Really pleased to win these ugly games, first time in many years I feel good about the team. It's despite RD and KM though, not thanks to them. Roland out, COYR
Great win in absolutely dire boring game. Last couple of games have shown we can dig in deep and grind results out which is exactly what we need to get out of this league. Very concerning how poor big Josh has been the last 4-5 games. Hopefully Best can come in and help out till Jan.
Awful game - Wimbledon looked twice the size of our players. Their football was industrial and defensively they were well organised but they were shocking to watch.
I think their keeper should have kept out the free kick and as a game their was little to recommend it. Technically our players looked miles ahead but we rarely looked dangerous and too often we were passing back to the keeper.
Amos: shaky like the start of the season Solly: decent throughout Bauer: see Solly Konsa: defensively ok but passing & distribution dodgy DaSilva: head & shoulders above everybody Kashi: indispensable defensively best passer in the squad New Contract imperative Fosu-Henry: another who reverted to his August form never found a pass and repeatedly switched off Forster-Caskey: quietly effective apart from dead balls which stank Clarke: most effective attacker despite mostly playing out of position Architect of the period of pressure which eventually brought goal Gobby gave him the hook anyway Bizarre Holmes: effort energy and miscommunication with colleagues Magennis: tireless despite zero service this guy warrants a big new contract too
Gobby: game won despite his utter fucktard dogma sticking to his singular plan A. All 3 attacking mids out of their best positions Clarke has hot spell in the middle dons look suddenly vulnerable so the FSG takes him off and puts lefty Marshall on the right. Ricky “earned” the fk and got the lush scouse muppet out of jail This prick has learned not one thing about his squad in 3 months watching games but still he is but a minor problem for the club as a whole
To be honest you really don't seem to be a nice bloke. Or, you have a really weird sense of humour.
Awful game - Wimbledon looked twice the size of our players
Pleased we won.
I kept thinking they looked like a bunch of Sunday league team players that were carrying a bit too much weight. It was like they are trying to recreate the crazy gang ‘misfits’ look but forgetting that team was actually an exceptional bunch of players on the whole. Doubly disappointing for me yesterday because not only did I want to see us turn them over big time it dawned on me that they are relegation fodder and when they come back to Wimbledon and plough lane I’ll probably catch some of their games when charlton are not playing and those games could end up being southern league.
Awful game - Wimbledon looked twice the size of our players
Pleased we won.
I kept thinking they looked like a bunch of Sunday league team players that were carrying a bit too much weight. It was like they are trying to recreate the crazy gang ‘misfits’ look but forgetting that team was actually an exceptional bunch of players on the whole. Doubly disappointing for me yesterday because not only did I want to see us turn them over big time it dawned on me that they are relegation fodder and when they come back to Wimbledon and plough lane I’ll probably catch some of their games when charlton are not playing and those games could end up being southern league.
Plough Lane's only a mile and a half from me, but I'd be disappointed if we're playing them next year.
Don't be fooled by the result. I write this to our good Lifers in California, Australia, Thailand, and many others elsewhere across the globe, not there at The Valley.
We were appalling yesterday – utterly appalling. We pass sideways like terrified crabs, then back to Amos – who shanks the ball in to Row Z. Good teams come out fighting at kick-off, adrenalin pumping, battering the opposition, accurate and visceral, slicing the jugular of the enemy.
We, however, make tentative moves. After you, Claude – who is stunned by the very presence of the ball – and pussy-foots a pass somewhere vague. Sideways and backwards. At half-time, we in the Covered End looked at each other with disbelief. In the whole 45 minutes we had fashioned one single shot at goal – Fosu, stumbled and wide.
A fat guy waddles on the pitch and SHOUTS at the Covered End as if we are recalcitrant children. A poor bloke from Bexleyheath steps up for The Crossbar Challenge. He hoofs it miles over the bar. This is patronising and demeaning. The fat guy opens an envelope, gives him two tickets for the next game, shouts again, and waddles off, bird in heels wielding a clipboard.
We want the opera singer, diva in in black gown and pearls, serenading us in the Covered End, the promotion party in 2012. The game when Yann Kermorgant, ball over shoulder, hammered a volley, obliquely, to send us to delirium.
Robinson will give them a rocket. We will come out fighting.
