Recently by Ian Palmer

Don't upset your Ultras!

That's the rule most clubs stick to, as they cautiously play down the influence of their most outspoken fans. In reality, certain sets of supporters can have more influence over the running of the club than is ever openly admitted. Barcelona know what I'm talking about.

Do my beloved Sky Blues have Ultras? In a way, yes. If you substitute the knives and criminal records for a lit cigarette and 3-month ban from Jumpin' Jacks. But they're just as passionate, mind, and, I'm told, mostly congregate in block 14 of the Ricoh.

Imagine the fuss when the club announced the closure of that block next season. And fuss has turned to a campaign as their mild vexation has seethingly foamed into anger. This has manifested itself in a Facebook group.

But that is it: they'll have to move seats, a few yards to the right. What on earth is all the fuss about? Am I missing something here? Is there more to this riddle than my naivety will allow me to see?

Now before I go any further, let's remember that this block generates a beautiful and inspiring atmosphere. Singing, dancing, the odd topless large-bellied hero, and some uncharacteristically witty banter with opposition fans. Block 14, we love you.

But now you're block 15, squeezed in with the others for a better atmosphere, and to save some money. Money, which is keeping this talented team together so that we can watch an FA Cup quarter final every now and then.

Look at Southampton. Long have they followed a similar path to ours, and now it looks like they're about to diverge into a black hole of doom. Oh, how that could have been us. Not only should we move seats when asked, if Mr Ranson requested that I shine his shoes one matchday, I'd give them a jolly good seeing to, then I'd crouch down in front of him and offer my back for their comfort over the next 90 minutes.

We don't own our seats. We merely rent them for an afternoon. Crikey, the football club doesn't even own those seats! Better pay our council tax or we could get turfed out altogether!

Only Coventry fans could go from emphatic chants of We're all going to Wem-ber-ley and unabashed prognostications of reaching the play-offs to mumurs and grumblings of the lurid realms of relegation.

In just seven days.

Have we really changed that much in just three games? Have our Wembley-bound heroes been cosmically spellbound by some sorcerous means, doomed to a fate of (even) lower league football?

Of course not. We were, as we should have been, beaten by a world-class Premiership team, and have lost a couple of tricky league games that have left us... well, pretty much where we've been all season.

So, no need to panic then. Talk of the play-offs was inevitable, but premature. Not because of the points needed to reach one of those fabled berths, but just the sheer number of teams between us and the hallowed top six. So now that we can put a lid on all that play-off nonsense for this year, the talk switches to our other favourite topic: relegation.

Ben Turner has reassured us this week that "we don't need to worry about relegation and all that". Well that's a relief. Although one can't help think that his reassurance was not borne out of objective assessment, but more to gain impunity in the eyes of his fans after his little weekend faux pas.

I know Ben was being fouled, but if he'd only ducked instead of... oh, never mind.

Even Keiren "Who-says-you-can't-save-in-a-recession?" Westwood has shown his flappable side. Well, his feet have. Maybe he should pretend he's hurt his leg and let a defender do all the kicking. A role as pinch-kicker at set-pieces might have been ear-marked for Marcus when a contract extension was put before him. It's keeping David Beckham in the job.

As much as I'd like to dramaticise the last few weeks of the season with talk of potential voyages to the extremities of our division, I'm afraid there will be no such adventures. It's the steady waters of mid-table from here on in, a fate that I will share in welcoming after the traumas of last year.

There's always the sideshow attraction of seeing just how many friends Aron Gunnarsson can get on Facebook. Currently about 4,200 more than me.

I'm telling you it didn't cross the line. Spare yourself the bother and heartache of watching the TV replay, there's no debate or analysis needed. As frustrated as I was from the stands, I can only imagine how cross Keiren Westwood was.

Think about it: this guy spends his whole life trying to stop goals. His livelihood depends on it. It feeds his family, and keeps him warm and safe at night. So when he saves another good'un against Sheffield United, only to be told that he had, in actual fact, failed to do so, his incandescence must have only been the first movement of his symphony of emotions.

That he only got booked for being told he wasn't doing his job, when he bloomin' well was is a miracle in itself. Where was the fourth official this time? Don't they have monitors in those hideouts of theirs?

I think you know where this is going, but I'll stop you there, because I am not in favour of using 'technology'. It's such an ugly word in the context of the beautiful game. If 'technology' starts creeping into the game, who knows where it will end? Judging by the amount of money washing around the game at the minute, one dabble in this forbidden pool could end up with us watching some kind of footy-themed Robot Wars, between Daleks Athletic and Cybermen City.

