Start and start again

As Aidy sipped his warm cocoa of comfort, slipped on his cosy pyjamas and crawled cautiously into his cocoon last night, he stopped for a second to stroke his crisp, mighty-clean sheet, the first signs of whites in quite a while. A smile crept over him as in an instant he was sound asleep, snug and satisfied with his day of endeavour.

Meanwhile the rest of us sat up stiffly - once upon a time it was anxiety keeping us awake - now it's just thumb-twiddling boredom, a total desire for any form of entertainment to soften our weekly grind. The problem is, Aidy f*cking loves the grind, the football factory, the production line of sweat that eventually produces results. At least, it's supposed to.

This point against a maddeningly average Morecambe may have been brave and 'valiant' in the cold winter months following Johnson's genocidal era, but not now. Boothroyd proved with outstanding frequency that he could hit the defrost button, but just when we were ready to mix into the melting pot of contenders, he's gone and changed the ingredients - and the only heat is now on him. Whilst Wembley confirmed the need to add a little spice to the slightly bland base, instead he decided to start from scratch without a clear recipe, but with the distinct suggestion that he wanted to prove his doubters wrong. Stick to what you know, son.

Last season was a really-quite-dull affair for an almost promoted one, but at least it brought stability, unity and even the beginnings of belief. Boothroyd is a what-you-see-is-what-you-get straight-forward decent Yorkshireman, so trying to change into something flashier has not gone down well in the fashionless football world that is League Two. It almost seemed like he was trying to insert buzz words in the summer sun, of 'technicians' and 'quality', of 'proper footballers' instead of whatever he thought he had before.

Those words don't suit him well, and we are now caught in a strange world of not-quite-being-anything, with a midfield of not-quite arsonists and not-quite artists, where the only triangles that form between them hail from Bermuda.

Carter - the not-quite making it at the top level and not-quite giving a sh*t at the bottom rung.

Morris - the not-quite central, not-quite wide player who looks like he'd be better paid if we chucked down scraps of food from the stands.

Deegan - the not-quite brawler, not quite winning the ball back even if he does try bloody hard.

It was unfortunate that we were forced into a defensive mindset, turning back the clock to welcome a trusted old friend - yet injuries aside it felt like Boothroyd relished an opportunity to go one-up-fecking-front in the final inane minutes to keep the might of a willing Morecambe at bay. Through the cloned clichés it was hard to pick up anything of substance in his post-match delight, but when he declared us the only team to look like finding the net, one wondered whether he was clinging to the hope that Doumbé would suffer a spectacular loss of directon once again. 

He did not, and at least the foundations of a brick wall are being built once again. The question is, is this the time to be going back to basics yet again? We seem to be slowly rebuilding in a pre-season of our own, as if Aidy spent the whole of his summer on holiday, picking up random tourists instead of keeping the foundations that were growing strongly at home.

Cardoza's programme notes were telling - the trust that is built between the two is genuine - but poor Dave is staring impatiently at another seemingly impossible climb to the summit, with no leaders looking ready to step forward to climb us out of this muddled mess of a season. Boothroyd still looks ready to rally the troops, to tighten the trenches, to scream bloody loudly for the good ol' fashioned spirit of hard work to instill its rugged ways into us, before he relegates himself to the scrapheap.

Once again though, it's a fight. It's a battle. It's the threat of a trapdoor returned below. The only progress that's been made is yet another bloody chance for us to wipe the slate clean and start again. Right at the bottom.

He built himself time, but is there time for another rebuild or will yet another knight come tumbling down from his castle at Oxford?