Christianity during Covid

Nostalgia is a wonderful tool, it gives the mind respite. Memories allow us to keep focus, feed a desire to right wrongs and reinstate the innocence of yesteryear.

A lot of my nostalgia is set in the North of England. Not exclusively, but the community I grew up in was strong. Hardy. I was privileged.

This week saw the closure of The York Minster School due to Covid-19. It concludes a tempestuous time for the historic Chapter-led establishment in YO1. First there was the BB gun saga that saw Headmaster Donaldson suspended by Chapter, then later resign. There was then the sadness of another former Head growing evermore unwell. Both graced the alto line for decades in YM too, I wouldn’t be where I am without them.

There have been countless more. The storm that Dean Ray Furnell brought in with the Millennium was mighty, there was the controversial sacking of a lay clerk after internal accusations a decade later, not to mention the safeguarding scandal around the bellringers. Go back further and you’ll discover two heartbreaking suicides from within their ranks. It seems questionable I have nostalgia at all really, but oh how I do.

What I am getting at is this: As these tragedies stack up, they become harder to acknowledge as blips. Why does God’s House suffer so? Why York? What did they do to get it so bad?

Well the sad truth is – they are not an extreme, York just happens to be my hometown.

Countless controversies shroud our cathedrals and churches. Twenty five years of choirstall occupancy has taught me that. Covid-19 is not the fault of the Church. They did not predict the financial desolation, nor the now empty vessels that prop up our skylines. They are however, in complete control of their reaction.

For the first time in my life, our world paints a portrait more befitting of the Old Testament. I grew up ensconced in the Gospel of the New Testament, the concept that we break bread together and that death had lost its sting. I was surrounded by the warmth of older siblings, albeit not withstanding our own family dramas that made life far from idyllic. Now though, I oft awake alone to death tolls and psalmodic impressions. Time to call on that hardy nostalgia me thinks.

My current mood comes from Psalm 74. It is a wonderful prose that repeatedly pleads: “Wherefore art thou absent from us so long? Why is thy wrath so hot against the sheep of thy pasture?” This is musically brought to life in many cathedrals with the use of SSAA to emphasise the starkness and helplessness of the questions.

Another verse that resonates is from Ps. 59: “They go to and fro in the evening. They grin like a dog and run about through the city.” Talk about an irate, lockdown defying illustration. One Alex Donaldson drew in detail on the Dec Alto 2 copy, incidentally.

My real sadness is that so few of us have asked God these questions from Ps. 74. Instead we bicker, argue over hearsay and compare online influence as we are forced to worship irregularly.

There are so many issues in the world, many beyond our control. We are also under the shackles of a useless, elitist government here in England. If there is one thing the Bible teaches on repeat, it is that we are all equal in the eyes of God. This resonates emphatically with the George Floyd injustice and the racism still prevalent in society.

With these issues opening our News each morning, it is fair to argue that we are in a deep affliction passing resemblance to Old Testament poetry. King David talks of a society ravaged by evil and begs his God for divine intervention. Disease and pestilence rule the land rather than mercy and kindness.

For me, there is no denying that this is a crossroads for society, just like those documented in days of yore. We are being forced to face all our demons at the same time. Murder, disease, climate control, inequality on a global scale – People understandably fear the end of the world. I don’t believe we are there just yet, but there is a definite “kick up the backside” forcing us to to rectify wrongs with sobering casualties along the way.

I have felt airs of envy for those who have died as of late. Not of their pain and suffering, more the kinder climate to which the kind-hearted can return. I appreciate the thought is dark and unrefined, but what sort of musician isn’t?

I do have moments of excitement too. As nostalgia grows stale, I feel forced to make a better future. A future where younger people can look back fondly like I once did. With fewer comforts behind us, we must forge greater memories ahead.

I end with two final passages from the Book of Psalms:

“But as for his own people, he led them forth like sheep, and carried them in the wilderness like a flock. He brought them out safely, that they should not fear.” – Psalm 78.

“Trust in the Lord and do good; dwell in the land and enjoy safe pasture. Delight yourself in the Lord and he will give you the desires of your heart. He will make your righteousness shine like the dawn, the justice of your cause like the noonday sun.” – Psalm 37.

Why the Scottish Championship is the league to be following

We all know that the SPL is a foregone conclusion.

