Singing the Blues - A Semi-Fictional Story of Managing Birmingham City on FM23

[Chonky Panda Tactics]

“I don’t think I’ve ever beaten a team managed by Graham Potter.”

“Is that true?” Keith says in my St. Andrew’s office while my players are getting changed.

“I kept losing 1-0 to his Chelsea sides, then couldn’t beat Everton on the last day of last season,” I explain, sitting on the edge of my desk. “I could really do with a victory tonight, for psychological reasons.”

“You’ve won the Championship, the FA Cup, and two Premier Leagues, having set more records than I can remember, whilst on a 21-game winning streak in all competitions, yet need a win ‘for psychological reasons’?” Matt says. “Are you serious?”

“Of course,” I reply. “Guardiola always struggled against Klopp, Wenger against Pulis, there’s definitely a mental hurdle that needs getting over with certain opponents.”

“They’re ninth.”

“And they were eleventh when we drew 4-4 at Goodison. I need this.”

“Is that why we’re going as strong as possible?” Keith asks.

“Essentially,” I say, hopping down from my perch. I cross the room and give the door a loud knock. “Is it safe yet?” I call.

I’m greeted by a chorus of panicked ‘No’s.

“For goodness’ sake, they take longer to get ready than I do.”

​

I get an all-too-familiar sinking feeling when Aleksandar Mitrović scores just before the half-hour, but not as familiar a feeling as I get in first-half injury time watching Konaté peel away to celebrate after crashing a header past his latest victim, Jordan Pickford.

Frustratingly, however, we aren’t able to take the momentum generated into the second period and I eventually resort to switching to a more aggressive 4-2-3-1, tossing on fresh legs in the hope of finding the goal we need - I need - to finally get the better of Graham Potter.

Step forward, Michael Olise: the best supersub in the Premier League.

The winger is in the perfect position, completely unmarked, to nod in Bob van Leeuwen’s lofted cross when it was starting to look like our winning run was coming to an end, before turning provider as he breaks clear on the counter, his low cross swept in by Scott via Ben Godfrey’s shin as the deflection wrong-foots Pickford, the final attacking act of the fixture as I hand over the stodgy instructions to the boys when they return to our half for the restart, locking down the last minutes with extreme effectiveness.

At last, Graham Potter can be added to my list of vanquished foes.

* * * * * * * *
​

Compared to the Second City Derby against Villa a couple of weeks ago, our clash with Wolverhampton Wanderers this Saturday tea-time is more Second-Rate Derby. That said, it’s still an incredibly intense affair, not helped by my poor relationship with their manager, Emre Belözoǧlu, and the fact we seem to have tighter games against our old-gold foes, so whichever genius decided it was safe to give both sets of fans all day to get tanked up before heading to the match must have gone straight to the top of the West Midlands Police’s wanted list.

Despite my taunts, Wolves are a tidy side that usurped Everton for ninth after the midweek fixtures, so we’ll respect their quality by playing another strong team, the only change seeing St. Juste’s physicality preferred to Williams’ technical ability at right-back.

​

It’s a traditionally tight/dull opening hour of a derby match, but the Wolves resistance can’t last forever once we start turning the screw after the interval and finally gives when Scott’s first-time, drilled cross is turned in by Endrick to kick off ten minutes of unrelenting pressure that sees Chong and Konaté both force top saves from José Sá. It seems merely a matter of time before we double our advantage.

That’s when Pedro Neto manages to pierce our defence with a wicked ball for Patson Daka to prod past Bijlow.

I can hear the taunts from the crowd and the Wolves bench, but I won’t bite back. There’s still time. I believe in my boys. Even as the time ticks away, we always have the potential to get a goal from anywhere.

And so it does.

And of course it comes from Olise.

The winger is slipped though by Ndombele smacking the ball past Sá’s head with net-busting power and, with the lead grabbed with minutes to go, we take no more chances. Maximum stodge, maximum time-wasting, and maximum late-game tomfoolery. The result? Maximum points secured, sending us 12 points clear at the top of the table.

I compose myself with the full intention of being professional as I cross my technical area to shake hands at the final whistle.

“More of your typical, lucky, cheap rubbish today, Nicole,” Belözoǧlu says.

“Shove your head down a toilet, Emre.”

* * * * * * * *
​

Thank you for reading! There'll be no update next week as I'll be on holiday, so please follow this thread to get notified when Singing the Blues returns in a couple of weeks and feel free to follow me on Instagram and Twitter!

 

[Chonky Panda Tactics]

Part Forty-One​

Welcome back to Singing the Blues! There's a record at stake, a Christmas double-header against Arsenal, and some geography lessons.

This part is spread across three posts, so please keep reading after the Monaco game and again after the Brighton game!

Season One
Season Two
Season Three
Part Thirty-Six
Part Thirty-Seven
Part Thirty-Eight
Part Thirty-Nine
Part Forty

“I have no idea what to write.”

“Just tell me what you’ve got so far,” Harry says, gesturing that I should continue with his cup of coffee.

“Okay then,” I say, straightening myself in the chair by my office window. “‘Good evening and thank you for joining us at St. Andrew’s tonight for this Champions League tie, against Monaco; I’m sure you’ll all join me in welcoming the French side to -’”

“They’re not French.”

“Aren’t they?”

“No.”

“But they play in Ligue 1,” I squint.

“Doesn’t make them French,” Harry responds, leaning on the doorframe. “You don’t call Cardiff and Swansea ‘English sides’, do you?”

“Well, no, but they’re not in England.”

“And Monaco’s not in France.”

“Where is it then?” I ask.

“Monaco.”

“Yes, Monaco.”

“No, the club is based in the country of Monaco.”

“Monaco’s not a country.”

“It’s more of a country than Wales, if you want to be pedantic,” Harry says.

“Then why is the club side called Monaco?”

“Because it’s a tiny place, second-smallest country in the world,” Harry explains. “Smallest if you only count UN members.”

“So, they don’t have a national team, right?”

“They do, it’s just not a member of FIFA or UEFA.”

“This is all very confusing,” I say, shaking my head at my laptop as I jab the ‘backspace’ key.

“Not as confusing as being cross-legged on an armchair with the recliner out.”

“I wriggle, I like to have options,” I scowl. “For someone who works in an industry where having a variety of choices is crucial, I’d have thought you’d understand.”

“Football and your sitting style are not directly comparable,” Harry says, rolling his eyes. “But, as we’re talking about choices now, fancy running me through which you’re thinking of making?”

“Of course,” I answer, glad for the reprieve. “Four from the weekend, in total: Neco, Stevica, Tanguy, and Michael all come in for Jerry, Krystian, Oscar, and Tahith so they can have a rest. Monaco are second in Ligue 1, but only just in the top half of the giga-group, so I feel those adjustments shouldn’t damage our hopes by much.”

“Why not save the rotation for Saturday?” Harry asks. “Norwich aren’t exactly flying.”

“Because we have Luton on Tuesday and I plan on resting all of the regulars then, instead - same as I'll do when we play Peterborough in the FA Cup.”

“Good planning,” Harry nods. “That’s all to come though, back to the matter at hand.”

“Can’t you write my programme notes this time?” I plead. “I’ve had to write loads recently.”

“The page is titled ‘Message from the Manager’, that’s your responsibility, I’m afraid,” Harry chuckles. “It’s just unfortunate that we’ve had so many home games in quick succession.”

“Fine,” I grumble. “Right then, let’s do this. ‘Good evening…’ blah, blah, ‘...this Champions League tie, against Monaco; I’m sure you’ll all join me in welcoming the…’” I tap carefully on the keyboard. “‘Monaconese…’”

“It’s Monégasque.”

“I’m going for a walk.”

​

For all my confusion over Monaco’s national status, it’s undisputed-Frenchman Ibrahima Konaté who powers in a near-post corner to put us ahead in trademark fashion and we could be out of sight by the break, if it weren’t for the brilliance of Uğurcan Çakir, so we’ll have to settle for a two-goal advantage when Konaté’s partner at centre-back, Anel Ahmedhodžić, takes a leaf out of his book in injury time, flicking in Tanguy Ndombele’s free kick.

We ease off after the restart, our ball retention skills not giving our visitors a chance to steal one back. We look totally in control and don’t look like we’re fussed about pushing for another as we seem destined to cruise to another victory, breaking our club record for consecutive wins in the process.

Until Gabriel Martinelli heads off the post, then volleys wide from six yards, then I panic and tell everyone to get stodgy as I breathe into a paper bag until I calm down by the time the final whistle goes.

* * * * * * * *​

 

[Chonky Panda Tactics]

Historians will remember that Norwich City at home was the first fixture that I lost after taking over at Birmingham. Those days of Danny Rose, no central heating, and Ben Gibson scoring a winner against me feel so long ago. Those same historians will likely remember that we didn’t lose another league game for 13 months, a streak that we’ve recently eclipsed. Could The Canaries cause an upset to bring everything full circle?

Well, we’re going with as strong a team as possible and absolutely stuffed the 2024 FA Cup winners 4-0 in that year’s Community Shield, so I blooming well hope not.

​

The first half is in danger of passing without incident, until Konaté stuffs yet another header into the top corner for his tenth goal of the season, his sixth in his last eight games, but it doesn’t spark a sudden upturn in our play and we remain subpar.

I attempt to inspire a little more from my boys at half-time and Keith Downing tells me he thinks they ‘listened well’ and ‘look focused’, so, given his propensity to jinx things, it was little surprise that Konaté is caught dawdling within two minutes of the restart and has the ball taken from his toes by Adam Idah, the Irishman darting to the edge of the box before letting us off the hook by blazing into the upper tier of the Gil Merrick, but a quick-fire double from Bob van Leeuwen and Oscar Gloukh puts us three to the good. Now, surely, we’ll start to look less nervy… right?

Well, no. Ahmedhodžić is slow to react and bumbles into Idah in our penalty area to gift the forward the chance to make amends for his earlier miss - and he does.

Now, the travelling side have their tails up. I’m sure a fourth goal, from Alex Scott on the counter, will shatter their resurgent spirit, yet it doesn’t. If anything, they’re inspired to come at us again, Idah running the show as he forces a save from Justin Bijlow before nabbing an assist seconds later, stealing possession from Ian Maatsen and squeezing a pass through for Josh Bowler to lift over our ‘keeper when one-on-one.

I’m baffled, I’m concerned, and I’m paranoid enough of an unlikely comeback to get the lads to shut down the final minutes against newly-promoted, 16th-placed Norwich. I’m not proud of it, I’m not happy about it, but it gets the job done.

* * * * * * * *
​

“How did you forget that Luton moved to Power Court a year and a half ago?” Matt Gardiner smirks.

“Don’t know what you mean…” I mumble.

“I thought you said something about heading back to Kenilworth Road, at some point?” Keith says.

“If I did, then I edited it out.”

“Edited it out?”

“Of my memory, that is,” I say.

“You say some weird things, gaffer,” Matt grunts.

“I’m a weird lady,” I shrug. “Doing and saying weird things is just what I do.”

“In fairness, I don’t think making ten changes to take on the team 17th in the Championship is weird, even away from home” Keith says. “Not when we’ve been without a non-international, midweek break since August and have a double-header against Arsenal lurking around the corner.”

“Feels a bit weird to me - it is an EFL Cup quarter-final, after all,” Matt says.

“Aren’t we meant to call it the Carabao Cup now?” Keith asks.

“That’s for sponsorship reasons. It’s still the EFL Cup, officially.”

“I miss calling it the League Cup.”

“Or the Carling Cup.”

“Or, even, the Rumbelows Cup.”

“Can we move on?” I sigh.

“Into the semi-finals? We better,” Matt states. “This lot look shi-“

“To a new topic, Matthew, you crude plum.”

​

Even with the Backup Brigade, this had no chance of ever being close.

