BORG 3 FOREST 0 MISTER STRESS AND THE PIEMAN MULL OVER A DISAPPOINTING WEEKEND A few weeks ago we warned that the last third of the season would be tough. Teams would have figured out how to neutralize Forest's fluent passing game, teams would use roughhouse tactics, pitches would deteriorate, and referees would become increasingly random in their decisions. Billy knew this, and though he may exhort them to win every battle, he does not have the squad to fight a war. I gree. The defence is okay (well, three quarters of the defence), but the midfield and attack is struggling. With McKenna not able to produce the dominant displays of earlier in the season, the team loses shape when put under intense pressure. They have not suddenly become bad players, but they do look increasingly in need of refreshment. Absholutely. Criticism of Billy's selection is a bit daft. Putting aside the fact that he has so few players to choose from, his choice of the "home" team for away matches is probably the result of natural ambition. We think Billy is "going for it" in the increasingly vain hope that his first team can replicate the magic of earlier days. Perhaps they can. "Score first, score early" would bring back confidence - we could easily have scored two goals in the first half - but to expect a small, young, physically and mentally stressed squad to keep coming from behind is asking too much. Well shed that man. So Forest need some additions, to refresh the squad, to restore some of the balance that has been lost since the departure of Shorey, and to present opponents with new problems. Rumours abound that there will be loan signings. If there aren't, we fear that automatic promotion is beyond our reach. Of course, beating Swansea would re-ignite these ambitions, but without reinforcement, the underlying problems would remain. S'true. Leicester is unpleasant. From the police escorts to the fat drummer, from their embarrassing determination to be seen as major rivals to the troglodytes grunting out their challenges and gazing from the hopeless, baleful void behind their eyes, it is just horrible. Horrble. The whole weekend was horrible. Even Derby couldn't help us out. Their run of average form seems to have deserted them, so to expect them to upset West Brom was, perhaps, always an empty hope. We hear that Derby fans are angry that their team couldn't even be bothered to generate a brawl towards the end of the match. You've hit the hammer on the nail there, Pipe. There were no consolations. Sporting news consisted of Wayne Bridge refusing to touch John Terry, Aaron Ramsey suffering a double leg break, the England rugby team increasingly resembling a herd of muscle bound dustbins, and Wayne Rooney's head. Oh, and the monumental irrelevance of the Winter Olympics. And poor old Chester, quietly slipping away into the eternal twilight. A few years ago they were beating us in a cup match - remember that? How could I ever forget Cheshter? What are you doing? What? I said what are you doing? What? You're supposed to be contributing valid points, not mumbling barely coherent agreement. What do you think the bullet points are for? I thought they were holes. You've been drinking, haven't you? You're drinking now. What's that you're drinking? Black Rain Japanee Scotch Whisky. From Japanee. I don't believe this. Here I am slaving away in my efforts to analyse what's happening with Forest, and you've wrapped yourself around a bottle of cheap whisky. You're a disgrace. Aaah, cheap whisky. As Old Uncle Boff used to say, Keep your whisky cheap, and your women cheaper. Are you mad? Not mad, Pipe. Simply resigned to the absurditude of fate. You see, for all your bully points and your agonization, you will change nothing. If we go up, up we go, and brick ourselves in the money-driven, cockeyed dopiness of the top flight. If we don't, we don't, and brick ourselves in an endless war against the armies of Satan in the second tier. What will be, will be. Better to live in the present than hide in the past or tremble about the future. I have already forgotten the defeat against Leicester, but I shall never forget this Black Rain Japanee Scotch Whisky. So you don't care about the Swansea game then? Swanshea? Piece o' piss. Wanna drink, buddy? Good stuff this. Black Rain Japanee Scotch Whisky. From Japanee. God it hurts. A MATTER OF INCHES FOREST 1 MISERABLEBUGGER 0 As Old Uncle Boff used to say, "Feet are measured in inches". He was, of course, desperately drunk when he said it, but his words never rang more true than at the City Ground on Saturday. It was a game of very short measures. The first short measure came when the PA system broke down and the crowd had to belt out "City Ground" on its own. It did very well, so well in fact it was galvanised by its own efforts. Sadly, the unaccompanied version lacked the change of key (or whatever it's called when your voice goes up in pitch or whatever it's called) which is one of the inspiring things about the original. Perhaps the crowd could bear this in mind when the system breaks down again. Anyway, the first half was frustrating. Forest started off pinging the ball around confidently, but after a while it became clear that things weren't quite right. Again it was a matter of inches. Dex's flicks were just going astray, Earnie's deft passes were inches out, Anderson kept getting himself in dangerous positions but continually found himself a few inches short of brain. Raddy was inches high with a tremendous free kick, Earnie was several more inches over with a lob. It was frustrating, but it was also, in a peculiar way, exciting, because anybody with a bit of nous could see that Forest were close to - inches away from - reaching the kind of fluency we now crave. An inch this way or that, and we could have scored a bundle. Anyone who described the game as "dull" was probably unaware that Forest were trying to claw their way back to their best form, and the signs in this match were that they're getting there. A glimpse of that best form came with the Forest goal. Kelvin Wilson slapped Lita on the head a few times and the Miserablebugger striker didn't get his free kick (ironic really as he was awarded plenty for diving). As he stood and complained, Forest unleashed one of those blistering counter attacks which has marked their best play this season. Wilson to Dex, Dex expertly on to Raddy, Raddy down the left, dragging three defenders with him; Raddy cut it back through these defenders to Dex, who slipped it perfectly to Cohen boring in from the right. All this was done, you understand, at 200 miles per hour. Cohen simply sent the goalkeeper the wrong way, and almost arrogantly placed the ball inches inside the post. No, not arrogantly - not our Chris, who was so taken aback by the classiness of the finish that he had no idea what to do except, eventually, give in to a shy, angelic smile. That was it. That was enough. There was a collective sigh of relief, and Forest got on with the job of letting Miserablebugger back into the game. They were aided in this regard by yet another mimsy ref who was determined to give Miserablebugger as many chances as he dared without looking a complete fraud. So was it a nervy ending? I don't think so. I didn't feel nervous, anyway, despite the irritating twonk a few rows back who insisted on shouting "Shit" every time Miserablebugger lofted yet another ball into our penalty area. Stress did not shred his coat sleeve. The Murderer to our right bunched his fists in knotted fury only once. No, it was not, on the Forest scale of death-by-panic, a particularly nervy ending. I just never got the impression that Miserablebugger knew how to score. Throughout the game, their attacks seemed more like an elaborate time-wasting ruse than a credible threat. Even towards the end, when the ball bounced around on the penalty spot and bobbled back off Camp's legs, you just knew Forest would win. I honestly don't think Miserablebugger came within inches of equalising; I think they were miles away. So Billy got his very own record, and Forest edged an inch or two nearer finding their best form, and we got home to see that Dirty County had got themselves into a brawly mess once more. It was all a bit sad really, as we watched the ludicrously unbalanced McEverly brush past his hapless manager on his way, presumably, to therapy; as we later listened to Clough and Claridge reading from Savage's script, making spineless comments like "Mates need to stick together" to excuse a mass assault on a Swansea player. Presumably all three of them see co-ordinated and cowardly attacks as part of the game now. It's interesting to speculate on the feelings of the Mickey Mouse owners when they see the "Derby brand" represented by a leaderless band of thugs spouting cess-pit philosophies. No it isn't. It's not interesting at all. Forget them, they're history. Me and Stress are currently debating who is player of the season so far. I'm going for Cohen - something I never thought I'd say after the first half dozen games. Stress is going for Wilson, because he is desperate to use that clip from Cast Away where Tom Hanks loses his volley ball. Who's your choice? HERE'S TO MIRACLES FOREST 1 THE UNDEAD 0 Last night's match showed clearly why Forest needed to strengthen in January, and why Billy is so annoyed that they didn't. He talked about tiredness contributing to our defeats at Dirty, Coventricity and Dungcaster, about how a small, and weakened, squad would find it difficult to cope with the relentless pressures of the last third of the season. Around the New Year, when fans were daring to predict a cruise into the Premiership, Billy looked ahead and didn't like what he saw. He knew what was coming, because he'd seen it all before. He knew we couldn't sustain the astonishing levels of football for too long; he knew that tiredness and/or injury would take its toll; he knew that without quality reinforcements there would be weaknesses or lapses in form in certain areas of the pitch which would unbalance the side and erode its confidence. What he also saw coming, I believe, was the changing nature of the challenge. After Christmas, in the Championship, football can turn very ugly indeed. If you are a side, like Forest, which has taken teams by surprise with its brand of fluent attacking football, the second half of the season is when the opposition, lacking the skill to outplay you, will employ whatever means is at their disposal to match you. Simply put, they will try to physically intimidate you. Which brings us back to last night. The Undead manager said, "We knew Forest had been in poor form of late, so we did our best to agitate them." For agitate read rough up. The Undead have a history of approaching matches in this way, but in Blackwell they have a manager whose insecurity and spite has fed an extra level of meanness into a pretty poor football team. After being outplayed in the first half, instructions were obviously given to make things as ugly as possible, and after Henderson's sending off, these plans were carried out with an added measure of angry resentment. Better teams than Forest would have found it difficult to exert control in such a game. But Forest won, deserved to win, and moved closer to the top two, at least temporarily. However, there are going to be more challenges like last night's to face. More bitter, pressurised managers, more teams fuelled on resentment and over-physicality, more officials too weak to protect players properly. It's going to be very, very tough, both physically and mentally, on a squad which is worryingly limited and inexperienced. Billy knew all this, knew it ages ago. How he got us this high in the first place, frankly, is still a bit hard to believe. If we do go up, it will be nothing short of a miracle. Here's to miracles. FREQUENTLY ASKED QUESTIONS Did Billy play the wrong team against Dungcaster? Of course he did. Clearly he should have played a January signing at left back and a January signing in midfield to relieve a jaded McKenna. Dexter and Anderson should have started because all professional footballers are over-paid wasters who do not deserve a break and wouldn't recognize a hard day's work if it jumped up and bit their dicks off. Did Billy play a weakened team to make a point? Of course he did. He obviously instructed the referee to deny us a penalty, Tyson and Adebola to miss clear chances, McGoogle to play like a bent spoon and McClearly to get himself sent off. The cunning of Billy is unfathomable. Is this third away defeat in a row the end of our hopes for automatic promotion? I would go further than that. I would say it is more or less the end of the world. There seems very little point in carrying on. As Old Uncle Boff used to say: "Everything rots." What do you think of some fans booing the substitution of Majewski? They have every right to boo the manager's decisions. They have paid their hard-earned money to support their team, they