NOB END 3 FOREST 4 2

Forget the traffic lights, the debilitating crawl through Priest's Town which long ago sold its soul to some cowboy with a job lot of grey cladding and a fly-tipping licence; forget abandoning the car by some litter choked wilderness to scurry miles through brown windswept streets; forget the ground, which looks as if it was erected by draw-string, like a ship in a bottle; forget the spiritless excuse for fans, occasionally stirred into consciousness by drum and trumpet; forget the effeminate wind-up merchant on the p.a. system.

Forget the first half. It was like being mugged by a tramp. Or, more precisely, by a bunch of fat blokes who were made to look good by Forest's ineptitude. Forget McGoogle, on whom so much depended yet who contrived to put on a performance which might ensure that he never wears a Forest shirt again. Forget Boyd, who looks at the moment like a non-league luxury we cannot and will not afford. Forget the leaderless, McKenna-less midfield which disintegrated under the slightest pressure. Forget all that. Forget sitting down at half time and seriously wondering whether you should leave.

Remember the second half. Remember Cohen in his proper position, driving forward with immense desire, winning us a penalty, and Dex putting it away in the bottom corner. Remember Forest increasing the pressure relentlessly, at last bursting with pride in the red shirt, sluicing away the fragile confidence of the opposition and force-feeding them their own mediocrity. Remember Nob End growing more and more desperate as Forest launched waves of attack, causing mayhem in the penalty area by long ball and weaving run. Remember Earnie coming on and brightening the skies with his class, mesmerising their defence with such control you wished he had been on from the start and, of course, scoring a goal only Earnie could score.

Remember how we were robbed of at least one penalty by that ridiculous buffoon of a referee who booked Dex for diving, a cowardly response to a cowardly decision, the kind of response we've sadly come to expect from men whose only motive is to balance out their own random incompetence. Remember the spiteful little turd Chaplow, whose response to his own and his team's bewilderment was to kick out at Wilson behind the referee's back.

Forget the rubbish. Forget that automatic promotion seems a fading dream for a team and a manager so badly let down by the money men.

Remember the fight back, the restoration of pride, the sense of injustice that we were cheated out of at least a draw. Remember how we cheered Billy when he came towards us at the end. Remember we are fourteen points above seventh place. Remember that, given the way we hammered them in the second half, we may just be fighting our way back to some decent form. We shall see, on Tuesday, against Barnsley.