Ryan Allsop does his best in The Hatters’ goal, bless him, but he can’t hold out alone and Arda Güler sets the wheels into motion with his opener, cracking in off the far post on the break, with Michael Olise the next to beat the ‘keeper before the lesser-spotted Jobe Bellingham adds a third. Kieran Hamer goes close a couple of times, but it’s Demarai Gray who completes the rout, intercepting Alfie Doughty’s pass and carrying the ball 30 yards before thumping into the top corner with enough speed to cause a gust that’d quadruple a wind farm’s productivity.

We’re into the semi-finals for the first time in three years.

​

Post-match, we wait with baited breath for the draw. Can we continue to ride our luck, having gotten the lowest-ranked team possible in each round so far?

No. Yaya Touré draws Championship Southampton against Arsenal, awarding us his former club, Manchester City.

Fabulous.

* * * * * * * *
​

I’m relieved that our heavily rotated side got through Luton with minimal fuss, because the already-hectic schedule now begins to kick into overdrive, starting with another trip south as we face Brighton on the final Saturday before Christmas.

With the rest in midweek, we’re able to name a full-strength team to take on Lionel Scaloni’s 13th-placed men, though Ilgaz Garhan makes the cut ahead of Ahmedhodžić as the Bosnian’s form has dipped recently, while the Turk has gone from strength to strength.

​

The travelling fans are still celebrating Endrick’s late goal when the final whistle goes. My assistant managers rise from their seats on the bench to join me as I return from shaking hands, the players around them already jogging onto the pitch to be with their teammates.

“Another job well done, boss,” Keith beams. “Good shout to start Ilgaz, he paid back your trust within minutes!”

“I know, a goal in the first 90 seconds and another in the last 30 to bookend a good performance will do very nicely,” I grin. “Shame about Neco’s injury though. Any early word on how he’s doing yet?”

“Pete and the team reckon it’s a groin strain,” Matt grimaces. “Probably three weeks out, maybe four.”

“Darn. Do you think that’ll put City off trying to sign him next month?”

“I doubt it, they’re pretty relentless,” Matt says. His grimace slowly softens into a smile, however. “I’m glad you mentioned them, though, because do you know what milestone of theirs we’ve just hit?”

“Ooooohh, yes,” I grin, pausing for maximum effect.

“Their record-setting, 18-game, winning streak.”

* * * * * * * *​

 

[Chonky Panda Tactics]

With only light training and tactical work for the next couple of weeks, those who started Saturday are fit enough to start again, barring the crocked Neco Williams, on Christmas Eve Eve as we return home to play the first of back-to-back games against Arsenal, with The Gunners desperate to keep somewhat in range of first place and prevent us claiming another spot in history.

​

We look awful. The aura of invincibility that’s surrounded us for so long dissipating under the pressure of what's at stake over the course of a shambolic opening hour, Garhan’s performance very much the Blade: Trinity of his recent trilogy of games as he gets beaten time and again by Arsenal’s attackers.

It’s miraculous that we haven’t conceded by the point Van Leeuwen makes our first foray into enemy territory, but he looks totally nonplussed as to what to do, which makes it fortunate that Teun Koopmeiners flails his legs at the teenager to hand us a clear route to goal at last - one that Endrick takes, emphatically.

Our lead feels lucky at best and fragile at worst, which it proves to be with ten minutes of normal time to go when Arsenal’s inevitable equaliser comes via the head of William Saliba and I resign myself to dropping points for the first time this season. I can’t even rouse any excitement for a late corner swung towards Konaté’s head and I’m barely surprised that our specialist in near-post devastation fires a blank as he crashes against the underside of the crossbar.

But who’s that lurking towards the rear of the pack? Why, it’s the man who lives under the radar. The man who does the dirty work to allow his teammates to flourish. The key to our play since day one and my first ever goal scorer. Oh captain, my captain. Krystian Bielik is the fastest to react to the loose ball, poking in at the back post for his first goal of the campaign, cinching the victory that sees us steal the winning-streak record in the most dramatic of fashions.

* * * * * * * *
​

What better way to celebrate breaking records than Christmas Eve and Christmas Day off with your family, then heading to London to spend Christmas Night in a hotel room, on your own? I can’t think of many.

The benefit of the return fixture being three days after the first is that all of the preparation done on Arsenal’s tactics still applies, so we were able to have two days of just rest and video meetings that enables us to name an almost unchanged lineup, only Garhan missing out after his own Nightmare before Christmas sees him replaced by Ahmedhodžić.

​

With history made, the fog of worry has lifted and we already look back to our best, emphasised by an opening quarter that sees Konaté ram in a header and Van Leeuwen loop his own over Aaron Ramsdale as he rushes off his line.

Arsenal do get one back sensationally when Takehiro Tomiyasu sprays a cross-field pass to Bukayo Saka that the England winger belts, before it bounces, into the top-right corner from the edge of the area, but the home following don’t have long to celebrate before Tahith Chong does Tahith Chong things after swapping wings with Endrick, breaking through The Gunners’ defence and finishing into the far corner to break their spirit and send us on our way to yet another three points with a far more convincing display.

* * * * * * * *
​

With 20 victories out of 20 in the league and one record secured, our final game of 2025 will see another come within touching distance: The Invincibles’ 49-match unbeaten run. Can we match the longest spell without a loss and become the first team in England to go a whole calendar year without losing a single league game?

Of all the teams that we could go up against, it’ll be Jude Bellingham’s Liverpool that’ll stand between us and immortality.

* * * * * * * *​

Thank you for reading! Please follow this thread to keep up with the updates, and feel free to follow me on Instagram and Twitter!

 

[Chonky Panda Tactics]

Part Forty-Two​

Welcome back to Singing the Blues! Can we better The Invincibles' unbeaten record? Can we make it to the Carabao Cup final? Can we beat Peterborough?!

This part is spread across three posts, so please keep reading after the intro and again after the contract news!

Season One
Season Two
Season Three
Part Thirty-Six
Part Thirty-Seven
Part Thirty-Eight
Part Thirty-Nine
Part Forty
Part Forty-One

The days between Boxing Day and New Year’s Eve always manage to blur into a homogenous mess of confusion. There’s always the same food, the same presents sat out in the same places, and, often, the same question being asked on repeat:

“What’s the date, Nicole?”

“28th, Harry,” I answer without looking away from my whiteboard.

“You remembered that quickly.”

“I’m an adult,” I mutter, still staring at my scribblings.

“I’m older than you, doesn’t mean I know the date over the course of Cheese, Sweets, and Turkey Week.”

I turn around this time.

“Liverpool tomorrow? Chance at equalling The Invincibles’ record of 49 league games unbeaten?” I frown.

“I remember if there’s football or not, not the date,” Harry shrugs from my armchair. “I’m pretty sure most people are the same, so how do you know when today is while no one else does?”

I pause for a moment.

“It’s a family member’s birthday tomorrow,” I mumble, returning to the wall.

“I knew it!” Harry shouts. “Well, not exactly, but you’ve got a weirdly good mind for remembering birthdays, so it had to be something like that.”

“You seem very righteous about this.”

“Because you dress things up as being normal, but it’s actually you being out of the ordinary.”

“I don’t remember so many birthdays that it’s abnormal, do I?” I blush.

“Bob van Leeuwen?”

“24th of February.”

“Steve Bruce?”

“31st of December.”

“Mason Greenwood?”

“Who?”

“Declan Rice?”

“14th of January.”

“What about my birthday?” Harry quizzes.

“I'm pretty sure you’ve never told me,” I say, slowly, lowering my pen.

“That’d be correct.”

“Why haven’t you?”

“It’s not a big deal,” Harry says. “I don’t like talking about it.”

“I can just check your Facebook, it’ll be on there.”

“I used a fake date of birth.”

“Why?” I ask, puzzled.

“Because it’s NO ONE’S BUSINESS,” Harry snaps.

“Then why’d you bring it up?”

“You did, you were talking about birthdays.”

“You didn’t need to ask me if I knew yours.”

“But did I ask you?”

“Yes,” I say, incredulous, spinning around to face him.

“Can you prove it? I don’t think you can,” he smirks.

“Alright, Ben Shapiro, can we drop this and talk about something else?”

“Let’s,” Harry says. He points to what I’ve been doing on the whiteboard. “What’re those orange stars?”

“They’re meant to be explosions, marking the players the medical department have told me not to push much more,” I explain.

“That would appear to be seven of the usual starting eleven.”

“Yes,” I sigh. “Starting nine of the same players three times in the space of a week will do that.”

“So, what are you going to do?”

“I would like to try and push through with the same team one more time, given how scary Liverpool can be, but I fear that would be akin to Negan’s first appearance in Walking Dead with what I know,” I say.

“Please, don’t smash anybody’s head in,” Harry whispers.

“So, Calvin, Alex, and Endrick will get a break tomorrow, with Ian, Roméo, and Arda coming in for them, before the rest get theirs on New Year’s Day,” I continue, oblivious. “As long as everything goes to plan and no one gets injured, that is.” I click the lid back onto my marker. “I don’t know what I’ll do if Jerry can’t get through this run, for example.”

“I presumed you’d cry.”

“Oh, definitely.”

 

[Chonky Panda Tactics]

​

Despite 12 shots, The Reds rarely look like threatening throughout the first half while we look far more dangerous, and it’s the fresh legs that are having the most impact, Arda Güler blasting wide when played through before Roméo Lavia does well to win the ball from Virgil van Dijk and play through Van Leeuwen, though the teenager can’t beat Alisson.

Our visitors can’t hold out until half-time, however. Tahith Chong slips Van Leeuwen through on the counter and, this time, Bob looks up and spots Lavia at the back post, totally unmarked, so squares across the six yard box for the Belgian to slam into the gaping net.

Liverpool begin to grow in confidence after the restart and finally breach our defence as Luis Díaz rampages down their left and hits the byline, pulling a pass back to Evanilson. The Brazilian is four yards out and has time to take a touch, so my head drops in anticipation of the seemingly-nailed-on equaliser, but the noise of synthetic leather slapping against foam and nearly 60,000 groans is enough to tell me that Justin Bijlow has pulled off an unbelievable save to keep us ahead.

And his heroics spark one heck of a response.

Within minutes, Güler races onto Ibrahima Konaté’s long ball. He has too much energy for any of Liverpool’s backline to catch him as he hurtles forward, cutting back onto his left foot as he nearly runs out of pitch and swinging a cross to the edge of the box for Oscar Gloukh to thump into the top-left corner, first time. Gloukh’s influence is then felt again moments later when he swirls in a corner for Konaté to do what he does best, ploughing past Alisson to get one over his former employers as we get the better of Jürgen Klopp’s men on another occasion and equal the 49-game unbeaten streak of Arsenal’s Invincibles, closing out 2025 without losing a single game in the Premier League.

* * * * * * * *
​

In case the team milestones weren’t enough, Endrick becomes the latest member of the squad to win individual acclaim, being named the European Golden Boy for 2025 after his frankly ludicrous first year in England where he averaged more than one goal involvement per appearance.

​

But with the turn of the year comes the wind of change that is the January transfer window - and we’re making moves early on.

First, Andrew Omobamidele is recalled from his loan at Club Brugge after being repeatedly played at right-back, despite assurances he’d play in the centre, then 33-year-old forward Kevin Volland arrives from Real Madrid to provide a higher level of competition to Van Leeuwen than Danny Namaso has recently. He may be older than our usual targets, but to get a player who fits our system so well, with the quality he has, whilst only costing an initial £3 million, and being happy to play second fiddle, made him worth straying from our typical demographic.

​

So, whilst Omobamidele hasn’t made it back to Britain in time to make the squad for our trip to Crystal Palace on New Year’s Day, Volland is thrown straight onto the bench to join the remaining players at risk of crumbling into dust as we make seven changes to our lineup from Monday, Axel Tuanzebe, Calvin Bassey, Stevica Gajić, Alex Scott, Tanguy Ndombele, Endrick, and Michael Olise stepping in for Anel Ahmedhodžić, Ian Maatsen, Krystian Bielik, Lavia, Gloukh, Güler, and Chong as we look to become the first ever Premier League team to go half a century of games in succession without losing.