have made an emotional investment which is paying bitter dividends. You have to remember that these people are not so much soft-brained, self-serving invertebrates as people who care passionately, and would do anything to ensure success for their club, short of actually cheering it on in difficult times. But Forest haven't been playing well for a while, have they? Of course not, and what makes it worse is that these slips in form never happen in football, except at Forest. Only Forest have poor runs. It is one of the immutable laws of football: Savage will one day return to Area 51, Charlie Nicholas is a smart-mouthed wanker, and only Forest disappoint. So where does Billy stand now? Well, apart from on his feet, I would have to say that without doubt he is the worst Forest manager since dog biscuits. He is erratic, divisive, prickly, arrogant and stubborn. He has cynically underestimated our potential all season, challenged the competence of a much respected board, and taken us to an unsustainably high level. He is a thorn in the flesh, a constant, uncomfortable reminder of what it takes to drag a club out of years of lazy mediocrity, and for that he is eternally damned. Er...right. Is Stress dead, by the way? No. He declined Pie's offer of a lift, though his feet are still encased in buckets of concrete - one red, one white. He has decided to become a metaphor for Forest's inertia. He swears he will stay there until they win again. He may lose his feet, but he will never lose his dignity. Ah, winning again - that will be on Tuesday against the Undead, won't it? No. That match, according to impeccable sources, will be thrown by Billy once more in his devilish plan to manoeuvre his exit from what he sees as a perpetually becalmed club. That's a bit strong, isn't it? Who are you to say such things? Me? I am the one who is privy to the darkest secrets of the club, to the conspiracies and machinations at its black heart. I am the one who knows that people, in general, are bloody ignorant apes whose demand for instant gratification can be cynically exploited by anyone with an axe to grind and a slick turn of phrase to whet it. I am the lost soul who rants at every misfortune, wields blame like a poisoned dagger, treats such things as tolerance and patience as the bleating cries of those too incompetent to satisfy my immediate needs. I am everywhere, sustaining people's greed with the toxic fodder of rumour and innuendo, delighting them with sensation, meeting their infantile needs at every turn. Well that's just bollocks, isn't it? You may think that. I couldn't possibly comment. CONCRETE BOOT TIME COVENTRICITY 1 FOREST 0 Why are you standing in buckets? Buckets of concrete, Pie. Buckets of concrete? That's right, Pie, buckets of concrete. You know - concrete boots. Like those old gangster films. I've decided to end it all. You're going to kill yourself by standing in buckets of concrete? Don't be stupid. I'm going to throw myself off the canal bridge. I see. You've not really thought this out, have you? Thought it out? Thought it out? I've thought of little else. You do realise, don't you Pie, that the defeat to Coventricity is the beginning of the end? All those dreams of promotion will disintegrate like one of those black bio-degradable bin liners you use to wrap things up in and you forget about them and when you find them again they've disintegrated into millions of little black bits like plastic ash. And you know who's to blame, don't you? God? Everybody, Pie. Everybody. The squad's too small, the players are knackered, the team's unbalanced, the team selection is cockeyed, the Inquisition panel needs shooting and Billy has gone off his rocker. It's all over, I tell you. Promotion is squirming from our grasp like a greasy piglet. Hang on a minute. When I said that you hadn't thought it out, I wasn't referring to your thoughts about the team. I took it for granted that a narrow defeat which leaves us four points off automatic promotion would trigger a seismic over-reaction, and you haven't disappointed me. No, I was referring to more practical considerations. I don't follow you, Pie. You rarely do, Stress. It's something to do with words, isn't it? I don't follow you, Pie. It's like the doctor told you: one setback, and the little brain beetles start gnawing away at your cortex and drive you mad. It's not your fault. To you, a defeat to Coventricity inevitably means that the world is about to end; you scream like a girl, wet your pants, and plan to throw yourself off a bridge wearing concrete buckets. To you, these things are natural, because you are a complete idiot. And it is because you are a complete idiot that you've overlooked the serious flaw in your plan. What's a serious floor got to do with anything? God you're dim. Take a step. What? Go on, take a step. What? Take your first step towards the canal bridge of doom. What? You can't move, can you? That may well be true or not. You can't move. You can't even fall over very effectively. The only way you're going to kill yourself is through standing yourself to death. It could take a long time. But... Let this be a lesson to you, Stress. Crapping yourself to death is not the sign of a Real Supporter, but of a crapper. A Real Supporter always thanks God he wasn't born in Portsmouth, and carries on. But what am I to do, Pie? Hang on till Saturday, I suppose. Saturday? Dungcaster. If we lose to Dungcaster on Saturday, I'll give you a lift. Okay? Thanks, Pie. Think nothing of it. THE TRUTH IS OUT THERE FOREST 2 WENDIES 1 Unless you think you know better - and there are a lot of people who do - the best thing is to go to the match and draw conclusions from what you actually see. What we saw yesterday was a misfiring Forest side fight like dogs to wrench three points from a resurgent Wednesday. It was not pretty at all. There were a few moments during the first half when we saw glimpses of the snappy, slick passing that has destroyed opponents this season, but there were also prolonged periods when we looked too much like the jittery Colinwood side of recent memory. Our lack of control was glaringly evident in two areas. Shorey's composure and accuracy were replaced by the dogged limitations of Perch, who either fly-hacked it out of play with his left foot, or turned the play in field with his right, with the result that Tyson was never released. In short, Forest's left side ended up being as effective as a weak spit. The second obvious weakness was in midfield, where Moussi had a stinker. He looked tired, out of sorts, injured, whatever ... he was certainly nowhere near his best. McKenna seemed so distracted by Moussi's problems that his game, too, was reduced at times to mush. Neither player could produce the composed incisiveness of the man who should have been there ahead of Moussi - Majewski, of course. So the truth was out there: without a proper left back and without Majewski, Forest got nowhere near the exciting fluency which had marked so many previous performances. The lack of a proper left back is nothing short of a farce. Mark McArthur addressed the lack of January signings on the radio, but his dry-mouthed excuses fell far short of explaining why an alternative left back was not recruited. Majewski's absence was put down to his being in the wrong frame of mind, upset as he was by protracted negotiations over a permanent contract. Whether Billy Davies is using team selection to heap pressure on the Inquisition Panel or not doesn't really matter; what does matter is that the manager's ambitions and the team's progress are being hampered by a clumsy structure which is characterised by over-caution, or laziness, or distrust, or by petty jobsworthness. While West Brom and Newcastle have been strengthened, Forest have been weakened, and it's showing on the pitch. What makes it worse - what's going to make it really hard - is that we've been weakened at a time when opposing teams think they have "worked us out" and will come at us hard. Wendies did just this. They played with a confident brutality which was designed to shake us, and to some extent it worked. They were helped, of course, by the Worst Ref In History, a man riddled with bewildered spitefulness which bordered on deliberate dishonesty, a man so whistle happy he stopped play when the Wendies goalkeeper fell over his own defender, then sheepishly handed the ball back to the goalkeeper and ordered him to play on. So Forest found themselves struggling against 14 men (his linesmen were no better). Eighteen or nineteen if you count the Inquisition Panel. But we won. And we won through sheer bloody-minded pride and Dexter Blackstock, and because, despite all the Wendies' pressure, we still had more quality than them. In the end, this was a wonderful victory which should restore some confidence after a crappy eight days, but it also indicated how hard we're going to have to fight to maintain pressure on the top two. At this critical time, it would be nice to think that everybody was pulling in the same direction. DIRTY COUNTY 1 FOREST 0 If the plan was to out-football a footballing side, like Forest did to West Brom, it was a plan which contained one horrible flaw: Derby don't play football. I'm not quite sure how to describe what it is they do play, but it involves running around a lot and trying to turn the game into some sort of endless horse fight. They duly succeeded in their limited aims, even though their winning goal was scored by their prize drayhorse Hulse who shouldn't even have been on the pitch. Sour grapes aside, it was a miserable match in almost every respect. To be absolutely frank, this derby has degenerated into a pantomime. You're not going to see much football played in a match where the antagonists are more interested in proving their manhood than displaying their creative skill; and of course, we just had to have the pantomime scuffle at the end, didn't we? Forest would have done better to distance themselves from such macho thuggery and artificial posturing, but they didn't, and ended up playing the part that the spoilers of Derby had written for them. As Old Uncle Boff used to say, it's easier to mug a toff than take a few coins from a beggar, and we'll have to be content with that. The beggars of Derby fought hard for their three points, so now let them huddle in their rags and count their grubby wealth while we move on to more important things. After all, we might not be playing them again for a long time. A Match To Remember - Forest 5 QPR 0 First they kicked off and they played football for a bit then Earnie scored a goal and did his somersault plus a wiggly dance then Earnie scored another goal and did his somersault and this time he fell on his bum but he still did his wiggly dance and then Earnie got a penalty but when he tried to take it Dex shouted NO YOU SHALL NOT TAKE THIS PENALTY and Dex took the penalty and scored a goal then it was half time. Then they kicked off and Cohen scored a goal and then Perch scored a goal and my dad laughed and the referee blew his whistle and everybody cheered and they put the QPR team back in the Box of Useless Rubbish and took it home and Forest won 5-0 and it was as easy as piddling in a pot. 11/20 Quite a good effort, though you haven't explored ways of generating real excitement, have you? No miss, sorry miss. Real excitement's on Saturday. FOREST 2 READING LADIES 1 Don't worry - everything went to plan. The plan was to give Reading a right royal mullering in the first half, and it worked a treat. Forest were simply untouchable in every part of the pitch, and Reading were left wandering around like a small tribe of natives looking for coconuts. The goals were, as we have come to expect, beautifully crafted team efforts. Cohen's back flick was returned, he galloped free of Reading's high defensive line, and crossed for Anderson to balloon it elegantly into the top of the net. The second came after some mesmerizing interplay which resulted in Majic sending everybody on earth the wrong way , and sliding the ball through to Earnie who finished neatly. There were several other efforts which could have gone in, including a thump from Earnie which rattled Federici's brain and a narrowly wide effort from Dex. Forest's dominance had the odd consequence of quietening the crowd, at least at our end. There were occasional bursts of support, but mostly we just sat and gaped in bemused adulation. We were, I'm afraid, beginning to take things for granted. However, the second half went to plan too. You see, beating half decent teams so easily can become embarrassing, especially if it reinforces the completely illusory idea that we are the finished article. In order to dispel this notion, Forest decided to sit back, lose their intensity, and give the defence some much needed practice. The defence coped admirably under pressure, and Camp was given the opportunity to reveal that he is, in fact, a reincarnation of GolanGul, the