Palace at Home – Shambles

Thank Christ. With my loyalty points nowhere near enough for the return, should I be interested, which after last night I’m not, that’s that for another season. Frankly we’ll have to draw them in about the semi-finals of the Cup for me to want to bother with all that again.

Something I’ve heard a couple of times on trains and in the ground, presumably from people who share a season ticket in a group, is ‘the one game I really wanted was Palace’. I can vaguely understand this. Yes, if we beat them then you want to be there, yes the atmosphere is febrile, but everything else is a massive pain in the arse. Last night that included the football.

So bad was it that it’s barely worth discussing, so I won’t for a bit, except to say that if you’re as bad going forwards as Palace are then it’s no wonder you end up cheering as a bunch of repressed Mummy’s Boy teenagers from Reigate, dressed as a cross between a Gothic polar explorer and an 8 year old who’s borrowed his brother’s hoodie, throw rook scarers and snort baking powder. This is as exciting as it gets at Palace right now. Last night we went down to their level.

All day I had the feeling I was dreading the evening, for you live on your nerves in these games. I left early and went straight to the ground, avoiding an incident that was later described to me by a friend as “Brighton fans attacking other Brighton fans that they thought were Palace fans”. I’ve no idea if this was actually true but it sums up the general idiocy that engulfed just about everyone involved last night. Arriving on the concourse I was one of the first, though beaten to it by another couple of people heavily involved in Brighton Fan media and also experienced enough to know it’s best to get there early.

Idiocy you say? Well let’s take the security, just for a minute. As kick off arrived some 150 Palace fans were locked outside, some with tickets according to our club statement, as others had taken their seats, unentitled, unsearched and unsniffed. Such a selfish act I cannot imagine and the hope is very much that those ticket holders locked out have a “little word” with those who took their places over the coming weeks. They certainly should do. This whole thing just served to prove several things that we all knew all along:

  • The game should have been a Sunday lunchtime, not an evening
  • Restricting Palace’s allocation was counter productive
  • The “special train” serves only to inconvenience Brighton fans.

The game? Oh, if I must. Talking to @TimJones15 on Twitter last nigh it was clear that the best phrase to describe the midfield action was “inexplicably gave the ball away”. We inexplicably gave the ball away. Then they did. Then we did again. To me, to you, to me, to you. Chuckle.

Duane Dibley was casting a figure as a hilariously bad panto villain, played out of position by Hodgson and accompanying the equally woeful Benteke in not doing much. Still, the one time they did get it right up front they cut us open and Ryan produced an unbelievably fantastic double save, our best moment of the evening. Where Palace did excel was in closing down the space we operated in, shutting down and crowding midfield. Knocky huffed, puffed, twisted and turned but Murray and Gross didn’t have the pace or guile to get on the end of anything. In the first half Stephens shanked a decent looking left footed second ball in to the scum and in the second Murray’s header was cleared off the line by Hennesey from our 565th corner of the half, each of the previous ones having either been adequately dealt with or kicked out before curling back in.

Sorry, this is short but it’s as much as I want to write about a night to forget. As an advert for the Premier League it was up there with those shit Pearl and Dean cinema ads for the corner shop that sold Razzle.






Stoke City at Home – The Lee Mason Show

Scene – Lee Mason’s enormous mansion. Lee is watching Homes Under The Hammer in his pants, with his iPhone conveniently by his side. Suddenly it rings.

Lee Mason: Hello?

Mystery Voice: Lee? Lee Mason?

LM: Er, y-y-y-yes, oh God, Jamie, is that you?

MV: I’ve told you never to call me that over an unsecured phone line. Now, anyway, listen and listen good.

LM: Ok, w-w-what’s up?

MV: My bosses have seriously screwed up again. Somehow the idiots have chosen to cover Brighton v Stoke, live, and to make matters worse it’s on a Monday. The audience is likely to literally be two men and a dog. It’s the equivalent of trying to sell Steve Parish face masks in down town Saltdean.

LM: That does sound a bit shit.

MV: It will be. Fortunately, I’ve used my mysteriously persuasive powers on the FA and they’ve appointed you as the ref. Now all I need is something to talk about. A nice controversy, if you get my drift. Something we can recycle over SSN in the morning too would be even better.

LM: O-o-o-or what…….?

MV: Or they get to see that tape of you in the Hartlepool game when you weren’t the centre of attention for 90 minutes, voice overed by “Big Pammy”………

LM: Consider it done…..

Usually conspiracy theories are the preserve of over-herbalised students at a post club “chill out” and orange, chin-smuggling oxygen thieves with a nuclear button at their beck and call, yet so awful was referee Mason’s performance last night that saner men then me were reaching for varieties of the above before even getting on board the hideously inadequate excuse for a “service” that Southern Rail once again served up for the paying (ok, paid in advance via their match ticket) public. Regular readers will have noted the disappearance of The Boy’s Ref Watch. Indeed, regular readers may have notice the disappearance of the blog all together (if you want to stop me writing, play on a Sunday afternoon), but the former is down to the fact that, up to now, the referees at this level have been pretty decent. Yet now, one has taken over the whole report.

