Tiger Nation humanhood, plus the odd Scouser and shitloads of football tourists from the Wirral, north Wales, Cumbria and the bits of West Yorkshire which happily let Halifax Town die an appalling death last year. Football tourism is the pits. If you’re Chinese or Chingfordian, you have no place supporting Liverpool. As with our jolly to Manchester United, your reporter was startled, saddened and then (predominantly) amused greatly by the total lack of community involvement at these places. Though Liverpool handle their history with dignity – the understated list of honours in the matchday programme, the tasteful Hillsborough memorial – they aren’t very good at looking after the present or the future. These alleged fans are quiet as lambs, the owners squabble, the manager is Megson-esque in his groundless bawling and pointing, and the team relies on one fantastic local to get them through the game.

Steven Gerrard gets stick on Amber Nectar, and deserves it. But on watching him close up, one realises more starkly than ever how much he is Liverpool FC. The other players – allowing for the sensational Fernando Torres’ absence through injury – cower in his presence, desperate to give him the ball, hoping to be honoured by receiving it from him. Two obvious conclusions – firstly, if Gerrard ever gets a cruciate ligament injury or suchlike, Liverpool will be in mid-table. Secondly, if teams can prevent Gerrard from being too damaging, they have more than adequate opportunities to outwit the rest.

Gerrard was influential but not all-compassing as City shackled him reasonably well. If he did get away, the task was to reduce his targets. Yes he can pop them in from 30 yards if given the chance, but not if his route to goal is blocked. Force him wide, force him backwards, allow him to maintain possession if it means he is going the wrong way. This was executed largely to perfection. he did score twice, but he was off the ball in his appraoch on both occasions and both goals were fouls anyway.

Phil Brown, in a smart furry leather overcoat, made one change. He dropped Dean Marney to give Bernard Mendy a role on the right of midfield. Mendy, a brilliant footballer of wit and eccentricity, ran the first half of the first half. Andrea Dossena, who has both an Italian passport and a girl’s name and therefore should spend a day being tortured by a French footballing headcase, had his upper body shattered to bits by the dancing wideman over and over again. Mendy’s selection was key to City’s success, and his re-selection was key to City’s ultimate sense of mild dejection.

Liverpool made the early chances but City were settled. Michael Turner could have rendered Torres a weeping Spanish sissy given the chance, we know that, but instead he was restricted to presenting Liverpool fans further chance to label Dirk Kuyt as an exercise in profligacy and weakness. Kamil Zayatte won everything, headed everything, tackled everything that was there and quite a lot which wasn’t. And our captain, Ian Ashbee, as if he had to point out who was the best captain on the field, was just stupendous. He covered all the blades and was masterful in the tackle, unflinching in his leadership and, gratifyingly, accurate in his passing. This was Ashbee’s best performance for City, among a plethora of mesmerising displays in the last 12 months from our captain. On the biggest stage, Ashbee again steps up. Let’s see how he fares in the UEFA Cup next year.

So, the game settles. And City should have had a penalty in the first five minutes when Sam Ricketts and Nick Barmby combine nicely down the left. Barmby, against his old club for the second week in a row, turns a low effort into the box and the sliding Javier Mascherano blocks for a corner – with his hand. It’s Anfield, it’s early in the game and it’s the opposition who want the penalty, so naturally Alan Wiley doesn’t give it. Turner heads the consolatory corner over the bar.

City revert to defensive heroism – a tack that would be reassuringly present throughout the match – as both Yossi Benayoun and Albert Riera (football needs more people called Albert) have vicious snapshots which black and amber bodies fling themselves in the way of. A corner is forced, and Riera laughably balloons a shot wide from Gerrard’s far post delivery. Moments after Boaz Myhill’s clearance, Zayatte is in the action, stealing the ball from Kuyt with exuberance and class, prompting wild applause from the Tiger Nation.

The wild applause quickly became wild capering and eye-rubbing incredulity as City took the lead. Mendy wins a free kick after relocating Dossena’s pelvic area, Geovanni aims it a little long, but when Marlon King collects and re-delivers, there’s the ginger mane of Paul McShane climbing highest and aiming a looper over Jose Reina and just beneath the bar. An unexpected scorer but it matters not. City are winning at Liverpool. Another adventure has begun.

Having won the free kick, Mendy becomes the main outlet for City’s next ten minutes. Geovanni even bows down to the mercurial, flighty Frenchman, looking to release him as often as possible. Mendy’s treatment of Dossena was a sight to behold. Think Eddie Gray and David Webb, 1970. Think Chris Waddle and Paolo Maldini, 1989. Only fate would stop Mendy from having a 90-minute impact on his full back in the manner of these other wideman and their victims. But for ten immense, addictive minutes, he was capable of destroying any defender on earth.

