Showing posts with label Cardiff City. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Cardiff City. Show all posts

Wednesday, 28 July 2010

A turbulent pre-season

EXCLUSIVE AND COPYRIGHT MARK KENNEDY PRODUCTIONS.

It's been a great effort from Darcy this season, probably his best season ever. The fact he can keep such a high level of performance whilst persisting with a diet of a dozen packets of Pickled Onion Monster Munch a day whilst suffering from severe wheat intolerance is quite incredible.

The glandular problems Darcy has faced were not all in vain though, he'd been diligently collecting tokens from Monster Munch packs and had collected the 12500 tokens necessary to win him a trip with two friends to travel to South Africa and watch a World Cup second round match.

He had to invite Tony G (Tony wouldn't let Darcy out of a headlock until he did) and he wanted to invite Tony C but unfortunately Cappers couldn't get off work - major server upgrade at head office at the IT firm he works at apparently. Thankfully the third and final ticket was offered to me, I think Darcy wanted a left-footer along to provide some sort of balance should we get into any impromptu three-a-sides whilst we were out there. I was delighted. For me, the biggest international football tournament is almost certainly the World Cup. For my money your European Championships, Copa Americas and CONCACAF Gold Cups of this world simply don't compare.

When we arrived in South Africa we were delighted to learn that Darcy's tickets were for England vs Germany. Tony G was talking down the Germans saying they weren't as good as they used to be. For me, that's fatal, you simply never underestimate the Germans (unless we're talking about fashion of course). I remember when I played for Manchester City, the lads there used to talk in hushed tones about German striker Uwe Rosler. One of the catering lasses had once underestimated the amount of bratwursts Rosler could eat at lunch. She never worked in Manchester again at least not with German cuisine. And that's a fact.

Darcy and Tony G are up for getting the pints in but I fancy doing something a little more reflective so have taken a trip to Robben Island. Now, from reading my guide book I had ascertained that Robben Island was supposed to be one of the main tourist attractions in South Africa, yet I wasn't so impressed. Let me tell you, it's got nothing on Barry Island, you've got your log flumes, your candy floss, your pirate ships even a Hyper Hyper Value. Yes, I admit that the accommodation at Robben is of slightly higher quality than Barry but for me, Barry Island wins this battle when you compare them like for like.

I met Darce and Tony G outside the stadium and was amazed to see they were dressed as RAF pilots. Helmets, moustaches the works. Tony had apparently swapped his playoff final losers medal for the outfits at the Irish Bar in town. Darcy seemed to think the outfits were a great idea and was pestering me to buy him a vuvuzela whilst Tony kept going on about the "Hun" and babbling on about something to do with his granddad's chip shop being bombed. For me, sporting rivalry is one thing, but dressing up as WWII pilots to watch a football match against a former war-time foe is another. As an Irishman, like in World War II, I remained staunchly neutral and explained as much to the very nice couple from Gelsinkirchen who we happened to be sat next to in the stadium - We had perfect seats sat only a couple of rows from the front.

The game started with a frenetic pace and it was obvious that Germany had the upper hand and within 20 minutes the Germans were ahead by 2 goals to 1. It was also at this point that both Darcy and Tony started losing concentration. It's been a common problem this season, a focused first twenty minutes or so only for Tony or Darcy to get distracted and make a fatal mistake.

Tony was barely watching the game and was busy goading a group of schoolchildren from Dusseldorf with a horrendously off-key rendition of "Ten German bombers". This obviously enraged somenearby Germans and a vuvezula fight soon broke out. Tony G threw his and it hit the linesman on the back of the head, I think Darcy's hit a child. The lino has turned around to look at the crowd and at this very point Frankie Lampard has unleashed a terrific volley that's hit the bar and bounced over the line. The linesman has lost concentration at the vital moment and missed it. For me, this shows just why vuvuzelas are such a menace in the modern game, it only takes a slight misunderstanding for these events to occur.

