MOSS SIDE BARROW BOY PART TEN

Our local derby (of sorts) against the sleeping giant at Preston North End went wrong from the start when young striker Jon Macken latched onto a cross from the left flank to head home. Any guesses who provided the telling ball? That's right, Danny bleeding gu-gu-Granville. I was furious with Steve Howey, who let the City reject stroll into our half from defence and do the damage. The same couldn't be said for the full house at Deepdale. Over 21,000 fans were there to watch David Moyes's improving side, who held us with awful ease for the duration of the first half. At the break, I took off Kristian Bergstrom, who was struggling to have any effect down the left, and inserted Ali Bernabia. Our favourite Algerian (apart from Camus, naturally) laid the ball off to Eyal Berkovic in the 59th minute, leaving the midfielder free to take a well-struck shot on his right foot. 1-1, and the moaning Israeli earned another plaudit.

At this point, we were well on top. Macken aside, Preston weren't great and gifted us a series of chances along with the lion's share of possession. The contest was ours for the taking, and Paulo Wanchope seemed to know this, squandering several shots in succession. We were punished for our profligacy in the 71st minute. David Healy, North End's substitute, dribbled past both Howey and Ibrahim Said to slot home the winner for the home team. The Egyptian shouldn't have been put in the position of dealing with Healy, but when he had to he had come up floundering. We were down to fourth.

Several days later and another away trip into deepest Lancashire. This time it was the pie-eating clans of Wigan in the League Cup. Considering the town was actually in the county of Greater Manchester, there was none of the cosmopolitanism of my new home about it. Where was the Wigan alternative to fashionable King Street? The curry mile? The gun-toting casual violence? Chewing on a Holland's meat and potato pie, I watched us turn over the Addicks with casual simplicity. It took us until deep in the second half to assert our authority, Stefan Selakovic and Mark Kerr putting the tie away, but there was little doubt that we deserved the win.

Paul Jewell looked dejected in the Wigan dugout, and at one point, Vinny went over to comfort him about how things had gone downhill for him. One moment, he was gaining promotion to the Premiership with Bradford, the next here he was, at the JJB Stadium in a town that relegated football to the ranks of a second-class sport. It was a side to my coach that I had never seen before. He didn't even mention the presence of Danny Tiatto in Wigan's ranks, which showed a rare degree of tact. Mind you, the left-sided Australian was bound to look poor when he was being positioned on the right side of midfield.

The next day, Garry Pendrey and I listened to the radio as we were drawn for the third round against Premier opposition. The game was a home fixture against struggling West Ham United, a club that had been my favourite as a child. Lovely. This would be a test of our top class credentials. In the meantime, Shaun Goater started mouthing off because he wanted a new contract with the club. I didn't know whether to offer one to him. At 31, the Bermudan striker hardy had a glowing future ahead of him, though I did note that he had an uncanny knack of scoring regularly, despite looking like he had all the grace of a young Jabba the Hutt and less movement than a First World War army. Luckily, the Goat was happy to train whilst expressing his concerns, and I was pleased that he wanted to remain at the club.

As we prepared for the weekend home game against Gillingham, we had a call from Mick McCarthy, who wanted Richard Dunne to join the Irish national side in a couple of weeks. Clearly, honest Mick hadn't done his scouting, as Dunne was warming the bench for me after some horrific early appearances. Kevin Horlock was wanted to play for Northern Ireland, whilst the FAs of Israel and Algeria requested Berkovic and Bernabia's presence respectively.

The Gills game was one of those that make a manager proud but hardly entertains the supporters. With 24,946 Mancunians trying to find something interesting to read in the match day programme (they'd be lucky) we spent the duration camped inside their half. Things looked bad for them from the 29th minute, when goalie Vince Bartram was dismissed for a foul on Berkovic as the attacker looked goalbound. I had some sympathy for Bartram, as our Israeli had an air about him that made you just want to punch his lights out. Ibrahim Said missed the penalty kick, but this just delayed the inevitable. Eventually, Bergstrom rifled in a telling cross from the left that left Alf Inge Haaland with a simple header. 19 shots, and only one goal, but the points were gratefully received. We remained in fourth, but the pack at the top of the table was jostling for position nicely. As yet, no one had produced a runaway lead, with sides taking points off each other. Everything was set up nicely for a good run from the Blues.

On Tuesday, as preparations were in hand for the following day's home match against Sheffield United (they come thick and fast here, don't they?) I caught some action from the Champions Cup on the box. AS Roma were hammering Mallorca 4-0, with Totti, Montella and their red-shirted mates all in breathtaking form. This is what we would have to try and match someday. Watching us train the next morning, with Paul Ritchie and Simon Colosimo collapsing into a big sloppy heap, I knew that there would have to be sweeping changes before we could be anything like ready.

There was some good news though. Mick the Lips, still on his Scandinavian tour, called from a sauna in Gothenburg to let me know that he was taking a good old Frank Butcher's at a suitable defensive midfielder. The target was Tommi Gronlund, a 31-year old Finnish international who played for Trelleborgs. Having enjoyed a char and a chinwag with manager Alf Westerberg, he believed he had convinced him that £250k would do he trick, and that we would be getting a clear first-team player for our Justin Fash. With Haaland and Horlock our only realistic options for the position at present, I couldn't fax the offer to Sweden quickly enough.

Part Eleven is right this way, sir.