Since the season of 2011-12 and the rightful demotion of Glasgow Rangers to the lowest tier of Scottish football, Celtic have maintained a stranglehold on the Scottish game. The only potential fireworks had been extinguished.

It has taken time for Rangers to recover, it would any in such a crippling scandal. To their credit, three promotions in four years saw their return to the big time, but they don’t look the finished product. The raw reality is that the Parkhead champions remain unchallenged.

Aberdeen looked like hopefuls last campaign before inevitably falling away as the pressure built. Hearts of Midlothian again sit proudly in the upper echelons of the SPL, without seeming a serious contender.

The thing is, due to the stark bridge in class, Celtic get away with murder. Their performance at the weekend against a mediocre Dundee side had not the grace of returning champions. But they won again by a single goal, grinding out another result against a team that so recently were in the doldrums.

The Championship this season however Is anyone’s game.

For the last two years it has been dominated by teams that were only there due to difficulties off the pitch. In 2014-15, Hearts ransacked the division. Clearly in the wrong tier for a team of such stature, hence their immediate return to third in the Premier Division the year after.

In 2015-16, Rangers found their stride. The were gallantly pushed by Hibernian initially, before storming back up to the grounds of their former glories.

This year, by just October it has opened up. A Neil Lennon led Hibs were the bookies’ favourites, expectant to return to the big time. A capital club slumming it in the lower leagues for any longer understandably seems outrageous.

Yet after eight games, it has become clear that the Edinburgh side continue to stutter. Dundee United’s entrance to the league appeared formidable on paper, but those who follow Scottish football will understand that they are a wounded outfit.

Blame the now York City manager Jackie McNamara? I would, but that may be a personal vendetta.

Strikingly at the weekend, four of the five fixtures in the Scottish Championship finished in draws (the exception being bottom-half Morton defeating top-half Raith Rovers).

As it stands, Queen of the South sit atop the table. An upset of biblical proportions one might say.

Hibernian cannot close out games. The new boys Dundee United are rooted mid-table with just three wins to their name. Falkirk are last year’s playoff casualties, who languish four points off the pace already.

What to expect next?

For me, the lack of clarity on what is to come overpowers their prosperous rivals of the SPL. It gives the league an unrelenting attraction.

Relegation 2: York City’s dreaded sequel looms

The first York City match I attended as a lad was 19 years ago. Old Division Two against the mighty Blackpool, who have graced the Premier League since. We won 1-0.

I have had special moments supporting my local team, and wouldn’t change them for the world. Trips to Wembley certainly resonate fondly in the memory.

But when I think of low points as a doting City fan, I always return to 2010 and an away trip to Grays Athletic.

Ironically, on that icy night on the outskirts of London, we won 4-0. But I cannot shirk the memory I had that night on the train.

I remember asking myself: “How on earth has it come to this? I’m on my way to Grays.”

It was a bizarre sensation, and one that made me laugh. To be fair, I was getting used to it. Another sobering moment was our away trip to Ebbsfleet United. I asked for the nearest cash machine in a local shop, and was advised that platform 2 would take me to Gravesend.

As the weekend fixtures fast approach, I find myself overwhelmed by a similar disenchantment.

We may be just five games in, however there is a dreadful sense that York may be about to face their second relegation battle in two years. They sit 18th. Considering they lost the last and fell out the Football League, the concept sits uncomfortably in the pit of my stomach.

Bit like a Bootham Crescent pie.

I mean, how have we returned to this? That moment of elation when York returned to the league feels a far cry from where we find ourselves now.

I was in a Canterbury car park when the winning goal went in that day. I remember smashing the dashboard of my friend’s car. He had locked me in to listen nervously on the radio. Magical moments have occurred and I am grateful for them.

In the modern era, Jackie McNamara (or Sackie as we like to call him in my family optimistically) has not helped.

Anyone who has ever played Football Manager (or Championship Manager to those of us greying more rapidly), know that he found himself with the absolute dream scenario this summer. A new league, and a clean slate on which to build an empire.

He didn’t.

It swiftly became apparent that he did not have the dressing room. The captain left, scoffing at Jackie’s offer of a new contract. The Player of the Season followed suit, dropping another league to get away. As for the press release when Michael Coulson pre-signed for St. Johnstone? It was cutting, which in my book is unprofessional. He was a club legend and left under a cloud.

