April Week 1 - Countdown

[Sweder]

'Let's get ready . . . . to Taper!'
Doesn't quite have the same resonance as 'Rumble', but it commands just as much respect.

Lots of good advice floating around at this time, none better than here on this forum. Check out Andy's last entry in his March diary - there's a useful link to a quality tapering article in there.

This is a time of worry, of phantom injuries, hypocondria in extremis; gloom, gloom, panic and gloom, worry, niggles and nerves. Have I done enough? Am I doing too much? Am I eating right? Are my shoes ok?

Not really, no, doubtful and absolutely.
But it matters nought. Here we are in April, just a couple of weeks away from the big day. Two of the longest weeks in the year, ample time to wreck hopes and dreams, a fortnight where you can gain nothing yet lose everything.

Not my own private thoughts but the swelling vox humana of the running community, a growing cacophony of feelings, thoughts, conversations and prayers gathering in the ether above the streets, downlands and running tracks of Britain.

Good luck, and good health, to all.

[Sweder]

Time of day: 09:00
Route: Lewes/ Black Cap/ Lewes
Distance: 5 miles
Duration: 44:59 (24:18)
Companions: 3 Hounds
Soundtrack: Radio 5 Live

A gentle lope compared with Wednesday, and with good reason.
I’d intended to get out and rattle off 5 street miles on Friday evening. Tim and Sue, friends new to running, had mapped out a flat(ish) circuit of Lewes and Kingston Village and I felt inclined to get some roadwork in as the big one approaches.

I hadn’t counted on the demand for Dad’s Taxi Service. Jake (16) had asked if he and some mates could get a lift to a party in Newhaven (around 6 miles away). He could go on the train, but I was feeling generous and offered wheels. I’d arrived home from work feeling pretty tired. A week sweating over a new health & safety policy finished off with a 2 hour meeting in London on Friday resulted in me slumped on the sofa; I needed a reason to haul my bones up, get the blood flowing. I had intended to get an early evening run in to perk myself up, but lethargy ruled K.O. and I decided to make it a night-time dance through the streets instead.

I soon learned that the thing about teenage lads heading for a party is they are entirely focused on the fun ahead and completely oblivious to such mundane detail as where they're supposed to be. 45 minutes into our tour of Newhaven and surrounding suburbia I lost the will to live and, more importantly, to run. I returned home feeling flat and elected to watch rubbish B movies into the wee small hours, vowing to leap into action on Saturday morning.

Adding insult to injury my son’s entourage arrived home at 11:30. The party had been ‘busted up’ by the local constabulary following a tip-off from a concerned neighbour. The boys, dejected, had returned home via shank’s pony and the railways. All I could think of was the saving in collateral damage the early end of festivities would bring for the parents of the host. (I speak from bitter personal experience on this subject, and no, I’m not ready to talk about it yet).

So, as the appalling movie and excellent football fanzine has it, When Saturday comes. I awoke as (finally!) my London Marathon Registration Form and confirmed runner number (40083) landed on my chest. As the internal fog cleared and Mrs Sweder yanked the blinds, the most fabulous morning invaded the bedroom.

I swung my legs out of bed, pulled on my shirt, shorts, socks, stumbled down stairs, tied on my off-road Mizunos, grabbed my water bottle, radio, mobile, dog leads, dogs and out into the crisp Sussex air. It’s now or never. My legs creaked like old ships’ timbers, but any lack of enthusiasm was more than offset by the eager anticipation of the hounds as they dragged me out of the gate and towards the downs.

This is God’s Own Country. The sun, already beaming strongly from above the cliff-top golf course, brushed aside the last of the early morning cloud, and I thanked myself for filling the water bottle last night. I chugged gently up the immediate incline towards the sheep field, surprised to see so many locals already enjoying the day. Dog walkers, non-dog walkers and horse-riders peppered the route West. I exchanged Shearers with a couple of runners, and a polite ‘good morning’ with a silver-haired couple walking arm-in-arm, radiating pleasure at simply being there, together, on this perfect morning.

I was struggling, not in a serious way, but it was obvious from the off that this would not be a PB or anything like it. With my long run due in exactly 24 hours this was no bad thing, and I relaxed, happy to know this was simply a ‘leg turnover’ run. My training schedule doesn’t fit with any other I know – I run infrequently mid-week, barely reaching 15 miles from Monday to Friday. Conversely my dedication to my Sunday long run borders on the fanatical, and should I miss one (as I was forced to do in early and mid March) I am The Grinch.

