-ologies

You remember Kremlinologists? Back in the days of the cold war, these people used to look at the blank walls of the Russian government, and divine, almost magically, what was going on inside them: who was in, who was out, and what this meant for us, the Western world.

Looking back, it seems likely that their expertise was entirely self-proclaimed. Like the economic experts before 2008, they somehow failed to predict some fairly important things, but not before they'd made their fortunes by telling the American and British governments exactly what they wanted to hear.

Even Wikipedia is somewhat scathing about the Kremlinologists' techniques:

During the Cold War, lack of reliable information about the country forced Western analysts to "read between the lines" and to use the tiniest titbits, such as the removal of portraits, the rearranging of chairs, positions at the reviewing stand for parades in Red Square, the choice of capital or small initial letters in phrases such as "First Secretary", the arrangement of articles on the pages of the party newspaper "Pravda" and other indirect signs to try to understand what was happening in internal Soviet politics.

 So it seems this was an -ology with all the rigour and testability of feng shui.

Yet compared with valleyology it's an  exact, Newtonian science. There was a flurry of valleyology on twitter yesterday, where all the entrails seemed to point to a calamitous perestroika: Yann leaving; Powell overruled and likely to quit; relegation all but certain. Based on what? At one point the discussion revolved around how long a train journey to Bournemouth would take.I took it too seriously and it left me quite depressed.

Today, Chris Powell has addressed a press conference and, as always, a few words from the great man have made me feel better. Dale Stephens has gone and Yann may - nobody knows - still be going: A couple of players with excitingly unpronounceable names have come in. But still, a load of people are examining every word of the press conference, trying to read a message in the tealeaves. The Daily Mail ran a story saying Powell's position was in doubt, which seems to have been based solely on the alarmist tweets of last night.

Despite the kremlinologists, the Soviet empire collapsed, Germany reunited, Russia became more corrupt and Poland more priest-ridden than ever, and the letters CCCP are now just a stuttering tribute to our leader. They, the kremlinologists, got everything wrong. Valleyologists: look on their works, you might as well, and despair.

Charlton 2 Oxford 2

I wonder what postmodern football looks like.  
Why do you do that, then?
Hang on, who are you? And what are you doing interrupting me in italics?
I'm your creation, you postmodernist fool. For some reason you've decided to write this post in the form of a dialogue. And by the way, I ask the questions. Carry on.
OK. Ask your next question. (I already know what it is, obviously.)
Postmodernism? Isn't that what passes for cleverness in television these days ...
Carry on.
Such as Sherlock? 
Yes! I'm so glad you mentioned that.
Can I nip out for a fag while you're telling everybody your views on Sherlock?
Fine. Five minutes should be plenty. The thing about Sherlock is that the first half is always rubbish, a bewildering mass of inept characterisation and clumsy exposition. It looks fantastic, but nothing is happening. You're tempted to watch something else. Then, in the second half, some actual plot comes along, some ideas, and for a while it all seems good, and the programme ends and you think that was good. But then, about half an hour later, you think no, actually, it was rubbish. What appeared to be a cleverly constructed plot was in fact all smoke and mirrors. Shit! you think, I've been conned. And you realise you've wasted 90 minutes of your scarce time on this earth.
Excuse me!
What? Back already?
Remembered I don't smoke. As you should have known. And I'm quite peeved that you've used italics. Italics are mine.
Sorry. Well?
You're claiming Sherlock was rubbish. You do realise this puts you in a scorned minority. Even the great Sam Wollaston ...
Don't get me started on him!
Sorry. But can I mention this is, notionally at least, a post about a football match?
Fair point. I'll keep this in note form. First half: rubbish, inept, bewildering, tempted to go home. Second half: some ideas, some skill, seems good. Half an hour later: realisation that rescuing a draw at home to Oxford Utd is rubbish. Shit. Conned.
Still. A cup run, eh?
Strictly speaking, a third round replay doesn't count as a cup run, but, yeah, I'll take it.

Happy New Year!

That's it, really. Especially if you've had a tough time this year, I hope next year will be better. My only advice and resolution is that no-one should waste their money on mediocre cheese. Eat less but better. Bonne année á toutes et á tous!

Charlton 1 Sheffield Wednesday 1

The most unpopular man at the Valley yesterday was, bizarrely, not the assistant referee who failed to notice that Wednesday's goal was blatantly offside, but his colleague, the fourth official, when he indicated there would be one minute of extra time at the end of the first half. Even one more minute of that was more than most people could stand. There should be a rule where time can be reduced if the quality of play has failed to reach an acceptable level. After 30 minutes, the referee should have called a halt, forced both managers to give a public apology and promise a better display in the second half. I've never been a big drug user but if there had been a shady looking hippy near me, I'd have killed and eaten him to get the benefit of any mind-altering substances circulating in his blood.

The second half was better, in the way that Eastenders is better than Hollyoaks. A quick goal for Charlton, a quick reply for Wednesday, and a bizarre communal decision by Charlton to defend the draw rather than go for a win. I'd like to say the game petered out, but it had never really petered in.

The draw extended Charlton's unbeaten run to three games. Joyful news but no-one seemed happy except the shady looking hippy I saw at Charlton Station on the way home. He was blissful and surprisingly chewy.

