First things first, let’s get Christmas out of the way. Presents, drink, food, family argument, family make-up, more drink, more food, then crap evening television. Four months of hype, over- spending and anticipation all over in a belch of rich food and alcohol.
Don’t get me wrong, I’m a big fan of Christmas, it’s just over so quickly, a blur of goodwill and over-indulgence which, a bit like heroin, is great fun while it lasts (note to lawyers - in no way am I condoning the use of heroin or any other illegal substance and neither do I have any personal experience of heroin use) leaves you with an overwhelming sense of deflation once it’s over.
The Festive weekend began for me at Crystal Palace, in freezing fog which made me think of Sherlock Holmes for some reason, regretting my decision not to take a hat and trying to concentrate on the game as I slowly lost any sensation in my toes.
Sunderland served up a steaming pile of dog turd of a performance as a pre-Christmas appetiser, which was at least spiced up with some brutally honest post-match comments from Roy Keane.
The players aren’t good enough, no we didn’t deserve anything from the game, I knew some of them were unambitious slackers, roll on January and the transfer window, that sort of thing.
In truth, Sunderland deserved at least a point from their trip to Selhurst Park as Palace were awful, but at least the players responded to Keano’s rant with a comfortable 2-0 win over Leeds United on Boxing Day.
Then it was off to Brisbane Road on Saturday to watch Leyton Orient scrap out a 1-1 draw with Crewe, topped off by an evening at Walthamstow Dog Track. And, no, northern readers, there wasn’t a jellied eel in sight.
Then, back to Newcastle in time for the Christmas Day celebrations and then a road trip to the North-West to watch Wimbledon - sorry Bolton - out-muscle the Magpies and condemn Newcastle to a second league defeat in four games - or a second league defeat in nine games - depending on whether your a glass half full or half empty kinda guy/girl.
I’ve got admit, I don’t like Bolton, even if my mum’s family hail from those parts. There is part of me which should enjoy the fact an unfashionable club is sticking it up the aristocratic elite, punching above its weight and landing a few knockout blows along the way, but it’s like stepping into a time warp when you watch them play. Welcome to 1988, long ball football is as fashionable as a demi-perm and English teams are the dinosaurs of Europe!
Bolton are, despite the fancy 4-3-3 formation and denials, a long ball team who excel at set pieces and who unsettle their opponents with their highly-physical approach.
Look, if I was a Bolton fan, I’d be delighted with the job Sam Allardyce has done. If he hasn’t already been given the freedom of the town/city (not sure) then do so straight away. The least he deserves is the chance to park his car on a double yellow line (you can do that when you get the freedom of a city apparently) for what he has done at that club.
But for me there are ways of doing things and then there is the right way to do something. Bolton are effective because they are awkward, but for the neutral they are depressing to watch.
Yes, they have to do whatever is necessary to stay in the Premiership, but are a team who play for corners and throw-ins really entertainment? Are their fans really happy with this, after all they’re not exactly newcomers to the Premiership now are they?
Bolton are the supposed model for every newly-promoted team, but thankfully they are not a model which have to be followed. Look at Wigan last season and look at Reading this, football-playing sides who still manage to mix with the big boys.
Sorry, rant over. Newcastle lost the game fair and square and I suppose that’s all that matters at the end of the day.
And that, as they say, was that. Two defeats and a draw, a massive dent in my bank balance, a couple of pounds added to my weight and extensive liver damage! How’s that for Christmas cheer?!
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