​

The opening period passes in a colossal breeze of nothingness, but I’m reassured by how little Palace have threatened.

Then Ivan Toney dumps a header past Bijlow just before the hour and I start getting sweaty palms.

After being the team to score first in the last eight fixtures, I consider that the lads may not remember how to respond to going behind, that this is the time for our unbeaten run to end. All that work, only to falter at the final moment when we have the chance to take it all for ourselves, just like we did last campaign when aiming to win more games than anyone had before. Did we go all of 2025 without defeat, only to lose on the opening day of 2026?

Well, our new boy has something to say about that.

Having all just come off of the bench, Gloukh curls the ball to Maatsen on the left and he roars down the wing before skidding a diagonal pass across the only blades of grass that couldn’t be reached by anybody in blue and red for Volland, and the German makes no mistake as he crashes his shot from ten yards in off of the underside of the bar, nearly taking the woodwork out of the ground in the process.

We’re in charge now and we’re pushing for another. The Eagles are struggling to keep with the intensity after their own manic schedule, but we can’t get through their stubborn defence and the lingering sense of dread that they could counter and cost us the record at any point leaves me desperate to kill the game until, finally, we get just the chance we’re after when Ndombele is felled by Rade Krunić in the area with minutes to go until injury time.

Gloukh is the one to take the responsibility on his shoulders. Often so reassured, he’s not been as clinical from the spot over the last few months as he had been previously.

He runs up and strikes towards the top-left.

Álvaro Fernández gets his fingertips to the ball.

But it’s not enough to keep it out.

Comeback complete, 50 games in a row without loss, and yet another record for Birmingham City.

* * * * * * * *
​

At last, a six-day break between games. A chance to catch our breath. The downside is that we need it as the away leg of our Carabao Cup semi-final against Manchester City lurks at the end of that rest.

Roger Schmidt hasn’t exactly overseen a revolution since taking over, but having Erling Haaland available will make any team terrifying - even if they are tenth. As such, we restore Ahmedhodžić, Bielik, Gloukh, and Chong to the eleven and name the strongest outfield we can, though Josh Griffiths will perform his usual cup duties and deputise for Bijlow in goal.

​

Within seven minutes, Griffiths has already been forced into two important saves and I feel the need to act early, so we switch to a system we’ve been working on in the background: Scott drops back to play next to Bielik while the boys out wide also drop deeper, but Gloukh and Van Leeuwen are asked to push higher up and lead any counters as we become less aggressive in the press and soak up whatever City want to throw at us.

It has a near-instant impact as our hosts look baffled by our sudden switch and nervously pass the ball between their defenders again and again while our advanced players watch on like a pack of lionesses watch a limping antelope, waiting for the perfect opportunity to strike, and we think that chance has come shortly before the interval, only for Van Leeuwen’ tap-in to be ruled out for offside after Zack Steffen is big when up against Endrick.

We look like this is the system we’ve been playing for months and do so with such poise, until Ahmedhodžić passes straight to Haaland when playing out from a goal kick. Fortunately, the Norwegian Cyborg can only find the outside of the post with his effort from range, being let off the hook massively when considering that we haven’t made many clear chances for ourselves.

But you don’t need any clear chances when you’ve got Tahith Chong.

The Dutchman bends his 25-yard free kick beyond the reach of the helpless Steffen and that takes the wind from our hosts’ sails. Like Liverpool before them, City have no end of shots and, like Liverpool before them, have very few that carry any sort of threat, the lack of confidence that’s plagued them this season evident as time ebbs away, our first win at the Etihad secured at the third attempt with our patented brand of stodge sealing the deal.

* * * * * * * *
​

The good news keeps coming Konaté becomes the sixth and, so far, final of our players to agree to new terms over the course of the last month and commit to the club for the long haul, after Gloukh, Scott, Güler, Endrick, and Chong signed new deals before him. Our continued success does come at a price as our wage bill soars astronomically with the new structure that’s being rolled out with these improved contracts, but it adds an extra layer of protection that will, hopefully stop any of our stars looking for pastures new in search of a pay rise.

For what it’s worth, we attempted to offer Ahmedhodžić new terms as well, but he kept forwarding me news articles that linked him with a move to either Manchester UFC, Tottenham, or Real Madrid, so I figured it was best to leave him alone for now.

 

[Chonky Panda Tactics]

Of all of those who have signed new contracts, however, it’s only Güler who will be in FA Cup action at home to Peterborough this Saturday. Only Griffiths will remain of those that started on Wednesday for the Championship side’s visit as we aim to take the first step on the journey to retaining our trophy.

​

“Well done, gang,” I beam as I stride into our dressing room. “It’s not always easy to perform that well when you aren’t used to playing with each other regularly, and special credit to you, Kevin, for getting a goal on your full debut!”

Kevin Volland’s face lights up. Arda Güler, sitting on the bench opposite, frowns slightly.

“My shot deflected in off his legs, boss,” Arda says. “I did most of the work and only ended up with an assist.”

“Well, it’s a good job you scored that free kick in the second half then,” I chuckle. “Besides, you still have your assists tracked too.”

Arda pulls the universal face of ‘fair enough’ and sits back in his seat.

“Now, I don’t want to prattle on, so rest well tonight and I’ll see you in the morning when we do our tactics prep and go over the initial squad for the City game.”

I make to leave and the sound of chatter fills the room, shortly joined by the music being turned up again, but Gonçalo Esteves catches me before I get to the door.

“Gaffer, can I have a word?”

“Of course, what’s up?”

“I thought I played quite well today,” Gonçalo says. “So, would you consider starting me against City, seeing as Neco won’t be back?”

“Sure, I’ll think about it,” I nod, patting him on the shoulder. He smiles and rejoins the group as my assistants sidle closer.

“You’re not seriously considering playing him, are you?” Matt Gardiner grumbles. “I’d have more faith in Elon Musk to run our social media department.”

“That’s unnecessarily rude,” I scold. “He’s a young man that doesn’t get many chances. Yes, he wasn’t great today, but there’s no need to be so derogatory.” Matt stares down at his shoes.

“So, you’re going to then?” Keith Downing asks.

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

* * * * * * * *
​

Progress secured, it’ll be another Championship side that we face in the fourth round as we face a trip to Sunderland in a few weeks. At least, that’s what I’m told as I, accidentally, manage to miss the draw…

We don’t have the luxury of second-tier opposition, however, as we return to Carabao Cup action for the second leg of our tie against Manchester City.

Having worked so effectively in the first fixture, we’ll go with the 4-4-1-1 from the off this time and revert to the side that edged our last face-off, having had almost a full week to recover.

​

Haaland scores in the twelfth minute and I just shrug to my dugout. Of course he scored. He always scores. Well, he didn’t last week, but there’s an air of inevitability about him that makes me forget about the times he didn’t score because he’s scored so many against us.

However, speaking of inevitability, Konaté glances in an on-the-night leveller only a few minutes later. Then, there’s barely been time to process retaking the aggregate lead before Ahmedhodžić does the exact same thing and our overall advantage is doubled as we take full advantage of set-pieces yet again.

City are crumbling now, their discipline shot to bits, and José Gayà’s second booking on the brink of half-time only accelerates their implosion, Van Leeuwen nodding Chong’s deep cross past Ederson as we become lethal over the second period.

Gloukh stabs through a crowd of bodies to add our fourth, Maatsen taps in the easiest chance he’ll ever get to make it five, then Olise beats Ederson one-on-one to grab a sixth for only the third time in my tenure, totally flattening our visitors as we romp our way into our first Carabao Cup final for 15 years, winning by a barely-believable 7-1 on aggregate.

And our opponents for the spectacle will be the same as it was on the 27th of February, 2011: Arsenal.

* * * * * * * *
​

Of all the ways to celebrate making a cup final in such style, having to talk to and about Dean Smith and Leeds would be pretty far down my list. Life’s not always fair, however, as the Aston Villa supporter brings his side to the blue side of Birmingham on Saturday.

With a Champions League game to come on Wednesday, we make a few changes to personnel and rest a few key players, though we’ll see a first start in nearly a month for Neco Williams as he returns from injury.

Sorry, Gonçalo.

​

We’re sleepwalking through the opening period until Wilfried Gnonto blazing over the bar when clean through acts as the bucket of cold water to the face that we need and Van Leeuwen is the first to come to, breaking the deadlock on the brink of half-time with a cool finish from a tight angle.

In case being behind to the runaway leaders wasn’t hard enough for our guests, Charlie Cresswell effectively offers to take his teammates camping before dropping them in the woods and driving off with the tents just as a storm arrives, scything down Van Leeuwen for the double whammy of a red card for him and a penalty for us - one that Gloukh converts.

With Leeds down to ten, the dye is now cast. Within eleven minutes, our lead has stretched to four via, no prizes for guessing, a Konaté header, then Güler beating Illan Meslier from close range once played through, our winning streak extended yet again at the expense of the Yorkshire side.

* * * * * * * *
​

We’re top of the Champions League hyper-bonanza, we’ve made the final of the Carabao Cup, eased into the next round of the FA Cup, and won all of our 23 games in the Premier League, already sitting 21 points clear of Tottenham in second. We look almost unstoppable. Is anybody going to beat us?

Well, our next two games will be the biggest test yet: a trip to the Bernabéu, followed by a match at the Etihad.

It could be the most significant four days of the season yet.

* * * * * * * *​

Thank you for reading! Please follow this thread to keep up with the updates, and feel free to follow me on Instagram and Twitter!

 

[Chonky Panda Tactics]

Part Forty-Three​

Welcome back to Singing the Blues! A bumper edition as we play through the remaining nine games before the Carabao Cup final - can we reach Wembley in top form?

This part is spread across FOUR posts, so please keep reading after the intro, after the Lazio game, and again after the Hull game!

Season One
Season Two
Season Three
Part Thirty-Six
Part Thirty-Seven
Part Thirty-Eight
Part Thirty-Nine
Part Forty
Part Forty-One
Part Forty-Two

“So, what do you think?”

“Looks wonderful,” Beth smiles. “How did you find this place?”

“Real Madrid’s manager recommended it to me after our game this time last year,” I answer. “‘Best Paella in the city,’ he said and, given he’s a 66-year-old Italian, I think I’ll trust his judgement on food.”

“Did you come here last year?”

“No, he told me after the game. We headed straight home afterwards, so this is my first time too,” I beam.

“There is one tiny thing, though…” Beth says.

“Oh? What’s that?”

“Why’d they have to come?”

“We’re Nicole’s right-hand men,” Keith Downing says.

“Wherever she goes, we go,” Matt Gardiner says. “So, when she said Carlo Ancelotti had recommended a restaurant that she’d love to take you to, we were straight on the phone to book it for her.”

“Did you not think she meant to take me and me alone?” Beth asks, eyebrow arched.

“Don’t be silly, we do everything as a team,” Matt says.

“Subtlety isn’t their strong point,” I whisper, so that only Beth can hear, before returning to my previous volume. “Assuming that’s an acceptable explanation, that doesn’t make it any clearer as to why you’re here, John.”

“To be honest, I’m not entirely sure, boss,” John Ruddy says.

“His voice soothes Matthew,” Keith answers. “Means he doesn’t ruin social gatherings.”

“Your vocal chords sound like they’re made of butter, to be fair,” Beth nods.

“Wouldn’t they melt?” John ponders.

“You’re overthinking the simile,” I say.

“Hang on,” Matt interjects. “Since when do I ‘ruin social gatherings’?”

“Do you remember the time you pretended you were having a heart attack to get the attention of a waiter who was a little slow?” Keith asks.

“Vaguely…”

“And the time you shouted about the ending to the last Hunger Games book, just as we were sitting down in the cinema to watch the final movie?”

“If they didn’t want spoilers, they should have read the book…” Matt grumbles.

“AND,” Keith continues. “Do you remember that birthday party in Solihull?”

“How was I supposed to know the piñata was just for the children?!”

“It was only five feet off the ground!”

