Bland Stoker: The Pre-Match Hustle

Evening.

Maul Britannia. I was at the reverse fixture of this. I remarked at the time that the most memorable thing about the encounter was the bloke relieving himself in the sink of the South Stand toilets at full-time. Cocking his leg like a spaniel, he hardly seemed to notice the stockpile of people cramming in behind him, cueing for the usual facilities. It was a traumatic day; I was in no mood to question his methods.

Footballing wise, the game took a similar route toward the gutter. Plenty of first half dominance, without- as was the trend back then- a goal for our efforts. Crouch missed a couple, Krank pinged one off the post and Bassong- who I had down as the first scorer at a cheeky 25-1- shinned one wide. As tension bottle-necked inside the ground, it was with travelling fans that it finally spewed over. A late Whelan winner and the first of several unlikely blunders against lower league chancers. I missed a wedding for that game. At the very least, those bastards owe me some stale finger food or a troop of drunk, giggly bridesmaids.

Three points would be fine, too.

And what of Stoke? As SSG said on here yesterday, we’re at the stage now where a few cunning slights of hand wouldn’t go a miss against this brand of opposition. Times are hard. Whether actual shin kicking is in the spirit of things, I’m not yet convinced, but something at least to keep Rory Delap out of the headlines. Unsettle him with mind games, stick Crouch in front of him, whatever. Just keep his, frankly, weird talents under wraps. If they score as result of him at the weekend, I’ll unplug this computer and hurl out the window.

They’re not a one man team, of course. On their own patch they’re veritably militant. Well-drilled, disciplined and more than capable of stringing a few passes together if the mood takes them. Having said that, I’m not sure we should let this prescribe our approach. They’re a physical team, no doubt, but to go toe-to-toe with them on that front, would be playing into their gruff northern hands. How much they’d allow us to do so, I’m not sure- but our best bet is probably the quick, punchy, one-touch stuff that has worked for most of the campaign. Engage in any gritty, trench warfare tactics, and we might find our boots get stuck in the mire. Persist with what we know, I reckon. Dazzle them before dispensing with a timely sucker punch. Right in the chops.

The first of nine crucial League games, then. We all know what’s required. Maximum points in whatever shape or form they may fall to us.

I’m sensing an unbearably tense 1-0 win. Bale, perhaps, to thwack home a free-kick in the second half and thus be crowned King of the Universe.

Hot dog.