demigod of Gothic mythology who saved mankind by catching an asteroid in his teeth. But even Forest's "lethargy" and the best efforts of a demented referee were not enough to reduce the lead, so the plan shifted seamlessly into stage three - a rather extreme scenario in which Camp's daft clearance resulted in Shorey hauling down their forward for a clear penalty. Last man, professional foul, red card, one game ban, end of Shorey ... UNLESS the Execution Panel manage to sign him on loan or whatever. God forbid that this was part of the plan, but it certainly focuses the Execution Panel's attention on our needs in this area, which is a Good Thing. Anyway, stage three slipped neatly into stage four after Camp's expected penalty save. Stage four involved Forest pretending that they were under insupportable pressure and lofting desperate clearances towards an exhausted Dex. It was annoying to see Forest adopting this agricultural approach after the sublime stuff in the first half. It really wasn't necessary, except to fulfil the master plan which, let me remind you, was to win whilst looking terribly vulnerable and in need of reinforcements. Forest even gave away a late, soft goal in order to illustrate the need for defensive strengthening. So, everything went to plan, which in a way was satisfying. A week on Tuesday, if we haven't made any signings, we will have forty five efforts at QPR's goal, miss them all, and concede a 95th minute goal while the team enjoys a small cheese and wine get together in the center circle. Trust us, it will happen. WEST BROMWICH ALBINOS 1 FOREST 3 This is getting beyond belief, beyond expectation, beyond words. It's getting so good, even Billy is probably at a loss to explain it. This thing which Billy has created seems somehow to be spinning out of his orbit, generating a life of its own, surging unstoppably to God knows where. There really isn't any more point in trying to deny it, however prudent your intentions: this is the best team in the Championship, and it's getting better. West Brom never had a chance. From the start, they were frozen out. Their midfield, the source of their attacking fluency, was obliterated by McKenna and Moussi. Their game plan, based on the assumption that Forest would defend deep and break swiftly, meant they were completely unprepared for what actually happened. Their midfield neutralized, their defence wasn't ready, or perhaps simply wasn't good enough, for the attacking thrusts which shredded their organization and confidence. The first goal was good - Blackstock shrugging off the shirt-pulling desperation of his marker to stab it low into the corner. The second goal was just sheer, heart-stopping majic: a floated cross to the unmarked Majewski, whose perfect technique sent his volley rattling around the West Brom net like a pin ball. The third goal, finished by Cohen, was the result of team play whose simple brilliance beggared belief. And when things got tough, Forest got tougher. Once Moussi went off, once they scored their goal, they threatened to bludgeon their way into the game. But Forest withstood the bullying, the intimidation, the cheating, the cowardly ref, the ludicrous six minutes of extra time, by dishing out some retribution of their own. Nobody bullies us any more. Tough as McKenna's studs, we are. We outthought, outran, outpressed, outpassed, outfought, outplayed them in their own backyard. We may have damaged them terminally, who knows? We've certainly exposed their weaknesses for others to exploit. And there's the point: every team in this league has its strengths and weaknesses, but only Billy Davies has the wit to counter or exploit them so effectively. Nobody does it better. Time after time, he takes the opposition by surprise. He takes us by surprise. While other teams plod their predictable route through the season, Forest seem continually refreshed. They're actually getting better. They're out of control, out of orbit, heading for some place we hardly dare dream about. It's really, really scary. FOREST 2 COVENTRICITY 0 That was more like it. We'd reached the stage (after Dungcaster, the Borg, and Nob End) where all Forest had to do, it seemed, was turn up, help themselves to some juicy pickings, and celebrate with a glass or two of Abelour Highland Single Malt Scotch Whisky (matured ten years, better than your Glenwhatevers, but not quite as good as that stuff from Skye whose name I have forgotten and could never spell in the first place). It had, in short, (or shorts), become too easy, and we were in danger of getting a little above ourselves. Coventricity provided a much sterner test. They were fairly well organised, pressed our midfield into mistakes, and, with the help of an engagingly dim-witted referee, looked surprisingly confident. They even had the ball pinging dangerously across the penalty area two or three times, and all in all made Forest work damned hard for their victory. The fact that we had to work so hard made the win more satisfying than recent walks in the park. Forest weren't at their best, especially in midfield. Examples of the beautiful fluidity we're capable of were sporadic rather than sustained. McKenna was certainly not at his best, and Cohen seemed to be operating in a time frame which had slipped a second or two behind everybody else's. Yes, I know you would never rest McKenna in a million years, and Cohen did eventually catch up with everybody else because of his superhuman stamina, but there is no doubt that at times our muddled midfield allowed Coventricity into the match and made for a difficult afternoon. Which was good. Another test, another pass. So why did we win? Because of our extra quality, as simple as that. We didn't concede because Kelvin and Wes would rather spit blood and die before letting the ball into the net. Just think - not so long ago Wilson would never play for us again, and Wes would have to be replaced because he would never make the grade. Well, somebody's turned them into the best central defensive pairing in the Championship. And the goals ... my God, what goals they were. Forest seem to have given up on scruffy goals, they just score beauties these days. Majewski broke fast, resisted the crowd screaming at him to pass right, held on for about six months, then slipped it inside the defender into Earnie's path. Even then, Earnie should not have scored. The goalkeeper seemed to have smothered the chance when up popped the ball, over him and into the net. If Earnie hadn't done this kind of thing before, you'd swear it was impossible. The only way that ball could possibly have got past the goalkeeper was to actually pass through him, which it probably did. And Dex's goal was quality too. Adebola fought for the ball in their penalty area, it rolled free, and Dex ran on to it with massive intent and hit it so hard it disappeared. It did. It disappeared and reappeared bouncing back off the netting. It also hit the netting before he kicked it. It did. Something to do with quantum physics. It, too, probably passed through the goalkeeper. Quality. That's what we've got - real quality. Coventricity didn't have it, we did. Real quality, allied to mutual trust, undying effort, and burgeoning confidence, is an intoxicating mix. It has a smoky sweetness and a kick like a mule. Just like Abelour Highland Single Malt Scotch Whisky, matured ten years and the second best in the world. Enjoy the New Year. Cheers! FOREST 3 PRESTON NOB END (MISPRINT) 0 There was something distinctly chilling about the victory over Nob End, apart from the weather. It was the cold eyed way we dispatched them. They weren't so much beaten as dismissed. Yes, I know a lot of hard work has been put in to get to this stage, and I know football is a hot-blooded, physical encounter, but looking back on the match, the lingering impression is one of a proficient, cold-blooded assassination. Nob End played their part in this. From the start, they looked like a team that had shuffled out into the Coliseum, listening out for the groan of the lion cages. Their fans dwindled into cardboard cutouts, as irrelevant as the great big Uncle Tom Finney flag they'd draped over the Lower Bridgford. It took about two minutes for Forest to get their measure, then the knives came out. Chaplow, their shiney playmaker, was so intimidated by McKenna that he virtually ceased to exist, thus allowing McKenna to run the show. The other midfield name, Tonge, did little more than fall over a lot. Their big centre-forward, Brown I think, won a few in the air, but with no support he struggled in vain. Even if the support had arrived, our defence has got so good at picking up second balls they would probably have snuffed out dangerous situations anyway. Nob End's one genuine talent, Wallace, was pressed and harried into virtual impotence; he eventually ended up playing aimless, sulky balls, and quarrelling with anyone who looked at him the wrong way, including his team mates. Even when Nob End played around with the ball - and they did have a fair bit of possession - it only seemed to be because Forest allowed them to. That was chilling. Have you ever seen a cat toying with a wounded bird? Forest looked like a side which had been together for years, and had been drilled in their roles with iron rigour. Add this familiarity and discipline to an athletic hunger, and you end up with a team which believes - or knows - that it is a match for anybody. Not one player could be criticised. It didn't quite happen for Earnie on the night, but that was not for the want of effort or class. Majewski didn't always crack pistol-shot through balls, but you knew he always could. Anderson lacked composure at the end of driving runs, but his surges towards and into the penalty area terrified Nob End's defence. Cohen looked at home again, and drove forward with relentless, bounding energy. Adebola was immense, like some mobile brick wall you simply can't knock over or get round, and he finished his chance with sublime deftness. Shorey was coolness itself; he played with his head up, never looked flustered, always found his man, and is becoming a more and more frequent supplier of goal chances. Gunter was as sound as a bell. Wes overdid it at times, but he's started drilling sixty yard passes out to the far left for heaven's sake, and he nearly scored again, and we love him anyway. Wilson was nigh on faultless. His command of his role, at the moment, is outstanding. Billy must have kicked him up the arse and said something like "Cut out the casualness - elegance is founded on hard work." Whatever happened to him after that disaster at the Undead last season, he's somehow turned himself into a top class defender. Camp was, as usual, inspirational, bouncing round his penalty area like a slightly deranged jack-in-the-box. And McKenna, well, he was almost magnificent. Always available, always with an eye to the opposition's weaknesses, delivering tackles which didn't so much impact as detonate. And the quality of his goal was matched by the quality of his reaction to it - all shyness and modesty, like some gentleman-player from a bygone age. So Forest played with their prey, until they finally decided to put them out of their misery. Adebola drifted deep to counter the elephantine thuggery of Parkin and Mellor; McCleary and Tyson came on to make the torture just a bit more exquisite; and the large-bottomed McGoogle finished them off with a typical piece of jaw dropping skill. And there, they were dead. It was chilling because it was so calculated: there was an inevitability about the result which must have seemed, to the Nob End players, like one of those nightmares where you know something terrible is going to happen, and there's sod all you can do about it. Here in this dark room, you'll try to unlock the door, but there's a man with a butcher's knife just behind you... It was chilling because no team has the right or the ability or the confidence to keep doing what Forest are doing. It's got to end some time. Just not yet, eh? SWANS 0 FOREST 1 Are we ever going to lose again? No, really, are we ever going to lose again? Come on, admit it - you don't know how to feel about all this. You may as well admit, while you're at it, that you were worried about the visit to Swansea. A draw at best, you probably thought. What? You weren't worried in the slightest? Not even, you say, when you remembered that Swansea were strong at home, when you saw that Adebola and McGoldrick were carrying the attack, not even when Swansea put the pressure on, had a couple of chances. No, never. Even if Swansea had scored, Forest would have changed the plan, changed the game, equalised and maybe gone on to win. You know this because Forest have the resources to meet any circumstance, and the manager to deploy those resources brilliantly well. Well, you're a brave man, because by your reckoning we'll never lose again. We have the resources and the manager to beat any other team in the Championship. There is absolutely no reason that we shouldn't be shouting the P word from the rooftops. But please, have the goodness to indulge weaker spirits for a moment. There are a lot of us out here who can hardly believe what's going on. We've spent the last ten years wading through various levels of NEP so nauseating that we can't get used to the smell of fresh air. The longer this dream goes on, the more worried we get about waking up. We worry about losing, about Billy packing it in, about luck running out, form being lost, not getting what we deserve, the board cocking things up... It's pathetic, really, isn't it? We should be enjoying this, not fretting about when we're going to lose. We should be seizing the moment, belching our success into the faces of less fortunate fans. But some of us can't quite do it, not with any real conviction anyway. Perhaps we're too old. Perhaps we've got too much imagination. Each step forward that this wonderful team takes comes as a surprise to us, but also adds to that ridiculous pressure which success brings. So forgive us for our confusion. We rejoice in supporting the best team in the league, but dread the duplicity of the gods that brought us here. It's not our fault. We're just Forest fans. On the other hand, maybe we'll never lose again. Ever. That, as Stress says, would be really cool. God bless young people who are thick. CHAPTER NINETEEN (Forest 5 Leicester 1)     The trees gave way to a wide, grassy plain, and a railway track cut through the grassland, and across the track squatted a huge structure, roughly cubic in shape, higher than a house and black as a winter's night.     