The 6-1 away loss to Gateshead was one of the saddest things I have seen, arguably, in my 19 years supporting York. Granted, it was always going to strike a chord with me. Based in Sunderland this year, my home being humbled in the North East was always going to hurt.

So where next for York? Last week we saw a 96th minute goal after the captain had been sent off at Forest Green. It’s a real City trademark that, unerring ineptitude in defending during injury time.

That afternoon in 1997 feels a lifetime ago. Watching on wide-eyed at the likes of legendary Rodney Rowe cruising past defenders without a second thought in the third tier of English football.

But the current footballing climate is unforgiving and we are struggling. We have financial difficulties, stadium complications and a squad straight out the scrap yard. The catastrophic hat-trick.

If this doesn’t change soon, I worry for our future.

My heroes. Lampard, Zola. And now the complex Phelps.

I have a new sporting love.

There have been many. Frank Lampard, Gianfranco Zola, and of course Frank Leboeuf. But this week a new hero stepped into my life, destroying all in his wake.

Michael Phelps is one of the most fascinating characters in sport, but also indisputably the best. As the American 4×100 medley relay team touched home tonight, he picked up gold number 23 of his career.

It is important to take a moment to comprehend that. 23 golds. That is more than entire nations have accumulated in their history.

But it is his character that caught my attention.

His time away from the pool has been well documented in the American media, and less than flattering. Rehab and a DUI charge would be an emotional hit for anyone to take. Humbling, embarrassing and obviously wrong. But the human psyche is a complicated beast when wounded.

The controversy had clearly riled some rivals. The preparation area before his showdown with Chad Le Clos was the most riveting rivalry I have seen in years. Lewis Hamilton and Nico Rosberg was handbags, Vladimir Klitscho and Tyson Fury frolicking. Roy Keane and Patrick Vieira? Okay, that was exciting. But this was subtle, which made it so enticing.

The way they eyed each other up pre-race, only headphones separating them, was like a pair of lions circling the Serengeti looking for a fight.

But Phelps fought back again and was soon draped in gold. As he stood on the podium this week he seemed overwhelmed. He was not the only one, so was I.

His fiancee was as emotional, holding his baby Boomer as the star-spangled banner rang out time and time again. It was moving.

His history won’t be to everyone’s taste and that I respect. But sport is about fight. Resilience and defiance.

Michael Phelps retired and was struck down by depression. Like so many sportsmen and women who struggle to deal with the loss of the buzz that competition brings you.

But to come back with the world watching, and reclaim your crown (well, several in his case) is something that should be lauded. It is beyond belief.

This is why Michael joins the very exclusive group of sportsmen I swoon over (and not even called Frank!). He will forever be an inspiration.

Gazza -His tears the media refuse to recognise

At 1am this morning, July 11, 2016, The Sun published pictures of Paul Gascoigne “at a new low” as he exposed himself to photographers and neighbours alike after a run to the shop to buy drink.

Revered for his footballing talent, the former England, Tottenham and Newcastle legend is also a renowned alcoholic.

His shortcomings have been well-documented due to his stardom, but alcoholism is an epidemic that strangles the British nation. The North-East’s sweetheart is far from an anomaly amongst healthier statistics.

Football is an unforgiving business when it comes to mental health. The stories of George Best and Gary Speed are painful reminders of how suffering fell on deaf ears. The post-mortem of regret and sympathy do little to bring back the characters lost forever from the world and the game alike.

This unfolding story of Paul Gascoigne raises alarm bells to anyone who has witnessed a similar story. But with the media’s co-operation and awareness of England as a whole, it isn’t too late.

Whilst alcoholism does grip the mind, eclipsing sense and rationale with a poison that floods the majority of the brain, there is a little window of honesty that peers through the crack in the wall.

To allow yourself to be degraded in such a way, to fall out of your gown as you stagger into a taxi as Gazza did this morning, is a call for help.

Alcoholism is a crafty illness, with a personality that feeds off deception. The victims trick themselves, convinced that another drink may null any onrushing anxiety. But they also hoodwink those around them, concealing both their depression and how they continue to get hold of drink against the advice of others.

Hailing a taxi to an off-licence in the early hours let Gazza show the world that he was past caring. He is instantly recognisable, especially in his native north-east.The depressive ingredient took hold, outweighing hope.

The football world needs to wake up and help. For all its wealth and power, it so often loses sight of humanity and the sense of tending for its own. The entire industry is built on support, loyalty is what makes any turnstile across the country tick over.