The crowd were going mad and I used this opportunity to shout "RUN" at Darcy and Tony G and we made our getaway from the stadium. Tony G and Darcy are quickly taking off parts of their RAF costumes and throwing them into the streets of Rustenburg with the Germans in hot pursuit. It must have been quite a sight for the locals; two half naked men running away from a group of mulleted German football fans wearing liederhosen.

We eventually managed to shake them off by running down a crowded market street and knocking a fruit stall over and running past a couple of workers carrying a large pane of glass. It was a method of escape that had served us well on multiple occasions during the past couple of seasons.

The return trip home wasn't nearly as eventful and mainly consisted of Tony G ribbing Darcy about his RAF pilots hat that he had been unable to remove since the Germany game. The gaffer wasn't best pleased when he turned up at our pre-season base in Portugal still wearing it. He had tried wearing an afro wig on top of it and claiming he'd grown it during the summer, but it didn't fool anyone least of all Terry Burton, who is disco to the core.

Portugal was tough this year around although it was good to see the lads once more. Jay Bothroyd (as always) came up with a nickname for Danny Drinkwater our new loanee from Manchester United. Get this, it's DRINKY!! I have no idea where he gets them from, I really don't. Jay cracks me up every time.

The club's well documented financial problems meant we could only afford all inclusive for eight players only. Each of these eight players had to sneak food up from the buffet into the hotel rooms where we had doubled (and in some cases tripled) up. This was fun for a couple of days holed up in a hotel room with a lot of the lads bantering about Anne Frank and all that, but when Naughts is only bringing up boiled or scrambled egg and omelets you do start to get a little frustrated.

Unfortunately our fun was put to an end when Adam Matthews was caught attempted to swipe a whole large roast turkey from the buffet. It was an audacious attempt from the youngster but ultimately his inexperience cost him. He's young, he will learn from this and take this experience forward for the future. Terry Burton, Wilko and a couple of the senior players were hauled unceremoniously in front of hotel management who told us in no uncertain terms that our behaviour had been unacceptable. They said the only way we could stay is if we played a "Winner Takes All" match against their hotel football side. We had no choice to accept these terms and I must admit, we were feeling confident about it. Playing against a team of waiters and cleaners should be no match for a group of professional footballers like ourselves.

When Huds was turned inside out by a cook who chipped Marshy to score their third we knew we were up against it. The Portuguese were obviously more used to the hot and humid conditions as well as the new ball. They also looked as if they were a week or two ahead of us in their pre-season preparations.

It was at this moment a Portuguese police car pulled up alongside the ground. I was obviously concerned that a local had reported us for our criminal defending, but unfortunately it turned out to be far more serious than that. The copper had an INTERPOL arrest warrant for Darcy Blake - "striking a child with his vuvuzela" (thankfully not a euphemism). It was quite a scene, Darcy was in tears and Tony G was looking sheepish. There looked to be no way out for young Darce as it was obvious from the RAF headgear he was still wearing that he had committed the crime. Put it this way, he would be picked out in a police line without any problems..

I stepped in to try and resolve the situation and managed to negotiate a fee with the copper to pay off the South African government. Unfortunately for us the club,had no money to pay this. so I quickly rang around a few mates. I rembered Keano owed me a favour after I managed to get my close friend Quientin Blake to provide artwork for his last biography. Thankfully he negotiated a bank transfer of £75,000 from Ipswich Town to the South African government as a fee for Darcy Blake's exoneration, on the condition that I play for Ipswich Town in the forthcoming season.

I'm obviously not totally ecstatic about the situation, as any woman will tell you, no one wants to swap a Darcy for a Wickham. But at the end of the day, when all is said and done, it's all part and parcel of football.

Sparky, Ipswich Town and Republic of Ireland, signing off.

Friday, 21 May 2010

An interesting night

It was the night before playoff final and no one from the manager to the tea lady was in the wide awake club, not even a mouse.