Beside the structure stood a giant of a man. His shabby work clothes were spattered with black paint, and he carried a dripping paint brush in his hand. He sighed contentedly, and his breath rustled the black plastic bin bag he wore over one side of his face.     He gazed at the towering structure with a smile of satisfaction, tossed the paint brush into the grass, and made his way back to the camp.     Inside the blue tent, a dozen men lounged on the damp, crushed grass and sipped tea from enamel mugs. They did not look happy. They grunted softly like grazing animals. There was an occasional sigh. One man flicked pellets of balled grass into the face of another, who barely noticed. Some of the grass fell in his tea.     "What I don't get," said one, "is this."     He patted the black plastic bin bag tied across one half of his face. Several of the others did the same, as if to say they didn't get it either.     "It's this Borg stuff," muttered another. "He's obsessed with this Borg stuff."     "Talent is an elephant," chipped in a third, and everybody laughed.     "Fucking Borg," spat a fourth with surprising vehemence. "Tie a bin bag round your head and you're supposed to look like a fucking Borg. It's fucking ridiculous."     "Fucking ridiculous," agreed a fifth.     They subsided into a disgruntled silence once more. The air was heavy with a haze of sweat. One man took a swig of tea, pulled a face, and spat out a little knot of grass.     "I've just about had enough," said the first. "It's time somebody said something. All this discipline and work ethic and organization crap, it's really getting me down, I can tell you. Whatever happened to just having fun?"     The speaker was so absorbed in his own misery that he did not notice the sudden change in atmosphere, and was half a second late in joining everyone else on their feet.     The Boss walked slowly past them, turning his gaze on every man, daring them to lift their eyes from the ground. He was a big man, robust, bull necked, with severely clipped hair. The men could hear his breath whistling through his nostrils. He made his way to the far end of the tent and, with his back to them and his head raised as if peering through the blue fabric, he said:     "Fun?"     The word hung ominously in the sweaty haze. The men shifted uncomfortably. One of them picked blades of grass from his lips.     The Boss turned to face them. He spoke with menacing softness.     "Fun?" he repeated. "You think we're here to have fun? How many times do I have to tell you? Fun is the last thing we're here for. Fun is irrelevant." There was a noticeable settling in the tent, like a silent moan. The Boss picked up on this, and it did not please him.     "What else is irrelevant?" he snapped. "You -" he stabbed a finger at the grass-eater - "you tell me. What else is irrelevant?"     "Er... talent is an elephant."     "That's right, talent is ... what?"     "Talent is irrelevant, boss. Sorry boss."     The Boss stepped forward, and stood toe to toe with the unfortunate, eyeing him suspiciously.     "What else?"     "Er ... talent is irrelevant. Passion is irrelevant. Flair is irrelevant."     "Good. Good."     The grass eater looked pathetically pleased, until...     "And what is important?"     The poor soul tried frantically to remember the much repeated mantra.     "Er ... organization is everything. Work is everything. Sterility is everything. Mediocrity is everything."     "Good," said the Boss. "Why have you got grass on your lip?"     "Sorry boss." He plucked the fleck of green from his lip and hid it behind his back.     The Boss stepped back, and addressed them all.     "Listen, men. Everything we have achieved, we have achieved through the relentless pursuit of predictability. Nothing is to be gained by talent or flair or the sloppy dictates of intuition. Creativity is a weakness. It is irrelevant. Only this matters." He touched the black plastic bin bag tied across one half of his face. "Because we are...?"     "We are the Borg," they said, all of them in unison, with the damp enthusiasm of condemned men.     At that point, as if on cue, they heard the slow thud of leaden boots outside.     "The Howd is here," said the Boss. "Come, let us see what progress he has made."     They followed the Boss outside, where a giant of a man awaited them, wearing half a wide and vacant grin.     "It finished, Boss," said the Howd, and directed their gaze across the grassy plain to the house-sized block straddling the railway track. The Boss stood, transfixed. "It's magnificent, Howd. Just magnificent," he said. The Howd's grin stretched wider. "It big, Boss. Big enough to stop train. That bastard train don't know what hit it when it hit it."     They all stood and stared at the nightmarish beauty of the thing.     "The Borg Cube," whispered the Boss, hopelessly lost in the by-ways of some insane fantasy. "The symbol of perfection. The symbol of everything we stand for." The Howd almost wept with pride. "Me build it," he said. "Boss say You build cube, stop train. Me build Cube, stop Red Train, then me catch Red bastards, pull arms off." The Howd's paint-flecked face darkened alarmingly, and everyone backed away a little.     "Come," said the Boss, "it's nearly one o'clock."     They half marched, half ran across the grassy plain until they arrived, panting, at the Cube. It certainly was an impressive structure, its matt black sides soaring high into the pale winter sky, like some alien monolith. Like the Borg Cube. Faceless, impenetrable, perfect.     "Listen," somebody said. "The rails!"     They could all hear it. In the silence of the plain, the rails were singing.     "It's coming," said the Boss. "Back away men. This is not going to be pretty."     They backed off thirty, forty yards, and waited.     The rails sang louder, and a mile down the track, a blurred shadow appeared. The Boss patted the Howd on the back affectionately. "You've done well, Howd. I'm proud of you."     "Me build big Cube, stop bastard Red Dogs in tracks."     They could now feel the ground beneath their feet trembling. The approaching blur was tinged with red.     "All that steel. All that concrete..." whispered the Boss, trying to imagine the carnage. It was difficult when you had no imagination to speak of.     "Train not built of concrete," said the Howd, with a childish giggle.     "No, I meant the Cube," said the Boss. "All that steel and concrete in the Cube."     They could see it now. Half a mile away, something took shape. The Howd was silent, and leaned slightly to one side. The Boss looked up into his eyes, but the Howd would not return his gaze.     A quarter of a mile away, the Red Train shouldered its way towards them at a hundred and fifty miles an hour.     "Howd," said the Boss. "The Cube is made out of steel and concrete, isn't it?"     The Howd did not reply. He had no answers. His brain had turned to biscuit. He leaned a little more. Then he began running.     He ran towards the track, arms flailing, leaden boots thumping on the grass. The Boss watched him, open mouthed. Some of the men cried out, "What are you doing, Howd?"     They could see the train clearly now. It was bigger than they had expected, and it seemed to glow in the pale sunlight. It was travelling so fast it appeared to cover the last two hundred yards in a series of murderous lurches. To their horror, they saw the Howd scramble onto the track and hold his arms high. The plastic bin bag fluttered away from his face like a huge black moth. Some of the men closed their eyes. Some of them turned their heads. Some of them backed even further away.     The Howd simply disappeared in a brief red cloud, then the Red Train punched into the Cube with nothing more than a muffled slap. The Cube exploded noiselessly, millions of light brown fragments bursting high into the sky like a snowstorm.     The train did not even shudder. The men watched aghast as it roared by. They saw the blazing red of the engine, the high white letters NFFC standing proud on its side; they saw the scarlet carriages; they saw thousands of faces leaning from the windows, distorted with speed and furious joy; thousands of arms waving; and above the roar, thousands of voices screamed, "You're shit, and you know you are!" They even saw, on the platform of the guard's van, the ludicrous figure of Robin Hood mincing with grotesque delight and flicking a farewell V sign in their direction. Then it was gone. They simply stood there, staring like children as the remains of the Cube floated gently down to earth. Pieces settled on their heads, and began to carpet the grass like petals. The Boss stooped, picked up a light brown flake, sniffed it, and put it in his mouth. "Salt and vinegar," he said to himself. Then the remains of a cardboard box landed on his head and flopped onto the ground. Walkers Cr- was printed on it, and the Boss found himself, oddly, calculating the number of boxes of crisps it had taken to build his beloved Cube. He worked it out to nearly thirty thousand.     "Fucking moron," he said, and turned to go. The men watched him go without much interest. Most of them were munching crisps. Someone said, "Talent is an elephant," and they all laughed, grimly. FOREST 4 DUNGCASTER 1 You remember that day when you were perfectly drunk? Not leglessly, abusively, headbutting-the-toilet-walls drunk, but perfectly drunk. Swimming effortlessly through a murk of smiling faces, not in the least concerned that one of your shoes is on fire or that you're debating the existence of Ebbsfleet with a complete stranger. Wonderfully, serenely drunk. You remember that day? You should do. It was Saturday. The cold didn't matter at all. You cheered Worksop's own Lee Westwood and sang Mull of Kintyre in that stupid shouty off-key way, and sat down to enjoy the match. After a while you realised that it wasn't just you who was drunk, it was everybody else as well, perhaps everybody in the whole world. The match proceeded in a peculiar half light, the crowd mumbled contentedly, Dungcaster began playing that pitty patty schoolyard football which ended up with them passing the ball up their own bums, Forest were operating in second gear yet somehow looking dangerous, and then they scored. It was somehow oddly inevitable, oddly vague, and the Forest celebrations were oddly muted. Everything about it was odd, like a drunk man finding a gold bar in his soup and not quite knowing what to do with it. Anyway, the first half drifted by with Forest occasionally notching up a gear or two, Dungaster continuing to play anal tiddlywinks, and Shorey probably wondering where he'd left his match skills. He needn't have worried - everybody seemed too happily drunk to notice. The mood was sustained through the rather surreal public relations nonsense at half time and into the second half. I am sure everyone cared mightily about the football and knew what a serious business it was, but there was this peculiar feeling that Dungcaster presented no threat, and that nothing would happen to make us unhappy, which took the edge off the occasion. Nothing did happen to make us unhappy. In fact, the reverse happened. The self-satisfied stupor we had been in was gradually stoked up into a full blown, bleary eyed celebration. Shorey finally realised where he was