Despite the appointment of our former Coach as manager ( Paul Trollope), things appear to be undergoing a radical change.
   Our previous manager Russell Slade was actually beginning to win over many fans, though most realised that he would never take us to another level.
   He was tactically limited, gave few opportunities to youngsters and signed several players who proved totally unsuccessful in the Championship, such as Revell and Doyle.
   After the clueless tactics and ludicrous excesses of Ole Gunnar Solksjaer's regime (we still have three of his signings on the books and not even in the squad, taking home about £45 k per week!), Slade steadied the ship.
   After that he got it stuck in the doldrums and then, last season, it did set sail again, albeit in a wayward direction ( if I'm ever a manager I know where my metaphors will come from).
   When he started selling and loaning out players like Revell, Doyle and Kennedy that he had signed, we knew something was wrong.
   For me, one game last season summed him up, at home v. lowly Shrewsbury in the FA Cup.
   He picked a team full of misfits and under-achievers and an indication of just how badly we played was that Ameobi was our best player ( a dreadful loan signing from Newcastle).
   Unusually, we sat in the Grandstand and had a perfect view of Slade and Trollope.
   Slade kept his arms folded the whole game despite the utter shambles ; Trollope tried to impart advice, but looked powerless given the team selection.
​   During the second half of last season, with a transfer committee in charge of signings, we made one excellent singing, namely Lex Immers, a versatile player with a prodigious work-rate and eye for goal. We also signed Kenneth Zohore, a young Danish striker with pace and power, but more potential than skill.  
   When Trollope was appointed and he was still a coach with Wales, these two were signed permanently and it made a lot of sense.
    Already - before the new season has begun - he has imposed his own ideas and style on the squad and team.
   There are two aspects which immediately stand out.
   In pre-season friendlies he has favoured the same system which worked so well for Wales in the Euros, that is 5-3-2 or, when attacking, 3-5-2.
   At Cardiff we have the right players to make this work in some respects, though lack the serious pace of the Welsh team to hit opponents on the break.
   In John, Fabio and new signing Jazz Richards ( a Wales squad player) we have three players ideally suited to the role of wing-back, with pace, skill and attacking intent ( but not as good defensively as Gunter and Taylor).
   We also have centre-backs like Connolly, Manga and Ajayi who are very comfortable on the ball and there's always no-nonsense Sean Morrison when he's fit.
   In the experienced Peter Whittingham we have, quite simply, the best long passer outside the Premier : a player who can find marauding wing-backs or mobile strikers with one telling ball.
   Yet, do we possess mobile strikers, with pace, to trouble resolute defences? 
   Immers is sharp, Pilkington shrewd and lively and new striker Gounongbe strong in the air ; yet we lack a proven striker at Championship level and Trollope must address this before the season starts a week Saturday away to Birmingham.
   The other aspect where Trollope's made a difference is his willingness to give young players a chance.
   Declan John from Merthyr, Ajayi and Tutonda have all played well pre-season after being sidelined by Slade last year.
   All three could thrive in the new formation as well.
   If it doesn't work, then Trollope has already experimented with a Plan B ( sometimes Slade lacked even a Plan A!), which is 4-3-3 and would allow our one pacey winger, Craig Noone, to come into the reckoning.
   Philosophies and formations are one thing, harsh reality another and this promises to be the most difficult Championship for a long time.
   Brighton, Derby and Sheffield Wed. must all fancy their chances, not to mention Benitez's Toon Army, Di Matteo's Villa and Norwich, who will always be thereabouts.
   Of course, I realise I have no right to be so optimistic, but can't help it despite our billionaire owner's palpable lack of interest and serious lack of investment in players ( not even the £21 k parachute payment from last year).
   Maybe this season will be ours.
   Maybe our wing-backs will tear defences apart.
   Maybe Pilks, Whitts, Lex and unpronounceable Frederic will click.
   Maybe I'll be amazed. 