Yet, the second half yesterday was even worse.
It was utterly, hopelessly, pedestrian. Our misplaced passes, casual and unthinking. Hospital passes from here to there. When Konsa has the ball, approaching the halfway-line, we all know he will lose possession.
Bauer was superb, nodding balls three yards from danger to easy space for our men to collect and advance. He didn't hoof to Row Z or clatter his opponent. Bauer rose above them all, literally and metaphorically. Those three yards are crucial: the ball is here: you are free, the space is gloriously vacant – do something with it.
Yet – our midfield players have no spatial awareness or technical skills: they are stilted men. And no muscle, either. We were pushed off the ball by Wimbledon. They nudged Forster-Caskey, brushed him aside, walked past Clarke. By-passed Kashi. Our midfield is vapid.
Here is a vignette: ball flies left to right: Solly controls in acres of space, looks up for a willing runner – and two defenders ambush him, seize possession. Solly was looking for a striker who is isn't there. In that fraction of a second, we are on the back foot, skinned.
Holmes burst the net: it was ecstatic. Yet – three minutes later he had a similar free-kick, on the edge of the box. Stadium falls silent, all pregnant with anticipation. Poplars wave beyond the stand. Clouds shift, planes cross. London breathes in and out.
Holmes steps up – and hammers it against the wall. From which Wimbledon scampered away, by-passing our puffing midfield, and skimmed the bar. My neighbour in the Covered End put his head in his hands: “What the fuck are we doing?”
Don't be fooled by the result. I write this to our good Lifers in California, Australia, Thailand, and many others elsewhere across the globe, not there at The Valley.
We were appalling yesterday – utterly appalling. We pass sideways like terrified crabs, then back to Amos – who shanks the ball in to Row Z. Good teams come out fighting at kick-off, adrenalin pumping, battering the opposition, accurate and visceral, slicing the jugular of the enemy.
We, however, make tentative moves. After you, Claude – who is stunned by the very presence of the ball – and pussy-foots a pass somewhere vague. Sideways and backwards. At half-time, we in the Covered End looked at each other with disbelief. In the whole 45 minutes we had fashioned one single shot at goal – Fosu, stumbled and wide.
A fat guy waddles on the pitch and SHOUTS at the Covered End as if we are recalcitrant children. A poor bloke from Bexleyheath steps up for The Crossbar Challenge. He hoofs it miles over the bar. This is patronising and demeaning. The fat guy opens an envelope, gives him two tickets for the next game, shouts again, and waddles off, bird in heels wielding a clipboard.
We want the opera singer, diva in in black gown and pearls, serenading us in the Covered End, the promotion party in 2012. The game when Yann Kermorgant, ball over shoulder, hammered a volley, obliquely, to send us to delirium.
Robinson will give them a rocket. We will come out fighting.
Yet, the second half yesterday was even worse.
It was utterly, hopelessly, pedestrian. Our misplaced passes, casual and unthinking. Hospital passes from here to there. When Konsa has the ball, approaching the halfway-line, we all know he will lose possession.
Bauer was superb, nodding balls seven yards from danger to easy space for our men to collect and advance. He didn't hoof to Row Z or clatter his opponent. Bauer rose above them all, literally and metaphorically. Those seven yards are crucial: the ball is here: you are free, the space is gloriously vacant – do something with it.
Yet – our midfield players have no spatial awareness or technical skills: they are stilted men. And no muscle, either. We were pushed off the ball by Wimbledon. They nudged Forster-Caskey, brushed him aside, walked past Clarke. By-passed Kashi. Our midfield is vapid.
Here is a vignette: ball flies left to right: Solly controls in acres of spaces, looks up for a willing runner – and two defenders ambush him, seize possession. Solly was looking for a striker who is isn't there. In that fraction of a second, we are on the back foot, skinned.
Holmes burst the net: it was ecstatic. Yet – three minutes later he had a similar free-kick, on the edge of the box. Stadium falls silent, all pregnant with anticipation. Poplars wave beyond the stand. Clouds shift, planes cross. London breathes in and out.
Holmes steps up – and hammers it against the wall. From which Wimbledon scampered away, by-passing our puffing midfield, and skimmed the bar. My neighbour in the Covered End put his head in his hands: “What the fuck are we doing?”