and started showing touches of class. Wes scored from a corner with a powerful smack of a header - good old Wes, two goals in two home games now. Dungcaster did the only thing they could do, which was push forward with their endless, pointless little triangles and leave more and more gaps at the back. Majewski toyed with the ball, darted a pass through to Earnie, who bounced it past a bemused Dungcaster keeper for a wildly celebrated and much deserved goal. And then McGoogle came on and scored a goal that no-one in the world had any right to score. That was it. If you didn't think the world was tipsy before, you certainly knew it now. The Dungcaster keeper was taken off for being too fat and replaced by a marginally less fat person. The referee's performance, which would have had the crowd baying in more sober times, was written off as just bit of a laugh. Dungcaster scored, apparently, but everyone was so blottoed on happiness they barely even noticed. We went up to fourth in the Championship. In the morning we would wake up with a terrible hangover and an inexplicably burnt foot, and people would tell us that we had sung on a table, wizzed in a pint pot, and fought the landlord's dog, but that didn't matter. We were perfectly drunk, and Forest had played perfectly, won perfectly, and we all had a whole week to sober up before our appointment with the Borg. That will no doubt be a sterner test, but we'll still beat them. It's inevitable. Cheers. MIDDLE EARTH 1 FOREST 1 I didn't go to Middlesborough on principle, so Stress was despatched to the north east of nowhere under instructions to txt a detailed report on the match. This was a terrible mistake. Will arrive in an hour was a promising start. He was on his way to meet some friends called Spit and Muck or something. Stress's friends all have monosyllabic names. Their conversations tend to be monosyllabic too, making them all sound gently retarded. Anyway, well over an hour later, I felt the need to prompt him with All ok? and a few moments later came the reply Mboro is the most soulless place i have ever been I could have told him that. I have only ever been to Mboro once, and all I remember is streets with windblown newspapers and a man leading a thin dog on a string. Three o'clock came and went, and the detailed match report sprang into life: Crap defending which meant Forest had conceded a goal. No mention of who hadn't marked whom, or Camp batting down the ball to Lita, just "crap defending". At least it was more specific than the generic "shit" which is his usual response when bad things happen. After this, there was no more information for ages. Obviously Forest weren't doing too well, and in such circumstances Stress sinks into a murderous and incommunicative stupor. I knew better than to fire txted questions at him - he would be far too busy ignoring Muck and Spit who would be spitting monosyllables at each other like orange pips. On the other hand, perhaps he was simply waiting for Forest to equalise. That's the wonderful thing about Forest these days. Completely gone is that stomach-shrinking fear that, having gone behind, Forest will capitulate or struggle vainly to draw level. These days, Forest come back. This was confirmed towards the end of the first half when the nxt txt came: Playing better now which was comforting. During half time, Stress would do his duty and send a thorough report. Sure enough, fifteen minutes later, the details began to flood in: Clarkson's a wanker This was not what I had expected. I needed clarification. Clarkson? to which the reply came Wanker which sort of explained nothing. I didn't realise until later that he was referring to that slack-jawed idiot from Top Gear who, along with his colleagues, had made a public relations appearance at the Riverside and had been greeted with "You Fat Bastard" from the Forest fans, who have little respect for anybody, and especially a trio of oily parasites. But I knew nothing of this at the time. I knew nothing of many things. There was no mention of Forest's increased urgency in the second half, their growing dominance, the substitutions. Not until the exquisitely simple Yes ages before Stelling reported that "Forest's amazing away record looked in real danger at the Riverside ... until now!" and the match reporter described Earnie's free kick and commented that we had finally got what we deserved. Now I was hungry for information: Can we win this? I sent, to which the reply came We are better. That was what I had to cling to for fifteen minutes. Still, "We are better" was strangely comforting in its own way. It's reassuring that "We are better" has applied in so many games this season. The game finished 1-1. There was no game summary, unsurprisingly, just a few last txts: Good stuff 2nd half now i just want to get out of here Eager for more, I sent Billy's starting 11 too cautious? Not cautious - just wrong. Much better when subs were on and twenty minutes later: Sean st ledger near me on platform And suddenly here was an opportunity for a scoop - an exclusive interview with the Boro defender about the match, about his views on Forest, about why he was waiting for a train. Talk to him! and I waited, patiently, until... No way. He's a big headed nob. How Stress knew he was a big headed nob was puzzling. Perhaps he's well known for being a big headed nob. Anyway, no exclusive interview, no scoop. No anything, really. Certainly no report to speak of. All that was left was to wait till well after midnight for the Football League Show, and wade through the fascinatingly clownish incompetence of Savage and Steve Cabbage for a couple of minutes of Forest highlights. After that, it became clear to me that Stress's terse communications weren't really that bad in comparison. Middle Earth IS a soulless place, after all. Clarkson IS a wanker, Sean St Ledger IS a big headed nob probably, and, finally, we ARE better. We really are. FOREST 1 BORSTAL 1 THE GREAT BIG IS BILLY FIXING MATCH RESULTS SO WE DON'T GET PROMOTED THIS SEASON? THREAD... Billy Davies is so worried about breaking into the top six that he is actually fixing match results to rein in fans' expectations, a source close to Nottingham Forest has revealed. Er... hang on a minute. What's all this rubbish, Stress? It's incredible, isn't it Pie? I found it difficult to believe myself, but the evidence is overwhelming. What evidence? Well it's all so obvious isn't it? The last thing Billy wants is to go up this season, but his team isn't reading from the same script. Look at the Caerdydd match - they played Premiership football for most of it, and that led us all to start dreaming of glory. So what does Billy do? He fixes the next match so that we don't win! This is just complete bollocks. It may be complete bollocks, Pie, but that doesn't mean it's not true. Well it does actually. And you still haven't come up with any evidence. Evidence? I'll give you evidence. Answer me these questions, Pie, then you'll have your evidence... Why did Billy pick the same starting eleven against Borstal which had found it so difficult to score against Caerdydd? Well, because... Why did Billy set up the team so cautiously against a bunch of slab-headed thugs who posed as much threat as a damp sock? I don't think... Why did Billy play Garner, who made about as much contribution as a wandering ragamuffin asking for spare change? I'm not sure... Why did Billy order Anderson to cock up an unmissable chance from one yard out? Oh come on... Why was Raddy taken off? Why were Earnie and McClearly brought on too late? Why was McGoogle not brought on at all? Wait a minute, this is just ridiculous. It may be ridiculous, but that doesn't mean - Okay stop it, stop it now. At the risk of humouring your dementia , will you answer me one question? Yes. And what's with these bullet points? Is that the question? No. The question is, why did Wes score? That's a very good question. You see, the plan was to get a nil nil draw. Wes's goal buggered everything up. Billy was so angry he ordered the players to pile up on Wes in an attempt to disable him, which they did. What kind of a bloody answer is that? Did you not notice what happened after we scored? Did you not see McKenna lobbing wanky headers back to their players, our wingers charging down blind alleys and giving the ball back to the opposition, our defence shrinking back into a suicidal pocket almost inviting them to score? Forgive me, but no sane team would do such things unless they had been told to. It's Mister Thumb, isn't it? What? You've been talking to Mister Thumb. Mister Thumb is the "source close to Nottingham Forest". It may well be or not as the case perhaps. That's not even a proper sentence. You've clearly been talking to Mister Thumb - the same Mister Thumb who persuaded you that Gary Megson had a white mouse living inside his head. Don't you remember? I may or may not recall that which might perhaps the white mouse incident. The same Mister Thumb who is, in fact, your thumb. Perhaps it may well not be so the case or not. Stop talking gibberish, and stop using those stupid bullet points. Sadly, Stress, your conspiracy theory is just your way of trying to cope with the disappointment of throwing away a couple of points, that's all. Most people just write it off as a bit of bad luck, or comfort themselves with thoughts of an unbeaten run, or warm to the unexpected joy of a Wes Morgan goal. You, on the other hand, talk to your thumb. It won't do, Stress, it won't do. You've got to wake up and smell of coffee. Smell the coffee, Pie. Just testing. Sorry, Pie, it won't happen again. At least the linesladies were good to watch. You couldn't resist, could you Stress? Well, no. CARDIFF 1 FOREST 1 ...So here we are, sinking to our first defeat since God knows when, and it's so undeserved. The board has gone up, four minutes to play, and all that's left are the scruffy dog ends of a wonderful match which Forest certainly don't deserve to lose, and on a good day, a fair day, would be winning... We've done so well, against all the odds: Earnshaw, Tyson and Blackstock missing; a BBC presentation and commentary so ignorant, tendentious and dismissive you might wonder why Forest had bothered to turn up at all; a noisy new stadium not quite full of Caerdydd fans blindly assured of their Premiership destiny. How strange it must have been for them to witness a Forest side so confident in its own ability that for the first twenty minutes their darlings were made to look like mugs. Strange for all of us, to be honest. This was not how it was supposed to be. Surely it was Caerdydd who were supposed to be the polished performers, not Forest. Hadn't we all switched on fearful of Forest getting a bit of a pasting from the best team in the Championship? And weren't we slightly taken aback to see how good a team we have become? But now, despite their skill and bravery, here we are, with four minutes left, going down to defeat. It was bound to happen, of course. The referee was never going to have the courage to give Forest a penalty when Anderson was clipped in the box. The linesman was never going to be brave enough to give offside when Bothroyd sneaked in for their goal. But there's no point complaining. All you can do is be proud of the Forest players, every single one of them, for showing how far they've come under Billy Davies. Picking on players for individual shortcomings after a match like this seems somehow offensive when the team performance has been so positive. Leave them alone, they've done well. This is a team game, and the team has done itself proud. Look what they've reduced Caerdydd to - a few glimpses of their so-called free flowing football snuffed out by a resolute midfield and defence; their arrogant swagger replaced by bewildered frustration; goalscoring chances scuffed nervously or blocked by an organized defence and a magnificent goalkeeper; their so-called star players increasingly sidelined; a crowd reduced to disjointed shouting, and their dubious goal greeted with relief rather than exultation. Oh well, there's nothing left for us now but the consolation of knowing that we've been as good as, if not better than, these high flying Bluebirds. Four minutes to go, and there's nothing else left. Majic and Moussi have gone. McGoldrick has worked manfully up front, but he's no Dexter. Perhaps Billy wasn't playing mind games when he talked about us being a mid-table side. Now there's Adebola, trying to cause bother up front, but it's not going to be his day. McGoogle is looking menacing in his goggles but seems to be going round in circles. With Majic gone, we're lobbing balls in. Three minutes left. Caerdydd are looking knackered. They've fallen deep. Their clearances barely reach the half way line, where they are recycled by Gunter and Wilson and Morgan and Cohen. The Caerdydd crowd has gone grumbly, as if resentful at Forest daring to fight to the final whistle. And a hopeful ball clips off