“Come to think of it, I can’t remember another time I’ve swung downwards when trying to hit one…” Matt mumbles. “Fine, I’ll do my utmost to behave and make polite conversation. How about this: everything ready for tomorrow?”

“No way, we’re not talking about work at dinner; you know the rules,” I say.

“I can’t even talk about how Calvin Bassey, Stevica Gajić, Alex Scott, Endrick, and Michael Olise are incomings to the side that played Leeds on Saturday?”

“Why would you need to when we all know that already?” I frown.

“Dunno, thought it might be important to some people,” Matt mutters, scowling down at his menu.

For a moment, there’s silence around the table. Only for a moment, though.

“Is no one going to address the fact Harry’s here too?” Matt snaps.

“You leave me out of this.”

 

[Chonky Panda Tactics]

​

It looks like it may be a long night when Ander Barrenetxea has the ball in the net in the third minute, but his effort is ruled out for offside and our illustrious hosts don’t kick on. They aren’t dreadful, but we’re matching Real and even surpass them on the half-hour mark when Oscar Gloukh frees Bob Van Leeuwen to slot past Thibaut Courtois for the lead, stunning the 14-time European Champions into a nervy display for the rest of the opening period.

These are serial winners, however. Those nerves can’t last, and they don’t. The Spanish side start the second half like eleven angry raccoons and we have to ease off to ensure we don’t leave any gaps for them to scamper through, which matters little when Ibrahima Konaté, allegedly, trips Rodrygo in the penalty area for an incredibly dubious penalty, the sort of penalty you could see Manchester UFC getting at Old Trafford in injury time, the sort of penalty that never goes to the underdog, the sort of penalty that always goes in and swings the match in favour of the bigger, home team.

Except, Justin Bijlow has other ideas.

The Dutchman has had an immense game and caps it off here, shovelling away David Alaba’s tame effort and sucking the belief from all but those associated with the colour blue.

We sense the opportunity is there to kill the game, so we do just that. The final dagger to Real Madrid’s hopes of any points: late-game stodge.

An unforgettable night at the Santiago Bernabéu for Birmingham City as we qualify for the Champions League round of 16.

* * * * * * * *
​

There’s little time to celebrate our momentous victory, however, as we head to the Etihad to face Manchester City at tea time on Saturday, where we revert to the same lineup and shape that did so well against them in the Carabao Cup.

There is time to send Gonçalo Esteves out on loan to Reim at least. Sorry, Gonçalo.

I’m asked in my pre-match press conference whether I have a plan to deal with Erling Haaland, given the Norwegian has scored seven times in his nine games against us. I consider telling a clever lie about how switching to the 4-4-1-1 is intended to stymie him, but I don’t bother because everyone knows that you just have to cross your fingers and hope he misses, unless you fancy dabbling in sacrificial rituals.

​

I hate him. I hate him so much. Within a minute of hitting the bar and making me think we’ve gotten lucky, Haaland bullets a shot into the bottom corner from an outrageous angle to put us behind, but not for long as Gloukh soon restores parity with a sweet half-volley from Tahith Chong’s cross.

This isn’t the same City that we trounced 6-1, however. They’re coming at us with a point to prove and we look scared. Even pushing players higher up the pitch and trying to force the issue ourselves doesn’t seem to do anything, and we’re once again indebted to Bijlow as he thwarts Liam Delap when one-on-one with mere seconds of normal time left.

Our winning streak ends at 36 in all competitions, but our 52-game unbeaten streak in the Premier League lives on.

* * * * * * * *
​

I’ve never managed against Lazio before, nor have I ever seen them play in person, but I gather that a large chunk of their fans aren’t exactly… welcoming. Especially to those who aren’t male, Caucasian, and interested in the opposite gender only. As a woman with a wife, I look forward to ruining their day as the seventh-placed Italian side travel to St. Andrew’s for our final Champions League league phase fixture, Ilgaz Garhan, Gajić, and Olise coming into the side as we aim to top the pile.

​

Van Leeuwen puts us ahead in the second minute and that ends any chance of a contest, frankly. Lazio, already resigned to the play-off round, look like they’re either jet lagged or simply not bothered, strolling around the park with as much enthusiasm as a teenager at their wi-fi-less grandparents’ house for the weekend, and Roméo Lavia securing the result when he adds a second is the very least we deserved as we canter to eight victories out of eight in Europe’s top competition, the only team to do so since the switch to the league phase.

* * * * * * * *​

 

[Chonky Panda Tactics]

“200th competitive game as a manager, Nicole; that’s quite some achievement,” Harry says, the sun setting outside my office window.

“Is it really?” I ask. “I’ve only been here three and a half years, doesn’t feel like that long.”

“You’ve managed the most Blues games of anyone since Steve Bruce,” Harry says.

“Wow. A lot of managers have come and gone since then,” I reply. “Alex McLeish, Chris Hughton, Lee Clark, Gary Rowett…”

“That gloriously dreadful spell of Gianfranco Zola, Harry Redknapp, and Steve Cotterill…”

“Christ. Then it was the rollercoaster of Garry Monk, Aitor Karanka, and Lee Bowyer.”

“Three men with very different styles: direct, technical, and none,” Harry nods. “Then we’re caught up to you!”

“What about John Eustace?”

“What about him?” Harry says, puzzled.

“Wasn’t he before me?” I ask.

“I think you’re confusing reality with a dream world again, Nicole,” Harry chuckles. “Besides, he’s a Villa fan. There’s no way he’d ever manage us.”

​

I close the door from the dressing room once I’m in my office and lean against it, closing my eyes and letting out a long sigh as I do.

We absolutely battered them. The three goals we scored was the absolute least we deserved. I can’t even remember the last time we had an xG total as high as 3.43, yet we only managed to squeak past a team that didn’t manage to get past one. Van Leeuwen, Chong, and Gloukh’s goals were just about enough though, even with Gianluca Scamacca and Kurt ‘The Cat’ Zouma responding with a header each.

There’s a knock that rattles my head through the wood.

“If it’s about game time, save it for tomorrow morning,” I call.

“I suppose I haven’t had as many minutes on the pitch as anyone else, but that’s not why I’m here,” laughs an unexpected voice.

I jump upright and spin around to open the door to our chairman, Bruno Lucas.

“Hi, Bruno, what brings you here?”

“I have some news for you,” he grins. “Thought I’d save it for after the game.”

“What would that be?”

Bruno unlocks his phone and holds it out so that I can see the email he has open.

​

“This is incredible! How long have you been working on this?” I ask.

“Couple of months, why?”

“Darn. I was hoping this was what’s supposedly being hidden from me since the summer,” I scowl.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Bruno shrugs. “But if you find out, do let me know. Well done today, Nicole, and congratulations again on reaching 200 games here.” He smiles at me and makes to leave.

“Oh, Bruno?” I say, catching him before he goes.

“Yes, Nicole?”

“Have you thought any more about my request for extra transfer budget next season?”

“Yes,” he answers.

“And?”

“No.”

* * * * * * * *
​

The joys of qualifying directly for the last-16 stage of the Champions League means that we don’t have another midweek game for around a month, so my strongest eleven get a whole two weeks off when they’re given a rest for the fourth round of the FA Cup as we travel to Sunderland, the Backup Brigade getting another runout against Championship opposition. There’s even a first start for Jobe Bellingham since this stage of the competition last year as he fills in for Tanguy Ndombele, while he recovers from a bout of flu.

​

It’s exactly what people have come to expect from this sort of tie. Sunderland start brightly without taking advantage, before Bellingham nets just before the half-hour and they wobble, never fully recovering before Kevin Volland converts the penalty he won ten minutes after the restart and Arda Güler adds a third in the five minutes that follow as we stroll through to the fifth round. I look through the teams in the draw and decide I’d be happy to test ourselves against anybody that’s left, except Erling Haaland - I mean, Man City - away from home, perhaps.

So, obviously, that’s the tie we’re gifted.

Great.

* * * * * * * *
​

When you have two weeks off, it’s nice to have a gentle reintroduction to work. In terms of our rested players and the Premier League, that’s represented in the form of Hull City, bottom of the table with a colossal seven points and on track to accrue even fewer than the 12 they managed two seasons ago.

​

Once Scott’s low cross is poorly cleared to the edge of the box and Gloukh rifles into the bottom-left corner early on, I get the impression that the floodgates would open, but they just… don't. Perhaps we had too much of a break and are struggling to get back up to speed, or perhaps the boys are complacent because it’s ‘only’ Hull, but The Tigers are showing spirit that belies their lowly position and we’re lacking in cutting edge.

6’94” Jannik Vestergaard goes close from a free kick and we’re predominantly on the back foot, until Bassey launches a pass over our hosts’ defence and Gloukh nabs his second with an audacious lob over Nathan Baxter from the edge of the box that knocks Hull from their stride.

We sit back, they don’t recover, and it’s another three points secured.

* * * * * * * *​

 

[Chonky Panda Tactics]

The weird sensation of another midweek off follows the Hull trip, before returning to the West Midlands on Saturday to host 16th-placed Brighton.

The Seagulls have struggled to replicate the form they showed last campaign, however their second season back in the top flight looks unlikely to end in much misery as the teams currently in the relegation zone already look like they’re being cut adrift. Regardless, we have another week without a fixture after this one, so we’ll name an unchanged lineup for the first time in 2026.

​

This is much more like it.

We once again see ourselves heading in for the break one goal up via Gloukh’s right foot, though this time it’s from the penalty spot and we look far more assured. We could, and probably should, be ahead by several more, but we get our second and third goals soon enough, Gloukh curling in another before turning provider for Scott to slam past Robert Sánchez in the space of 90 seconds.

Brighton, to their credit, do look much more threatening once they change shape to a 4-4-2 and Manuel Ugarte even pulls one back, but we snuff out any hopes of a resurgence by immediately raising the levels of stodginess to the maximum and seeing out the final few minutes to a chorus of ‘ole’s and the sight of Brighton fans filing towards the exits in their droves before the final whistle has sounded.

* * * * * * * *
​

Now that the transfer window has closed and speculation has settled down, we’ve managed to tie Anel Ahmedgodžić down to a new deal on £100,000 a week, committing him to the club until 2030 as part of the restructuring of the wage bill, now we’re firmly established in the upper reaches of the Premier League.

​

The time for happy, chilled-out news is over though, and I hope that all my boys feel invigorated from only playing one game a week as our knockout campaign in the Champions League will begin over the next two midweeks, the draw for the round of 16 pitting us against a fellow English side: Newcastle United.

​

Before that, however, is another round of 16 to negotiate: our FA Cup fixture at Manchester City.

This’ll be the sixth time we’ve played The Cityzens this season already and, quite frankly, I’m getting a bit sick of them. That said, it’s allowed plenty of opportunities to test ourselves against them tactically, so we’ll be going with the same shape and personnel that thumped them 6-1 last month, though Bijlow will keep his place in goal as Josh Griffiths picked up a slight knock in training this week.

​

We start well, now looking very comfortable with this alternate tactic, and Gloukh chips Zack Steffen to score for his fourth consecutive game before Haaland proves he’s human when he slices wide from six yards. Following that chance, though, we reduce City to nothing but speculative efforts from range, executing our plan exactly as we intended.

Right up until Francisco Trincão wallops in from 25 yards.

That setback matters for little, however, as two beautifully worked moves result in a goal in each of the two minutes that follow for Van Leeuwen and we look totally in control by the break, absorbing our hosts’ pressure and springing forward on the counter time and again.

Then, like a poorly-knitted jumper that’s caught on a door handle, things start to unravel somewhat.

First, Aymeric Laporte halves the deficit from a corner, then Van Leeuwen is forced off with a hamstring strain that’ll keep him out for at least three weeks, before Rodri ploughs in from the edge of the area, only to see his attempt chalked off because Haaland was offside and blocking Bijlow’s view. We’re clinging on for dear life now and we’re bailed out by our ‘keeper in a big way when he spreads himself to deny Gabriel Barbosa an almost certain equaliser and this is the point where I start weighing up the pros and cons of going stodgy. Will it seal the deal, or will it invite excess pressure that will surely see us concede?