I reached the summit (loose use of the term) in a leisurely 24:18, nearly 2 minutes slower than Wednesday, and I smiled to myself. Nice ‘n’ easy does it. After a minute sipping water and soaking in the awesome views (me) and sniffing around in the gorse bushes, urinating amongst the Downland shrubs (the hounds) we loped off down the slopes.

Everyone we met on the way home beamed good will as we trundled by. It’s as if anarchic Ninjas had slipped a mild form of ecstasy into the water supply overnight; a most welcome development.

Back home, a respectable sub 45 minutes later, hot, sweaty and pleased to have notched up some mileage. Tomorrow (12 to 14 miles) promises to be another warm one, and should prove a useful trial in case April 17th turns out to be a scorcher.

[Seafront Plodder]

..... Tim and Sue, friends new to running, had mapped out a flat(ish) circuit of Lewes and Kingston Village and I felt inclined to get some roadwork in.....

Ha, nice one...

.............45 minutes into our tour of Newhaven and surrounding suburbia I lost the will to live......

Your not wrong there mate. Absolute sh*thole of a place.



Happy tapering...I'm not jealous.







much

[Sweder]

Good to see you back here, Slim.
Must get a beer in soon - if you're up for a gentle mid-week lope and a Guinness or two, let me know.

[Sweder]

Sorry, I just couldn't help myself.
If it's any consolation it was damned hot and it hurt like hell.
I really really really really will taper. Now. Honest.
I'll get me coat . . .

[El Gordo]

Bad boy.

8 miles next weekend, and not a step further....

[Sweder]

Time of day: 09:00
Distance: 20 miles
Time: 3:40(ish)
Conditions: warm/ sunny

I'd fully intended to do 12 miles. Really; I had weighed the evidence and decided that my Running Commentary pals' ambitions were more akin to my own. Besides, all my Sunday Run gurus used to be great runners; they're all (to a man) severely damaged after lives of over-training and excessive exertion.

Two groups gathered above the Marina this morning, like a backstreet theatre production of Olympic Bid 2012: Paris and London. For the Paris group, next weekend is the business end of their training. They chatted excitedly about travel plans, looking forward to a gentle 12 miles today.

And then there was my lot; the London group. They (we) were, apparently, doing the full 20.
'Not me' I smugly announced. 'I had a great run last week, and I'm into my tapering. 12 for me, thanks all the same'. I neither sought nor received a challenge, and we loped off under beautiful blue skies, the grasslands along the cliff tops looking washed out by the strengthening sunlight.

3 miles in we re-grouped, each party re-affirming their route.
Paris would climb Telscombe, head past the turn for the North Face and head directly for the Snake and home via Brighton Racecourse. I was still determined to join them. As we set off again, heading up the steep climb towards the crossing to Telscombe, I pondered the irony of feeling so full of beans having selected the short option. This feeling was reinforced as I chugged easily up the Tye, flanked by Remy (Rome Marathon 2 weeks ago, looking forward to the Derbyshire White Peaks marathon in May) and Nigel (who confessed, having missed last weeks' 20, to managing a paltry 13 as a long run). The hardened, rutted ground seemed to flow under my feet. The heavy breathing either side masked my own modest efforts; I felt good.

We rounded the small Church atop the Tye and headed West along the Landover tracks. The point of final decision was a mere 200 yards ahead.
'So, not joining us today then?' Nigel asked, innocently.
I glanced back. The chasing pack were half a minute back, apparently content to take it easy. It dawned on me that I had the perfect excuse to go with these two.
'Neither of you did the 20 last week, right?
Grunts in the affirmative.
'Then I'd best go with you - I'm the only one who knows the way!'
Grins all round. As with all self-deluded souls I felt vindicated and wholly altruistic about this decision; I was helping others.

Remy is a quality off-road runner - hills mean nothing to him. He bounded up the North Face like it was a single flight of stairs. As last week, I too ran the full climb, but there the comparison ends. Nigel and Mark (who had completed the 20 with me last week and had caught Nigel on the North Face) huffed and puffed over the last rise.
We took on fluid and gels, and I had my first hint of doubt over provisions.
'It's a hot one, eh?' I offered.
'Hope we can find a water tap towards the end of the run.'

