What on earth was that gallimaufry? One moment we’re still basking in the glow of an away win that should have lit a small bonfire under the season, and the next we’re staring at what might be the most inexplicable display so far.
Everything that made the previous outing so heartening had evaporated. Whatever fuelled them at Bloomfield Road must have been left on the hard shoulder, because – almost to a man – they had the zest of an asthmatic sloth.
Whether Leam Richardson has been running them ragged
in training to build long-term endurance is a question wafting in the breeze, but bar Daniel Kyerewaa, every blue and white shirt looked drained. Even Kyerewaa couldn’t recreate the spark he carried at Blackpool. As a whole, there was no fire to the flame.
Post-game, Richardson mentioned players slipping “back into old habits”, which any half-awake translator can decode as: “They didn’t do what I told them.” He carries his share of responsibility, of course, but he wasn’t fibbing. The long, hopeless punts into the channels were an unwanted sedative.
Our inability to escape Peterborough United’s press had a painful, looping quality, like watching a washing machine stuck on rinse.
Joel Pereira was forced into more awkward touches than anyone would wish on a goalkeeper, repeatedly handed back-passes that felt like little parcels of dread. Ahead of him, movement was scarce. Passing options were figments. Forward progress was just too difficult a task.
And while Posh’s press deserved credit, they were absolutely there to be cracked open. Our lot just didn’t take individual or collective ownership. Senior players especially. Paudie O’Connor, Derrick Williams, Lewis Wing: all experienced enough to read the temperature and adjust it. None did.
There were flickers of quality, but they were fireflies rather than flames. Kelvin Ehibatiomhan’s unexpected equaliser briefly nudged the pulse, only for him to be hooked instantly for Jack Marriott.
In the same action Kamari Doyle was replaced for reasons unknown, and with that the last ember of attacking intent was blown out. Both decisions invited bafflement rather than belief.
Creativity, such as it was, collapsed in on itself. Charlie Savage barely registered. Randell Williams had one of those nights when the crowd’s main contribution was pleading with him not to shoot from another postcode.
Several other efforts from range were literal punts to nothing. Wing reverted to his long-ball roulette, sending low-percentage punts into the void. None landed. The habit is beyond tired.
As a midfield pair, Savage and Wing have all the chemistry of two strangers coyly exchanging glances. No natural rotation, no instinctive angles, no neat progressive combinations. Too often it was simply: give it to Wing and watch the possession drain away like bathwater.
What galls most is the lack of responsibility to break these recidivist patterns. If repeatedly doing something fruitless is a prophecy, this team seems determined to fulfil it.
No wonder Richardson is eyeing January with more urgency than a bargain-hunter at the doors of a Boxing Day sale. The problem is obvious: even if he wants to clear space, who is buying? Very few of our players stroll into a Championship side. Anyone else that’s outgoing would go to our current level or the one below. Would they really be up for that move? Shifting the deckchairs won’t be simple.
All this leaves Richardson with a clutch of riddles to solve. Some are longer-term, others far more immediate.
He must shape a midfield with bite and brain. He must fix the imbalance out wide, where Kelvin Abrefa plays with boldness while Jeriel Dorsett needs an antihistamine to go beyond the halfway line. He must conjure firepower beyond the awkward inefficiency of Ehibatiomhan and the porcelain fragility of Marriott.
But above everything, he needs the team to think together rather than drift apart. Whether the players are confused, coasting, clogged by some grey mental malaise or simply not up to the standard, the questions outnumber the answers.
After this showing, he’ll be making a list and checking it twice. Santa Couhig needs to come to town.