Well, the question is made redundant within moments, and in the most depressingly predictable way possible when Phil Foden dances through our defence and fizzes in a low cross, to be poked in by - you know what? Just guess. With the scores levelled at the death, we seem destined for extra time. The way the momentum has shifted, I don’t think we can handle another half an hour.

But, the glorious thing about momentum is that it can shift very quickly, and in either direction. Straight from kick-off, we direct play to our right and Jerry St. Juste sprays the ball forward for a fresh Olise to sprint onto. He breezes past his full-back and hits the byline, pulling the ball back to the edge of the six yard box for fellow substitute Güler to ghost in front of City’s knackered defenders and sweep in.

This time, there’s no debate. We drop deep, we stodge it up, and we watch on with glee as Bernardo Silva sends his 97th-minute strike from range sailing over the bar, bringing the curtain down on this breathless FA Cup classic.

I hope Leeds don’t give us this much trouble in our quarter-final tie.

* * * * * * * *
​

“Are the boys ready for tomorrow, after the effort they put in at the weekend?” I ask as we head north for our Champions League trip to Newcastle.

“Pete and the physio team reckon so,” Matt nods. “The quiet month and lack of high-intensity training means they’re still pretty fresh. Except Bob, obviously.”

“And Anel, though his absence is through suspension, of course,” I say.

“Is that why you’ve done that?” Matt asks, jerking his thumb towards the row a few back from ours where Anel looks like he’s asleep, but the gradual frown that’s set in over the last hour reveals he’s been awake for the entirety of the journey, fully aware of Keith’s ramblings from the adjacent aisle seat.

“Maybe.”

“Must admit, it’s still a little strange, not sitting with Keith recently.”

“Do you miss it?”

“Dunno, really. Definitely different,” Matt muses.

“If you’d like, I can spend the rest of the trip explaining why I picked Kevin and Ilgaz to replace Bob and Anel, as well as talking through why Jerry’s physicality will help us deal with Dominic Calvert-Lewin, making him the best choice at right-back for the tie?”

“With all due respect, Nicole, if you do that the whole way then I’ll be jumping through the window before we get off the M1.”

​

The atmosphere at St James’ Park is unreal. You wouldn’t believe that Newcastle are 12th in the Premier League from the noise their fans are making, nor from the way they come shooting out of the blocks. We’re fortunate to weather the early storm and see Endrick volley us ahead, but that only serves to motivate our opponents further, the volume turning up another notch like they’re holding a house party on a Saturday night and their neighbours have complained about the noise at only 8pm.

Roberto Martínez’s men’s repeated attempts to break us down with long balls towards Calvert-Lewin are in vain as St. Juste repels the aerial incursions every time, but we’re nearly caught out by a hopeful lump down the middle by their goalkeeper, Alban Lafont, that catches our centre-backs out and frees Alexander Isak. The Swedish forward takes a touch, steadies himself, then skids his shot from a tight angle just wide.

As time wears on, however, the belief starts to fade from The Magpies. The chances dry up, the passes become wayward, and the inability to deal with our stodge activation with five minutes to go ends any hope of getting the goal they crave.

We take a 1-0 lead home with us for the second leg next week.

​

But we can’t think about that now because our full focus must be on the Carabao Cup final this weekend. Will it be the first of a possible four trophies ticked off, the first step on the road to an unprecedented quadruple? Or could it instigate a decline that threatens to derail our season?

We’ll find out soon enough.

* * * * * * * *​

Thank you for reading! Please follow this thread to keep up with the updates, and feel free to follow me on Instagram and Twitter!

 

[Chonky Panda Tactics]

Part Forty-Four

2026 EFL Cup Final​

Welcome back to Singing the Blues! It's the EFL Cup final. Can we beat Arsenal for my first success in the competition?

This part is spread across two posts, so please keep reading after the intro!

Season One
Season Two
Season Three
Part Thirty-Six
Part Thirty-Seven
Part Thirty-Eight
Part Thirty-Nine
Part Forty
Part Forty-One
Part Forty-Two
Part Forty-Three

​

“Sure you’re not coming down for breakfast?” I ask, buttoning up my blouse.

“I'm good, thank you,” Beth answers, still in bed. “I'm saving as much room as possible for the lunch at Wembley today. Make the most of not having to pay for it, y’know?”

“You don’t have to pay for this meal either,” I say, a little confused.

“I don’t really think hotel breakfast will be comparable to food put on for a cup final, so I’ll enjoy the free room instead,” she chuckles.

“Suit yourself,” I shrug, doing up my trousers.

“Speaking of suits, is it sensible to wear your clothes for the match when you’re eating?”

“I’ve got a spare set hanging up,” I sigh. “I have history when it comes to making a mess on my clothes in this place, after all. Right, I’ll see you in a bit.” I round the bed and give Beth a kiss.

“You reek of coffee,” she says, scrunching up her nose.

“Well, I’m about to have some more, so I apologise now,” I laugh as I leave the room, the door shutting automatically behind me.

As I head for the lift, I’m greeted by the familiar sounds of people’s morning routines: the pulsing bass to some indistinguishable track from Alex Scott’s room, the screams of positive affirmation that I can visualise Matt Gardiner doing into the mirror, and a rattling, banshee-esque noise wobbles the corridor walls that I can only assume is Maik Taylor’s snoring, though I thought he was two floors further up…

The breakfast area looks deserted as I reach the lobby, but once I get closer I notice a solitary figure tucked into the corner, slowly stirring his tea and staring blankly at the wall opposite.

“Morning, Krystian,” I say.

“Morning, gaffer,” Krystian Bielik mumbles.

“How’d you sleep?” I ask, sliding next to him on the bench.

“Yeah, not bad,” he sighs. “Got down here a few minutes ago, grabbed a drink, then you showed up shortly after.”

Before he can stop me, I put my hand on the side of his mug.

“Try again, Krystian, this is cold.”

“Okay, I came down slightly earlier than I said…”

“Shall I ask reception to tell me what time your door opened, or would you rather do it?” I ask, sternly.

He sighs again.

“I came down at about five.”

“So, how long before then were you awake?”

“About an hour, maybe two,” he admits. “Woke up and just couldn’t get back to sleep. I must have run through every instruction, every tactical detail, every set-piece routine a hundred times. I could even name the starting eleven off by heart.”

“Go on then,” I encourage.

“Josh in goal, as is cup policy; back four of Neco, Ibrahima, Anel, and Calvin; I’m at the base of midfield, behind Alex and Oscar; then the front three is Endrick, Kevin, and Chongy,” Krystian reels off without pausing for thought, still gazing into the middle distance.

“Spot on,” I chuckle, softly. “What is it that’s getting to you, then?”

“It’s the occasion,” he winces.

“I can get that,” I nod. “We’ve won titles and had big European nights together, not to mention last season’s FA Cup final, but it’s the club’s first EFL Cup final in 15 years, the last trophy we have left to win at the club. Well, except maybe the Papa John’s Tro-”

“That’s not exactly it, boss,” Krystian interrupts, finally making eye contact.

“Then what is it?”

“It’s Arsenal. The club that brought me to England and put no end of expectation on my shoulders, before giving me two appearances that lasted a combined total of 33 minutes, then shipping me off to the EFL without a moment’s hesitation,” he explains. “This is my chance to lead my team out at Wembley and take them on in a major cup final - I can’t fail.”

“Do you think you will?” I ask.

“It’s all I can think about,” he replies, glumly.

“Wanna know what I think?” Krystian shrugs but doesn’t say anything, so I continue anyway. “Spend less time worrying about things that could go wrong and spend more thinking about everything that’s got you to this point. You’re the uniquely talented midfielder that has the physicality to win aerial battles and muscle men off the ball, yet have the technical ability to keep hold of it once you do. You’ve come back from two ACL injuries to captain this side to the brink of its third Premier League title in succession, its first ever FA Cup, and into the knockout stages of the Champions League twice. There’s no one I believe in - there’s no one I trust - more than you.”

“Do you really mean that?” Krystian murmurs.

“There’s no one I’ve picked more than you. I even have the spreadsheet to prove it. Would you like to see it?”

“I’ll take your word for it.”

“Sure? I’ve put a lot of effort into it.”

“I don’t need to see it, gaffer,” he laughs, the first sparks of positivity finally lighting up his face. “Thanks for this, Nicole, it means a lot.”

“No worries,” I smile. “Now, get yourself a fresh drink and relax for a bit, the rest of the lads will be down soon”

“You’ll have to move then.”

“Alright, calm down, I'm coming too,” I tease. We scootch out of the corner and stroll over to the drink station where Krystian starts making a fresh tea.

“Would you judge me if I had sugar?” he asks.

“I’ll pretend I didn’t see it,” I say. “In fact, I’ll keep an eye out for the nutritionists.”

Krystian grins and awkwardly picks up a white sugar cube with the tiny pair of tongs provided. As he hovers above his cup, the flimsy utensils slip and the cube drops about two feet into his tea, landing with an audible 'plop' and splashing both his team tracksuit and my top in the process. We stare in silence at the wet, brown mark that’s forming on my baby pink blouse.

“Sorry, gaffer…”

“It’s fine,” I snigger. “I’m getting used to this by now.”

 

[Chonky Panda Tactics]

​

The atmosphere inside Wembley is electric and it’s galvanising both sets of players, exemplified by Tahith Chong making a lung-busting run to tackle Ben White and instigate a counter-attack. Bielik, rising to the occasion, sprays a sublime diagonal towards Endrick on our right and the Brazilian cuts back onto his left foot to curl a cross towards the penalty spot -

​

- where Kevin Volland is waiting to glance us in front.

​

Arsenal react instantly, coming at us like we’d just pulled down our pants and mooned them, ramping up the intensity as Gabriel Jesus forces an excellent save from Josh Griffiths before soon getting the ball past our ‘keeper, only to be denied by the assistant referee’s flag after drifting marginally offside.

Just as it begins to look inevitable that Arsenal will find the leveller they crave, however, Kieran Tierney has a brief lapse in concentration and totally mistimes his tackle on Neco Williams to gift us a penalty - one that Oscar Gloukh converts, confidently.

​

The momentum is in our favour now and my boys’ confidence rockets as they sense the uncertainty in Arsenal’s play and, where there’s weak defending, there’s always one combination of Birmingham City players you can rely on to take advantage.

​

Gloukh’s free kick from near the corner flag is textbook, lifted to exactly the right spot for Ibrahima Konaté to plant a header past Dominik Livaković to extend our advantage to three on the cusp of half-time.

“You don’t need me to tell you how excellent that first half was,” I tell my players at the interval as Keith Downing hands out water bottles. I then point my finger assertively, however. “Don’t get complacent, though. One mistake and they’re back in it, so keep those performance levels high.”

Despite my specific instructions, the effects of our energy-sapping schedule start to show, so we allow our tempo to lower for a while to avoid running everyone into the ground while The Gunners expend all their stamina trying to chase the game, which seems like a safe move until Chong’s pass is intercepted by Mohamed Simakan, Williams is caught up-field, the ball is played into the space he’s left vacant, and Bukayo Saka belts it right into the top corner from the edge of the box. Ah.

​

With that, we introduce some fresh legs from the bench and look back to our measured selves again. Tanguy Ndombele and Michael Olise restore a certain degree of control and are the ones who are key to keeping Arsenal pinned back through their ability and intelligence on the ball, playing us up the pitch at every opportunity. It should come as little surprise, then, that Tanguy is the one to play the ball into Scott’s feet and Olise is the one to receive it from the Guernsey man, opening up his body and finding the only place in the net that Livaković can’t reach to make it four.

​

“That’ll do it, boss,” Keith beams from the dugout once everything’s settled down again. “Do you think it’s time to kill it? Get stodgy?”

