I think a tumbleweed just hit me in the head. It was entirely my fault. I alone was the one that allowed this once roaring blog to turn to dust over the past few weeks. My apologies, especially to James Price.

Now, I could rattle off some excuses but I am almost certain that it is the team that brings people to the blog and not my sometimes confusing writing style. Hence, instead of regaling you with one man's battle with writers block I will instead present two half baked thoughts that almost managed to become completed blogs during the past fortnight.

You might be aware that there is a great money-making tradition in the literary world when it comes to releasing incomplete works. Personally, I consider the three out-of-order chapters in Truman Capote's Answered Prayers to be especially beautiful because of the promise of the remaining manuscript one day answering my own prayers of wondering where the hell that story was actually going. Until it is found, the story only exists in slight, lurid fragments.

This blog will do the same. Without the lurid bit, though.

Charles Enlarged

Charlie Miller was the best import in the A-League last season and he has the elaborate paperweight to prove it. However, resting on one's laurels can be a dangerous game - especially when there are fat jokes to be made. Snap.

I am not sure what went wrong for Charlie this season but on the surface nothing appears to have changed that drastically. He isn't any fatter than last year and his passing and shooting, while not grabbing last year's headlines, have hardly been below par.

It did however seem that following the exit of Frank Farina, Charlie's heart was no longer in it. If you need proof of that, consider how a man goes from self-appointed, off-the-ball, loyalty enforcer to Benedict Arnold grade, white-shoed turncoat in the matter of only a few weeks.

Whatever the reasons for the decline of Charlie Miller at Brisbane Roar this season, it was clear that Ange Postecoglou made the right decision. If he had no intention of retaining Miller beyond his contract then there was no point in playing him ahead of a promising younger player (and no, I don't mean Mitch Nicholls). If Miller didn't want to accept that, he knew where the door was.

Postecoglou is aware that he has a free ride until next season because he can play the "I-inherited-this-squad-from-a-manager-with-a-very-different-playing-style-to-me" card. I am unsure if said card comes with free chewing gum but I am sure that Postecoglou will play it more than once before season's end.

Ironically enough, it seems that Miller could have been the card that Postecoglou really needed to win over the fans - a trump card. Miller's vision, touch and beguiling shot combined with his aging body made him a dead cert as Brisbane Roar's super-sub in the eyes of many. Your humble blogger included.

But I can also see the practicality in Postecoglou's point of view. And ultimately, it is not the release of Charlie Miller that bothers Roar fans as much as the fact that he was wearing the urinal-cake yellow of Gold Coast United barely a week later. If he had disappeared in to the mist that surrounds every non-Glasgow based Scottish team, Miller would have become nothing more than an historical curiosity.

The resentment currently being expressed by Brisbane Roar fans is a manifestation of fear. A fear that Miron Bleiberg now holds the biggest trump card in the A-League through nothing more than dumb luck and he won't be giving it back. Not when he has already given his new play thing a nickname - Charles.

They Drove Me To Drink...And Then Back Again

Sorry to disappoint you all, but despite the headline this blog has absolutely nothing to do with Frank Farina. I'm not touching that one with a 40 foot pole so to speak. It is however about drinking and driving - specifically, how my team drove me to drink.

Of course, I should get the obligatory warnings out of the way.

Kids, drinking is not the way to happiness and it won't solve your problems. Just say "no" all the time and be sure to seek advice from your school counsellors, religious advisors or The Simpsons. And finally, whatever you do - never call your ex-girlfriends when you are drunk.

Moving on.

Over the past few months, for a variety of reasons that have nothing to with any government-funded initiatives of any kind, I have severely reduced my alcohol intake. I have not stopped drinking completely. I simply stopped drinking like a university student since I it dawned on me that I actually left university many years ago.

This approach had served me admirably until last Saturday night against Adelaide United. The air was balmy and although the temperature had dropped by kick-off, the fatigue of the day's summer heat lingered. To put it succinctly - I needed a beer.

Everything was going down smoothly until I noticed the usual Suncorp Stadium malaise setting in on the pitch. All the signs were there that it wasn't going to be our night. Confusing refereeing, dreadful passes, heavy first touches and Mitch "WTF?" Nichols. Even, that bloody kookaburra from last season was back again - Brisbane's very own raven. But instead of "never more" I swear he said "have one more".

Not being one to question a kookaburra's wisdom I did have one more. And then another. And to be completely honest, it was the only way I could reach a euphoria that no Fabien Barbiero header could dislodge. Sometimes you have to make your own fun, I suppose.

And then sometimes, you don't.

Wednesday night was the complete opposite of that Saturday. Everything on the field was so fluid that I felt no need to imbibe any over-priced and under-strength amber fluids. Mitch Nicholls' one-on-one with the keeper came too late to alter anything - not the result, not the warm and fuzzy feeling a home win can provide and certainly not the fact that Nichols appears to have been borrowing Reinaldo's boots from seasons past.

It was everything that a night at the A-League should be. A big name marquee enticed the rum-drinking, rugby lads to the match for the first time since the opening round derby; the striker from a country far away actually doing what he gets paid to do and netting a brace, and; the kookaburra's pleadings remaining unheard because the crowd was for once large enough to make a decent noise.

It cannot always be that way though. The very existence of the salary cap means that bloody kookaburra will try and entice me again before the end of the season. But I will make a deal with the team. If they can keep it fluid on the pitch then I will keep it pretty dry in my seat in the stands - that is, until I finally get to celebrate a grand final win.