one of their defenders, central, edge of the penalty area, to McGoogle, who tries to flick it past an opponent. Another clip, and the ball loops up softly, invitingly, and McGoogle catches it just past the half volley and you watch it smack into the back of the net in a burst of rainwater. And you can't quite believe it. Even though you roar like a lunatic and bruise the lining of your throat, even though you know how much we deserved it for our quality and fight, you can't believe it. For a while, at least. The match is over now. Now you know how good we are, how good we can be. Now you can believe it. PALEARSE 1 FOREST 1 This is weird, Pie. What's weird, Stress? These words are appearing exactly one hour before I say them. That's because the clocks went back. You may be right, Pie. Tell me, what did you think of the match? To be honest, Stress, it was all a bit of a relief. You mean you were relieved to get away from the pig pen with a point? Not so much that, Stress - more that it was a relief to stop winning. What? I know it sounds odd, but I was getting distinctly uncomfortable winning every week. Another three points at Palearse would have focussed an awful lot of attention on us. Getting a draw and settling into eighth or ninth place will do us some good. It'll take the pressure off, and remind us that we're not the finished article just yet. I'm shocked, Pie. Have you no AMBITION? I knew you'd say that, Stress, partly because the clocks went back, but mainly because you're stupid. Do you honestly think we deserved to win that match? Do you think that six wins in a row would be an accurate reflection of the quality of our team? Of course not. It's far too early to be riding so high. This team still has work to do and lessons to learn. A one one draw is a fairly comfortable way of bumping down to earth. But wouldn't it have been nice to have robbed three points? Warlock's reaction would have been a treasure. Ah, Mister Warlock. You know, I have long debated whether his antics are the product of knowing cynicism or passionate ignorance. Now I find myself toying with the idea that he is, after all, mentally unstable. He seems to be trapped in a state of almost psychotic bitterness. To react to Billy's jibe about them being a "physical side" by ranting on about our level of investment shows how sour he has become. Years of mediocrity have taken their toll on him, to be sure. He carries his jealous spite like a sack of rotting grapes. He doesn't need attention - he needs help. I agree almost entirely with what I think you just may have said there, Pie, but I'd still like to have won. Well of course you would, Stress, but you've got to learn that pre-match hype doesn't always translate into success on the pitch. Look at Derby. Derby are a perfect example of hype overtaking reality, of public relations trying to distort how shit they really are. White teeshirts, rams, soldiers ... have you ever seen anything more embarrassing? And poor Nigel looking on like a man watching his house burn down. If I were him, I'd get out of that circus of incompetence before the whole lot comes crashing down on his head. I agree almost entirely with what I think you just may have said there, Pie, but I'd still like to have won. Look, dimbo, just lower your expectations a bit, will you? We haven't lost in ages, we've got the longest unbeaten away record in the world, we're nobody's pushovers any more, and the team's competence and confidence is growing steadily. Not meteorically, but steadily. That's not bad for a start. But you can't expect to win every game. Nobody wins every game. I agree almost entirely with what I think you just may have said there, Pie... Just shut up, Stress. It's Caerdydd next. Now that will be a real test of how far we have come. A draw there would be a real achievement. Not good enough, Pie. No AMBITION. I expect nothing more than a thumping win, to wipe the smile off Smug Dave's face, to make the nation sit up and take notice. Of course you're right, Stress. Perhaps we could hand out thousands of red teeshirts, declare it a "Wear Red" day, that kind of thing. Parade Robin Hood before the viewing millions. Give away free season tickets, free beer, free travel. My God, the possibilities are endless. We could have clowns, Stress, and Billy masks, and candy floss. I agree almost entirely with what I think you just may have said there, Pie, but I don't like candy floss. It sticks in my teeth and turns to glass. No candy floss then, eh Stress? No Pie. Toffee apples would be good. I like toffee apples. Toffee apples it is then. What a great day it will be. A great day, Pie. A great day. As long as the clocks don't go back again. That's just weird. FOREST 1 BARNSLEY 0 This is a very strange land indeed. This is the Land of Going Slowly Mad, or the Land of Being Very Drunk. We have trudged our way over the sorry wastes and hacked our way through the thorns, and here we are, where the beech trees are tall and the sun glints through the high canopy even at midnight, and the floor is a carpet of green moss you could sleep on forever. This is the land where Guy Moussi scores his first goal for Forest in the 93rd minute of an achingly frustrating match, launches himself into the Trent End, gets a second yellow (for which the referee apologises), and exits stage right. I've never felt more like singing the Moose, when Forest win and Derby lose. A strange, strange land this, where the rapture is tainted with uncomfortable thoughts. How long has it been since the bond between players and fans has been so strong? When did we last win five in a row? When were we so high in the league? Why does everything we touch turn to gold? Why is all this faintly embarrassing? Why do we keep winning, when surely the plan was to draw a few, lose a few, and settle comfortably into the easy chair of mid table? When will we wake up? How bad will the hangover be? This is the land where the great Derby PR scam unravels like a cheap rug, and you begin to pity them; where Newcastle begin to learn just how buggered a club they really are; where Sheffield Undead start to burn in hell, and Southgate gets sacked for having a long face and not beating Derby heavily enough; where the top of the table is so tight you can hear the pips squeak and watch the blood vessels burst in the managers' eyes. And we just sit here, on this cool forest floor, as happy as an old drunken soldier, watching the mayhem around us. It can't go on, of course. There are injuries and suspensions, and tough battles ahead, and you can't ride your luck forever. Tomorrow we may wake with vomit on our shoes. But for now, in this place, we can snore our way through proud and fitful dreams. It's a long time since we were in Wonderland, but that's where we are. Tomorrow can take care of itself. FOREST 1 NEWCASTLE 0 I don't honestly know whether to get carried away by this result or not. Reasons to get carried away are numerous, the main one being that in the first half Forest absolutely played the league leaders off the park. In previous games, they have shown glimpses of high quality football; in this one, that quality was sustained for long periods of breathtaking dominance. Some of their play was stunning, with fast, slick passing which cut the opposition to pieces - and I really mean stunning, to the extent that the people round me kept gazing at each other with enormous, baffled grins on their faces, as if they couldn't quite believe what they were seeing. All the players played their part, and all the players played for each other - if there was a mistake, there was always another team mate prepared to recover the situation. The spirit of the players communicated itself to the fans, whose positivity throughout was awesome. Because it was a consummate team performance, it might not seem right to highlight one player's contribution, but I have to say that Moussi was a revelation. The last time Moussi and McKenna played together, they simply got in each other's way and negated each other's effectiveness. This time, there was no such problem because Moussi decided, in the first half, to do it all himself. His giant appetite for the game was evident in tackle after tackle, but his aggression was tempered by a cool, thoughtful distribution of the ball which triggered many of Forest's attacks. His display during that first half was, in short, masterful. But they all did well, and if Forest could learn to play second halves like they did the first, they would not just beat teams, they would murder them. And that's the problem - that's why we can't get carried away yet. Forest have to learn to sustain their form over two halves. I can't quite understand why they didn't in this match. I don't buy into this idea that Newcastle showed their superior Premiership fitness; I can't believe that Forest were tireder that Newcastle, just as I don't think that Newcastle are even a shadow of a Premiership side. I think it's a matter of confidence. It's almost as if they can't believe they are so much better than the opposition, and this leads to the nervous backing off and the loss of control which began early in the second half. "Look," you felt like saying, "you're far, far better than this lot, so stop panicking and get back to playing football." We were far better. I couldn't quite believe how Newcastle had got themselves to the top of the league. Their so called stars were, quite frankly, frauds. That gangling clown Carroll was no more than a bag of bricks, hurling himself at players with the sole intention of inflicting damage. Everything he did was out of control - his headers boomed wide, his shots flew off into orbit, he turned challenges into gruesome wrestling matches, he got away with some appalling elbow digs. People like him shouldn't be allowed to play football. Smith did little apart from pass the ball sideways and mouth at the referee. Nolan did sod all apart from strut his large arse up and down and mouth at the referee. Marlon was very disappointing. I felt a bit sad when the crowd chanted "You used to play for a big club", because his head had gone down much earlier and the jibe seemed to finish him off. It was nice to hear the ovation when he was substituted. In the second half, these favourites for promotion turned up the pressure, but only because Forest let them. All they did was play a higher line, kick it harder, and lob balls forward in much the same way they had done in the first half. They didn't actually play any better. They never actually looked like scoring, except with some grotesque Derby-esque deflection. Their assaults were repeatedly repulsed by Wes and Wilson and some enthusiastic blocks, but they never got close to presenting our defence with insurmountable problems. They were simply not very good. Their fans knew it too, which is why the expected Geordie roar rarely rose above a discontented murmur. And this brings us back to why we shouldn't get carried away. Forest coped against a second rate, predictable attack, and a bunch of overrated reputations who were given a football lesson in the first half. As Billy said before the match, If we beat Newcastle, it's still only the same three points we get for beating Plymouth and Peterborough. If we get too carried away, we might get a shock when some darting little forwards start giving us the runaround, or when the deflections start going in again. Which is why, I think, Barnsley are actually going to be trickier than Newcastle. If we can beat Barnsley, then I'll start getting carried away. PETEROUGHBUGHEROUGH 1   FOREST 2 It's difficult to properly assess the significance of this game, but we've always found that, in cases of doubt, the best attitude to adopt is Old Uncle Boff's favourite expression, Carpe Diem, which he translated as "Seize the fish". London Road was all gravel and wind and mindless referees, and Peterborough were a better side than they had any right to be, so it became a difficult afternoon. The first half wandered off into the fens somewhere, and the second half burst into life with a worryingly easy header from Aaron McLean, a bit of wind-blown majyk from Raddy, and a slightly awkward but competent finish from Anderson. And that, to the raucous accompaniment of 4000 Forest fans, was that. All doubts gone. Three points. Enjoy the moment. Seize the fish. For three games in a row now we have outscored the opposition and left three managers moaning about "deserving something from the game". The three teams we have beaten lie near the bottom of the table whilst we have climbed to the giddy heights of 10th place. We have not, as was predicted, thrashed anybody - we have not played at a consistently high enough level for that. So the fish that we seize - another three points from a side struggling for points and confidence - might seem to some like a bit of a sprat at the moment. But that's not really the point, is it? The point is that, slowly and gradually, Forest are beginning