Away he went again in the 21st minute, and again Dossena was reminded of how much pain can emanate from one’s arse muscles when they have been twisted and manipulated in unnatural directions with high frequency. Mendy wasn’t done either – having turned Dossena to paste, he then cracked in a cross of ferocity and accuracy which prompted Jamie Carragher, that laudable virtue of rearguard strength, to place the ball into his own net. More capering.

McShane picked up a booking and then, crucially, picked up an injury. His withdrawal for Marney forced Brown to revert Mendy to the right back slot, and our most potent, devastating weapon was nullified. Mendy still managed a couple of spontaneous runs when room was allowed – he neded up on the left wing after one such mazy dribble – but the decision not to pick Nathan Doyle, the only fit back-up defender on the books, as a sub was soon regretted. City’s sparkle had been dulled and they got cocky.

Liverpool had already begun the comeback. Kuyt breaks, his cross is helped on its way by Turner being shoved out of the way, and Gerrard taps in the chance. Should have been a City free kick, but it’s Liverpool at home, and it’s in front of the Kop, and it’s Gerrard, so it must be a goal.

The reshuffle comes shortly afterwards and City are barely out of their box for the rest of an enthralling, exhausting first half. Kuyt stabs a cross-shot from Gerrard just wide, but then makes amends with a smart lay-off under pressure - with Turner illegally decked again – to give the talisman his second and level things up. It’s 2-2 before half time and City have relinquished a two-goal lead. You’d expect Liverpool to win it now, wouldn’t you?

Heh.

They did try. Before half time, Barmby blocked magnificently from Benayoun, Riera flashed one across Myhill’s goal and Xabi Alonso – a brilliant, no-frills footballer who is the real star here – curled a peach of a shot inches beyond Myhill’s post, with the custodian of City’s leather flagging. It was all a bit dismaying and the noise from the Tiger Nation died – until Brown turned our way and did his waving routine to get it back up again. A manager who wants to start the singing? Awesome. A man of real calibre, our gaffer. Can you imagine Terry Dolan or Stan Ternent doing that?

Half time was a relief. The second half was assault. City were punched, kicked and sliced apart – proverbially, although Liverpool did commit actual fouls later in their most frustrated moments – and the Tigers kept them out. Heroism isn’t a hefty enough word to define what Messrs Ashbee, Turner and Zayatte in particular, but everyone generally, attained in the second half, but it will do for now.

So, prepare yourself for a barrage of words to describe the barrage of chances, re-iterating once more that none of them went in.

Gerrard takes a corner, Sami Hyypia wins it aerially and finds the outside of the post. Riera fizzes a right-footer from 18 yards which Myhill’s clenched fists arrow away. Alonso curls one inches wide again from Riera’s pull back. Gerrard cascades into the box but Turner blocks his shot and Ashbee clears. Kuyt miskicks over the bar from six yards. Kuyt then runs into Ashbee, who leaves the area upright with both the ball and every bit of Kuyt’s breath. Zayatte hurls his forehead at Riera’s cross as Gerrard shapes to volley. Hyypia wins another Gerrard corner but goes wide. Gerrard finds the roof of the net from distance. Substitute Nabil El Zhar hits a vigorous drive which Myhill fumbles, clutches, fumbles and then finally punches properly, as both Kuyt and Gerrard sniffed rebounds.

Four minutes of added time were signalled and, amazingly, joyously, City spent most of it on the attack. But for disappointing deliveries by King, Marney and especially sub Peter Halmosi (on for George Boateng), the chance to win it in front of the Kop was presenting itself. No matter. City celebrated a fabulous point and banked another day of memories to relay to the grandchildren from a peacock chair in 2047.

The Tigers have scored more away goals than every other Premier League club except Chelsea, and only that 4-3 sphincter-clencher at Manchester United represents a defeat on our travels. And our next away game is after Christmas! Stone the crows.

Disappointed to be two up at Anfield and not win? Maybe. It’s time we spoiled ourselves with such thoughts. Our manager and players have made sure we deserve to. (MR)

The Premier League – Saturday 6th December 2008

Ten minutes remain, and the Circle is subdued and fretful, the mood as dismayed as it’s been at any time this season. Middlesbrough lead 1-0, their fans are in full voice, and we gloomily reconcile ourselves to a seventh game without victory ahead of a trip to the League leaders next season.

