Who is this? http://loftusroadcontemplations.blogspot.co.uk/2015/02/qpr-v-southampton.html QPR V Southampton. (Sat 7th February 2015) by Clyde Effingham I don't know if it was the mild weather or the fact that I had just received £20 of Tesco vouchers in the morning mail, but I was feeling decidedly optimistic as I made my way along South Africa Road yesterday afternoon clutching the little bag that contained my half-time snack of two Marmite sandwiches and a dairy Lee triangle. I was transported back in time to the seventies when, on Saturday afternoons, I would make the exact same walk with a similar bag of half-time treats and clutching a little leather-clad tranny. Sadly those days are gone. I haven't seen that tranny for years. The last time I did he was appearing in a George Michael video - still leather-clad. I sensed the same feeling of optimism around the ground that one feels at every ground when a manager of a poorly performing team has just departed. Surely we must be in for a win. It seems that every underachieving club wins their first match under the watch of a caretaker manager. Today would be the start of the way back. The start of a run that would change our season and see us maintain our Premiership status. It has never been my custom to reach my seat too early as I am of larger build and find that the less time I spend sitting on Loftus Road seating the more feeling I retain in my legs which makes the journey home more of a walk and less of a stagger. I like to stand backstage, as it were, sipping at cup of sweet coffee mulling over my programme. In my pocket I discovered, to my delight, a single custard cream, left over from a pack of three I had purchased at lunchtime. It was still in its cellophane packaging with no bits of fluff stuck to it. Things were looking up. Was this an omen? Team news was strange. No Chileans starting on a chilly day. Four centre backs and no full backs. The Tubby One, looking slightly less tubby, in the hole behind Charlie Austin. It always made my uncle Quentin laugh to think of a player being “in the hole” behind a centre forward. It probably has something to do with his repressed homosexual tendencies. No Hoillett – not even on the bench. Can’t be injured, can he? In front of me is a small group that includes a small boy who, as I notice as the match gets under way, will spend more time texting on his phone that watching the spectacle on the pitch. I should not have been surprised at his disinterest as he had the words “Wright Phillips” carefully printed on the back of his club shirt. It did not seem to bother him that he missed the whole of the first forty-five minutes. However, the first half was so dire that I wondered if I had not been remiss in not slipping one of my Ian Allen train books into my pocket for a little entertainment. Half time, 0 - 0. The only real opportunity had been a strike against the crossbar by Fonte from a corner kick. Not much from the Rs, as per. I had looked down at the bench a couple of times to see if all the furore in the week had only been a dream and Harry was still sitting there directing operations from behind a pair of distorted knees, sending coded messages to the players through a series of winks and nods. I slipped out of my seat at half time to recharge my coffee cup in the hope that the additional caffeine would allow me to stay awake for the whole of the second half. As I wandered past the lines for the urine depository I heard the same phrases over and over. “All to play for”, “We need to take the game to them in the second half” and “Passing is still ****”. The optimism hadn’t all disappeared. At 0 – 0 anything might happen. It took my coffee back to my seat and managed to eat my marmite sandwiches without any problems. I had more trouble trying to open my little Dairy Lee triangle. As QPR fans will know it is hard to open such a thing without fingernails - handy tools that had been gradually chewed away to nothing over the previous few seasons. The little lad in the group in front was very cheesed off. His phone had lost its charge and he would be compelled to watch the second half listening to his father (I presume) screaming torrents of four letter abuse at the players. We actually played better in the second half. I don’t know what Chris Ramsay had said to the players – probably something along the lines of “Do you really want the embarrassment of being dropped for SWP or Rio?” That would work. There were times when I thought that we might actually score a goal. I was getting desperate and wanted an excuse to jump up and stretch my aching legs and knees. I’m sure that Harry had experienced the same feeling many times over the season. Even the addition of Zarate, Isla and Vargas didn't seem to make any difference. A mediocre shot from Barton that was flipped up by Austin brought out a save from Forster who managed to stick his arm straight up in the air and deflect the ball over the crossbar. The defence needs some pace injecting into it. Maybe a real injection straight into the arse before the game starts might help. They actually can defend quite well, but their lack of speed can catch them out. The only one who possesses a modicum of pace is Caulker and he uses this to great effect, sometimes. going forward. But there is a time and a place for such things and it would be his last excursion would ultimately cost us the match. Seeing Dunney go off was confusing. I did not know if he was injured or not as he seemed to be moving just as fast as when he was playing. The last few minutes of a match are always "squeaky bum time" at the Rs these days.(Another one for Uncle Quentin to smirk at there.) When Caulker went upfield he looked majestic and then for some reason he forgot how to pass the ball. The whole ground knew what was coming. How many points have we now lost to defensive errors late on? Every time it happens I can hear the voice of the living ghost that is Bruce Forsyth howling "What do points make? ....Prizes." Premiership survival is the prize we are looking for and another round of enormous piles of TV cash to pay second rate players stupid money. Dejected - yet again - I exit the ground. Gone is the optimism, gone is the feeling in my legs and gone is all hope. Yet there is one consolation and that is I can sit down over the next few days and write a piece on how the club should be run and how the team should be set up and why I could do so much better than any manager in the country except Paul Clement - but he doesn't count as he is not in this country and isn't a manager. I sit on a low wall to rest my weary body and watch supporters stream past with faces longer than Sarah Jessica Parker. I spot the kid with the phone get a smack round the ear for asking his father what the final score was. I am thinking that I should really report such abuse to the authorities but them I remember the name on the back of his shirt and change my mind. Might actually do him some good. If only I had saved one of my Marmite sandwiches. I finally reach home. Gone are the days when I could kick the cat. My legs can't seem to conjure up enough force now and the cat knows it. He sits on the window sill looking at me with a look of contempt on his face. I am sure that if he could speak he would ask "Why do you bother going?" I go because I am an R - something that is becoming known in hospitals around the capital as a serious medical condition. I had written a piece about the demise of Harry Redknapp, full of scathing lines of poetic prose but have decided to keep it for a few months and use it for the next manager. All I need to do is copy and paste over the word Harry. Probably won't have to change any other words. Clyde Effingham
What I liked about this was that as well as posting the link you also included the actual content WSQPR. For souls like me who inhabit parts of the world where signal 'strength' is a major issue it's great not to have to wait interminably while the link fails to load.
Very good. Strange that he hasn't noticed that Ned is by far our quickest defender, not Caulker. But nonetheless, very amusing.
a good read, are we barnestoneworth united? start at 0.50 - reference to our away record at 1.45. give up at 4mins
That was superb. ''all the furore in the week had only been a dream and Harry was still sitting there directing operations from behind a pair of distorted knees, sending coded messages to the players through a series of winks and nods.'' made me spit my medium sherry out.
More Alan Bennett than Clive Wittingham - but very good anyway: 'In my pocket I discovered, to my delight, a single custard cream, left over from a pack of three I had purchased at lunchtime. It was still in its cellophane packaging with no bits of fluff stuck to it. Things were looking up'