to show that they can cope with whatever awkward situation is thrown at them. They are learning how to win in difficult circumstances. Billy's pragmatic approach is paying dividends not only in the accumulation of points but also in the growing confidence of the team. The days of "we're going to get thumped here" are being replaced by "hey, we can win this one". We no longer fold easily or flatter to deceive. We are beginning to perform like a proper Championship side. Other teams are learning to respect and fear us. Our growing effectiveness is shown in other ways. The incompetence of referees which used to infuriate us doesn't seem so relevant now, and the bad luck we used to endure has switched like a backing wind. And the suspicion is beginning to grow, tentatively, that we are becoming as good as anybody in this division. Now that's the fish we should seize. Talking of fish, did you see the Football League Show? Did you wade through the incompetence of a programme which lurks in the back streets of the schedules like some tacky porn show? Then you may have noticed the apology that it was on 'later than scheduled', the amateurish intrusion of the producer's voice, the slightly desperate earnestness of Manesh Thing, Claridge the scrubbed puppet, the endless monotony of nil nil draws, the endless monotony of analysing nil nil draws, the unworldly ugliness of several Charlton players, Claridge's declaration that the wind affects matches more than any other weather condition ( apart from blinding snowstorms, impenetrable mist, lightning bolts, two inches of ice or a plague of frogs), the worrying obesity of Preston Nob End, and the alarming assertion that Lee Camp was playing in the Sheffield Wednesday goal. The only bit worth watching, apart from the Forest goals, was the interview with Roy Keane. It was filmed in a peculiar position which made Keane look like a dealer in some side alley. Are you staying on? I refuse to answer that question. I take it that's a yes? Take it however you want. Can I shit myself now? Wonderful. Anyway, the fact that we're still considered also-rans in terms of media exposure may be a good thing. We'll simply creep up on them from behind, and they'll only notice us when it's too late. For now, simply enjoy the fish. FOREST 0 BLACKPOO 1 I'm sorry, no matter how you try to dress it up, that was just a mess. "Dressing it up" involves sentiments like "we should have scored five" or "we had ninety percent of possession" or "it was just one of those days" or "Blackpoo were there for the taking", or "it was too hot" or "Billy will get it right in the end" or "just forget it - it was a one off." But no matter how you try to embroider it, nothing should be allowed to disguise the simple truth that that was a bloody awful performance by a team from whom much more is expected. The starting line up was all wrong. What kind of bent thinking went into playing Earnie on his own up front is a bit hard to fathom. If you're going to give somebody a chance to thrive, it's got to be a fair chance. Look at how Earnie and Adebola saved the game at Dipswitch - little bloke and big bloke on the same wavelength, causing havoc. Today we had the little bloke scurrying around up front, and the big bloke - presumably McGoldrick - playing in some nameless withdrawn position where he had as much impact as a wheelbarrow. The midfield was a mess too. McKenna and Moose were more dangerous to each other than the opposition, Cohen didn't appear to know where he was supposed to be playing, with the result that they ended up looking like a small herd of irritated cattle. Too much muscle, not enough brains. Too much endeavour, not enough intelligence. Too much similarity, not enough variety. My God how they missed Majewski. And the defence. Fine when they're facing the ball, easily repelling the high balls launched towards them, but dreadful when facing a running or passing attack. The Blackpoo goal resulted from some guy simply running through our midfield and defence, not one of whom took the responsibility to close down or tackle. The fact that the starting combination was wrong led to, or was perhaps compounded by, some woeful individual performances. Only Gunter and Tyson came out of it with much credit. The rest played as if they were too desperate too impress, or too confused by the job they were given to do, or simply too lacking in talent. Yes, we put on a lot of pressure, yes we didn't have much luck, yes their goalkeeper was one of those frustrating clowns who got in the way of everything, but Forest were clumsy, heavy footed, and desperately uncreative. Why, in short, couldn't we play 4-4-2? Why couldn't Earnie play with Adebola up front? Why couldn't Tyson and Anderson terrify them on the wings? Why couldn't one of McKenna/Moose/Cohen be dumped for the creative influence of Google? Why was McGoldrick playing at all? And why don't we buy some nimble-footed defenders? The frustrating thing is that we are SO much better than this. Somewhere in there is a fantastic team, but endless experiments with different combinations is leading to incoherence and inconsistency. Blackpoo were nothing special, but now, somehow, they're seventh. Forest were tough and powerful, but misapplied power means we're nineteenth. If those positions are to be reversed, Billy's got to stop playing mind games with himself and the team. Seven points from eight games is a wretchedly disappointing return for the investment that's been made. To return to the embroidery, let's hope it was a one-off. The trouble is, that's three one-offs already. We can't afford many more, or the whole season might end up as a one-off we'd rather forget. Oh, and a television set itself on fire in the concourse. That was interesting. FOREST 3 SHEEP 2 Where do you start? Well, as Good Old Uncle Boff used to say, start at the end and work backwards, so that's what we'll do. The end of yesterday came with the BBC's Football League Show. Before the season started, a lot of people were wetting themselves at the prospect of the BBC taking over coverage of the League, arguing that anything was better than the tin-pot rubbish served up by ITV. Well, it's become vividly clear that the BBC have fared no better, and may well be in the process of lowering standards of football journalism even further. You know as soon as the programme starts that you're in for a bad time, when fans of League teams are presented as a set of dancing monkeys, embarrassingly delighted at the exposure they've been afforded. Then some bloke called Manesh slides into view and proceeds to give the impression that he's only there until something better comes along, and your heart sinks even further when he introduces Steve Claridge. It's tempting to attack Steve Claridge for being terminally thick, but in a funny way you feel sorry for him. There he is, squinting uncomfortably in those soft blue lights, looking like some tramp who's been scrubbed up for Christmas and told to behave properly or he won't get any dinner. It's all a bit sad, really. Then Manesh Thingy introduces our match with "these two sides have met 22 times in the Coca Cola Championship..." and the terrible truth hits you. This show, like the ITV one, is just a cheap, patronizing, hastily patched up, tired attempt to grab a chunk of the fans' market, and hadn't we better be so grateful for the attention. Oh, and to prove they care, there's a bint with some e-mails. What a novel idea. Anyway, they show the match, then proceed to the bit they're really interested in, the pushing and shoving at the end. And so comes the trial by television. Claridge says what he's supposed to say. If he doesn't say it properly he'll be whipped by the Beadle and sent to bed with no supper. He mentions "this week's events" in the hushed and pious tone of a vicar talking about gonorrhea. Well done, Steve. You've stuck to the media script. You've also, together with the ludicrously chopped footage, managed to prejudice the case before it's even been heard. As if this wasn't enough, we are given Clough's rather sly denunciation of Billy Davies, and Savage's clownish hypocrisy, and another chopped interview with Billy. Thanks, BBC - that was really fair. We shall certainly tune in to your fine programme again at some future date, secure in the knowledge that you have our best interests at heart. We don't want to labour the Clough and Savage thing, but a few questions won't go away. First of all, what is Nigel Clough doing at that rats' nest of a club? Hasn't it dawned on him yet that he was only appointed as part of the shabby little PR scam that the club has become? Hasn't it dawned on him that he's being stranded with no money, a squad of cheap journeymen, gobshites and old lags over whom he seems to have little control? Did he sanction Savage's media appearances? Is Savage the spokesman for the club? As for Savage himself, well, he's not really worth bothering with, except that like a lot of bad jokes, he's dangerous. Let's just dismiss him for the moment as a pretty poor footballer who's managed to prolong his career as the media's favourite wind-up merchant. A job at the BBC awaits, Robby. We'll deal with you properly later. As for the match itself, I'm afraid it's just a blur of images and noise. Firstly comes that rendition of Mull of Kintyre. This always makes me smile, to think that that soppy little dirge can be transformed into such a thunderous war cry, and by God the fans don't half belt it out these days. Its slightly manic edge has barely faded away when Majewski scores one of the most stunning goals you will ever see. From the Trent End, you watch it bullet towards the goal, take a murderous hook in the last few feet of its flight, strike the underside of the bar just above Bywater's fingers, and bounce wickedly into the net. For a split second you can't quite believe it, and even when the deafening roar has subsided, you still can't quite credit what has happened. All you know is that the Derby fans take on the appearance of cardboard cut outs, and that you have somehow drifted into dreamland. That's what I mean by a blur of images and noises. This is dreamland, the place where facts and figures and formations have no relevance whatsoever, and events are driven not by cause and effect but by a blood tide of emotion and raw willpower. Forest score again, and I'm still not sure who got the last touch. Everything you wanted to believe about Forest and Derby is proving to be gloriously true. Forest are playing them off the park. The so called stars of Derby are being exposed as clueless wasters. Savage is a marginal figure, pattering around in his white slippers like somebody looking for a lost dog. Commons, bruised by the barrage of abuse, has virtually given up. He loses the ball, shrugs his shoulders, and watches as the ball is played through to Tyson, who rounds the keeper and puts in number three. Commons is finished, gone ... and he won't be out for the second half. There are other things in that first half which should warn you about the second. Derby do have a few chances which they waste. Hulse doesn't look the force he did last time, resorting more and more to barging, but his physical presence might prove dangerous. Our central defence does not look exactly dominant. Savage, who has contributed virtually nothing so far, is warming up his pantomime act of mouthing off at the referee at every opportunity. He is a bad joke but, as I said before, bad jokes can be dangerous. And at half time, are you worried that Derby can come back from three down? After all, they've done that kind of thing before. In all honesty, no. This time it can't happen. Not again. This time, with Forest looking so sharp, the only danger is that we'll get six. Which is called complacency. Perhaps that's it - perhaps we were complacent. Perhaps we were exhausted. Whatever the cause, the second half becomes a nightmare. Two own goals, two outrageous flukes, and the nightmare is on us. The Forest defence start looking like startled rabbits. Their discomfort spreads panic throughout the team. Good players start hoofing the ball clear to nowhere. Our midfield falls deep, too deep. The bloke next to us, who we suspect is a murderer, starts kicking seats. Derby surge forward. If only our players could see that one good, composed piece of play could release our strikers into open space... but they seem to be running on empty, both physically and mentally. We are standing now, and I turn to see Missis Pie with her head buried in her hands. She's all right, it's just that she can't stand to look. And then Billy, strutting around the technical area like a feisty little cockerel, turns towards the Trent End and swings his arms to urge us on. It is a gesture of cold calculation and hot-blooded passion. He knows his team needs help. He knows we can provide it. He'll be damned if he's going to let these bastards fluke their way to a draw. The response is immediate