It’s a shame because it’s helping to gloss over an inconvenient truth, though Andy Naylor picked up on this on Twitter too. At this level we are good, but perhaps not good enough. Home form, so crucial last season, is ostensibly ok. We’re scoring and we’re not losing. But, we’re also conceding and not winning, and as each draw goes in to the score book, the famous Amex noise levels are decreasing, just a little. It’s a sign of respect that established Premier League sides like Stoke are coming for a draw, yet it’s a sign of frustration that little errors, here and there, are giving them it.

For now we’re winning away, though against basket case teams. I wouldn’t expect this streak to continue on Saturday. But the big league comes up and hits you in many different ways. Playing Man City first and only losing 2-0 almost looks fortunate, Arsenal beat us in second gear, and on Saturday we face Pogba, Lukaku et al. But Stoke City gamed us. They knew Lee Mason was shit and exactly how to play on the edge of the laws, sneaking fouls on the blind side because the baldy porker couldn’t keep up with play. They knew just how much time to waste, just how many fouls to commit, just how many yards to steal, not even respecting the shaving foam lines at a free kick. And when we got frustrated they punished us. Stoke are an established Premier League side. They showed us that we are not.

This is now reading more like a rant than a report, yet it informs everything that went on. But here’s what happened, end to end, like you’re used to.

A filthy Monday night is not the ideal time for going to football, or indeed, doing anything much except sneaking home from work, microwaving an average ready meal and watching something slightly disappointing on Netflix. Commuters will certainly tell you that Monday night is not a time for working railways and a broken rail at Preston Park didn’t disappoint. I left four hours to get to the game from Middlesex and, at one stage at Lewes station, that didn’t seem enough.

Having finally got to the ground and finally found Steve we got a beer and decided that the game would be difficult but winnable. In the seats the rendition of Sussex By The Sea was stirring enough, but the traditional Ring of Fire Mexican scarf twirl thing was cut short by Sky. Therein Mason took centre stage, ably assisted by panto villain Ryan Shawcross.

Not just Mason and Shawcross. One player in red and white was giving a display of creative mastery and that was Shaqiri. For the Albion, unchanged, Propper had a slow start, similar to his Man City match. He was to redeem himself but he nearly played us straight in to trouble early on. At the other end Izquierido was left unfathomably free on the left and did a trademark cut in, his low shot missing the goal by inches, though he should have scored.

We were soon punished for such profligacy, Shaqiri playing an almost impossible through ball to Chupo-Motting who looked marginally offside to the naked eye. Either way Dunk lost sight of both player and ball and the finish was one I could have put away. 0-1.

And then it happened. Murray was released and wriggled ahead of Shawcross in the box, in a race that looked more dad’s race at Sports Day than Usain Bolt. Nevertheless, Shawcross had no chance of catching Murray and blatantly tripped him as he drew back to pull the trigger. A stone-wall, all-day-long penalty. Everyone in the ground could see it except Mason, who’d been too slow to keep up with play, and his assistant who had a perfect view and had, presumably, received a similar pre-match mystery phone call. Shawcross later admitted it was a penalty.

The Amex erupted, and not in a good way. Everything else that happened from then on was informed by that decision. Not only did we not get a penalty, had it been given it was a borderline red card. Now Mason missed an obvious hand ball by them and let Murray off an assault with just a yellow. As the swear words descended from the West Upper only one man was calm, and that was the afore-mentioned Propper. Picking up the ball in midfield he did one of those dribbles you see kids at school doing where they always lose it, only he didn’t. Instead he hoofed it in to space out wide and Stoke stood still. His whipped in low ball was put through the keeper’s legs by Pascal Groß. 1-1. The Amex erupted in a good way.

We should have gone in with that at half time and just needed to survive a corner. To be fair, usually watching corners I’m not too worried, but here I was thinking “don’t mess it up”, something Steve said out loud. Maybe this got in to the heads of our defence because, instead of doing a normal professional job we panicked, screwed up and handed Zouma a gift of a goal. The choreographed celebration went on for a full ten minutes, Lee Mason playing the part of “bemused interloper” at various points, and we went in 1-2 down.

The second half was better entertainment than the first, though just as hopelessly refereed. Stoke fell back on their lead and we began to dominate the ball, though with an approach play that was too slow. It was going to take a mistake by them to equalise and, fortunately we got it. Izquierdo was released by Murray and crossed from an impossibly tight angle. Luckily the ball rebounded off the defence and, with the route to goal cleared, he stuck his second effort in first time.

There was still time for March to come on and act the nuisance, though he did give a free kick away for waving, but at the end 2-2 was a fair result. The Albion need to start turning these home draws in to home wins. We may think we’re “professional” at this level but teams like Stoke have got years on us.