England are in danger of losing a great before his time, just like Northern Ireland and Wales have in recent times. The story from The Sun this morning, as clumsily and recklessly as it was delivered, should be served as a warning to all those who have the opportunity to step in.

The age-old cliche that nobody but an alcoholic puts that drink to their mouth is a vile, dated and offensive concept. Yes, the sufferer’s body makes the final decision. They yield the axe over their own head. But anybody who knows them has the opportunity to stop that from happening.

If we could cure cancer with love, support and devotion, we would. The same can be said of dementia, of Alzheimer’s too. What do you think charities are trying to do? The mortality rate of alcoholism can be combatted with empathy, patience and support.

I beg those with even an ounce of self-respect in the media: Next time you see a man at his wits end falling out of a taxi with his body exposed, don’t reach for your camera. Put it down, rush over, take his hand and help him back. Go through his phone not for your contacts, but for his to find support.

To those fortunate enough to work in the beautiful game? Reach out and combat it’s uglier side.

Manchester United: Mourinho’s Perfect Storm

As the summertime rainclouds reflect off the roof of Old Trafford, Jose Mourinho will be salivating at the sight of a perfect storm.

Since his entry into football 36 years ago, Mourinho has always had a point to prove.

Starting with Rio Ave as an average player at best, he made just 16 appearances.

With Felix Mourinho the coach, it is a scenario many can relate to. The weight of expectation to follow in the footsteps of his evergreen father, to emulate exactly what had already been done.

He moved onto Belenenses, but had the same issue – local lad who simply wasn’t his dad. Mourinho Snr. had played 131 times for the club. He was assistant there before he hung his boots up, and became manager eight years later.

Jose racked up just 16 caps again for the Lisbon club, and begrudgingly moved on.

Drill into the very depths of Mourinho and you find indignation. An umbrage that only his Portuguese pout can truly do justice. Football is his sport, he has proven that on a managerial level that few can boast bettering before him.

But his maltreatment on the road to success still seems to be the premier incentive for continuing it.

He was mocked as “el traductor” at the beginning by Barcelona. Never a true coach to be considered one of the elite, after his misgivings as a player led to an unorthodox route to the dugout.

But such is the uniqueness of his footballing journey, that it has produced a cocktail of bitterness and stubbornness few other managers have experienced. Many in football are left with such emotions, but few have the intellect to put them to useful practice.
Out of this injustice stems an uglier side to Mourinho. One that leaves such distaste in the mouths of so many.

None more so than Pep Guardiola, who saw his delight at overhauling the established as vulgar and unpalatable.

Boasting 11 years as a player at Barcelona, Guardiola can be seen as the polar opposite to Mourinho. Universally adored at the Camp Nou, as opposed to the glorified linguist plying his trade at Madrid.

Bring Arsene Wenger into the equation and that perfect storm starts to provocatively darken.

The Frenchman is famed for disliking the former Chelsea man for all the reasons listed above. His arrogance, his lack of grace, and total disrespect shown to a legend of a game.

Mourinho’s other passion, has always been ruffling feathers after all.

Mauricio Pocchettino is the new kid on the block and, arguably, the largest threat to Mourinho’s domination.The Argentinian’s tactics rival Mourinho’s and his dressing room demeanour eclipses him. It is also well known that he was on the United radar before prolonging his stay in North London.

The final manager in the top four is Claudio Ranieri. The champion. And unquestionably the glistening jewel in the Premier League crown.

When Mourinho was appointed at Stamford Bridge as the self-proclaimed ‘special one’ back in 2004, Ranieri was the casualty. Unceremoniously booted out the back door, not dissimilarly to Louis Van Gaal, in terms of media scrutiny.

‘The Tinkerman’ was proven, and what he lacked in tactical mastery he more than made up for in charm and grace. But he was shouldered out the way for Mourinho by oligarch Roman Abramovich, considered the more glitzy and desirable man.

The Portuguese manager had done what he had set out to do. Become the go-to man in football management, the most respected name in the game.

Mourinho will take over Manchester United with the club having finished fifth in the Premier League.

Once again, he is the underdog. Like he was at Porto when they conquered Europe, like he was again at Inter when they sealed an unprecedented treble. His Chelsea team were the same, in so much that they had not been England’s top team since 1955.