Josh magennisVerified account @Josh_Magennis 21h21 hours ago More Great win today. Really good team spirit and enjoying our season! Feet up and watch the boxing now. Enjoy the weekend tweeps. #cafc
Patrick Bauer @patrick5bauer 21h21 hours ago More Celebrating my 25th birthday today with a win & a clean sheet! Enjoying some days off with my fiancee now! Thanks for all the messages!
Don't be fooled by the result. I write this to our good Lifers in California, Australia, Thailand, and many others elsewhere across the globe, not there at The Valley.
We were appalling yesterday – utterly appalling. We pass sideways like terrified crabs, then back to Amos – who shanks the ball in to Row Z. Good teams come out fighting at kick-off, adrenalin pumping, battering the opposition, accurate and visceral, slicing the jugular of the enemy.
We, however, make tentative moves. After you, Claude – who is stunned by the very presence of the ball – and pussy-foots a pass somewhere vague. Sideways and backwards. At half-time, we in the Covered End looked at each other with disbelief. In the whole 45 minutes we had fashioned one single shot at goal – Fosu, stumbled and wide.
A fat guy waddles on the pitch and SHOUTS at the Covered End as if we are recalcitrant children. A poor bloke from Bexleyheath steps up for The Crossbar Challenge. He hoofs it miles over the bar. This is patronising and demeaning. The fat guy opens an envelope, gives him two tickets for the next game, shouts again, and waddles off, bird in heels wielding a clipboard.
We want the opera singer, diva in in black gown and pearls, serenading us in the Covered End, the promotion party in 2012. The game when Yann Kermorgant, ball over shoulder, hammered a volley, obliquely, to send us to delirium.
Robinson will give them a rocket. We will come out fighting.
Yet, the second half yesterday was even worse.
It was utterly, hopelessly, pedestrian. Our misplaced passes, casual and unthinking. Hospital passes from here to there. When Konsa has the ball, approaching the halfway-line, we all know he will lose possession.
Bauer was superb, nodding balls seven yards from danger to easy space for our men to collect and advance. He didn't hoof to Row Z or clatter his opponent. Bauer rose above them all, literally and metaphorically. Those seven yards are crucial: the ball is here: you are free, the space is gloriously vacant – do something with it.
Yet – our midfield players have no spatial awareness or technical skills: they are stilted men. And no muscle, either. We were pushed off the ball by Wimbledon. They nudged Forster-Caskey, brushed him aside, walked past Clarke. By-passed Kashi. Our midfield is vapid.
Here is a vignette: ball flies left to right: Solly controls in acres of spaces, looks up for a willing runner – and two defenders ambush him, seize possession. Solly was looking for a striker who is isn't there. In that fraction of a second, we are on the back foot, skinned.
Holmes burst the net: it was ecstatic. Yet – three minutes later he had a similar free-kick, on the edge of the box. Stadium falls silent, all pregnant with anticipation. Poplars wave beyond the stand. Clouds shift, planes cross. London breathes in and out.
Holmes steps up – and hammers it against the wall. From which Wimbledon scampered away, by-passing our puffing midfield, and skimmed the bar. My neighbour in the Covered End put his head in his hands: “What the fuck are we doing?”
Well...
I agree to the extent that we need a different response when more physical sides press us. Whenever we had the ball in defence or midfield a host of Wimbledon players charged at the player in possession. He would look up, see no-one free, so either hoofed it in the general direction of Magennis, or looked for Amos.
To counter the Wimbledon press our players needed to work harder off the ball. Triangles, little one-twos. People making intelligent runs. But we didn't do that. Fosu and Holmes went head down and charged towards the penalty box, to little effect. Long balls were played. Back passes were played. It wasn't pretty.
But because we have a little bit of class now, we got away with it.
Our biggest problem was not matching Wimbledon in the physical battle. Magennis was below par and Clarke was easily brushed aside. Konsa had some good moments but also allowed their striker an easy time instead of trying to come through and win the ball. Towards the end, Konsa did start to do this.
No worries; our defence held firm, we had a slice of luck and we won. Marshall got some minutes and produced one inviting cross, which bodes well for the future.
Don't be fooled by the result. I write this to our good Lifers in California, Australia, Thailand, and many others elsewhere across the globe, not there at The Valley.