The gaffer's gaffer had put us up in one of the swankiest Berni Inns this side of Essex and nearly all of the lads had taken advantage of the buffet system (apart from Aaron Wildig who is on Ramadan at the moment). They'd set their "all you can eat" stall out in a particularly ill thought out way and needless to say we've taken full advantage of it. To be fair, the team have done it all season. Naughts has eaten eleven pickled eggs, breaking his record by two and Darcy's gone to town on the Vienetta.

So, Friday evening we were all very contented; and to be fair, exhausted. It's been a long hard season, not helped by the gaffer re-iterating that each of the last few games of the season were all "cup finals". For me, recording one cup final single is fun, but when you're recording your 12th in as many weeks it starts to get a bit wearing. Terry Burton is struggling to develop new melodies and Marshy is having difficulty in writing any new lyrics or finding anything that rhymes with Gyepes. I mean, despite his penalty heroics Marshy has been taking a lot of stick for attempting to rhyme "Ninian" with "Stadium". It can't be doing anything for the lad's confidence.

So I'm fast asleep, not interfering with play, when I'm awoken by a quite terrible wailing noise. And who is standing at the end of my bed other than my ex-Republic of Ireland team mate Phil Babb. I hadn't seen him since we were arrested for re-creating our favourite episode of Starsky and Hutch on the streets of Dublin. Phil had inadvertently rolled over the bonnet of an off-duty policewoman's car and I've followed him. Yes, looking back it was naïve, we've made a mistake at a vital moment and we were punished. For me, you can't afford to make such elementary errors. Afterwards you look back on what you've done, slightly ashamed, and you make a promise to yourself not to get caught next time. It's as simple as that.

"SPARKY! SPARKY!"

Phil is yelling now. Don't like it.

"SPARKY! THIS NIGHT YOU WILL BE VISITED BY THREE SPIRITS."

I'm thinking Bailies, Tequila and Cointreau, but...

"THE GHOST OF PLAYOFFS PAST, PRESENT, AND THE GHOST OF SEASONS YET TO COME."

At this point I'm starting to get concerned about Phil. I don't remember any Starsky and Hutch episodes with this plotline. And with that (just like with his footballing career) he is nowhere to be seen and I've climbed back into bed.

I'm soon fast asleep, though I am unsettled by visions of Wayne Routledge running at me in full flow. But, just as Wayne attempts to beat me for the fourth time (crowd shouting Olé each time I am left floundering) I am awoken by another noise. I open my eyes and am faced with one of the most horrid visages imaginable.

"What on earth happened to your face!!!?" I cry.

"WHAT DO YOU MEAN??" he bellows

"Erm.." I reply

"I AM THE GHOST OF PLAY-OFF PAST, EX-MIDDLESBROUGH AND ENGLAND U21 ACE ANDREW CAMPBELL."

*Embarrassing silence.*

"I NEED TO SHOW YOU SOMETHING!" he says.

And with that I am sat in the Millennium Stadium alongside Andy Campbell at the 2003 Divison Two playoff final between QPR and Cardiff City. I'm not impressed. To be taken out of your comfortable bed on the night of a big game is one thing, but to be transported back through time and space to watch some lower league rubbish is another thing entirely.

"WATCH THIS?" Andy says, noting my dis-interest.

The ball is hoofed over the defence and an on-rushing Andy Campbell volleys the ball over the head of Chris Day in the QPR goal. The crowd go wild.

"Shinned it." I say. "At Championship level you'd never get away with that."

"HMMMM." Says Andy. "THIS ALL COULD BE YOURS, A WIN IN SATURDAY'S MATCH, A MATCH THAT'S THE BIGGEST IN THE CLUB'S HISTORY."