Off again, up the Yellow Brick Road, once a fearsome climb. Now I had experienced the Big W, this gentle ascent held no fear for me. As expected, fear was also off the agenda for Remy as far as his first visit to the Big W was concerned. He zig-zagged at high speed down the treacherous grass slopes on the down strokes and bounced effortlessly up the debilitating climbs. Mindful of the temperature and with no need to push myself too hard I walk/ ran both climbs. At the top of the final upstroke of the W we paused. Mark joined us, and we waited for Nigel. And we waited. After 2 minutes he appeared around the final bend of the chalk/ flint path, and he was not happy.

'That bloody hurt!' he exclaimed.
I felt sympathy, as Nigel had, like me, suffered unavoidable interruptions to his March training, and if a lack of mileage was going to tell anywhere, it was here. Another dash of water, another gel, and off to Castle Hill. Once again I kept pace with Remy, but I had come to realise this was costing me more than I could afford on the energy front. We paused again at the entrance to Castle Hill Nature Reserve. Nigel was still not happy.

'I've wrecked my groin' he groaned. 'I'm going to wait here for a bit.'
We reasoned that the main pack, together with outriders Sam and Tony, would be along in 10 minutes or so. We agreed that there was nothing to be gained by Nigel pushing on and he may as well head off to the top of the Snake. We'd be reaching that point (via the drop down Castle Hill and the climb up the Snake herself) in around 30 minutes.

And now we were three. We dropped down the winding track, through the reserve and into Death Valley. I began to feel heavy legged, and to ponder the wisdom of
a) ignoring advice from senior RC personnel
b) running extremely tough off-road 20's back to back
c) that 5 mile dash to Black Cap 24 hours earlier

Remy and Mark pulled away, and I let them go. Up the Snake we spread out evenly, a 50 metre gap between each runner. I looked down into Death Valley and saw the tiny figures of our colleagues some three quarters of a mile behind us. I looked ahead in time to see Nigel hurtling down towards us.
'Going down!' he yelled as he passed. I assumed he was taking the 'backwards' route home. If so, we'd see him again on the Rottingdean road.

And so it proved. I’d accepted that I wouldn’t keep pace with Remy to the end, and had settled into an easy pace. I ran through lazy sheep dozing along the top of the Downs, the Spring lambs scattering at the sight of this pink-faced, perspiring biped as he staggered through their peacful domain. I glanced across the field to my left, seeking the road that would bisect my path and take us down into Rottingdean. I saw the sorrowful figure of Nigel, shuffling along the single track path, obviously suffering. 5 minutes later our paths converged.
‘You OK?’ I asked. Dumb question, but there it was.
‘My groin’s definitely gone’ he wailed. ‘This is agony.’
As if this admission had broken his will, Nigel’s shuffle morphed into a painful walk. I slowed, walking with him. I pointed out the Windmill, around a mile ahead, as a good omen.
‘The Windmill’s showing the way home’ I reminded him, instantly regretting the cheesy 1950’s family B movie quality of the line.
A grunted acknowledgement.
‘Come on mate, let’s see if we can’t keep you jogging along.’
We jogged, slowly, for a round half a mile.
‘It’s no use Ash. You go on. I’m OK walking.’
To be honest I was relieved to hear him say this. There’s nothing worse than taking a walk break when your legs are tightening up and then trying to run again. I mean, it hurts, more that the running itself.

I set off, knowing that the pack would be along soon enough to keep Nigel company and, if things got worse for him, call a cab to meet him at Rottingdean. My attention turned to my water supply. I’d drained my Nathan at the top of the Snake, some 15 minutes earlier. I would need a supply.

Into Rottingdean and a quick scout on the hoof for an outside tap. No dice. OK, I thought, you’ll have to knock on a door and ask for help. Just then, at the foot of the climb to the Windmill, I spied a couple of old gentlemen reclining in tattered deckchairs in an allotment. I called out to them asking of they knew of a nearby water supply.
‘You can use ours old son’ one offered, smiling. ‘We drink from it all the time.’
This prompted me to look a little closer at the men, but unexplained stains on their dirty white vests aside, they seemed reasonably normal. They asked about our run, having seem Remy and Mark come through some minutes before, and I explained the distance, the route and why we were doing all this. The looks on their faces told me I may as well have announced that we’d climbed out from the centre of the Earth and were searching for Gandalf. I thanked them for the water and staggered off up Windmill Hill.

The last 2 miles were, as they always are, instantly forgettable, being painful in the extreme. But the fresh supply of cool water had cheered me up, and I loped along happily enough to the finish.

Remy and Mark had disappeared, so I slumped gracelessly onto the warm spring roadside turf to refelct on the folly of men, and me in particular. There were moments out there today, between miles 16 and 18, when I remembered what it was like to run a Marathon. Remembered in the sense that my body, my legs and lungs, experienced actual Marathon-day distress and fatigue. I decided to take this as a positive from today, safe in the knowledge that the next time I felt like this will be on the crowded streets of London.

