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The season ends at a canter as the Tigers slip into the Championship with a goalless draw against star studded Liverpool. Report by Ian Thomson. |
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Ach, it's been a gey dreich season. It started with so much promise, after last season had delivered an ending that far surpassed the pre-season expectations of most onlookers. However, sold short by a pernicious blend of overpaid, underskilled playboy primadonnas whose attitude stank to high heaven and jaw-dropping, near criminal incompetence behind the scenes, the team and club staggered unstoppably from one calamity to another, culminating in an ignominious finale which left it facing not only the ridicule of allcomers but also, and more worryingly, an uncertain future, with eye-watering debts and goodness what sort of shady characters lining up to seize ownership of the club and then strip it to its bare bones. But that's enough about Liverpool. We've got too much on our own plate to start feeling sorry for them. It was however intriguing, as we filed away from the last Premier League game to be staged at the Circle for goodness knows how long, to reflect on one of the quirks that the Premier League, with its manifold leagues within a League, has spawned, namely that finishing seventh, depending on who you are, can actually be immeasurably worse and more embarrassing than finishing nineteenth. Make no mistake, Liverpool were also relegated yesterday, and it might well prove less problematical for us to regain the status we have just lost than it will for them. An odd creature, the Premier League. Odder than any of us realised until we actually became part of it. Certainly much more unequal, in almost every conceivable way, from money via media treatment to general enforcement and observance of the laws of the game, than any of us really understood, unless for some reason you have converted from being a Wigan or Bolton fan to the Tiger cause in the last couple of years. A lot of discussion has taken place on this list, since about the time of the Burnley game, on whether our return to the Championship is a bad thing in every conceivable respect, and I don't propose to rake all of that up again, save to say that a lot has been learned from which we can benefit over the next couple of years if the Club continues to be run properly on and off the field (more of which later). And that our away form had sodding well better be a whole lot better next term. But the adventure is over now, for the time being at least, and it was most disappointing that we never really made a proper fist of fighting tooth and nail to stay up, our demise being a nailed-on certainty for the last four weeks as a consequence. It also makes for a somewhat downbeat final TigerChat match report for the season, which is rather disappointing after the exciting climaxes, one way or the other, to recent campaigns. Needs must, however, and so here goes. The day was fine and warm, and we lined up thus:- Duke Thankfully, albeit surprisingly, we were spared the inanities of "The Great Escape", and even "Can't Help Falling in Love" was curtailed by the premature blowing of referee Marriner's whistle to start the contest. Not there was much contesting going on in the early stages, either on the field or off it. Those cheeky, song-in-their-hearts, smile-on-their-lips Scouse (oh, all right then, Hertfordshire) chappies scaled the heights of originality with"Premier League, you're having a laugh", but when the East Stand responded with "Champions League, you're having a laugh" they went into a bit of a sulk. Can't imagine why. On the field, Kilbane curled in a deep cross which just evaded the head of the unmarked Atkinson, then Gerrard started and finished a move for them which came to nought. Shortly after this we suffer but survive our first real scare, from the unlikely source of young Cairney, who intercepts a cross from the right only to see the leather loop goalwards over the stranded Duke but hit the back stanchion, to the delight of the away fans at the far end who thought it had gone in, arf arf! Very little happened for the next quarter of an hour: it really was sedate stuff, enlivened only by the Tiger Nation's berating of Gerrard in the light of recent reports of his alleged impregnation of a 16-year old, although even more intriguing was the story that my neighbour, Tiger Chat match reporter James Lockwood, then mentioned, which I hadn't heard, that Mrs Gerrard was being serviced by (of all people) Kris Commons of Derby County. Whatever next? Victoria Beckham at it with Simon Trevitt? Christine Bleakley dumping Lampard for John Fieldhouse? The mind boggles.... But by the shots, out on the field formless wasn't the word for it. There was a minor kerfuffle of sorts on 18, when Duke tipped an El Zhar effort over the bar, City spurned about 6,437 chances to clear the resulting corner, and Kuyt evetually got an effort in which sailed over Duke, only for Boateng to head it off the line. A further seven minutes of torpor, and then...what's this ? A mirage? No, a City move! Atkinson wins the ball in midfield, three or four crisp, incisive passes, and Kilbane seeks to pick out Atkinson with a cross but lofts it just too high. Good to see the way we - well, to be precise, our youngsters - are actually getting into positions, though, even though the oppo's defence are handicapped with a lummox like Carragher and can't be that arsed anyway, and our finishing is as shite as ever. As if to confirm this, Vennegoor of Hesselink plops a tame header into the hands of the grateful Reina after a Daws free-kick had been flicked his way, and then on 35 a Cairney effiort gets stuck between the legs of Cullen and rolls harmlessly into the keeper's gloves again. A minute on, though, and we come agonisingly close to taking the lead when Cullen rises unmarked to head an Atkinson cross inches wide from seven or eight yards out. Maybe he should have scored, but in this only his second PL start he did very well to get into the right position. He'll bag a few next season doing that. Right on half time, and we ought to have gone behind. Again we don't close down and give them too much space around the box, Aquilani picks his spot but inexplicably chooses the City crossbar, and the rebound