Monday 3 January 2011

Worst six goal thriller ever: Charlton 2-4 Swindon

"Parky for Palace!" was the ironic cheer of the Valley massive as the curtain fell on a dismal performance by Phil Parkinson's home side.

It's not often you find yourself complaining about a game that featured six goals, but in truth there was little to cheer in a disjointed and limp game whose few energetic moments - most of which resulted in goals - resembled nothing more than a game of pinball.

The lead was Charlton's midway through the first half, but it came in scruffy style, a massive deflection sending Johnnie Jackson's shot looping over the Swindon keeper. From then on however it was misery, mostly self-inflicted, for Charlton. Swindon levelled quickly before half time, Ritchie tapping in for Swindon after his own shot was spilled by Charlton's keeper.

1-1 was the score at the break. A savage winter chill descended in the second half, and seemed to inhibit the home side more than their opponents. Swindon were gifted the lead when Christian Dailly, under only moderate pressure from Charlie Austin, lost control of the ball then tumbled as if he had been shot, leaving Austin free to drive home from fifteen yards. As the game entered its final phases, Swindon turned the screw, with centre-back Morrison heading in a tidy cross and Austin stooping to nod in his second from a well-worked corner.

My description so far makes it sound like a late festive bounty of attacking football, but in truth what I will remember from this game is the at times astonishing poverty of the home side's technical play. Charlton spilled, scuffed, shanked or overhit everything that came their way. At times they seemed to have not a single man on the pitch who could trap a high ball or complete a simple pass. This match was 3rd - Charlton - against 16th - Swindon - but for much of the game it appeared the other way round.

Charlton's relatively strong league position doesn't seem to be appeasing their fans. They vented their frustration amply, first at unfortunate substitute striker Pawel Abbott - who answered the mean-minded jeers that greeted his arrival by hooking in a late consolation goal for the Addicks - and then at manager Parkinson. Rumour has it there was a dressing-room row following the final whistle, so who knows what the future holds.

A subdued note on which to reinaugrate the Groundhoppa's bloggings, then. As usual I was accompanied by the doughty Sir Robert, who was so unimpressed by the footballing fare on offer that at one point he forgot the score entirely. This is his youthful stamping ground, however, so I was treated to a tour of some of the hostelries of Charlton and Westcombe Park, all of which I found admirably honest, down-home, spit-and-sawdust and other vaguely double-edged adjectives intended to indicate that although these places are enjoyable, girls should probably stay at home. Regrettably - reflecting the dour mood and low attendance at the match itself - none of these places was exactly busy or buzzing, even an hour before kick off.

Perhaps London's football scene hasn't fully woken up after its woozy, disrupted December - we'll see next week when the FA Vase gets back underway.