I was very tempted to simply write “WE’RE DOOMED!” and submit it with the request that it be printed in the biggest type possible. However, I decided that this would be lazy on my part and that you deserve more than two words from me for parting with your hardearned cash. Anyway, it might be a useful ruse for later in the season when relegation has been confirmed. Which at this rate may very well be before the deadline for the next issue.

Yes, that’s right; even generally optimistic and, at times, hopefully deluded old me has largely accepted that we’re going down. Like many others, I simply can’t see where the next point is coming from, let alone the 17 or 18 (at least) we need to stay up. You don’t need me to tell you what a bad few weeks it’s been; a run of results that makes it very difficult to imagine how we might get out of this mess. Certainly we’ve given ourselves a hell of a lot to do.

After the previous couple of seasons, I really wanted to believe in Lambert and buy into what he was trying to do with his young and hungry players. Like Paul himself I was naive in thinking that this would be good enough without a bit of experience in there as well. Clearly it isn’t enough so

Those of us who are students of history (A level Grade C I think – I’ll have to ask my mum to look at the back of her cupboards to find the certificates) know that great events usually have their origins in happenings from many years before, sometimes which don’t seem important at the time. Word War Two, for example, didn’t start because of what took place in September 1939, its roots could be traced back well into the nineteenth century. In the same way, I think that the problems Villa have been encountering go back further than the day Martin O’Neill walked out. I think an equally significant date in our subsequent decline was 27th September 2008.

To understand what was so important about this, cast your mind back to the summer of 2006, and the arrival of Randy Lerner together with a plethora of American-based businessmen and ideas. After giving the rest of the Premier League a 14 year start in how to run a club properly, the idea was that Villa would get a taste of proper American marketing. Joining R

Inwhichwespeaktoone of the unsung heroes of Villa Park:

Known only as Darren, he is a member of what he calls an elite band of brothers “Yeah, we’re Special Forces alright!” Darren holds up his orange flourescent jacket with ‘Steward’ printed in white on the back.

“What we do on match days goes way beyond what you can imagine. It’s not so much the Villa fans although they can be difficult, it’s the away lot that are the problem for us.” Darren rummages in an old duffle bag and produces a slightly bent and crumpled empty can of Coke “One of them actually had this on him when I searched him! We had to close the turnstiles in order to do a proper search after we found it, bloody maniacs. You let one in with their own drinks and who knows what might happen. They’ll all do it and before then we wouldn’t be making any money from drinks, and then where would we be?””

Darren thought for a moment and then told us about one of his most scary moments, “I was in the Holte End when

John Dunn Life wasn’t always easy for John Dunn. A promising young ‘keeper at Chelsea, he found his way barred by one Peter Bonetti, chiefly remembered for his performance against West Germany in the 1970 World Cup but also a fine club custodian who lived up to his nickname of ‘The Cat’. With Bonetti’s fitness record an admirable one, it was likely that Dunn would have to move if first-team football was the aim. So it proved. Chelsea’s then-manager Tommy Docherty sold him to fourth division Torquay United where he might have been expected to drift off the football map. Torquay, though, were doing well under Frank O’Farrell, a promising acolyte of the old West Ham school of football which had already produced one top scholar in Malcolm Allison. O’Farrell took his side to promotion and this progress did not go unnoticed. Tommy Cummings, attempting to arrest the long slide at Villa Park, knew he had no realistic deputy for the heroic Colin Withers so paid a small fee to secure Dunn’s signature. Big Colin remained the first choice but Dunn stepped in for the odd game and did well enough. The following season, 1968-69, saw any progress achieved the previous year undone as Villa struggled from the off. With few goals scored, plus an ineffective and leaky defence, Withers did as he had done for the previous few years and performed minor miracles in an unavailing attempt to help the team out of trouble. After a final, crushing defeat at St. Andrews he was left out for the final time and Dunn was given the chance to stamp the place as his own. No great improvement was evident; as the same poor side was in front of him it was hard to see how things could change. Nevertheless, he did well enough. Dunn was solidity personified; there were few spectacular moments and even fewer errors. He was courageous and through his first season Villa never conceded more than one goal in a home fixture.

It’s25thAugust1990, the heartache of Italia 90 is still fresh in the hearts of the nation, and the time has finally arrived. At the ripe old age of eight, my dad is about to take me to my first ever live football match, Villa versus Southampton.ItwasallIhad talked about the previous day at school, and despite most of my friends being Liverpool fans, there was only ever going to be one team for me. We left my nan’s house and parked up on the Ridgeway, before beginning the long walk to Villa Park. As we approached the ground, having stopped at the little sweet shop on the corner by Tame Road, I began to feel the excitement, and as we arrived at the Holte End I could hardly wait to get inside. My dad paid at the turnstile (them were the days), and in we went. I don’t remember the clichéd things such as the roar of the crowd, the sights, the colours, the smells, I simply remember falling in love. The atmosphere was quite intimidating to a shy little eight year old, as was the swaying and the hustle and bustle of the crowd, but I knew instantly that this was for me.

“Aston Villa? Who are they?” I remember little about the game itself other than the score being 1-1 (research confirms Tony Cascarino was the goal scorer), and David Platt getting a hero’s reception on his return from the World Cup. I don’t remember how we played, how they played or the manner of the goals. If only I knew then that this game would set me off on a lifelong journey of pain, ecstasy, heartache and joy. A journey I wouldn’t change for anything