falls to Agger who can't miss. Except that he does. Badly. And hilariously. So, onto our final 45 minutes of Premier League football for the foreseeable future, and I write nothing down for the first five minutes because, to be honest, my meat and potato pie is more interesting. But on 51 we go very close again, when Mendy, sporting a black armband, incidentally (anyone know why?) picks up a loose ball and whips on a cross which V of H flicks on and the leather just evades the stretching Cullen at the far post, who would only have needed the slightest touch. This seems to rouse the hitherto subdued multitudes, and suddenly the Circle starts to buzz as a succession of rousing choruses echo around the famous nearly new stadium and an impromptu conga forms at the front of the East. It's all City at this spell, and we're actualy showing a bit of confidence. Why else would Mendy opt to shoot from nearly 40 yards out with Reina only just managing to push it over the angle for a corner? We're actually looking quite tidy now when we have the ball, but lapses in concentration start to creep in when we don't, and our visitors begin at times to skip through our midfield seemingly at will. On 59, as if to remind us that we are still in the Premier League, we witness one of the last instances of big-team refereeing bias that we'll experience for a bit, as Atkinson goes into the book for a mistimed challenge no more malicious than many which had preceded it from both sides. Geo comes on for what may well be his City swansong, and soon has an oppotunity when a free kick is awarded to the Tigers after a handball on the edge of the box, but any hopes of a rediscovery of his free-kick excellence from the start of last season are dashed as this one thuds harmlessly into the wall. Just to confirm our prowess at wasting free kicks, we win another one in a dangerous position a minute later, but instead of letting Dawson just have a go Cairney finds it necessary to do some pointless little flick-on, and the free-kick is pulled wide of the near post. We're into the last ten minutes of this grisly season now, but the pace actually seems to step up in apparent defiance of the relevance of the fixture or the result. On 85 Reina punches out a fierce Cairney effort, and four minutes later Gerrard fires just wide of the left-hand post but Duke appeared to have it covered. Back up to the other end, and Geo breaks and feeds Cullen, whose powerful rising drive flies inches over. The fourth official signifes three minutes of Premier League time left for City. More than enough time for Gerrard to meander unchallenged down the middle of the field at a dignified trot and fire a low shot which cannons off the outside of Duke's post, no doubt eliciting cries of "Ar-ey!" from behind the goal. On this occasion the City netminder did look beaten, but hey-ho, we've avoided conceding in injury time. Just as "Can't help falling in love" was curtailed at the start, so the inevitable Liverpool rendition of "You'll Never Walk Alone" was cut short by the final whistle. It's a little known fact this, but the singing of "YNWA" was introduced as a crime prevention measure by the Liverpool police in the 1960s, the theory being that if an individual is using both hands to hold a scarf aloft he can't pick your pocket: that's also why it was introduced at Celtic a few years later. And so the curtain falls on another season. With a bit of steadier finishing and a smidgeon of luck we might have drawn blood from the Reds for the first time ever, but the visitors had their chances too and, in an encounter that was often three-quarters paced but not without a smattering of incident, a draw was probably about right. But just to put the tin lid on the season and keep our feet on the ground, the scoreboard announces that Burnley have beaten the Spurs 4-2 and so we finish next to bottom and £800K lighter, The usual deluge of scrotes pours onto the pitch, many surround Gerrard in hero-worship, cementing the belief, widely held further afield, that City fans are a bunch of star-struck hicks, and for the thinking Tiger a sense of relief prevails that this wretched campaign is out of the way and we can start thinking about the next, which it is to be hoped won't be a year of constant struggle. Some of the more eagle-eyed among you have spotted the change in the job descriptions of the men at the top of the Tiger tree. This change actually took place about a week ago, and it's somewhat surprising that it has stayed out of the public domain for that long, even though the Club will have wanted it under wraps until yesterday. What the motives behind this are, or where it will lead, we can only speculate, but one thing for sure is that without the presence at the Club in some capacity of Pearson - one of the most able football adminstrators in the business, light years ahead of the likes of Karren "I'm, like, soooooo not a bimbo" Brady and Foxy Jez Moxey - the task of turning the Club round would prove a much more uncertain and difficult process. On the managerial front, can anyone really say that Dowie has earned the right to the hot seat full time? I was prepared to tolerate his appointment on the grounds that he would instil fire into bellies, and yet the most palpably disappointing aspect of his tenure has been the very absence of the sort of passion that might well have saved us. For that reason alone he is not the right choice for us. Anyway, it's going to be an interesting close season. Enjoy the summer Tig-Chatters, and here's hoping that Ghana storm to glory in the World Cup. I'm off on a three-month crash diet now to make room for the parmo when we visit Middlesbrough. |
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HULL CITY (4-4-2): Duke; Mendy, Gardner, Mouyokolo, Dawson; Atkinson, Cairney, Boateng, Kilbane; Cullen, Vennegoor of Hesselink. Subs: Geovanni (for Kilbane, 76), Fagan (for Vennegoor of Hesselink, 84), Barmby, McShane, Cooper, Olofinjana, Myhill. Goals: None Booked: Atkinson Sent Off: None
LIVERPOOL: Reina, Kyrgiakos, Carragher, Agger, Gerrard, Aquilani, Babel, Mascherano, El Zhar, Lucs, Kuyt. Subs: Ngog (for El Zhar, 63), Pacheco (for Aquilani, 74), Robinson (for Babel, 88), Degen, Skrtel, Cavilieri, Ayala. Goals: None Booked: None Sent Off: None
REFEREE: A Marriner ATTENDANCE: 25,030 |
Last revised: May 15, 2010