Between Mourinho and glory stand four men.

Wenger. The old enemy, past his sell-by-date in the eyes of the United pretender, and certainly not his biggest fan.

Guardiola. The golden child of the Camp Nou, his alter ego in so many an El Clasico.

Pocchetino. The hot property of the Premier League, revered for his social grace and humility. The two blotches on Mourino’s CV when it comes to employability.

And finally, Ranieri. The ugly duckling who became a swan. The media’s new superstar, and the ultimate over-achiever.

As Manchester United hand over the keys to Old Trafford, there will be hoards of sceptics scrutinising their new man’s every move. But little do they realise, they have set him up to outdo the one group of peers he wishes to defeat the most.

His perfect storm is forecast.

FA Vase Final: Hereford 1-4 Morpeth Town

TURN THAT TOWN UPSIDE DOWN

Wembley had a decidedly unbalanced feel to it as the FA Vase final got underway. Away to the right were near 20,000 Hereford United fans, bedecking the stands in black and white. To the other side, a spattering of Morpeth orange looking a little apprehensive about the task ahead.

Their fears were well-founded as Hereford burst into life from the kickoff.

A good through ball from Sirdic Grant found Rob Purdie in an embarrassment of space.
The Hereford stalwart, with over 100 appearances in the Football League with the Bulls, tore a shot into the left hand corner. It wouldn’t have looked out of place in the cup final the day before.

Hereford continued to push. Pablo Haysham saw an unchallenged header from six yards turned around the post. Joe Tumelty had a volley cleverly saved shortly after. Haysham should have scored but swung at thin air from a matter of metres out.

But Morpeth weren’t here to be trounced. A simple corner was flapped at by Martin Horsell in the Hereford goal, and there was Chris Swailes to chest the ball home at the back post. It wasn’t the prettiest, but the scores were level.

Morpeth came again.

Great play Luke Carr down the left saw the striker lay it on a plate for his partner Michael Chilton. But the number ten used the outside of his boot to agonisingly poke the ball wide.

The second half exploded into life just like the first, but this time Town took the upper hand. Luke Carr hooked the ball across goal and found the corner of the net after just 43 seconds.

It was compact and clever buildup play. Town were maturing as the game grew older.

Just before the hour mark it was three. Chilton with a lovely through ball to Sean Taylor who slotted home expertly from close range.

Even the fans had undergone a power shift, the handful of Northumbrians singing buoyantly about the silence of their counterparts.

Substitutes from both sides were brought on to try and shift the momentum. Hereford’s John Mills seemed to flinch as the ball came to him in the box, moments after coming on. Steven Anderson for Morpeth was introduced but fired a good chance straight at the keeper.

With time running out, another substitute Mustapha Bundu looked to salvage something for the Bulls, but saw his header cleared off the line. Damen Mullen the Morpeth saviour, having spent all season at Blyth.

Just into injury time, Morpeth wrapped it up. Steven Anderson strolled towards the box before rolling the ball to Sean Bell. The fellow substitute found the net with an aid of a hefty deflection and the game was won.
Morpeth had no right to come to London and win today, let alone by the 4-1 scoreline. In a season of struggle for so many in the North East, Town joined Darlington in celebrating a season lined with silverware.

League Winners Hereford, will return to the South stunned.

Minstermen read their last rites

There was a dark, threatening cloud over Victoria Park this afternoon, befitting of the relegation looming over York City heads.

City went into the game knowing that, by the end of play, they could be up to 11 points adrift with just 12 left to play for. After 11 games without a win, nothing but three points would do for the Minstermen.

With just ninety seconds on the clock, City keeper Scott Flinders was forced to back-pedal furiously. A Hartlepool header scooped towards the back post had looked destined to drop in, only to nestle harmlessly atop the net.

Five minutes later and it looked like Lady Luck may just hail from Yorkshire. A simple back pass to Pools keeper Trevor Carson saw him slip to his knees on the sodden surface, only to recover in the nick of time.

It was a stark reminder to fans and players alike that this was a competition, and the fat lady had yet to sing.

Further chances fell to Pools. Luke James scooping over from close range with his right, before Nathan Thomas, given alarming space to run into, did the same with his left.

Pools tried ‘route one’ next, as Carson’s kick from the back went through to Thomas again, his shot from an angle strongly palmed away.

But it had been coming, and the resulting corner finally punished the Minstermen.

