A Man Without A Team: Boxing Day Boredom

Nothing is open. Not even Aldi. OK, Morrisons is open. (And it doesn't have an apostrophe, cos I just checked).

A football fan with a team would at this point be salivating over the following things:

* the prospect of a local derby, traditionally the Boxing Day/New Year's Day match-up. Unless you're in the Welsh Prem, in which case your 'local derby' is likely to be a village about 800 miles away or thereabouts, with no public transport and whose pubs are scared to open in case... well. In case they sell lots of beer. Which they always did when Bangor City visited. And the next year they bloody well made sure they did open and put on food. Because the City fans were always, always in good voice and good humour.

* the opportunity to get out of the house, and away from Chrimbo food/games/telly/moidering. Not that these things aren't bloody ace, of course. But it is a chance to compare tales of bad jumpers, coooked-to-a-soup sprouts and turkey that has been in the oven so long it's drier than an Oscar Wilde quip delivered by Will Self who has also recently remembered that all life is entirely pointless on a cosmic scale, and that even as a world-class, world-famous author, his work will also be dust in hundreds of years. Indeed, The Book Of Dave is in part a meditation on this very thing isn't it? Also, I just realised that Will Self looks like my mate Max, who is a top bloke and very happy usually. You probably don't know Max. You should. He's a good lad.

* Moidering with peers. And shouting at referees, half-hearted faux-hatred laced with lovely Christmas pudding puns and the like. I couldn't be arsed finding any, so here's some for kids instead. My favourite was when Bicko, fully-committed to a hugely red-faced howl of anger at the ref, stampeded from the back of the Farrar End to the front and shouted FUCK OFF YOU... TWIT, having lost his thread halfway through and run out of steam somewhat.
(EDIT: Bicko remembers it being the St. Paul's End... but the point still stands).

But I'm not gonna do any of these things today, cause I'm A Man Without A Team aren't I. Cause, let's remind ourselves, the side that finished second in the Welsh Prem last year and should have been in Europe and the Irn Bru Cup, was relegated for these reasons.

I spose that after the relegation, we're awash with local derbies though.

The City team plays Porthmadog today. I've always liked them lot. It's a great awayday, just far enough to get a bit merry and not too far to come home to get... well. Maybe merry, like when we won the league under Nigel Adkins for the first time. It was ace. I seem to remember getting a lift there and back with Sion Sebon, whose ace band were ace.

Port are a good example of a good local club. Nice enough people. Decent little ground, with a shit as fuck mudbath pitch. Bilingual all the way if not Welsh first language. And that is mighty fine say I. Port have quite a few ex Citizens in their ranks including the brilliant Sion Edwards, a Bangor lad who ought to have made it as a pro with Wrexham but was unlucky to be released. Ten years down the line, he's a legend.

But it's not really ringing true, this. It's not right. Sion - and Shaun Cavanagh, for that matter - ought to be in Bangor blue. And Bangor ought to not be in the Cymru Alliance. Cause: the side that finished second in the Welsh Prem last year and should have been in Europe and the Irn Bru Cup, was relegated for these reasons.

And enough of that. But an update, too.

What we've had recently has been a litany of fucking bullshit, to whit:

* There was a claimed 'change of ownership imminent'. Oh, right. Yeah. Except, not according to Companies House, so far anyway.

* the groundsman who has put 20 years' service in and been praised on the awesome quality of his pitches has, according to rumours anyway, not been paid for several months. Other rumours say he's taking legal action. What's not in question is that since he's been away from the club - for whatever reason - the pitch has become awful. Out of the hands of an expert into the hands of amateurs, who know maybe how to drive a big grass cutting machine. But nothing about drainage, remedial pitch work, keeping the pitch as good as possible in the worst of weather etc. There is no reason the groundsman has not been paid. Or, let's see, we haven't been given one anyway.

* This man has become the new commercial manager. I couldn't link to the Bangor City website, because the pitchero subscription has been allowed to run out. Again. (It might work when you click it. If it's been paid). This man didn't last long in the job. It's almost like there's no goodwill amongst local businesses anymore. I wonder why? How puzzling.

These are not the things I want to be thinking about on Boxing Day. The residual muck and shite on the shoes of a couple of terrible years.

I'm off to slump in front of the telly, drinking dregs of wine leftovers and chomping my way through whatever crap's left over from yesterday. It's all I've got left.

Maybe they'll go bust in 2019 eh.

Peace and love of the season to most men. But not all. There are some who can fuck right off.