One by one the London group came in, like wounded bombers returning from a sortie, running, hobbling and limping home. Nigel was in good shape, they told me, and was getting picked up in Rottingdean. He has time to recover, although he will need to revise his plans for his inaugural 26.2 miles on the 17th. My own biggest concern now, as Remy appeared armed with several 2 litre bottles of water and a bag of bananas, was how to explain this madness to my colleagues on this site. But if you'd been there, in my shoes, with those vast, glorious landscapes all around, I know you'd have done the same. Or at least you'd have thought about it.

OK, it's taper time. It really is.

[Nigel]

Such a great movie, and aptly, I don't remember much heed being taken there, either....

Can't say I'm that (or even, at all) surprised to hear of your 20-miler. Two weeks is another way, probably well-suited for those bounding in energy and full of spirit. It's great that you feel so good, and you can take that feeling to the bank. There's an article on the 'Perfect 2-week taper' in Runner's World this month, written just for you, although I must admit that since there's a stack of unread copies on my bedside table to get through first, I haven't read it yet myself.

It's great that you had a fine run, in such marvellous weather. Sometimes, it's just good to go with it - that's simply how it is. Especially when you're in fantastic shape. This is the year !

[Sweder]

Time of day: 19:00 hours
Location: Seaford seafront
Distance: 3.4 miles
Duration: 34 minutes
Conditions: Glorious sunset, breezy, cool
Companion: Seafront Plodder

What a lovely evening.
A gentle plod along the seafront, chatting easily with SP. The Great Plodder hadn't been out for a few weeks and, despite his early apprehension, you'd never have known it. Whispy white trails scampered over the horizon, chased by the shepherding setting sun. A cool breeze brought salt and ocean aromas across the promenade as we loped Westward. Shearers were offered and returned with a few fellow joggers, grins exchanged in silent acknowledgement of this perfect end to the day.

We'd agreed on 3 miles, but frankly we both felt it could have been 13, so easy was the pace and fresh the feeling in the legs. And we would have, too, but for the call of the local hostilry and the promise of Chelsea v Bayern Munich. Our reward, as if one were required; a couple of very decent pints of Guinness and a Chelsea goal after 4 minutes.

Thanks SP, that was just what the Doctor ordered.
Life is good.

[El Gordo]

Our reward, as if one were required; a couple of very decent pints of Guinness and a Chelsea goal after 4 minutes.

Eh?

I expect Chelsea to win the Champions League, but believe it will be a utter disaster for football, and a blow to those who support clubs being crushed by the grotesque financial ogres at the top of the pyramid.

Abramovitch has corrupted Chelsea and Chelsea has corrupted even the already rotten Premiership.

I curse them, and I curse the damage they are causing. and will continue to cause.

[Sweder]

yeah, point well made . . .

. . . but it was Bayern Munich. I'm sorry, but I'd pay to watch a team including Satan, Saddam Hussain and Phil Thompson put the ball past the King of Smug, Oliver Khan . . .

[El Gordo]

We must disagree on this one, Sweder.

I've no argument with Oliver Kahn. He's just 'that big German goalie' to me.

The stakes are much bigger for me than this sort of fleeting schadenfraude. If Abramovitch succeeds in buying success, then he destroys the innocent faith that millions of us have about the primacy of hard work, talent and endeavour. To come in and just buy it all up is a depressing disaster. He's the fat kid in the tuck shop with pocketfuls of dosh, buying up the lot for himself. Why should I wish him well?

[Sweder]

Ah good, an argument!
I'll take that gauntlet, Andy Old Bean.
Don't forget, I am already on the Dark Side, supporting as I do the Guardians of Football Riches. I have no love for Mr A. He is, allegedly, at best a shady character and at worst an extremely unpleasant man.

However, I can take pleasure from watching young English players like Frank Lampard and John Terry mixing it with the best in Europe. That's good for our National game, and therefore good for the future of the sport as far as the youth of this country is concerned. When those boys turn out for their country the opposition will know they have a battle on their hands. Abramovitch's vast wealth has yet to wash the calluses from their feet; they play as lads in the street do, riches or no, and I grudgingly admire their appetite to win. I'm reminded somewhat of Rollerball. James Caan's character (Jonathan) is a global hero. In reality he's a puppet, the plaything of rich, powerful men who keep the prolls quiet on a diet of blood and hard sport. Despite the lure of comfort and status, and against the wishes of the puppet-masters, Jonathan retains an insatiable, base desire for victory in the arena.