A simple cross saw winger Thomas stroll into the box and tap home from a matter of yards. It was the story of City’s season, lax marking at a set-piece, and that elusive second-away win was becoming a pipe dream yet again.

The hill to climb became a mountain on 34 minutes as Dave Winfield received his second yellow for the visitors. Booked earlier for a clothesline on James, a clumsy challenge on Thomas saw the City centre-back receive his marching orders.

As one of the forerunners for York City’s ‘player of the year’, you would forgive those in the boardroom for taking a leaf out of Aston Villa’s book and abandoning the concept altogether.

Vadaine Oliver was sacrificed, as Femi Ilesamni entered the fray. It was starting to feel like a cricket score was on the cards.

York-born Michael Duckworth was denied by the legs of Flinders as he looked to build on his assist for Pools’ first. Minutes later he forced a diving save from range as Flinders pushed another effort wide.

Then just as the additional minutes were announced across the tannoy, York City ripped up the script.

A corner from the right found Kyle Cameron running in, who deftly bowed to nod the ball home into the opposite corner.

Against all the odds, the teams were level, and City showing an uncharacteristic venom.

News filtered through that Stevenage were winning. With results as they stood, a draw would be of no use.

Back to back corners before the hour mark suggested hope for City, but Pools keeper Carson remained untested.

The home side came again, spreading the play with their man advantage. Michael Woods shot straight at Flinders, before a diving header from James crept agonisingly wide.

City right-back Luke Hendrie got in behind the back four, but his cross was palmed away. Hendrie cut in again, Lewis Allesandra’s shot this time blocked.

It was end to end stuff.

Next up was Woods again. Another close-range strike diverted wide by Flinders, who was having an impressive afternoon against his old club.

But for all the keeper’s heroics, Woods was to have the final word.

With pressure mounting, two former Chelsea youngsters combined, captain Carl Magnay sweeping a cross in, which was met by Woods, another York-born talent in blue.

This time the midfielder made no mistake, nodding in against the inside of the post, leaving Flinders rooted to the spot. An impressive finish to cap off what would turn out to be a ‘man of the match’ performance.

There was time for Flinders to deny James once more to win their personal battle with an acrobatic tip over the bar, but the scoreline was not to change.

The Minstermen fell to their 24th league defeat of the season, and as the 527 visiting fans made the short journey down the A19 tonight, there will have been no doubt in their minds as to which road York City are travelling down.

Last Call for New York City

Disastrous, disorganised, haphazard, hopeless. These are just a handful of adjectives that sum up York City’s season.

With just five games remaining, the Minstermen find themselves languishing in the relegation zone, nine points away from safety.

For a club that has won just six times in 41 attempts, it seems improbable that they will string a further three together (at the very least), to save their Football League status. But what is football without hope?

The new footballing phenomenon, Leicester City, have breathed life into the game, and led all clubs outside the elite to dream that anything is possible.

Granted, City’s circumstances are contrasting to say the least, but survival this year would be similarly movie-worthy.

York travel to Hartlepool this weekend knowing that they need a result. In truth, they have needed a result every weekend for the last two months, the last win being against Exeter City on February 16.

But there seems an almost romantic need to amend the record this Saturday as Hartlepool reappear on the fixture list.

Back in August, York welcomed the Monkey Hangers for their first home fixture of the campaign. From what had been discussed during pre-season, they were expected to be a team in the lower echelons of the league come May.

To their immense credit, Pools started well. After the great escape of the season before, they won their opening three fixtures, something that would take York until mid-December.

A miserable run under Ronnie Moore saw them drop to 22^nd by February, but having steadied the ship under new boss Craig Hignett, they sit comfortably in 16^th, knowing their only participation in this year’s relegation circus will be their performance against York.

Pools ran out 2-1 winners at Bootham Crescent that day back in August, and for many, it was a sign of things to come. It was City’s first test against a similar team on paper, and they blew it.

I was there that day and it cemented a pattern we have seen repeated almost fortnightly since. York went a goal up around the hour mark, before capitulating and crashing to late goals and defeat.

Late goals and lax defending cost City two invaluable points just last week against Orient, and the week before when hosting Crawley. They simply do not seem to learn.

This weekend is a final throw of the dice. The discontent on the terraces was evident at the weekend, and I would regrettably agree with the majority that any change in fortune may be too little too late.