                               NEW  SEASON

It's gone the old 4-4-2
and welcome the 5-3-2

we are doing a Wales
we are doing an Iceland

we've even got Gunnars
for the HOO! chanting

but where are Rambo, Bale,Williams?
there's only Jazz Richards

I'm ridiculously optimistic
dangerously so, as always

let's face it, we are Cardiff City
so expect to be let down

we can't even pronounce
our new striker Gounongbe

let alone chant his name 
( we'll call him 'Freddy')

still, the new season's coming
and we're on the verge of.......something! 
       

   'His wings had been clipped when he was young, but now he'd fly in the light of those women : their faces of the moon' . ( 'Tipyn o dderyn' - Mike Jenkins)

   I taught at Pen-y-dre High School on the Gurnos estate in Merthyr for some 20 years.
   When I tell people I worked both there and at Radyr Comp. near Cardiff, they invariably comment on the stark contrast.
   Yet certain aspects stand out and in terms of sheer creativity the Merthyr pupils definitely had the edge.
   It's difficult to explain why, but there must've been a few factors including their depth of experience to draw upon, the way rebels tend to embrace poetry anyway with its flouting of rules and, quite simply, its brevity compared to prose.
   Of course, there were outstanding poets at Radyr ( a number not academically gifted whatsoever), but people are often taken aback when I remark that the most fascinating writers came from the Gurnos itself.
   A boy who struggled with his sexuality and wrote often pained poetry, a girl whose boyfriend was in jail on drugs charges and sixth-former inspired by Heller's 'Catch 22' spring to mind immediately.
   I was delighted to get a job there and no doubts were raised when only two candidates had turned up for the post and both were appointed.
   When I began there, the estate's main boast was that it was the 2nd largest Council estate in Europe and my friend Pete (a posh left-wing English teacher who wore Doc Martens to school when they were banned ) claimed it was designed as a huge 'labour reserve'.
   Yet industries had declined or disappeared and it became synonymous with crime, deprivation and the need to survive whatever ( the cult of the 'hard man').
   It's no surprise that Swansea Road's  European Bantamweight champion Johnny Owen had a pub which took his nickname ( The Matchstick Man ) close to  the school and is still commemorated in a mural by the shops.
   Yet there are others who went on to achieve great things ( in some instances, continue to do so) who were brought up in the estate and should provide inspiration to those who feel they're destined for failure. 
   Wales football international Mark Pembridge was one of those.
   He played 54 times for his country and at the very top level for a number of clubs, including Everton and Luton. He was a tenacious midfielder who also had a keen eye for goal.
   He was in my registration class at Pen-y-dre and was a quiet, even unassuming, character. 
  When, years later, I spoke about him to Luton scout Cyril Beech (who also spotted John Hartson), he told me that what impressed him about Pembridge was, apart from great footballing ability, his attitude : a determination and single-mindedness.
   Many equally talented youngsters at the school never made it. Some ended up on the dreaded 'pop'; though there were exceptions such as Jason Bowen and goalkeeper Mark Walton.
    At that time the estate - both old and new sections - was large and characterless, the most exotic thing being the names of the streets, like Acacia and Honeysuckle.
   This has changed somewhat, with the flats knocked down and more open space.
   At its centre, the shops were left to rot and became a symbol of the decline and gathering-place for the Shop Boyz gang.
   A lot of my poetry from that era ( especially the dialect stuff) draws inspiration from young people I knew ; their humour and desperation.
   My fiction has been equally influenced and the book of interlinked stories 'Wanting to Belong' is set in a school not unlike Pen-y-dre ; though all characters are fictional.
   My one adult novel - savaged in one review and since 'disappeared' - called 'The Fugitive Three' is based in one house on the estate, the hospital and a derelict flat used as a squat. 
   For years Waterstone's in Cardiff had one copy on their shelves and I was tempted to buy it, just to stop it from fading to yellow!
   My children's novel 'Barbsmashive' was better received and always interests pupils when I do workshops today.
   It's about a boy called Marc who lives on the estate and one day comes upon a weird creature living in a lager can beneath a smelly old mattress.
   I've returned to the estate since to work for the 3Gs community group and immediately relate to the 'Goj' greeting, so unique.
   Like the rest of the shops, the 3Gs represent a kind of revival there, with their new office and many significant projects.
   One of these is the online community paper North Merthyr Voice ( check it out) which enables young people to express their views about vital issues.
   This sense of hope is reflected in a poem by Rhondda writer and artist Sion Tomos Owen - 
        ' forging their own image
         of fears and fire, friends and funerals,
         in their own reflection,
         a collection of everything
         but inverted commas
         placed round the necks of
         the next '3G generation'. 
   Indeed, the Gurnos needs to boast more about its famous sons : ones who have passed through like actor Richard Harrington and broadcaster Owen Money, but above all those who were born and bred there and have gone on to great things.
   I'm thinking especially of two creative artists I know and greatly admire : fiction-writer Des Barry and painter Gus Payne.
   Let's celebrate the power of pen and brush, rather than brutality of the ring.
   Des now lives in Tasmania and is working on a new novel set in New York. He has written short fiction which has been published in eminent journals like the New Yorker and three novels, including 'One Bloody Good Friday' set in his hometown.
   Anyone who isn't familiar with Gus's work should check out his website www.guspayne.com and you'll be truly amazed by the variety and quality there.
   Gus is a rarity nowadays, an artist who manages to convey important views about politics, ecology and nature without ever losing sight of humanity.
   You can find a couple of his works in Cyfarthfa Museum, where he exhibits alongside others from The Welsh Group.
   Like Des, he's a product of that upbringing : full of energy, compassion, yet fully aware of darkness always lurking.
​
   Living on the edge of a volcano you become sickly with the constant stench of sulphur yet also, you can gaze down far below into the ever-present danger and witness the glaring, acidic beauty of that turquoise lake.