We were appalling yesterday – utterly appalling. We pass sideways like terrified crabs, then back to Amos – who shanks the ball in to Row Z. Good teams come out fighting at kick-off, adrenalin pumping, battering the opposition, accurate and visceral, slicing the jugular of the enemy.
We, however, make tentative moves. After you, Claude – who is stunned by the very presence of the ball – and pussy-foots a pass somewhere vague. Sideways and backwards. At half-time, we in the Covered End looked at each other with disbelief. In the whole 45 minutes we had fashioned one single shot at goal – Fosu, stumbled and wide.
A fat guy waddles on the pitch and SHOUTS at the Covered End as if we are recalcitrant children. A poor bloke from Bexleyheath steps up for The Crossbar Challenge. He hoofs it miles over the bar. This is patronising and demeaning. The fat guy opens an envelope, gives him two tickets for the next game, shouts again, and waddles off, bird in heels wielding a clipboard.
We want the opera singer, diva in in black gown and pearls, serenading us in the Covered End, the promotion party in 2012. The game when Yann Kermorgant, ball over shoulder, hammered a volley, obliquely, to send us to delirium.
Robinson will give them a rocket. We will come out fighting.
Yet, the second half yesterday was even worse.
It was utterly, hopelessly, pedestrian. Our misplaced passes, casual and unthinking. Hospital passes from here to there. When Konsa has the ball, approaching the halfway-line, we all know he will lose possession.
Bauer was superb, nodding balls seven yards from danger to easy space for our men to collect and advance. He didn't hoof to Row Z or clatter his opponent. Bauer rose above them all, literally and metaphorically. Those seven yards are crucial: the ball is here: you are free, the space is gloriously vacant – do something with it.
Yet – our midfield players have no spatial awareness or technical skills: they are stilted men. And no muscle, either. We were pushed off the ball by Wimbledon. They nudged Forster-Caskey, brushed him aside, walked past Clarke. By-passed Kashi. Our midfield is vapid.
Here is a vignette: ball flies left to right: Solly controls in acres of spaces, looks up for a willing runner – and two defenders ambush him, seize possession. Solly was looking for a striker who is isn't there. In that fraction of a second, we are on the back foot, skinned.
Holmes burst the net: it was ecstatic. Yet – three minutes later he had a similar free-kick, on the edge of the box. Stadium falls silent, all pregnant with anticipation. Poplars wave beyond the stand. Clouds shift, planes cross. London breathes in and out.
Holmes steps up – and hammers it against the wall. From which Wimbledon scampered away, by-passing our puffing midfield, and skimmed the bar. My neighbour in the Covered End put his head in his hands: “What the fuck are we doing?”
Nice fictional story. You should write novels.
TBH, I enjoyed that post from @Viewfinder......weird, I know.
Clearly OTT at times but a few home truths contained therein.
But for our Rickeee's wonder strike, this thread would have been downbeat to say the least. Even the gaffer wouldn't say this was a good performance from his lads.
But, win ugly, we did. End of.
What I AM extremely concerned about though is @Viewfinder's description of the faithful.
" Pregnant with anticipation " ?
We're all too aware that some good news off the pitch is overdue ; that the umbilical cord that connects fans & club has been stretched thin over the past 3 seasons and increased urinary frequency is clearly suffered by many during the 90 minutes.....
...but surely the NHS Call Centre hasn't morphed into an Ante Natal Clinic ?
Mind you, that Braxton Hicks would be a decent signing.
I don't know about every body else but this is my take on it. Whenever we lose I go home feeling pissed off even if its a 4.3 thriller. Whenever we win I go home happy even if it was a shite game like yesterday. You do not get success by losing exciting games but you do by winning boring games.
This season is all about gaining promotion anything else is a bonus. Apart from Roland selling of course
I don't know about every body else but this is my take on it. Whenever we lose I go home feeling pissed off even if its a 4.3 thriller. Whenever we win I go home happy even if it was a shite game like yesterday. You do not get success by losing exciting games but you do by winning boring games.
This season is all about gaining promotion anything else is a bonus. Apart from Roland selling of course
Just felt the need to mention Jay Dasilva and how he singlehandedly stopped that attack in the first half. Showed composure beyond his years to not only hold up the player with the ball but at the same time block off the opportunity to play in the overlapping player, then picking his moment to get a toe in and win the ball. Top quality!!