But the fixture with Hartlepool is about so much more. It is a chance to prove that something has changed since that defeat in August, that we should not expect similar disappointment when starting out next season, wherever that may be.

After that defeat eight months ago, the attendance at Bootham Crescent fell by almost 2,000 for the next home game against Yeovil. Considering the original attendance was just 4,890 that is an alarming statistic.

Whether those who failed to return were fair-weather fans or simply savvy enough to realise this team was not worth the £18 ticket price is your decision to make. But losing to Hartlepool United set the tone.

This weekend, York have the opportunity to set a different tone. A chance to show some of that fight come the end of the season that was inherently lacking at the start.

Whether it be a defiant farewell to a league we have not felt comfortable in, or another inexplicable story from a season which has had everything, we shall see.

But Hartlepool is local enough to matter, and the fans deserve proof that York have a future. Not only those travelling, but the circa 2,800 that have devotedly sat through the gritty and grim at home week after week.

I am not begging York City to survive. You don’t need to be an economist or a football coach to see the Football League is above their current squad level.

All I ask is improvement. A different sensation from that I felt in August, so I can enter that post-match press room with a sense of acceptance and pride, as opposed to that all too familiar, awkward grimace.

Feisty Affair at The Vic

As 90s trance hits reverberated along the East stand of Victoria Park before kick off, there was an unusual joviality amongst the Hartlepool faithful. The grumbles had gone, and there was an enthusiastic hubbub around the place like that of a christmas office party.

Pools were unbeaten in six going into today’s fixture, a run which had seen the team leave the threat of relegation behind. Sitting an impressive 17th with two games still in hand, the club was looking at those above them rather than the desperate few trapped below.

Twenty minutes passed at the Vic and the game sparked into action. The lively Luke James hurtled into the box one-on-one before being clipped by the chasing Krystian Pearce, who saw red for his cynicism.

Captain Billy Paynter stepped up to find the bottom corner, the keeper unlucky not to get a stronger hand on it, and Hartlepool led.

All of a sudden tempers had frayed. Celebrations turned to protestations as the two teams clashed in an ugly melee. A player a piece was booked, but the atmosphere had changed.

Hartlepool tore forward with their man advantage, the booked Nathan Thomas nearly falling into the away stand. The Mansfield fans were baying for blood and a hoard of police intercepted them. What had been a non-event was fast developing a Romanesque atmosphere.

Paynter struck the post, before Mansfield keeper and defender collided with each other. Another bitter argument ensued, this time between players of the same kit colour.

Things off the pitch were no better. Police rushed towards the toilets as the Mansfield mob set eyes on the home fans, the two separated by a thin, single barrier. Trouble failed to escalate, but not for want of trying.

Play resumed with the score 1-0, a section of the away support sensibly not returning.

Mentally at least, the players hadn’t either. Both teams swapped possession far too easily, Mansfield dragging a poor shot wide, before Nicky Featherstone had an effort deflected past the post at the other end.

The man advantage was far from telling, and Mansfield were the next to come close. Defender Ryan Tafazolli creeping in across the 6-yard box to force a clever save from Trevor Carson down to his right.

Moments later it was deja vu, this time Carson expertly diving to his left to deny Tafazolli with a wonderful reaction save.

Tempers began to fray again, the home fans this time voicing disgust at their own side’s pedestrian display. Town were in the ascendency despite having a hole at the back.

On 75 minutes, Pools were punished. Substitute Colin Daniel rifled into the top-right corner after the ball had fallen fortuitously to him, and the ten men of Mansfield were even.

Town weren’t to finish the game with their full quota of fan’s either, as another reveller was frog-marched away from the ground. They had brought a rowdy rather than respectable 300, but were set to leave with fewer.

With seven minutes left on the clock, the referee pointed to the spot again.

A jinxing run from Carl Magnay saw the defender fouled right on the edge of the area, the referee declaring it was just inside the box. Paynter confidently stepped up, firing the ball right down the middle past the diving keeper. Hartlepool were back in front.

Another smart save was needed from Carson five minutes later, another header from substitute Chris Beardsley forcing the Irishman down to his left.

As the final whistle went, the man of the match was announced as Paynter. Carson had been arguably overlooked, but the tall captain had carried his side during an awkward afternoon.

Hartlepool remain in 17th, as do Mansfield in 13th. But the fixture won’t be remembered fondly by many.