                                   WHERE I COME FROM

Where I grew up, Plane Grove.
When I woz a kid
I thought it woz great,
all them other streets
named arfta trees an plants -
Marigold, Acacia an Oak,
but owers an aeroplane.


None of us seen many trees
or bushes or flowers -
no gardens ardly
jest loadsa grass
f'r-a dogs t shit on.


Where I come from, the Gurnos,
course we all take drugs,
get pissed all-a time,
think we're fuckin ard,
we all do time, get fat
an moan 'bout immigrants
takin work we don' want -
'cept I got out
wen t college, got a tidee job.


It's better now f definite,
murals an not graffiti,
glass an not bricked up -
an the plane's a tree
growin rapid t shelter and shield,
standin ewge an proud
like my parents ewsed t be.

      

    

   'Wales on Sunday' on July 10th, day of the Euro Final and Wales are not there, yet the paper's full of joy and celebrations.
   On one page my younger daughter's best moment is quoted, teaching Belgium fans 'Don't Take Me Home' who then sing it in the stadium at Lille.
   On another, my older daughter Bethan ( who initiated the campaign for fanzones) comments on the bitterly jealous condemnation of our homecoming ceremony by TV presenter Piers Morgan, saying ' As a nation we are proud and your words will never ruin that for us.'
   Elsewhere in the paper politicians like Ken Skates and Alun Cairns see it all as a huge marketing possibility. Brand Wales has gone global.
   But it has been so, so much more.
   A family and national affair, fans and team as one : chanting, singing, raising the players to new heights.
   Those England and Russia fans who fought and abused in the early stages saw it all as a kind of invasion.
   Fans of tim pel droed Cymru have viewed it as exactly the opposite : a chance to party, a series of momentous happenings and something we have waited for for so long and never believed would materialise.
   For my family it's been extraordinary : my son has seen the worst of times alongside me from Arms Park to Millennium and following the Bluebirds from the age of five, has known how to suffer as a football fan.
   Even my wife - who thought Mickey Rooney was captain of England - joined in with the fervour, flew y ddraig goch on our car and taught her pupils football songs.
   The homecoming in Cardiff was in praise of a magnificent achievement : 58 years since we'd qualified for a major tournament and we reached the Semis, only to be knocked out by Portugal, the eventual winners.
   Yes we lost, but on the way we'd played some wonderful football (especially v. Russia and Belgium), scored great goals and oozed enjoyment and passion.
   If you ever wanted to define 'hwyl' it would be those times when players joined fans at the end of games to chant and sing, or when the stadiums rang out with Hen Wlad Fy Nhadau before and during games.
   And so it was when, eventually, the team's open-top bus arrived at CC Stadium.
   I was there, right there, underneath it next to my younger daughter, who could hardly take photos her hands were shaking so much!
  There, right there, when Gareth Bale led us singing 'Don't Take Me Home' and clapping high the Icelandic hoot-chant everyone wants to adopt.
   I do feel for those fans who couldn't make it ; the players need to go north as well. Why not to Wrecsam, the birth-place of Welsh football?