So glad the best chance they had fell to a defender who blazed it into row z. Thought the net was going to bulge. And did Marshall get his shorts from the 80’s?
So glad the best chance they had fell to a defender who blazed it into row z. Thought the net was going to bulge. And did Marshall get his shorts from the 80’s?
Don't be fooled by the result. I write this to our good Lifers in California, Australia, Thailand, and many others elsewhere across the globe, not there at The Valley.
We were appalling yesterday – utterly appalling. We pass sideways like terrified crabs, then back to Amos – who shanks the ball in to Row Z. Good teams come out fighting at kick-off, adrenalin pumping, battering the opposition, accurate and visceral, slicing the jugular of the enemy.
We, however, make tentative moves. After you, Claude – who is stunned by the very presence of the ball – and pussy-foots a pass somewhere vague. Sideways and backwards. At half-time, we in the Covered End looked at each other with disbelief. In the whole 45 minutes we had fashioned one single shot at goal – Fosu, stumbled and wide.
A fat guy waddles on the pitch and SHOUTS at the Covered End as if we are recalcitrant children. A poor bloke from Bexleyheath steps up for The Crossbar Challenge. He hoofs it miles over the bar. This is patronising and demeaning. The fat guy opens an envelope, gives him two tickets for the next game, shouts again, and waddles off, bird in heels wielding a clipboard.
We want the opera singer, diva in in black gown and pearls, serenading us in the Covered End, the promotion party in 2012. The game when Yann Kermorgant, ball over shoulder, hammered a volley, obliquely, to send us to delirium.
Robinson will give them a rocket. We will come out fighting.
Yet, the second half yesterday was even worse.
It was utterly, hopelessly, pedestrian. Our misplaced passes, casual and unthinking. Hospital passes from here to there. When Konsa has the ball, approaching the halfway-line, we all know he will lose possession.
Bauer was superb, nodding balls three yards from danger to easy space for our men to collect and advance. He didn't hoof to Row Z or clatter his opponent. Bauer rose above them all, literally and metaphorically. Those three yards are crucial: the ball is here: you are free, the space is gloriously vacant – do something with it.
Yet – our midfield players have no spatial awareness or technical skills: they are stilted men. And no muscle, either. We were pushed off the ball by Wimbledon. They nudged Forster-Caskey, brushed him aside, walked past Clarke. By-passed Kashi. Our midfield is vapid.
Here is a vignette: ball flies left to right: Solly controls in acres of space, looks up for a willing runner – and two defenders ambush him, seize possession. Solly was looking for a striker who is isn't there. In that fraction of a second, we are on the back foot, skinned.
Holmes burst the net: it was ecstatic. Yet – three minutes later he had a similar free-kick, on the edge of the box. Stadium falls silent, all pregnant with anticipation. Poplars wave beyond the stand. Clouds shift, planes cross. London breathes in and out.
Holmes steps up – and hammers it against the wall. From which Wimbledon scampered away, by-passing our puffing midfield, and skimmed the bar. My neighbour in the Covered End put his head in his hands: “What the fuck are we doing?”
A lot of us abroad can watch the games streaming now,
Comments
I think their keeper should have kept out the free kick and as a game their was little to recommend it. Technically our players looked miles ahead but we rarely looked dangerous and too often we were passing back to the keeper.
Pleased we won.
We were appalling yesterday – utterly appalling. We pass sideways like terrified crabs, then back to Amos – who shanks the ball in to Row Z. Good teams come out fighting at kick-off, adrenalin pumping, battering the opposition, accurate and visceral, slicing the jugular of the enemy.
We, however, make tentative moves. After you, Claude – who is stunned by the very presence of the ball – and pussy-foots a pass somewhere vague. Sideways and backwards. At half-time, we in the Covered End looked at each other with disbelief. In the whole 45 minutes we had fashioned one single shot at goal – Fosu, stumbled and wide.
A fat guy waddles on the pitch and SHOUTS at the Covered End as if we are recalcitrant children. A poor bloke from Bexleyheath steps up for The Crossbar Challenge. He hoofs it miles over the bar. This is patronising and demeaning. The fat guy opens an envelope, gives him two tickets for the next game, shouts again, and waddles off, bird in heels wielding a clipboard.
