So what's the excuse this time, Vetch?

Nob End "did a job on us", as the common folk say, sir.

I have many questions, Vetch.

I'm sure you have, sir.

First of all, who or what is a Nob End?

Nob End is a childish corruption of North End, sir. I believe it derived originally from a misprint on some idiot website. In fact, for a short while, Preston North End were known as Preston Nob End (misprint), since when the name has become a self fulfilling prophecy.

I see. So, in the same childish vein, I presume that "did a job on us" has something to do with faecal deposits?

Oh no, sir, no indeed. It refers to Nob End's success in exploiting our abilities, specifically the ability to miss a bucketful of chances, and the ability to concede goals from crosses.

So the Foresters achieved this defeat by their own efforts, eh Vetch?

Exactly sir. It had little to do with Nob End, or their so called game plan. Their manager said "We made the pitch narrow, and filled in the little pockets they like to play in."

That sounds devilish cunning and not a little suggestive of that song from the musical "Oliver".

It may well do, sir, but it had little to do with Forest missing so many chances. That was Forest's fault. The Nob End manager can fill as many pockets as he likes, but in truth his side were lucky enough to meet Forest on a poor day.

There is much poppycock spoken in football, is there not, Vetch? I used my new smart telephone to watch an interview with a manager who said it was imperative to score goals to win games. Funny name he had - Karanka or something.

That would be Aitor Karanka, the Forest manager, sir.

Good God, what happened to that bread fellow, the one who said everything twice?

That would be Mark Warburton, sir. He left last season. There have been many changes since Aitor Karanka came.

It's a funny name, Vetch, suspiciously funny. It smacks of foreign, indeed it does. All these foreign managers, weakening our native bodily fluids. Brexit can't come soon enough, I say.

That seems a little harsh, sir.

You can't tell what they're saying, have you noticed? They burble on after a match, and the interviewer pretends to understand out of politeness or embarrassment or something, but nobody really knows what they're talking about. There's that Peppo chap from Manchester City, and that fellow from Spurs with that name of his, and even Klopp who occasionally breaks out into Klingon. So now we have this Karanka guy, do we? There's no wonder the players don't know what they're doing.

You're right, sir. As usual your common sense approach has bored to the heart of the problem and given us hope for a more certain and successful future.

That's good of you to say, Vetch. You know, you should get one of these new smart telephones. They can do wonders.

Indeed, sir.

For instance, while you were at the match yesterday, I had a long conversation with some delightful young Russian ladies showing off their knick knacks and fripperies, and I thought to myself, why would anybody want to watch an expensive, uncomfortable and ultimately fruitless game of football when they could be having a long conversation with some delightful young Russian ladies showing off their knick knacks and fripperies for nothing? I tell you, Vetch, the world has gone mad.

Indeed, sir. Parts of the world are slipping into insanity before our very eyes.

So who do the Forest men waste their time playing next?

Frank Lamppost's Derby, sir, on Monday the seventeenth.

An encounter I would normally be eager to attend, but as you know, Vetch, the seventeenth is my birthday, and I shall be spending it abroad with Missis Pie.

In Russia, sir, amid the knick knacks and fripperies?

You forget yourself, Vetch. Take care I don't order you to clean out the stables.

I apologise for my poor attempt at humour, sir. I think I can reassure you that the Forest men will perform equally badly in your absence.

Of course they will, Vetch. We don't have any stables, do we?

No sir, not since the fracking accident.