“I don’t know that we need to,” I answer, turning to face him. “Arsenal don’t look dangerous and we’ve got a comfortable lead with only five minutes to go. Provided no one does anything ridicu-”

“What’s Josh doing?” Matt interjects.

I spin back around.

​

“Let’s get stodgy,” I grumble.

In a cup final that saw no end of excitement, nothing seems less appropriate than wheeling out the absolute tedium of our game-ending tactics, yet I delight in watching the seconds tick away as we play nothing but short, risk-free passes in front of a half-emptying Wembley.

The final whistle goes.

Birmingham City are your 2026 Carabao Cup winners.

​

“Congratulations, gang,” I say to the team, back in our echo-y dressing room after the trophy presentation. “That’s trophy number one for the season.” A roar fills every inch of the room, making the walls shake. I raise my hands and they settle down again. “Enjoy yourselves tonight. I hope to hear no end of stories about how you celebrate come tomorrow morning. But, whatever you get up to, make sure you’re ready for recovery sessions and tactics meetings for our Champions League match Wednesday.

“This season is far from over.”

* * * * * * * *​

Thank you for reading! Please follow this thread to keep up with the updates, and feel free to follow me on Instagram and Twitter!

 

[Chonky Panda Tactics]

Part Forty-Five
​

Welcome back to Singing the Blues! It's Friday the 13th! Will it be time for our luck to run out in Europe?

This part is spread across three posts, so please keep reading after the intro and again after the Norwich game!

Season One
Season Two
Season Three
Part Thirty-Six
Part Thirty-Seven
Part Thirty-Eight
Part Thirty-Nine
Part Forty
Part Forty-One
Part Forty-Two
Part Forty-Three
Part Forty-Four

“Uuuuurrrrrggggghhhh…”

“You alright out there, Harry?”

Harry trudges through my office doorway, his face looking much paler than usual.

“Head still ‘urts,” he mutters.

“That’s alright then, I’d begun to worry you’d turned into a zombie,” I smirk. Harry scowls at me, but clearly this is too much for his brain to handle as he winces almost immediately. “Would you consider, y’know, not drinking so much next time?”

“How often do you win silverware? It needs an appropriate level of celebration,” he grumbles. “Besides, if you’ve gone through what I have, you’d probably consume as much alcohol as I do too.”

“Sounds like a healthy way of dealing with your problems.”

“Sounds like you should be less judgemental.”

“You should know by now that I live in a constant state of judgement, Harry,” I say. “Wanna talk about your troubles?”

Harry rubs his temple and shakes his head slowly.

“Not the time, we’ve got more important things to worry about - the second leg of our Champions League tie tomorrow, for example.”

“Trust me: I’m worried about it,” I sigh. “Why do you think I’m only making minimal changes?” I gesture, vaguely, towards the whiteboard behind me with the prospective lineup scrawled on it.

“Justin and Jerry I get, being first-choice goalie and wanting to deal with Newcastle’s height in attack respectively, but why Roméo for Alex?” Harry asks.

“Alex is one booking away from suspension, so I don’t want to risk losing him for any potential quarter-final tie,” I explain.

“Smart thinking,” Harry nods, very gingerly. “Speaking of, I reckon it’d be smart thinking if I went for a lie down somewhere.”

“Try the assistant managers’ office, Matthew had a sofa bed brought in and I imagine both he and Keith will’ve gone home by now.”

“Why did Matthew get a sofa bed in his office?”

“I don’t know, but I’m not sure I want to,” I ponder. “Shall I come and get you in a couple of hours for Pre-Match Board Game Night?”

“If I have to concentrate on anything tonight, I can’t be held responsible if I vomit on whatever’s put in front of me.”

With that, Harry sidles out of the room and down the hall.

Ten or so minutes pass as I work on some diagrams for a couple of new tactical ideas before I catch movement near the door that pulls me away from my doodling.

“Hey, Matt, what’re you doing here so late?”

“Hey, Nicole. I think I dropped something on the way home, so I’m retracing my steps. Doesn’t look like it’s in here though,” says Matt Gardiner, hurriedly, scanning the room.

“Can I help? What is it you’re looking for?” I ask.

“Uh, no, you’re alright, don’t worry about it…” Matt says, sheepishly.

“What is it, Matthew?”

“Nothing, just… um…”

“You can’t seriously think you’re playing this off well, right?”

“Fine,” Matt sighs. “Promise you won’t tell anybody?”

“No.”

“Whatever,” he huffs. “It’s my little frog, Winston. I keep him in my pocket so I can give him a squeeze when I get nervous.”

“That’s the most adorable thing I’ve ever heard,” I smile. “Is this him?” I open my top drawer and pull out a cuddly, beany, green frog, no bigger than the palm of my hand and with slightly matted fluff where it’s clearly been held a lot.

“That’s him!” Matt scurries across the room and I pass Winston over my desk.

“You’re aware I’ll never look at you the same way again, right?” I grin.

“You tell anyone about this, I’ll remove one item from your office each time you leave so that you eventually go crazy from how many things you’ll think you’ve misplaced,” Matt growls.

“As terrifying as that is, you’ve kind of spoiled the element of surprise.”

“Well, I’ll do something equally diabolical instead,” Matt shrugs. “Where’s Harry? I didn’t see him outside.”

“He’s gone for a lie down on your sofa bed, he’s still feeling a little tender from the weekend.”

“Ha, I’m sure he’s not the only one who - wait, my sofa bed?” Matt’s face drops. “But I’ve not changed it since the… HARRY!” Matt bolts out of the room and towards his office, repeatedly screaming Harry’s name. Eventually, his shouting fades and I’m left in near silence again.

I’m definitely going to tell everyone about Winston.

 

[Chonky Panda Tactics]

​

Newcastle have changed their shape and tactics since last week, catching most off guard. None more so, it would seem, than their midfielder, Tomáš Souček, as he receives the ball on the edge of his area and looks totally nonplussed as to where his teammates should be, allowing Endrick to rob him of possession and get a shot away that kisses the outside of the far post as it skids agonisingly wide. That felt like an early warning from ourselves, however the opening period soon settles into a stalemate which, given the 1-0 scoreline in our favour from the first leg, is fine for us.

What’s not fine, though, is Oscar Gloukh’s corner being headed clear so that Javi Galán can break. The Spaniard tears downfield and splits our covering full-backs to send Gonçalo Guedes racing through one-on-one. St. Andrew’s holds its breath as the ex-Wolves man bears down on goal, but Justin Bijlow displays exactly why we had faith in him to replace David de Gea by thwarting Guedes with a huge save, leaping up and smothering the rebound before anyone else can react.

Newcastle know that was it. That was their chance, and they blew it. Their confidence is in tatters and they wilt from then on, so much so that we don’t even bother getting stodgy to protect our advantage - they’re done.

Into the quarter-finals we go.

* * * * * * * *
​

I’m sure everybody is as excited as I am to get to see Emre Belözoğlu again as we welcome Wolverhampton Wanderers to St. Andrew’s for another questionably-scheduled West Midlands Derby at tea-time on Saturday, and I hope he’s thrilled to see me after I told him to shove his head down a toilet when we last met.

Having had three big games in the space of nine days, changes for this one were always inevitable, so Neco Williams, Ilgaz Garhan, Stevica Gajić, Alex Scott, and Michael Olise will step in to replace Jerry St. Juste, Ibrahima Konaté, Krystian Bielik, Roméo Lavia, and Tahith Chong.

​

Strong words are had at half-time after a 45 as engaging as analysis from Match of the Day pundits, having the desired effect when we come out for the restart with far more zip to our play, Garhan going close before Gloukh curls a pass through Wolves’ defence for Kevin Volland to roll home from 12 yards.

We’re in the ascendancy now and it’s not long before Scott adds a second, flicking Volland’s through ball over Maarten Vandevoordt and off the underside of the crossbar, so we take our foot off the gas a little. This does allow Patson Daka to power in a consolation with Wolves’ first meaningful attack of the match, but a quick switch to the Stodge Spectacular kills the contest as we waste away the closing minutes by keeping the ball out of our visitors’ reach, sealing our sixth victory in succession over our rivals.

* * * * * * * *
​

What’s this? A week off? In the middle of the season? How delightful! What’s the catch?

Ah, La Liga-topping Real Madrid in the quarter-finals of the Champions League.

Fair enough.

​

Time to focus on a different quarter-final, however: Leeds United, away, in the FA Cup.

Having had no midweek fixture in the week prior and with the last international break following this tie, we can afford to name a strong team, meaning Konaté, Bielik, and Chong are back in, whilst cup-goalkeeper Josh Griffiths will be between the sticks. There’s even a spot on the bench for Bob van Leeuwen as he nears a return to full fitness.

​

28th minute. Big chance for Volland. Shoots straight at Illan Meslier.

Half-time, 0-0. Leeds with an xG of 0.02 to our 1.60.

82nd minute. Endrick with a glorious opportunity. Stabs against the post when one-on-one.

Full-time, 0-0. Leeds with an xG of 0.35 to our 2.42.

Into extra time now, Ian Maatsen is set free on the left-hand side and bursts into the box to do what none of our forwards could, slamming past Meslier from a tight angle to break the deadlock at last and we breathe a collective sigh of relief. Leeds have ridden their luck all game but, finally, their resistance has crumbled and they have little capacity of bouncing back, their energy reserves depleted by their backs-to-the-wall performance for nearly two hours.

The final interval comes and goes with barely a whimper from our hosts, so we put them out of their misery by shutting down the final few minutes and seeing ourselves into the semi-final stage, where Chelsea await us at Wembley.

* * * * * * * *
​

“Y’know something, Keith?”

“What, gaffer?”

“Norwich are so horrendously pleasant, aren’t they?” I say to Keith Downing in the Carrow Road dressing room as the teams warm up.

“How so, Nicole?”

“Well, their ground’s nice, the surrounding area was redeveloped and seems lovely, all the staff are wonderfully polite, the food outside is delicious, and their kits are, normally, quite appealing,” I explain. “I think I hate them.”

“I get that, boss,” Keith nods. “There’s nothing obvious to make fun of, unlike when our stands were falling down.”

“Or the kiosk workers that look like they'd rather be swimming in battery acid than serving your refreshments.”

“Or those three years it was called ‘St. Andrew’s Trillion Trophy Stadium’. Then, there’s the kit -”

“You better not be about to mention any of the kits from my time here,” I snap.

“Of course not,” Keith squeaks. “Anyway, I take it you want to beat them quite badly and that’s why you’ve picked a full-strength side?”

“A little, though it’s more to do with me planning on resting some players at Everton on Saturday, leaving them fresh for Real on Wednesday, so we may as well go strong tonight,” I say. “They’ll get just over a week to recover, and the others should be capable of playing through three games. They can have the next weekend off, if they need it.”

“Sounds good to me, though it also sounds like you’ve spent a heck of a lot of time planning this out,” Keith says.

“If they’re going to pay me nearly £2 million a year, the least I can do is think a few weeks in advance.”

​

Sometimes, there can be subtle incidents in the opening 15 minutes that suggest how the overall match will pan out. Then, sometimes, it can be a little more obvious, like, for example, Gloukh scoring without Norwich touching the ball before then curling in two corners that Konaté nuts past Tadeu to put us three goals ahead.

Not content for his partner to get all the glory, Anel Ahmedhodžić makes it a hat-trick of assists for Gloukh just after the half-hour mark, by which point Isaac Hayden has had enough. He chops down Van Leeuwen from behind in the centre circle and receives a red card that entitles him to nearly an hour of uninterrupted bath time, allowing us to slow things down for the remainder of the game and just take it easy, conserving as much energy for our manic schedule as possible, though there’s still enough bite to our play that Gloukh can maintain his 100 percent contribution to our goals by teeing up Endrick’s 20th of the season to put the icing on the cake in injury time.

* * * * * * * *​

 

[Chonky Panda Tactics]

If you’d told me at the start of campaign that we’d have the chance to win the Premier League title in our ninth-from-last game, on the 4th of April, I’d have been… actually, with the way we ended 2024/25, I’m not convinced I’d have been as shocked as I’m trying to make out. Regardless, it’s still a little surprising.

