Sometimes the impossible does happen. Okay,it's not like Thea Gilmore is up for a Mercury Prize (not quirky enough, songs not self-indulgent, been around too long and doesn't sound like Kate Bush). It's not as if Merthyr Council have suddenly named the Civic Centre after that great leftwing prophet from Dowlais Gwyn Alf Williams!
But enough has happened to make me believe. Thea has actually been played regularly on the radio : her excellent new song conveniently entitled 'You're the Radio'. Above all, Craig Bellamy has signed for Cardiff City. The 'gobbiest footballer ever' as Bobby Robson dubbed him, has returned to his native land and the club he supported as a boy.
When this was mooted at the beginning of the close season, I thought it was sheer footie fantasy ; an attempt to cheer us all up after the Wembley doldrums. I never thought........
And what a summer it was, full of winding up orders, transfer fees unpaid from last season, Chopra threatening to quit and a transfer embargo which meant we couldn't sign anybody, let alone the captain of Wales and one of the best players in the Premiership last season.
I was clicking text buttons and mouse in the hope of finding the embargo lifted, but nothing happened for ages. Rumours of manager Dave Jones's imminent departure to Fulham, West Ham or any job going, including litter- picking in Merthyr, only added to the misery.
The worst close season for decades turned around with the signings of players like Olofinjana and , above all, one of my all-time favourites Jason Koumas (or 'Special K'), one of the most skillful players I've seen at CCFC.
When Bellamy finally signed it was like I'd been nominated for the Nobel Prize for Literature :for once fantasy became reality. Yet it made total sense : he was coming home to be with his family, Man City were paying half his wages and he wanted to lead us to promotion.
Moreover, 'Bellers' first game of the season was also mine, at home to Doncaster. '39 Bellamy' shirts were everywhere, with no sign of throwbacks to past-it Fowler. This wasn't a crocked or ancient Premier player we'd picked up on his way to retirement. This was total class cast off by Mancini, but feared enough not to want any rivals to possess.
And a 'Roy of the Rovers' debut it was. Bellamy scared the shit out of the Donny defence every time he had the ball, even when he fluffed a few passes early on. He made Burkey's goal with an astonishing 60 yard pass and scored our fourth with an unstoppable free-kick from 35. He blew kisses at the fans. What a homecoming for a boy from Kaairdiff and on a day we mourned the loss of one legend, Brian Clark, we witnessed the birth of another : 'Bellers of the Bluebirds.'
THAT DEFEAT
At Wembley my phone broke.
When Chops scored our first
I leapt and yelled and bounced
like a kangaroo celebrating
the retirement of Rolf Harris.
It fell and imploded on concrete,
the screen a snowy blur
resembling my brain as they scored
from a free-kick -' It'll be worth it
if we win!' I cracked.
When Ledley shot us in front
nothing was left to break
except my vocal chords.
In the first half our defence fell apart
like a house made from balsa wood
and our previously immaculate keeper
flapped like a one-flippered seal
which had been bingeing on tuna.
The silence after that match
was like some hero had died,
Leonard Cohen or Tom Waits;
the long walk down Wembley Way
with the wreath of my scarf
and Blackpool chants stabbing my skull
like woodpeckers thought my skin was bark.
I couldn't face anything orange for weeks:
juice, fake tans and even the sun,
hiding in the shade of that defeat.
But enough has happened to make me believe. Thea has actually been played regularly on the radio : her excellent new song conveniently entitled 'You're the Radio'. Above all, Craig Bellamy has signed for Cardiff City. The 'gobbiest footballer ever' as Bobby Robson dubbed him, has returned to his native land and the club he supported as a boy.
When this was mooted at the beginning of the close season, I thought it was sheer footie fantasy ; an attempt to cheer us all up after the Wembley doldrums. I never thought........
And what a summer it was, full of winding up orders, transfer fees unpaid from last season, Chopra threatening to quit and a transfer embargo which meant we couldn't sign anybody, let alone the captain of Wales and one of the best players in the Premiership last season.
I was clicking text buttons and mouse in the hope of finding the embargo lifted, but nothing happened for ages. Rumours of manager Dave Jones's imminent departure to Fulham, West Ham or any job going, including litter- picking in Merthyr, only added to the misery.
The worst close season for decades turned around with the signings of players like Olofinjana and , above all, one of my all-time favourites Jason Koumas (or 'Special K'), one of the most skillful players I've seen at CCFC.
When Bellamy finally signed it was like I'd been nominated for the Nobel Prize for Literature :for once fantasy became reality. Yet it made total sense : he was coming home to be with his family, Man City were paying half his wages and he wanted to lead us to promotion.
Moreover, 'Bellers' first game of the season was also mine, at home to Doncaster. '39 Bellamy' shirts were everywhere, with no sign of throwbacks to past-it Fowler. This wasn't a crocked or ancient Premier player we'd picked up on his way to retirement. This was total class cast off by Mancini, but feared enough not to want any rivals to possess.
And a 'Roy of the Rovers' debut it was. Bellamy scared the shit out of the Donny defence every time he had the ball, even when he fluffed a few passes early on. He made Burkey's goal with an astonishing 60 yard pass and scored our fourth with an unstoppable free-kick from 35. He blew kisses at the fans. What a homecoming for a boy from Kaairdiff and on a day we mourned the loss of one legend, Brian Clark, we witnessed the birth of another : 'Bellers of the Bluebirds.'
THAT DEFEAT
At Wembley my phone broke.
When Chops scored our first
I leapt and yelled and bounced
like a kangaroo celebrating
the retirement of Rolf Harris.
It fell and imploded on concrete,
the screen a snowy blur
resembling my brain as they scored
from a free-kick -' It'll be worth it
if we win!' I cracked.
When Ledley shot us in front
nothing was left to break
except my vocal chords.
In the first half our defence fell apart
like a house made from balsa wood
and our previously immaculate keeper
flapped like a one-flippered seal
which had been bingeing on tuna.
The silence after that match
was like some hero had died,
Leonard Cohen or Tom Waits;
the long walk down Wembley Way
with the wreath of my scarf
and Blackpool chants stabbing my skull
like woodpeckers thought my skin was bark.
I couldn't face anything orange for weeks:
juice, fake tans and even the sun,
hiding in the shade of that defeat.
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