I've heard a lot of people say that this playoff final is the biggest in the club's history. For me, I've been in the game long enough to know that you're only ever as good as your last game so it's the next game that's the the biggest. We all know that it's difficult to keep both feet on the ground when you're knocking on the door of the top flight with one hand in the Premier League and one foot on the trophy. When all's said and done, it's as simple as that.

And with that, I'm back in my bed. Back to nightmares of the time when Gabor Gyepes rugby tackled me in OddBins.

Again I am awoken by quiet sobbing, and I look to the bottom of my bed - it's Yann Kermogant. Through his tears he asks:

"MARK! MARK! DO YOU WANT TO PLAY PREMIER LEAGUE FOOTBALL?"

I'm thinking, of course, any player wants to play at the highest level possible. But these sorts of offers should really go through my agent.

"THIS IS YOUR CHANCE, MARK!"

I sling him unceremoniously out of the door; doing my best not to make a cheap gag about French Fries. Being taken back in time by some sort of Elephant Man is one thing, being tapped up by the Ghost of Playoffs present is another. I'm back in bed, perchance to dream...

This is where the nightmares come, a recurring one, I'm being chased by zombies wearing Preston North End shirts. I'm desperately trying to get away but I can't move, it's like I'm running through sand, like being Mark Aizlewood against Bulgaria in 1994, and they're getting closer and closer...

"MARK!!"

I am awoken again. This is getting ridiculous.

"I AM THE GHOST OF SEASON'S YET TO COME."

I'm thinking, no, you're not, you're Richard Keys. But I'm too polite to say anything.

"COME WITH ME, I HAVE SOMETHING TO SHOW YOU."

I'm transported to Cardiff City Stadium, the lads are getting on the bus. But I don't recognize any of them, apart from Tony C and Encks.

"What's this? What's going on?"

"THIS IS WHAT COULD HAPPEN IF YOU DON'T WIN ON SATURDAY."

"What?"

"LOOK AT THE FRONT OF THE BUS MARK, LOOK AT THE FRONT OF THE BUS."

It says: "SCUNTHORPE".

"S****horpe! Again!? Noooooooo." I cry. I can't take this. The players hadn't even considered losing on Saturday. We've spent most of this week in training rehearsing elaborate goal celebrations where one player mimics sewing on a Premier League badge onto the sleeve of another. The thought of another trip to the likes of Leeds, Ipswich Town or Nottingham Forest is too much to bear. We want to be playing your Fulhams, your Wigans and your Boltons of this world.

"YOU MUST CHANGE YOUR WAYS! IF YOU DO NOT GET PROMOTED THIS SEASON YOU CAN FORGET HAVING STEVEN GERRARD'S COUSIN PLAYING FOR YOU, YOU'LL ONLY BE GOOD ENOUGH TO HAVE CHRIS PIKE'S NEPHEW. CHANGE YOUR WAYS TO REACH THE PREMIER LEAGUE (LIVE AND EXCLUSIVE ON SKY SPORTS!) CHANGE YOUR WAYS TO REACH THE PREMIER LEAGUE (LIVE AND EXCLUSIVE ON SKY SPORTS!)"

"But how!? Tell me how to change my ways!"

"AND IN HD........................."

His voice trails, he disappears, as I frantically scream: "But how?"

Once more, I am alone in my room. I walk to the window and open the curtains, it's morning now, I look outside, I see young Darcy walking past.

"Darcy!" I yell

"Yes sir?" He yells back.

I throw down a 50 quid note.

"Go to the Offy and get me the largest slab of Strongbow you can find!" I shout.

"Really, sir?!" Darcy exclaims.

"Yes. Really. And as many Monster Munch as you can carry!?"

"Can I keep the tokens!?" he replies.

"Of course!"

Darcy punches the air and runs to the Offy.


We will do our best on Saturday. We will win for the club, for the city and most of all for Riccy, who tragically retired earlier this season. As an aside, does anyone want a ticket for Saturday? Tony G has a few hundred he needs to shift, at good prices too. But that's Tony all over, typical Scouser.