   On Grangetown station afterwards we spoke to a father and daughter who we knew as regular Bluebirds and who simply couldn't afford to go to France as we had.
   Not every dedicated fan could get out there, but they will be there for the forthcoming World Cup qualifiers and they'll be there even if we lose and glory-seekers disappear, just as they have from Cardiff City.
   Because being a fan is about losing and desperate disappointment and then, appreciating success so much more, with a wonder akin to revelation.
   We never expected to qualify ; we never expected to get through the group stages ; we certainly never expected to reach the Semis.
   Looking back, many crucial moments stand out and not all of them goals scored.
   Ben Davies' brilliant interception in the opening minutes v. Slovakia saved a certain goal and spurred us on.
   Ramsey's reactive movement to hand-ball and then get booked meant he missed the Semi.
   Could we have beaten Portugal if our key player ( and one of the best in the whole tournament) had been on the field?
   Should Coleman have selected the more forward-thinking Jonny Williams, instead of the more cautious King in that same game?
   It doesn't matter, the World Cup is only a few months away and expectation levels will now be very high.
   Can we cope with not being the under-dogs any more?
   At least there are a crop of good young players coming through : the likes of Huws, Isgrove and Bradshaw are all good signs for the future.
   It's possible to be highly cynical about the 'plastics' who have suddenly become football fans of our national team.
   Watching the Belgium match in a pub in Caerleon ( because I was reading at the Festival there ) was revealing.
   On 80 minutes the rugby fan next to me asked - 'Are we in injury time now?'
   When the whistle blew and we'd beaten the team ranked two in the world, this rugby-orientated pub was befuddled.
   Max Boyce on the juke-box and then 'Delilah', a rugby and Stoke City song!
   I helped the landlord choose others, but 'Bing Bong' never came on and there was no sign of the Manics 'Together Stronger'. Someone yelled for the Stereophonics, who are  rugby fans (though the late Stuart Cable was a notable exception).
   On the streets of Bordeaux I wore my Cymru baseball cap and overheard one boy tell his dad - 'Mae e'n Cymro go iawn!' ( He's a real Welshman).
   Outside the Millennium Stadium after the fanzone there, one drunken drongo nicked it and made the Rambo-less defeat v. Portugal harder to bear. 
   But I'll get another one, maybe a warmer hat for the coming winter matches at our stadium, where manager and team all want to play ; where we belong.


                               IF ONLY OUR NATION


If only our nation
was like our football team.

After years of down
and out of qualifications,

of dubious decisions, missed pens
and just not performing,

after years of gibes -
'Sheepshagging bastards, we know what we are!'

North, south, west and east
under the banner 'Together Stronger'.

A confidence, a self-belief,
as Bale pounds the dragon on his chest.

If only we could celebrate
Cymru as a country

finally coming home to itself,
with 'region' and 'principality'

washed away in waves of red.
If only the game were another reality.