I have a funny feeling the Chelsea bubble will burst before long.
The world that Abramovich inhabits does not run smoothly. If his gains are as ill-gotten as we are led to understand the icy fingers of fate may yet conspire to require his attention elsewhere, hopefully in a dark and lonely Gulag.

I'm sorry, but the Corinthian ideals you associate with Football were discarded long before Russian billionaires took interest in the game. My own club is guilty of flogging shoddy garments prepared by impoverished Asian children to boost the war chest of Old Puceface. Not to mention the crass abuse of the World's finest club competition to take part in a (failed) FIFA Fatcat Fest in South America. The bus routes from the airport were extended by 12 miles to spare the sensitivities of the players as the usual journey would pass sights of abject poverty the authorities would rather the World's sporting press did not see. Yet further back the whole sordid nonsense involving bookmakers and dodgy goalies cast ominous shadows across the sport. Then there was that Colombian lad, executed by gamblers after making a mistake in a World Cup match . . .

By the way, as a Man United follower (I don't qualify as a fan, despite my 38 years allegiance) I'm entitled to support anyone against Bayern. Actually, Kahn does not trouble me so much as the spectre of Lothar Matteus, a pillar of arrogance that would wither Mr Mourinho.

Perhaps this is why I choose to follow football in the raw, huddled in the corner of the Dripping Pan watching the Mighty Rooks hold their own against Dorchester and Weymouth, grimacing at the Gladiatorial carnage of the Eastbourne derby, and relishing the once-in-a-lifetime visit to the Britannia Stadium in the 3rd Round of the FA Cup a few years back to face the Giants of Stoke City.

I didn't know Schadenfraude was playing - did he come off the bench?

[Nigel]

I'm enjoying this one. Even if it's 'Schadenfreude' - with three e's and a capital S, 'schadenfraude' mysteriously translating as 'Damages woman, with something of a Dutch or foreign accent (Annika Rice, Ulrika Jonsson, Faria Alam ?'.

I agree that it's good to see the likes of Frank Lampard and Joe Cole playing so very well. I just so wish they were still at West Ham (along with Defoe, and Carrick, and Kanoute, if possibly not James). Oh dear, I think you've got me started again. More Prozac, Nigel.

[El Gordo]

I probably shouldn't talk about football immediately after getting back from the pub.....

Supporters of the Premiership behemoths are always telling me that footballing ideals are long since gone, implying that I should "accept it and move on".

In response I say that it's very much in the interest of the cash-rich giants to urge people like me to keep quiet. Much more important, it's not true that these ideals are gone. I see it week after week in the lower divisions, where, apart from a small handful of clubs, we have to survive and try to flourish on almost nothing. It's here that a club succeeds by managing itself well, working extraordinarily hard to get and develop the right personnel, living in a constant state of self-motivation, hard effort and fund-raising with the fans. If any part of the plan slips, you fall.

Some will say that it's actually the same for Chelsea, but no. The point is that Chelsea have removed this necessary tension between effort and reward. If a player fails, Abramovitch shrugs and replaces them. If a coach fails, Abramovitch shrugs and replaces them. If a chief executive fails, Abramovitch shrugs and replaces them. The permutations continue until success arrives, as it is arriving now, this season.

He has bought glory, and therefore there is no glory.

He hasn't twigged this.

I actually don't bracket Man Utd and Arsenal with Chelsea at all. Though very rich, their riches have been amassed by gradually building up support off the field through brilliance on it. It was a long process that eventually paid off. In short, it was earned. Chelsea's success is unearned and therefore has no value and no honour.

But more serious, in executing this plan they are corrupting a football generation that may never recover. If it was only the behemoths that were to expire in the impending explosion, I wouldn't be so concerned. But we all know what will happen. The giants will survive; the rest of us won't.

That's why it concerns me.

[Sweder]

I thought you were a little feisty last night, but that's a good thing; there's not enough passion in the world. (I do hope everyone knows what we're talking about . . . ). These discussions are best held in the pub anyway, when you (I) can wave your (my) arms around and get all excited and turn a dangerous shade of maroon.

I was actually playing Devil's Advocate somewhat - I also find the Chelski revolution a little hard to take. There's something about gaining success through trial and error that's essential to longevity in Sport. I forgot to mention Jack Walker last night. Maybe you railed against him at the time, too, but I remember him 'buying' the Premiership for Blackburn, and look what happened to them.