As I discussed with Keith, some rotation is in order, given a trip to Spain looms in the upcoming week. As such, we rest our four wide-players and give St. Juste, Maatsen, Arda Güler, and Olise the opportunity to impress as we aim to secure our third top-flight title in a row, knowing that one win is all we need.

​

This has been my first chance to visit the new Bramley-Moore Dock Stadium since it opened last summer and I don’t think I’ll be forgetting it any time soon, I think to myself, sitting in the away dugout as the dying embers of the contest play out in front of me.

It was a totally forgettable first-half, but Scott kicked our performance up a notch within minutes of the restart when he burst through Everton’s backline and rounded Jordan Pickford to stroke in and give us the lead. Olise was the next to grab a goal, then Gloukh rounded it out with a cool finish through a crowd of bodies - there’s a reason he’s won the Premier League Player of the Month award for January, February, and now March, after all.

I’ve not been able to wipe the smile from my face since Matt pointed out that our next league fixture is against Villa, meaning that our arch-rivals will have to give us a guard of honour when we enter the pitch, and The Toffees have shown nothing to suggest that we won’t get to enjoy that glorious visual next weekend at any point. I’m not actually sure what pleases me more: winning the title, or that image.

Well, I’ll have the rest of my life to think about it.

The referee blows the final whistle.

Birmingham City are your 2025/26 Premier League Champions.

* * * * * * * *
​

After winning our second trophy of the season, we don’t even have to wait until the weekend is over to secure our third as I take the trip to Wembley to watch Andrew Omobamidele and Danny Namaso help David Hibbert’s Under-21 side to victory over Wrexham in the Papa John’s Trophy final.

It must be said, I don’t think I can recall seeing a more one-sided football match than this.

​

Onto an ever-so-slightly-more prestigious trophy, the time has come for our trip to the Bernabéu.

Whilst we did win here during the league phase, Real have really pushed on since then and will pose a huge threat. As such, we’ll go with the more conservative 4-4-1-1 and restore those that were rested on Saturday to the starting eleven in the hope of possibly stealing at least a draw, giving us something to hold on to when we head back to Birmingham for the return leg.

​

It’s an absolute mauling - but not one that we hand out.

Jeremie Frimpong is too fast to cope with, even for Calvin Bassey, and we’re fortunate that his early cross is only headed off the bar by Eduardo Camavinga. I try telling Bassey to stay a little deeper and keep on Frimpong, but it’s not enough and the Dutchman gets the better of Calvin repeatedly, most notably when he tears past our full-back to whip in a cross from the byline that Rodrygo meets with extreme prejudice, somehow kept out by Bijlow before Williams blocks Marco Asensio’s follow-up and Ahmedhodžić clears.

The second half brings little reprieve, but we’re fortunate that Bijlow seems to save his best performances for trips to Madrid, making another massive save to deny Rodrygo from 15 yards after he’d been set up by Federico Valverde, and Real start to fade. The influential Frimpong tires and needs to be replaced, as does Rodrygo, and the substitutions damage the head of steam that our hosts had built up, compounded by us timing our swaps to be made at a different time to theirs.

By the final few minutes, Madrid look done. They’re knackered, they’ve been beaten away by our indomitable goalkeeper, and they seem content to head to Britain with the scores level. Is this an opportunity I smell? Fresh full-backs are chucked on and we adjust to a new 4-1-2-2-1 shape we’ve been working on that allows them free rein to get forward and run at the tired Real defence. Can we sneak a late winner that’ll tip the tie in our favour?

No. What a ridiculous thought that was. Oh well, we’ve still got a good chance when we head back to St. Andrew’s for the second leg.

Which means we’ve still got a good chance to complete our quest for an unprecedented Quadruple.

* * * * * * * *​

Thank you for reading! I'd like to take this opportunity to wish John Eustace and his coaching team all the best after they left Blues earlier this week. The job that John did to keep us in the Championship last season was nothing short of miraculous, and it's a shame that he won't get more of an opportunity to show what he's capable of when he doesn't have both his hands tied behind his back. He will be missed, as will Keith Downing and Matt Gardiner - I hope that they'll both have the time to find this and... appreciate their characterisations! As for the future, however, it's time for us to get behind Wayne Rooney and his team.

Please follow this thread to keep up with the updates, and feel free to follow me on Instagram and Twitter!

 

[Chonky Panda Tactics]

Part Forty-Six​

Welcome back to Singing the Blues! The second leg of our quarter-final against Real Madrid looms, as do the FA Cup semi-finals...

This part is spread across three posts, so please keep reading after the intro and again after the Chelsea game!

Season One
Season Two
Season Three
Part Thirty-Six
Part Thirty-Seven
Part Thirty-Eight
Part Thirty-Nine
Part Forty
Part Forty-One
Part Forty-Two
Part Forty-Three
Part Forty-Four
Part Forty-Five

“Should we really be playing adventure golf the evening before a match against Villa? Shouldn’t we be settling down soon?”

“I don’t see the problem, Harry,” I say. “We played mah-jongg and it ended up being a much shorter game than usual, so it’s not as late as we expected it to be. If you didn’t want to come with us, you didn’t have to.”

“I’m not missing out on this,” he replies. “I’ve been waiting nearly four years to see Matthew and Keith come here.”

We both look to the hole ahead of us where Keith Downing is crouched by the flag, trying to give instructions to his fellow assistant, Matt Gardiner. Matt, meanwhile, is staring intently at his ball as the vein in his temple visibly throbs while he tries to ignore Keith and focus on his put.

“To be fair, it’s been nearly everything I hoped it to be,” I snigger. “Though, Matthew’s not hurt anyone or damaged anything just yet.”

“Give it time, the night’s still young,” Harry says with a twinkle in his eye. “They appear to be drawing quite a bit of attention, that’ll only rile him up more.”

“I think it’s all four of us who are getting looks, in truth, not just them.”

“How d’you come to that conclusion?”

“Harry, I’m the manager of the team that’s just won their third Premier League in a row, accompanied by two men decked out in nothing but club-branded garb, and a third wearing a bright blue suit and tie - we’re not exactly inconspicuous, are we?” I reason.

“We could be cosplaying,” he shrugs.

“Who the heck would cosplay as the four of us?!”

Harry points behind me and I look over my shoulder to see a group of men dressed as Matt, Keith, and me waiting in the queue at the welcome desk.

“I’m a bit offended I haven’t been impersonated,” Harry says. “Admittedly, my role is a bit less visible than the three of yours.”

“I think I’m the one who should be offended with that attempt at looking like me,” I grimace, unable to pull my gaze away from the portly, bearded man with a wig on, wearing a pink blouse that’s too small for him and royal blue trousers that leave far too little to the imagination.

“Dunno, I think he pulls it off as well as you do.”

“Thank you, Harry, you really do say the nicest things.”

“You’re very welcome,” Harry winks. “Joking aside, I think they’ve nailed Keith and Matthew.”

We watch as the man dressed as Matt looks truly fed up, while the one meant to be Keith chats incessantly.

“I wonder if they’re putting it on, or if they’re like that normally and are using it to their advantage,” I ponder.

“Maybe it’s real on some level, but I find it difficult to believe that anybody else could have the kind of relationship your assistants do,” Harry sighs. “It’s something special, that’s for sure.”

“Come on, Matthew, you’ve been ages. I've tried my best to help, just take the shot already!” the real Keith calls.

“FINE!” Matt shouts. Harry and I spin back around in time to watch him swing wildly through the air and slice his shot into a model tree, the ball pinging off of it and smacking Keith right in the centre of his forehead, sending him flying backwards in incredibly melodramatic fashion.

“Okay,” I laugh over Matt’s angry screams and Keith’s groans. “NOW tonight’s been everything I hoped it would.”

 

[Chonky Panda Tactics]

​

I wish I could say that it was a classic, intense, frenetic Second City Derby, but, truthfully, we never get out of second gear.

Receiving a guard of honour from our fiercest rivals seems to introduce a degree of smugness and complacency in my players which, given this game’s sandwiching between the two legs of our Champions League quarter-final tie and the subsequent changing of the attacking half of our outfield players, leads to an admittedly subpar display.

Aston Villa, delightful bunch that they are, accommodate our crapness by allowing Roméo Lavia to tap in from six yards after some shambolic defending on the brink of half-time, but even taking the lead doesn’t draw any inspiration from my boys, so the second period plays out with about as much purpose as someone working a nine-‘til-five job at four o’clock on Friday afternoon.

Ah well, any victory over Villa is a victory worth savouring.

* * * * * * * *
​

Real Madrid tore us to pieces at the Bernabéu, yet managed to fail in converting their total dominance into a victorious scoreline, leaving the aggregate score level at 0-0 as the Spanish side travel to St. Andrew’s on Tuesday night.

You could be forgiven for expecting sweeping changes after our less-than-convincing display last week, however I name the same eleven and shape as the first leg as it helped us edge out Real in the league phase, so I remain optimistic that the same can happen tonight too.

​

Back on home soil, we look far more comfortable than we did in front of 80,000 Madridstas and Real look much less so. We look to be edging the first half and go close to breaking the deadlock when Anel Ahmedhodžić has two attempts from a corner cleared off the line, but football shows how cruel it can be when Eduardo Camavinga’s speculative effort pings off of Rodrygo’s hip and flies past the wrong-footed Justin Bijlow on the eve of the interval.

Now we’re behind, we need to be more adventurous, so we switch to our usual 4-3-3 for the restart and just go for it, something that catches out Real big time. They’re used to teams rolling over for them once they go ahead, but my squad are like the Michael Myers of the footballing world, simply refusing to be beaten. Within seconds, Ibrahima Konaté powers in a header to restore parity, and it’s mere minutes before Rodrygo has scored another deflection - on this occasion, however, it’s an own goal from Oscar Gloukh’s free kick. We’re on top, we’re leading, and we’re looking irresistible at last.

That is, until the kick-off after our second goal when the ball is worked to Florian Wirtz. The German lifts a pass over our defence for Kingsley Coman that the Frenchman flicks past Bijlow to equalise, totally knocking us from our stride and we struggle to regain any rhythm. Our fans are now back on edge, the cautious optimism that had built evaporating, and the tie looks destined for extra time as the chances begin to dry up for both teams.

All it takes, however, is one chance. One corner, for example, lifted to the front post by Tanguy Ndombele that Konaté, having barrelled through those tasked with stopping him, rises to meet, seemingly in slow-motion. Our titanic centre-back thunders his 19th of the season past the motionless Thibaut Courtois and send our fans into raptures.

The usually-resilient Galacticos are crestfallen and we have no hesitation in compounding their misery by instantly hitting the stodge button. The gaps close up, the tempo slows down, and the time wasting is at a maximum.

Real Madrid have no answer.

Birmingham City are into the Champions League semi-finals for the first time ever, where German behemoths Bayern Munich await.

* * * * * * * *
​

I must have been giddy with joy after our victorious European night, because I can see no other reason that I’d have thought it sensible to sign off on giving Josh Griffiths a new £58,000 a week contract, especially with Patricio Merlo developing well in the Under-21s since his summer arrival.

​

And Griffiths will get an immediate chance to show his appreciation for his new deal when he and Ilgaz Garhan step into the starting eleven for our FA Cup semi-final clash with Chelsea at the weekend.

At a glance, Diego Someone’s men sitting third would suggest that this is one of the toughest fixtures we could have. A longer look, however, would reveal that The (Other) Blues are about as close to our point-total as they are Leicester’s. Who are 16th.

Having already kicked Manchester City to the kerb in the fifth round, let’s see if another of the Sky Six can follow.

​

I like to think that the idea of a ‘European hangover’ is a load of rubbish, a convenient myth that’s peddled by washed-up pundits to try and explain clubs having an off day. The opening hour of this game, however, and its combined expected goals total of just under 0.5, is doing its utmost to convince me otherwise.