We want the opera singer, diva in in black gown and pearls, serenading us in the Covered End, the promotion party in 2012. The game when Yann Kermorgant, ball over shoulder, hammered a volley, obliquely, to send us to delirium.
Robinson will give them a rocket. We will come out fighting.
Yet, the second half yesterday was even worse.
It was utterly, hopelessly, pedestrian. Our misplaced passes, casual and unthinking. Hospital passes from here to there. When Konsa has the ball, approaching the halfway-line, we all know he will lose possession.
Bauer was superb, nodding balls three yards from danger to easy space for our men to collect and advance. He didn't hoof to Row Z or clatter his opponent. Bauer rose above them all, literally and metaphorically. Those three yards are crucial: the ball is here: you are free, the space is gloriously vacant – do something with it.
Yet – our midfield players have no spatial awareness or technical skills: they are stilted men. And no muscle, either. We were pushed off the ball by Wimbledon. They nudged Forster-Caskey, brushed him aside, walked past Clarke. By-passed Kashi. Our midfield is vapid.
Here is a vignette: ball flies left to right: Solly controls in acres of space, looks up for a willing runner – and two defenders ambush him, seize possession. Solly was looking for a striker who is isn't there. In that fraction of a second, we are on the back foot, skinned.
Holmes burst the net: it was ecstatic. Yet – three minutes later he had a similar free-kick, on the edge of the box. Stadium falls silent, all pregnant with anticipation. Poplars wave beyond the stand. Clouds shift, planes cross. London breathes in and out.
Holmes steps up – and hammers it against the wall. From which Wimbledon scampered away, by-passing our puffing midfield, and skimmed the bar. My neighbour in the Covered End put his head in his hands: “What the fuck are we doing?”
... and we've got 7 different angles of it #cafc
Three points ✅
A perfect 25th birthday for @patrick5bauer! #cafc
https://pbs.twimg.com/media/DNPrGtdXkAE0ttG.jpg
More
Great win today. Really good team spirit and enjoying our season! Feet up and watch the boxing now. Enjoy the weekend tweeps. #cafc
More
Celebrating my 25th birthday today with a win & a clean sheet! Enjoying some days off with my fiancee now! Thanks for all the messages!
https://pbs.twimg.com/media/DNPrnaKXkAAEY4I.jpg
Here's where all 18 of his Charlton goals have been scored from
#cafc
https://pbs.twimg.com/media/DNPauUhWsAALBfy.jpg
I agree to the extent that we need a different response when more physical sides press us. Whenever we had the ball in defence or midfield a host of Wimbledon players charged at the player in possession. He would look up, see no-one free, so either hoofed it in the general direction of Magennis, or looked for Amos.
To counter the Wimbledon press our players needed to work harder off the ball. Triangles, little one-twos. People making intelligent runs.
But we didn't do that. Fosu and Holmes went head down and charged towards the penalty box, to little effect. Long balls were played. Back passes were played. It wasn't pretty.
But because we have a little bit of class now, we got away with it.
No worries; our defence held firm, we had a slice of luck and we won. Marshall got some minutes and produced one inviting cross, which bodes well for the future.
Clearly OTT at times but a few home truths contained therein.
But for our Rickeee's wonder strike, this thread would have been downbeat to say the least. Even the gaffer wouldn't say this was a good performance from his lads.
But, win ugly, we did. End of.
What I AM extremely concerned about though is @Viewfinder's description of the faithful.
" Pregnant with anticipation " ?
We're all too aware that some good news off the pitch is overdue ; that the umbilical cord that connects fans & club has been stretched thin over the past 3 seasons and increased urinary frequency is clearly suffered by many during the 90 minutes.....
...but surely the NHS Call Centre hasn't morphed into an Ante Natal Clinic ?
Mind you, that Braxton Hicks would be a decent signing.
I don't think so viewfinder. Not at our best, but categorically not appalling.
Whenever we lose I go home feeling pissed off even if its a 4.3 thriller.
Whenever we win I go home happy even if it was a shite game like yesterday.
You do not get success by losing exciting games but you do by winning boring games.
This season is all about gaining promotion anything else is a bonus.
Apart from Roland selling of course
I think they were Elfsborg 's