Sorry Nigel, I didn't mean to re-open deep wounds. I too would rather see those lads at Upton Park; the sad thing is they were all there, and yet the Hammers fell. We really should meet up and have a good old wail about the state of the union one of these days . . .

[El Gordo]

Aha! The Jack Walker gambit.

Just a few quick points:

1) Even if Walker was an Abramovitch (and he wasn't), I don't think that's a strong argument.

A: "I don't like what Dictator X is doing in Country Y. His actions will bring instability to the region and cause a lot of suffering. He should be stopped."

B: "I wouldn't bother. Pol Pot did the same. Hitler. Stalin. The regions will recover eventually."

2) As mentioned, Walker was no Abramovitch. Yes he was a wealthy man, worth £300m, but compared to the Russian crook's £12 billion (?), it's nowt. He spent less than £30 million on players in the road to Blackburn's title victory. We all remember being shocked when Shearer went there, but he cost £3 million. Contrast that with the £280 million spent by Abramovitch in little over 12 months. Even with inflation, it doesn't compare.

The danger with Abramovitch is that he has the capability of corrupting the entire game, while Walker didn't. His Chief Executive has already mused that it is part of Chelsea's "marketing strategy" (not playing strategy, note) to buy up England players. A point can easily be visualised when Chelsea essentially own the England team, and therefore the means to call the shots. Withdraw players, demand massive fees for their services, take a large cut of sponsorship deals and so on. It's rotten, and driven by the worst of motives.

3) But much more important is this point: Walker was born in Blackburn and was a lifelong Blackburn fan.

[El Gordo]

Thanks for the "feisty" euphemism incidentally. I didn't deserve it....

[Sweder]

Probably just as well I didn't bring Jack up last night then . . .

My point about JW was not to compare him with Nosferatu, rather to highlight the feeling in football at the time. I'm an optimist, and I believe that eventually evil people get their just desserts. RA's is coming . . .

Changing the subject, did anyone witness the appalling cameo by Terry Venables on ITV for the Liverpool game? He's usually strategically buried in a cluster of pundits, but poor Gabby Logan was stranded alone with the Great Spiv on Tuesday night. He delivered the most baffling deluge of drivel I've heard in some time (and that includes listening to David Pleat on 5 Live). Shades of Herbert Lom in the Pink Panther movies; pathalogical lunacy manifest in a former figure of authority. He only lacked the wink - he had the insane giggle off to a tee.

'Wots gotter rappen is, they've eiver gotta get at em quick, or sit back an let em come on to em.'

Priceless, Terry. Bring back Ron Manager.

[Nigel]

Yes, West Ham had all those players, and they still went down. Admittedly, the players were younger, and not yet quite so good, but they were certainly the nucleus of a Premiership-winning side, and they underperformed, big time. West Ham also had Glenn Roeder at the helm, who is a very nice man.

Very late in the day they asked Saint Trevor to manage the team, but they did this far too late, and for gentlemanly reasons, only even considering this obvious option in dire extremis after Roeder was taken ill at a time when they had been languishing at the foot of the table for most of the season. Only then did we began to see what might and should have been achieved if they had been playing under an inspirational and thoughtful leader.

Sadly, having then unceremoniously dumped Roeder, who had been appointed after Redknapp's characteristically and unwisely outspoken departure, on the sole grounds that he was a) keen and b) cheap, they then hired Alan Pardew on the basis presumably that he was a) keen, b) cheaper than a range of decent options and c) a proven manager for getting teams into the lower play-off places of the second division (Championship, if you must). That is the level he has matched for the past two seasons, but it is not enough to recover the club to where it was.

The problem for West Ham now, is that with the financial gulf between the upper two leagues, and the increasing flavour of a good(ish) second division side, they will struggle to attract a decent manager when Pardew inevitably goes at the end of the season. Someone like Gordon Strachan could turn the club round, surely, but wouldn't he rather go to a 'bigger' club like Portsmouth, or back to Southampton even ? It looks unlikely that anyone sane would want to take on the Upton Park board. Alan Curbishley would be a great choice, too, as a former Hammer himself, but why would he now leave the successful club which he has crafted out of Charlton ?

The idea of these being the 'big' clubs whilst West Ham are the 'minnows' would have been unthinkable only five or six years ago. But that is the effect now on even established first division sides of a few seasons in the lower ones. Just ask Andy about QPR (on second thoughts, maybe better not do that before he's been back to the pub).