Despite how dour the first 60 minutes are, though, it only takes seconds of the 61st to spark some excitement.

After a move that saw each of our players touch the ball at least once, Endrick slides the ball through for Tahith Chong to delicately lift over Gabriel Slonina to open the scoring for the tie, and the opportunity to double our lead is soon upon us when Chong is set free again by Bob van Leeuwen. This time, Slonina is able to claw Tahith’s effort away, but Wesley Fofana acts like someone just unplugged his internal internet router as the loose ball drops at his feet and he just… stops. He stands there, three yards out and in the middle of his goal, loading wheels in his eyes as he waits for the reboot to complete - Endrick can barely believe his luck. The teenager tackles the French centre-back for the easiest goal he’s likely to score in his career.

Chelsea are as flat as can be, their fans uninspired by their insipid play as we look likely to be headed back to Wembley next month for the final against Tottenham. Is there even any point in going stodgy? I normally would with a two-goal lead, but Chelsea have been so blunt in attack that it seems unnecessary.

It’s as that thought goes through my mind that Slonina lumps a kick downfield that Mason Mount helps over our defence. Raheem Sterling bursts through and collects the flick-on, blasting past Griffiths as our ‘keeper rushes from his line to try and close the angles.

Alright, fine. We’ll get stodgy.

* * * * * * * *​

 

[Chonky Panda Tactics]

“D’you think Newcastle’s Saudi owners would’ve expected more from their investment, gaffer?” Keith asks as we pack our bags onto the coach.

“Probably. They did manage to win a Carabao Cup and reach the knockouts of the Champions League, but we’ve kinda rocked up and ruined it all for them,” I reply.

“Still, they’re less of a joke than they used to be,” Matt says. “They’re playing some good football and pushing for Europe, that’s better than being in the bottom third for eternity.”

“2016-2022 Birmingham City are calling and would like to agree,” I sigh. “What a depressing time that was. At least Newcastle got to be in the Premier League’s bottom third…”

“I think it’s about time you got over that, Nicole,” Keith says. “The last four seasons, we’ll have finished first, first, first, and first. I think that should more than make up for it.”

“That’s very true,” I smile. “Sometimes, I feel like I don’t appreciate your positive outlook enough, Keith.”

“It’s difficult to appreciate someone’s words when they spew so many of them,” Matt smirks. “But she’s right, you’re an important part of this team, Keith.”

“Thanks,” Keith blushes. “Does this mean we can go back to sitting together?”

“Don’t push your luck,” Matt growls.

“Actually,” I chime in. “I have a happy coincidence for you both.”

I open the folder in my left hand and pull out a piece of paper that Matt takes from me.

“Why is Bob sitting in the aisle?” he asks.

“Oops, that’s the lineup.” I swap the sheet he’s holding for another. “THAT’S the seating plan.”

Matt’s dark eyebrows lower.

“I don’t even get the window seat?”

“I’ve brought a Scrabble set,” Keith says.

“Let’s get cracking, no time to lose.”

​

In an eerily similar display to the weekend, the first hour makes me wish I could be somewhere more exciting, like a cinema, a park, or a morgue, but we soon break the deadlock when Endrick spanks in from range. I presume that this’ll be the catalyst for an improved performance.

Blimey, was I wrong.

The Magpies show Bournemouth levels of audacity by
getting right back in our faces and we have no idea how to handle it. We’re lucky that Alexander Isak shanks wide when clean through, but we don’t learn our lesson and allow Gonçalo Guedes the freedom of Newcastle to take his time and pick his spot, rolling past the helpless Bijlow.

Livid, I flood players forward in a 4-2-3-1, but does it help? Does it heck. Newcastle drop back, my boys look unfussed, and we draw back-to-back games against Roberto Martínez’s side, dropping points for just the second time this season.

* * * * * * * *
​

With several draining matches just gone and Bayern Munich to come on Wednesday, we could really do with an opponent presenting themselves that’ll give us a chance to rotate and rest.

Enter: 18th-placed and nearly-relegated Stoke City.

Alex Neil, one of the few top-flight managers to be employed by the same club that they were when I took over at Blues, has a few talented players available to him, though their horrendous form suggests that they’re struggling to shine in a team low on confidence. As such, it’s wholesale changes as only Bijlow, Gloukh, and Alex Scott retain their places in the starting lineup from our trip north for this one.

​

“My days, I need to lie down,” I say, slumping onto one of the physio tables in our dressing room.

“It wasn’t that bad, boss,” Keith says.

“‘Wasn’t that bad’?!” I shout. “We conceded three goals to one of the worst teams in the league!”

“With a heavily rotated defence,” Matt mutters.

“And, we scored six,” Keith adds.

“Are you not distressed by this at all?!” I ask, exasperated.

“No, it’s a blip. It happens almost every season,” Matt snaps. “You should be more concerned by Michael’s injury.”

“Are your meetings normally this angry?” Michael Olise whispers from the other table.

“How’s it looking, Pete?” I ask our head physio, Pete Shaw, ignoring Michael’s question.

“Not too bad, but it’s not exactly great news, either,” he answers. “Seems likely to be pulled knee ligaments, so he’ll probably be out for about two weeks, maybe three.”

“So, he’s going to be out -“

“Until the cup final? Pretty much,” Pete grimaces.

“Don’t worry, gaffer, I’m sure I’ll be back before then,” Michael says, through gritted teeth.

“Sure,” Pete chuckles, patronisingly patting him on the shoulder. “And I’m sure Tom Brady will invest in the club, with Wayne Rooney taking over as manager, bringing Ashley Cole and John O’Shea with him, all before the season ends.”

* * * * * * * *
​

I’m terrified of Bayern Munich. Truly and deeply terrified.

“Wait, Nicole,” a voice in my head that sounds an awful lot like someone reading a blog on a website dedicated to Football Manager says. “Didn’t you beat Bayern in Birmingham’s first ever Champions League game at St. Andrew’s?” Why, yes, yes we did. What an excellent memory you have, voice in my head that sounds an awful lot like someone reading a blog on a website dedicated to Football Manager. You may also remember, therefore, that we went on to concede nine goals in two games to Paris Saint-Germain as they dumped us out in the quarter-finals. They then went on to win the whole thing. They won’t, however, go on to win the whole thing this season. Why would that be? Ah, yes, Bayern knocked them out by four goals to nil in the round of 16 as they began marching towards what will be their 14th Bundesliga crown in succession.

Hence, I’m terrified of Bayern Munich.

Due to my fears, tonight will be another occasion where deploy the increasingly-familiar 4-4-1-1, naming what I believe to be the strongest team available as we look to prove ourselves once more against one of the most dominant sides a major European league has ever seen.

​

Timo Werner was considered something of a joke at Chelsea. Constantly offside and missing glorious chances, he was emblematic of their habit of signing excellent forwards and managing to ruin them. I reminisce on that time as he dribbles past Scott, then Krystian Bielik, then Konaté, before rounding Bijlow and tapping into the empty net in the tenth minute.

My trauma-induced flashbacks of last season’s PSG fixtures start kicking in as I fear the floodgates opening, but I should give us more credit. We’re a stronger side than then, we’re a more experienced side than then, and we’re a more resilient side than then, proving so when Van Leeuwen, the man that wore the ‘magic’ socks and loves the big occasions, turns in Endrick’s low cross to level.

Bayern recognise the tide turning and decide a first-leg draw, away from home at the reigning Premier League champions especially, is not something to be sniffed at, even before half-time is upon us. They turn off the lights, close the blinds, and put the bolt across the front door.

They didn’t remember to check the patio doors were locked, however.

With seconds left of injury time, we win a corner. As in the last round, Ndombele delivers a sumptuous ball to the front post and time seems to stand still as Konaté rises highest. He meets its flight with an audible ‘thud’ from his forehead and everyone in blue jumps from their seats in expectation.

As the seats clatter into their upright positions, however, the underside of the crossbar clatters also.

The ball is cleared. The full-time whistle goes. Despite victory being so close, we’ll have to make do with starting from equal footing in Germany next week.

​

However, if offered the chance to avoid taking a deficit into the second leg pre-match, I’d have been delighted. It means we enter May with two pieces of silverware won and are into another final already, whilst being one match away from completing the set. There’s also the small matter of being just five matches away from potentially going a whole Premier League season undefeated.

This is shaping up to either be one of the biggest finales in the history of English football, or, alternatively, the biggest collapse in the history of English football.

Regardless, this’ll be a month that no one is ever likely to forget.

* * * * * * * *​

Thank you for reading! Please follow this thread to keep up with the updates, and feel free to follow me on Instagram and Twitter!

 

[Chonky Panda Tactics]

Part Forty-Seven​

Welcome back to Singing the Blues! Can we reach the Champions League final? Can we go the whole Premier League season unbeaten? Can you deal with me dodging the FA Cup final today?!

This part is spread across three posts, so please keep reading after the intro and again after the Leicester game!

Season One
Season Two
Season Three
Part Thirty-Six
Part Thirty-Seven
Part Thirty-Eight
Part Thirty-Nine
Part Forty
Part Forty-One
Part Forty-Two
Part Forty-Three
Part Forty-Four
Part Forty-Six

​

“As you ride your wagon down the lengthy driveway, the remaining light from the setting suns is swallowed by the towering trees that line either side, engulfing your path in darkness,” I say.

“Alright, I’ll ask Matthew -”

“Character names please, Xanaphia,” I interrupt.

“Sorry. I’ll ask Grumzur to stop the horses and swap with me, due to my ability to see in the dark,” Keith Downing says.

“I tell Xanaphia that I’d rather light her on fire so that I could see for myself than listen to a Wood Elf” Matt Gardiner growls.

“I’ll give you Inspiration for that, Matthew. Very in-keeping with your character,” I smile.

“Character?” Matt queries. “Oh, right, sure. That’s what I was going for…”

Harry clears his throat.

“I try to reason with our Orc friend that -”

“GRUMZUR VENOM SQUELCHER DOES NOT REASON WITH PUNY HALFLINGS,” Matt shouts.

“Could I play a song to soothe you?” John Ruddy asks.

“I’m not interested in the melodies of Human Bards,” Matt proclaims.

My colleagues all frown at Matt.

“You always build characters that are so antisocial, Matthew,” Harry says.

“You all make characters that are sneaky and magic based, one of us has to be a brutish thug,” Matt shrugs.

“Doesn’t mean you need to be such a di-”

A knock at the conference room door brings the brewing confrontation to a sudden halt.

“Is this part of the story?” Keith questions.

“No,” I reply, slowly. “Come in!” I call.

The door opens and one of the hotel’s receptionists enters.

“May I ask why you’re in here?”

“We’re with the Birmingham contingent. Y’know, for the Chelsea game tomorrow?” I explain. “I was told we had free use of this room, so we’re playing Dungeons and Dragons.”

“Yes, well, we’ve had a few complaints about shouting coming from here, about ‘rump sores’ and ‘denim skechers’, or something like that.” Matt stares at the table and seems to tense the hand in his jacket pocket. “As it’s getting late, it’d be appreciated if you’d keep the noise to a minimum from now on.”

“Of course, my deepest apologies,” I say. The receptionist shoots the most service-industry smile possible and leaves, shutting the door behind them. I turn back to the others. “I think, perhaps, we should wrap this up shortly and head to bed.”

“Agreed,” Harry grimaces. “Go on then, Rump Sore, take charge.”

“Right, I try to lead the horses further along the track, toward the mansion,” Matt says.

“Roll for Animal Handling,” I request.

Matt picks up his orange and blue twenty-sided die and rolls it on the table.

One. The worst result possible.

“You attempt to travel further up the drive, but the combination of the lack of light and your overconfidence mean you don’t spot the large rock in the road and hit it at full speed, the wooden wheel of your wagon shattering as its spokes fly off into the undergrowth,” I say. “It looks fixable, but it’s going to take time and daylight.”

Everyone stares at Matt.

“Well,” he mumbles. “I must admit, you have a knack for immersive storytelling, Nicole.”