Six minutes later and we remain fretful, this time over our prospects of holding onto a lead that was sudden, unexpected and quite thrilling. Now, however, the Circle was awash with noise and fervour, the mood was once that familiar but never boring species of triumph which with most of this startling campaign will be forever associated.

At the start of this season, a discussion was held among my regular travellers as to our prospects of winning from behind even once in the Premier League. Majority view held that once was about conceivable, but far from probable. Surely sides at this level would simply close us out once ahead? We’ve done it three times in the “2008” part of the season already, a fact that grows no less arresting for being frequently related.

Testament, then, to the quite extraordinary spirit of the team and its inspirational leader. We all fancy ourselves as sagely observers of the side, yet I freely concede I saw no way back yesterday despite the precedents for it. Or against Man C. Or Portsmouth twice. I should know better. Falling behind seems only a minor irritant to this remarkable side of ours, and even being desperately short of time in a fixture seems of little importance. Middlesbrough will have left another sold-out KC Stadium wondering quite what happened to them – if it’s any consolation to their impressive visiting support, their bewilderment has been experienced by others, and is to some extent shared by us.

Keeping the dream alive at a chilly Circle this week were: Myhill; McShane, Turner, Zayatte, Ricketts; Ashbee (c), Marney, Boateng; Geovanni, King, Barmby. George Boateng was afforded a generous hand by the Middlesbrough supporters populating one half of the North Stand before the game, who were then treated to the sight of their own team trooping over for a huddle right in front of them; sadly referee Mr Tanner allowed his plans for kick-off to be delayed, when blowing the whistle and allowing the waiting City side to march through an empty Middlesbrough half would have been easily the more entertaining option.

We’d have needed it too, because the opening minutes were worryingly one-sided in favour of the visitors. A brace of menacing corners were delivered and only half-dealt with, the second requiring a number of steely challenges to be inserted to block thumping Middlesbrough shots before Mr Tanner spotted a foul and gave City a much-needed respite.

Middlesbrough remained on top however, and when Downing cut in from the left he appeared to have a lot of goal to aim for as Myhill has slightly got his angles wrong – however, the sometime England winger hit his low shot too close to the City keeper, whose handling was assured.

Despite their early territorial advantage, Middlesbrough failed to fashion many clear chances and City gradually settled into the game. It wasn’t the most technically accomplished of affairs, but with Messrs Brown and Southgate having instructed their sides to attack at every opportunity, it was an appealingly open game.

Midway through the half City should have taken the lead when a sumptuous ball by Nick Barmby released Geovanni on the right. He darted forward and advanced on Ross Turnbull’s goal, but instead of shooting from an acute but certainly presentable angle, he squared the ball to King, who was being well marshalled by David Wheater and he cleared the ball to safety. It was the start of a strange afternoon for Geovanni, who made a rare poor decision in this instance, and followed it up six minutes when a superb ball in by King picked him out unmarked and onside eight yards from goal – his diving header flew some twenty yards wide.

Despite this, City always look dangerous when our Brazilian hero is involved, and as City began to enjoy the better of the game he wriggled free twenty yards from goal, rushed forward and drew a clumsy foul on the edge of the area. The stadium throbbed with the expectant hum of excitement that can only come when a former Brazil international is about to take a direct free-kick on the edge of the area – sadly his shot deflected for a corner that was irritatingly wasted.

It was becoming the Geovanni show, and a genuine privilege it was to watch. When the adventure is over, when City are no longer in the top flight, when the wheel of fortune transports us back to football’s flip-side, memories of watching Geovanni at the height of his powers will keep us all warm. His next contribution was to somehow fashion a shot from a zippy ball that arrived waist height twenty yards from goal and with Wheater chivvying away (legally) behind him; Geo’s glancing first-time shot flew through the air and for a thrilling second it looked as though it may loop over Turnbull and in, but sadly it dropped back to earth enough for the Middlesbrough keeper to safely catch.

Middlesbrough were struggling a little as Boateng and Marney’s relentless midfield work closed them down in the centre of the field, and it looked like our reward for this vigorous improvement since the opening minutes would arrive when Ricketts (again) danced free of his marker on the City left and delivered a sharp low cross into the area. It passed by a few bodies but was met by Geovanni’s head – astonishingly, he directed this header even further wide.

Middlesbrough rallied as the half drew to a close when an Aliadiere cross from the right fell to down; he slashed at the ball and sliced into the side-netting, although Myhill appeared to have the effort covered. That was the final action of the first forty-five – an entertaining game that didn’t look destined to end goalless.