PS: Kudos to Caernarfon Town FC. Today they're doing a collection before the game for a local family whose house was burgled before Chrimbo. The Cofis are above Bangor City in the league structure for the first time ever - and morally, about a galaxy above. Selah.

Here is an idea for a magazine that I had and it wouldn't leave me alone when I was asleep so I had to make it so well don't blame me ok it was my stupid brain

AMWAT: Intrigue, or not as the case may be

Rumours swirl about 'a change in ownership', which might be something of a smokescreen. Two directors are 'stepping down' - now whether that means the current regime are going to finally fuck off or not is debatable.

Rumours also have it that it's gonna just be another cardboard puppet company instead, with the current regime still behind it. But then, rumours are rumours aren't they. Here's a nice musical interlude that seems apposite at this point:







We'll see.

Gary Taylor-Fletcher came back as boss last week. GTF is a bloody awesome chap and one of the greatest players ever to have worn a Bangor shirt (yes, really: just pure class even though he can't really run anywhere anymore). But the fact he had to go and come back again is still testament to the fact that the club was relegated for being financially moronic at best.

Shall we look at the statement from the old auditors again? Oh yes, let's.

One of the minions involved with the club is a mouthy bankrupt with a predilection for the confrontational. Another is responsible for bringing this regime in, according to rumours anyway, so is ultimately culpable.

And the long-term groundsman, whose work over two and a half decades has been incredible, has not been paid for months. The reasons why? Nobody knows.

So, ultimately the question remains: if someone new, I mean, properly new, is going to sweep away this last couple of weird years and rid the club of all the gonks and shiftytits, then what are they going to actually buy? The current owners have no assets - maybe player contracts - and have just put in loans. Those loans haven't been converted into shares. So the club is in debt, although who authorised those loans is also somewhat in debate isn't it?

Seems to me that administration is being chased. And if that happens, there's not much stopping the current regime (or associated parties) making a derisory offer for the ruins, and by doing so snipping the actual main shareholders, the BCFCSA, out of the picture entirely.

So we wait, and we worry, and we know that this race has far left to run.

Let's just listen to some brilliant music for a bit instead. Oh, what should we put on? Hmm...

Yn y fynwent gwerin

Welais i’r meddyliau orau fy nghenhedlaeth yn disgyn i wallgofrwydd

Allach chi checio i mewn, ond byth yn adael

Felly cadwch dy phen, a cadwch dy arian

A geisiwch dderbynwch eich tynged

Fyddwn ni gyd yn mynd yna yn y ddiwedd:

Y Fynwent Gwerin

Ie wir.

Pum ar hugain mlynedd ar ol, clywais i sgwrs efo dwy o fy ffrindiau orau

Dal yn gredu mewn newid y byd

Drwy cerdd a drwy creu pethau newydd a rhydd

Ond un wedi boddi ei hun drwy feddwi

Ac yr llall wedi’i gladdu

Yn y fynwent gwerin

Dios mio.

Wel, mae’n amlwg does na dim atebion i fywyd. Dim atebion siml beth bynnag.

Dwi’n rasio lawr i’r un oed a’r sengl vinyl rwan

Ac rwan, os na pwynt o gwbl mewn gario mlaen

Hyd yn oed trio ddeall sut dwi dal yma?

Dwi wedi cael ddigon o’r ddrama

Yr fynwent gwerin

Grandewch.

O’r ddiwedd fe gafon ni anturiaeth peldroed. Ond ar ol hynny?

Pawb yn rhedeg i'r doctor, nid Dwygyfylchi neu Baris

Rwan dan ni gyd yn siarad am iechyd meddwl

Mae pawb yn cymryd Sertraline a SSRDs mond i deffro

Ac yn cario mlaen o dydd i dydd heb syrthio mewn

I’r mynwent gwerin

Aye. Aye.

Welais i’r meddyliau orau fy nghenhedlaeth yn disgyn i wallgofrwydd

Ond sylwais i heddiw: dim bai nhw di o.

Dim bai’r pobl yn trio cadw to dros eu ben

Dim bai’r pobl yn gweithio drwy’r stress ac austerity.

Na. Duw. Llywodraeth sydd ar bai, ie, yr un, un stori

Yn y mynwent gwerin

Ond mae’n waeth na hynny:

Yr tric orau chwaraeodd y ddiawl oedd troi brawd yn erbyn brawd

Yn y ddiwedd, ni i gyd sydd efo’r bai

Roedd ganddyn ni llawer o siawns i meddwl

Pwy yw’r pobl sydd wirioneddol yn cadw ni lawr

Yr lladron, y lladdwyr, ie: Dan ni wedi rhoi ein hunain

Yn y fynwent gwerin.