Let's say for instance that after Wednesday's 'incident' the game was stopped and referred to an off-the-pitch official to study the replay, or maybe just see if a sensor had beeped on the goal line. The goal wouldn't have counted, but City may well have gone on to lose anyway, as they far from being on top of their game.

Then I would have trudged meekly home not cursing the officials but bleakly trying to fathom just why the City looked so tame against a rather average (but successful) Sheffield team. I'd much rather just go home with ref-rage thanks, and I'd get home a few minutes earlier without all the faffing around with 'technology'.

The point is, to take that subjective element out of the game would lessen its effect and, eventually, its appeal. I like that referees can have a bad game. It makes the game that bit less predictable, and just gives us so much more to talk about. If every decision was made by a computer (albeit correctly) the game would become clinical and sterile.

This is where cricket is headed you may have noticed. And are they still getting all the decisions right? Not if Nasser Hussain's carefully but hotly worded rant after England's third test against the West Indies is anything to go by. Nasser was such a cool bloke at the crease. One or two more dodgy third umpire decisions and he might start to have an inkling of what Keiren Westwood must be going through.

I was initially amused by the appearance of a Valentine's day-themed streaker at last weekend's FA Cup match against Blackburn. Not just for his dedication to the role (the bow and arrow, the roses he was giddily dispersing - those ain't cheap around Valentine's, y'know...), but for his sobriety in keeping his underwear on. A decision which spared us all, but failed to keep in spirit with streaking etiquette. Perhaps he felt he didn't have the necessary anatomic qualifications to belong to that crowd, or maybe it was just too cold.

His appearance was the prelude to Michael Doyle's refreshingly lucky goal that gave City the lead. But soon after the match, when the true despair that arises from conceding stoppage-time goals had truly set in, I realised that it was plausible, if not fair, to blame this impromptu character for our team being pilfered of a quarter final place.

Now, it's not that I think the whole psuedo-streaking episode gave Blackburn the extra few minutes they needed to score that goal. No, the match length wasn't altered. But there is a big difference when time gets taken out of 'normal time' and added to 'stoppage time'. Because when a fourth official holds up his board and it indicates 3 added minutes, that's pretty normal. But hold up the board with 5 minutes on it and it's a different story.

When the big 5 was displayed the dulcit and dreary Blackburn fans were suddenly galvanised and erupted in an orgy of cheers at this news of their team being given a lifeline.

"5 minutes! Cor blimey, we can actually win this thing!"

The team, on hearing their fans newfound belief, were all of a sudden of a similar mind that all was not lost, and that one final push might salvage something.

It bloomin' did. I won't go into details.

The closest thing to a comforting thought that I can cling to is that this team feels as peed off about it as I do. I knew when my head was down after the game, their heads were down with me, chewing over the cold determination that justice would be served in the replay. I know this because only a team that cared that much could give that kind of gladiatorial performance.

Next time it'll be at our place, and we don't indulge in letting morons onto our pitch.

Managers seem to come and go through doors: in through the front door or out through the back door. Players, it seems, come and go through windows. Transfer windows to be precise, and this latest one has just closed leaving players stuck inside gazing out, perhaps.

The two City players who made their exit through this last window had a helping hand from Chris Coleman who opened the window as wide as he good to get rid of these two misfits (Julian Gray and Michael Mifsud in case you missed last week.) In fact I wouldn't be surprised if Coleman opened all the windows, including the French ones to let them out.

Thankfully the rest of City's squad were kept well away from any windows. Danny Fox worried me the most. There comes a point where so many rumours fly about that they seem to amalgamate into some kind brothy truth.

In the end there wasn't even a bid for our left-back lieutenant and my fears turned into mere mild embarrassment at how worried I had become over his fictional exit.

Keiren Westwood and Aron Gunnarsson are City's other prize possesions and were kept away from the window by wise Coleman. Gunnarsson even got shipped off to sunny Tenerife. I think that was in case of this scenario:

*Ring ring*
Mr Ranson: "Hello"
Big-club Supremo: "I'd like to speak with Mr Gunnarsson about a possible move please."
Mr Ranson: "Sorry, my friend, Aron's off in Tenerife. You could go find him, but I guess getting a flight might be a problem with all this snow..."
*Dialling tone*
Mr Ranson: "Hello?"

Actually, all he had to do was get onto Facebook. You can find Aron there. I know because I, like many City fans, am officially his Facebook 'friend'. One of two-and-a-half-thousand odd at the last count.

How many other footballers would invite that kind of attention on themselves? Not only that, Aron even takes time to read and reply to messages (which, judging by the volume of messages, must take some time) as if he was having a chat down his local.

He says it's important to keep in touch with the fans. In doing so he's elavated himself from fans' favourite to fans' hero. Aron's on his way back to Coventry as I type. It's safe now, all the windows are closed.