Or so it seemed as we enjoyed our half-time beverages; the beginning of the second half was rather quiet, as though both managers had been just a little concerned at the frequent advancement of their enemy and wished to tighten things up a bit.

In fact, it became a stolid game, typified by Ian Ashbee’s sixth caution of the season for a deliberate foul on Alves after the City skipper lost possession on the halfway line and had little option but to cynically chop down the Boro player.

The stadium had quietened considerably, and with an hour gone Phil Brown could tolerate the drift no longer, withdrawing Barmby and Marney for Mendy and Cousin – Mendy slotting in on the right to give us the width we’d lacked throughout the game on that flank, Geovanni moving back a little as King and Cousin spearheaded the City attack in a 4-3-1-2 formation.

Geovanni was involved another flowing moving from deep, drawing two Middlesbrough players in before releasing King on the right hand side of the area. His first touch wasn’t the most secure, and it made a tough chance even harder as he eventually swiped the ball high and wide.

With twelve minutes remaining and anyone who’d backed fewed three goals already spending their winnings, the match detonated. Justin Hoyte scampered away down the right with a troubling lack of City intervention; he got into a position close to the by-line and squared it to Tuncay, who neatly backheeled the ball into an open goal. The City players protested about the goal being offside, but Tuncay looked level with Hoyte and the ball was square, and the appeal looked more desperate than genuine.

Disappointment washed over us all – this wasn’t a game we’d deserved to lose, but a critical lapse (and a good Middlesbrough move) looked to have done for us. Not so. Ninety seconds later we were level.

A cross from the City left was only partially cleared and the ball fell to Mendy, eighteen yards from goal on the right of the area. He speedily shifted the ball to his right and created a shooting chance – his low effort flew past Turnbull and struck the post, hit the prone keeper and dribbled over the line despite an attempt to clear it. The linesman immediately flagged for the goal and Mendy raced off to the subs’ bench to celebrate – meanwhile, the City fans rejoiced in delight at such a speedy and decisive riposte.

How swiftly the mood can alter in a game of football! Suddenly our tails were up, songs were being sung, our players were swarming forward and Middlesbrough looked fearful, having had their lead snatched away so swiftly.

City smelled blood, and three minutes after equalising we led, in highly controversial circumstances. Geovanni fastened onto a long ball and was allowed to run through on goal despite appearing clearly offside. David Wheater made a significant error in appealing for a decision instead of attending to Geovanni, and this allowed the City forward to get in front of him and enter the area, where he was felled by a covering challenge by Wheater.

Mr Tanner took a moment to decide before pointing at the spot and immediately showing Wheater a red card as the stadium bellowed in frenzied delight. Now, we need to be fair here. Football’s a game of noise, passion, colour, and we all howled for the decision and cheered its award, but this needn’t prevent it being analysed in a sober fashion the day after the event. It was not a penalty. Geovanni did not dive, but a foul did not appear to be committed. And he was undoubtedly offside. Middlesbrough were harshly dealt with, and can consider themselves unfortunate. They’re unlikely to hear our contention that we’d been on the other end of a bad penalty decision seven days ago with a particularly sympathetic ear.

But we WERE as unlucky last week as we were fortunate this week, and it was down to Marlon King to capitalise upon this corrective stroke of luck. The Circle was beset by a terrified hush, the vital nature of the kick apparent to all. His penalty was eerily reminiscent of Fuller’s last week, a weak shot only just beat the keeper, but beat him it did, and the celebrations were long and lusty on both terrace and field.

The ten Middlesbrough players were visibly unhappy with their lot, but City have closed games out impressively this season, and Mr Tanner had one more nice surprise for us by issuing only three extra minutes – they were safely negotiated.

A huge, huge win. No-one was panicking about six winless games, but in a league as viciously competitive as this, that can only go on so long. Imagine it – Middlesbrough making it seven, the likelihood of an eighth at Anfield, then if a new manager at Sunderland energised them make it nine, a hard trip to Man C, then Villa at home…

Winless runs can only go so long. We played well throughout it, of course. Old Trafford remains a treasured memory from the earlier portion of it, while Man C and Portsmouth provided both entertainment and valuable points. But only now that laid it to rest does the realisation of how it was gnawing away become apparent.

Life looks a lot rosier today. It was still pretty good before, of course. But this lifts us back to fifth, and we can treat Anfield as a shot to nothing before targeting Sunderland as the chance to put serious distance between us and them, still safe in the knowledge that we’ll enter the New Year with a minimum of 26 points and only five more wins away from being able to prepare for Premier League football remaining in Hull in 2009/10. And all thanks to a team that simply does not know when it is unbeaten. (AD)