Charlton 0 Ipswich 1

If I can get a grant for it, I'm going to do a PhD in Charlton studies. I'll call it Directionality and Deviance, because that sounds quite sexy, but in reality it will look at (interrogate, as we say in academia) the way in which the toss-winning team chooses which goal to attack first.

My first point of enquiry will be to establish whether everyone else feels, as does the writer, unease (existential aporia) when the game starts with Charlton attacking the north end (which I shall call premature septentrionality). It's not normal, and such deviance hits me with the transgressive force of a deep taboo being broken: like incest, cannibalism, or asking Alan Shearer to speak.

The standard approach, that of attacking the north end in the second half (orthodox meridionality), suggests that the home crowd's support is more useful (materially productive) when situated behind the other team's goal (the object of teleological desire), and thus can facilitate a secondary resurgence, or comeback in the second half .

This should apply equally to both teams, of course, and so for either team to fail to follow the orthodox meridionality is an act of violent challenge to the hegemonous ludic ideology.

As regular readers know, though, I'm a dullard when it comes to football tactics, so it's fortunate I'll never get that grant. But even I could see exactly what Ipswich's game-plan was: to start fast and furious, hope to get an early goal in front of their support, then see out the rest of the game by snuffing out any attacking threat by the home team. It worked out perfectly, only slightly delayed by Ben Alnwick's three excellent saves in the first four minutes. But then came the fifth minute and, I think, already Ipswich's fifth corner, and the goal. Go home, we might as well have gone home.

Charlton didn't recover from that five minutes' battering. Though they weren't as bad as some people have suggested, virtually everyone looked off their best. Ipswich had done the research, and knew how to stop Cameron Stewart, for example, causing any damage. He'll have learned a lot from the game, I think, as he had to keep trying something new, but wasn't able to find an answer in the 90 minutes. He'll be a better player when he goes back than he was when he arrived on loan. You owe us something, Steve Bruce.

And you, Mick McCarthy, I am aware I've called you a deviant, but I mean it in a nice way. Please don't sue me.

Charlton 2 Doncaster 0

There weren't many of them, but the Doncaster fans who made the trip to London last night must surely hate the place more than they ever did. First, of course, it was a trip they shouldn't have had to make. As we've seen again recently, there's something badly wrong with the pitch drainage at the Valley, by which I mean there doesn't appear to be any. The pitch is looking in bad condition already even after a fairly dry period and by February it is likely to resemble the famous Chelsea Beach.

Then the combined farces of Southeastern Trains and Network Rail treated the travelling fans to an exact and accurate version of the London Commuter Experience, with London Bridge station closed for a couple of hours before the game. People were still arriving at the match at half time. Actually, there probably were loads of Doncaster fans who got no further than London Bridge, but took themselves to a pub where they could moan happily about pissy southern beer and London prices.

But the few who made it then had a pretty miserable display to watch. It's hard to say if Charlton were as good as some people thought, because Doncaster didn't offer much. Ben Alnwick, making an unexpected debut in goal after an injury to Ben Hamer in the warm-up, was almost not needed, but looked fine when he was.

In total contrast to the rained-off game, Charlton were in total control for the whole match and only some sloppy finishing prevented a big lead by half-time. But the first goal was worth waiting for. This youtube clip will probably not last long, so see it while you can.



The second half was similar, and after Charlton's second goal - Church finally converting - the team put their feet up on the mantlepiece and smoked a meditative pipe.As did I.

Charlton 2 Leeds 4

I've got my hand up. I'll take the blame. Before the game I tweeted that the last three games I'd seen at the Valley had been 0-0, and I hoped that would change. Careful what you wish for, someone said.

But on the other hand, I discovered later that I was wearing my shirt inside out. That's the sort of thing that a lot of people would consider lucky. Obviously it wasn't, so I don't have to get superstitious and start wearing that shirt that way forever. Readers, if you see me with a shirt on inside out, it's just my trademark, some might say loveable, incompetence. Feel free to point it out, or simply to point and laugh.

It rained all morning. Not heavily, but persistently. It shouldn't have threatened the game, and my only concern, as I kept checking raintoday.co.uk was whether the rain would stop in time for me to cycle to the Valley. It did, and I got there in plenty of time (2:30) to find a surprisingly sparse crowd. I sat down and checked twitter and found the start had been put back to 3:30. Fortunately I had a stimulating magazine with me to read and here's a top tip from it:

Make your cheese and wine party more appealing by having no cheese or guests.

The pitch at the Valley is a problem, to state the bleedin obvious. Although the rain had stopped, the ground wasn't drying at all, and especially on the east side remained splashy throughout. It's as if there isn't any drainage, but any drying is left to evaporation. Evaporation doesn't happen at this time of year and it's hard to see how the pitch can survive if winter is as wet as autumn has been.

So, finally, I suppose I must turn my attention to the match. Must I? Really? A frustrating game where bad luck, atrocious refereeing, and a top performance by one player steal the points. Leeds are a horrible team. Remarkably, whoever's in charge and whoever's in the squad they continue to be thoroughly unlikeable: the Millwall of the North. Annoyingly, when we think of this game we'll remember the pitch and the result and the unpleasantness of the opposition, when we should be remembering one of the best goals we've seen for a while, from Cameron Stewart. You can probably find it on youtube. I can't be arsed.