and tremendous. The ground erupts, and a tide of support carries the Forest players towards the final whistle. There is still danger, of course, but you sense the Derby players are losing their edge. As their hope dwindles, Savage's antics become more provocative , and you see with crystal clarity what a fraud he is. He has spent most of the match playing deep, out of danger, playing pointless balls to defenders. When he does get physically involved, he picks on our smallest player, brings him down, reaches towards him to provoke a reaction, is pushed by McCleary and falls as if shot in the chest, then as tempers become heated, he scurries furtively away from the scene of the crime. There is something gratifying about this - you always knew he was an overrated piece of sly, spiteful mouthiness, and there he is, proving it to you. And then the match ends, and amid the general joy and relief you see Nathan with his flag. The thought doesn't even occur to you that he might get into trouble. Despite everything that follows - the pious rantings of hypocrites, the disappointing slyness of ex-heroes - you will remember above all four things: your resolution never to take Missis Pie to another Derby game, that beautiful goal from Majewski, Billy's rallying cry, and Nathan with his flag. God bless you Nathan Tyson. Don't let the bastards grind you down. B   O   L   L   O   C   K   S NOTTINGHAM FOREST 2 WATFORD 4 I hate them all, Pie. Now now Stress... Don't you now now me, Pie. I hate them all, the whole bloody shower of them. I hate them, I despise them, I loave them. You loave them? I hate them, Pie. I hate Anderson for being a feather in the wind and for not having the confidence to take people on and for launching himself on the back of anybody he can't beat like an angry cat. And I hate McKenna for having elephant legs and looking as weary as a knackered horse, and Cohen for being the only left back in the world who ends up on the right wing and GETS IN EVERYBODY'S WAY, and McGoogle for being crap until he ran into a lamppost, and Wes for heading it or passing it straight back to a Watford player EVERY SINGLE TIME, and Lynch for being just so slow, so very very slow, for being beaten so easily because he's so very very slow, and for taking so much time with clearances that they were threatened EVERY SINGLE TIME because he's so very very very slow... Everybody knows Lynch is not of this earth, Stress, perhaps not even of this solar system. He has been phase-shifted into our world with a temporal lag of 0.5 seconds. What the hell are you talking about? He's half a second behind everybody else. Right. Where was I? Hating everybody. Right. I hate Camp for being there to give the defence more confidence and actually MAKING IT WORSE. I hate Gunter for having a brain like a doughnut. I hate Earnie for not scoring. I hate Dexstock and Adebola for not scoring enough. I hate Mister Majestyk for the p.a. announcer getting his name wrong and having a bit too much flesh on his bum. I hate Tyson for being so good and then not getting any ball in the second half... Now you're getting silly... I hate the lot of them for not performing until they get angry, for spending too long drifting around like zombies, for playing with the cohesion of a broken clock, for not being able to cross or shoot, for allowing themselves to be so easily suckered by yet another bunch of streetwise tarts. I hate the ref and his fat little cowardly mates for being institutionally blind. I hate that bloody mascot for mincing around to that silly Pianoo song. I hate Billy and McArthur and the whole bloody lot of them for assembling a squad which STILL ISN'T READY. I hate the Bridgford End and its stupid dip. I hate clapping Forest heroes who turn up for the third time. I hate the whole place. I hate traffic cones and narrow lanes and speed limits that crop up when you're not looking. I hate being taken for a ride by talk of progress and promotion and fancy new stadiums and extortionate prices and promises and promises... Come on Stress, be reasonable. But most of all, I hate reasonable. If reasonable was a person, I'd haul him up against a wall and shoot him. This is football, not a parish tea party. Reasonable is the stuff of brain-dead pundits and BBC pretend-football and dead lettuce reports and suckers-up and hangers-on and women. You can take your reasonable and stuff it up that mascot's - That's enough Stress. You really did hate the whole experience, didn't you? I loaved it, Pie. Simply loaved it. Words cannot express my loaving. Well, obviously. So will you continue to loave them all? Yes. I don't know whether you've noticed this, Stress, but loave is only one letter away from love. What? I was simply mentioning that loave is only one letter away from love. It's a significant point, I feel. Are you taking the piss? Well ... no. I just wanted to draw your attention to the thin dividing line between love and hate, semantically as well as emotionally. Just as there is a thin dividing line between your seeing sense and actually stabbing me with that kitchen knife. Please put it down. F     R     A     U     D     S NOTTINGHAM FOREST 0 WEST BROMWICH ALBINOS 1 After a home defeat, the temptation to fix the blame on easy targets is quite strong: blame an inexperienced defensive unit for conceding a sloppy goal; blame Earnshaw for missing a penalty; blame the various attackers for missing several decent chances... But if you were there, you will know that this temptation dwindles into virtual insignificance when you consider what really happened. Forest were just plain unlucky. Forest should have won the game 2-1. Everybody knows it, including West Brom. West Brom will also know that they got away with murder against a superior team. If you need to aim your anger at somebody, aim it at the frauds. The frauds were everywhere. The referee and his two officials were hopelessly, criminally fraudulent. We should be used to this by now, but it's still hard to stomach. How anyone who knows anything about football could have any respect for this crew of little fat poncing incompetents is difficult to imagine. Forget all this "it's such a difficult job" rubbish. It's not difficult if you approach things with an open mind. It becomes difficult if you have meetings before the game to decide what your approach is going to be before a ball is kicked. "Give Garner nothing" you can hear them say, and "don't be intimidated by the home crowd", which translated into a stubborn, stupid persistence in awarding virtually every 50-50 decision to the opposition. What these prejudices lead to is the usual litany of bad judgment and whistle blowing pettiness, so that the three of them end up looking like a third rate music hall act who are stubbornly determined to complete their performance while the crowd throw cabbages at them. No, what it really leads to is the decision to disallow a perfectly good goal which could well have led to a heavy West Brom defeat. You can almost forgive them their show-boating silliness - it's what most of them do anyway - but not that. That was unforgiveable. Then, after WBA "scored", came the evening up. This is when the officials realise that their prejudices may just have led to a few mistakes, so they start doing their best to give Forest the benefit of the doubt. The penalty decision was right, absolutely. The appalling thing is that, had the incident occurred before WBA scored, it would probably not have been given. Finally came the third stage of incompetence - losing it. When Forest were awarded the penalty, all manner of gamesmanship and intimidation was going on. Instead of sorting it out, instead of ensuring fair play all round, the referee just stood there, fiddling with notebook and pen, like a man who had quite badly shit himself and was hoping no-one would notice. Then there were the other frauds - West Brom. Frauds because they tried to play for the most part with the languid, lazy arrogance of a team which clearly thought this Championship business was a bit beneath them. Unfortunately they didn't do it very well. You could understand this approach if they had the skill and substance to underpin it, but they didn't. Relying almost entirely on the referee's indulgence, Forest's cautious approach, and a fast-fading reputation for good football, they were exposed as a team which couldn't shoot, couldn't cross, couldn't produce an effective final ball, and didn't have one shot on target during the entire match. When they were exposed, when Forest really put the pressure on and the ref began to desert them, they resorted to a mixture of cynicism, gamesmanship, sheer good luck, and a kind of half-hearted brutality to save their skins. Particularly fraudulent were their "stars". Brunt may as well have stayed at home. Greening did what Greening does - virtually nothing. All silly hair and white boots, he contributed very little, just like that other fraud Savage; and because frauds get away with murder, it would have to be Greening who produced the scabby little cross to nobody which ended up in the back of the net, wouldn't it? And as for Carson the goalkeeper - what a horrible piece of work he turned out to be. That business of mauling Earnie's head before the penalty, then reacting to McGoogle's push ... if Earnie had been playing by his rules, he would have collapsed as soon as Carson touched him, and that would have been the end of him. His obnoxiously artificial celebrations, after diving the wrong way, didn't go down too well either. He deserved every syllable of "dodgy keeper" and "you'll never play for England" that was hurled his way. What a wanker. No, West Brom were just a bunch of frauds. If they think they deserved anything from this match, or have any hopes of easing back into the Premiership, then they're kidding themselves. Which is what frauds do, I suppose. As for Forest ... well, a few things went wrong: we gave West Brom too much respect to start with; the penalty was missed; some of Tyson's crossing was wayward; some chances were squandered; Majewski was disappointing... But overall, they played very well indeed. They were far better, far more threatening, than West Brom. That makeshift defence coped quite easily - but don't over-praise it, because West Brom presented little goalscoring threat. Tyson was red hot for the most part, and seems a lot more confident with his control and crossing these days. He's probably the most dangerous left winger in the League. McKenna was solid; a few errors, yes, but he does the job Lennon was supposed to do with far more skill and vigour than that old fraud ever managed. He's got a hell of a powerful shot on him too. Adebola is going to become a real favourite, not simply because he is as immoveable as a big red bus, but also he's got the ability to turn and drive hungrily at goal. Garner, playing in a slightly withdrawn role, is being given the chance to show what a dangerous player he can be. But the most exciting thing about this Forest side is the striking options. The introduction of Earnie and Dexstock was just thrilling. Earnie's introduction was met with an ear-splitting roar from the Trent End, and he responded by jacking up the threat level immediately until West Brom cracked. But, if anything, Dexstock was better. He received the ball, laid it off, turned and shot with such elegant skill that you wished he'd been on earlier. These two are very special players, and deserved to be on longer. Make no mistake - this Forest squad is a very powerful outfit, and will win a lot of matches. If Billy exercises a bit less caution at home, we will end up butchering teams. We're not convinced that West Brom are the quality opposition they're hyped up to be, but whether they are or not, Forest are better. Forget the result - everybody knows it was a fraud. Here's to butchering Watford. R E A D I N G   0   F O R E S T   0 Well Pie that was a thoroughly deserved draw wasn't it? Okay so the last five minutes were a bit... Sorry, Stress, but I'm going to have to stop you there. What? I said sorry, Stress, but I'm going to have to stop you there. What? You can't do the match report. What? What's the matter with you, are you deaf? I said you can't do the match report. What? You're just going to keep saying what?, aren't you? What? Okay then, I'll explain. You can't do the match report because we've sold the rights to the match report to Mister Egg. Now that Mister Egg owns the rights, he will do the match report. Bugger that, Pie. It's our website, we can do... Eggworld. What? The site belongs to Eggworld. What the hell is Eggworld? It's the people who own the site. Mister Egg owns the site. But he's a bloody egg, for God's sake. Where is he? I'll give him Eggworld... He's right here: E G G W O R L D READING LADIES 0 NOTTINGHAM FOREST 0 - Luke Chambers revealed after the match that his sending off was part of manager Billy Davies' master plan to put pressure on his own board. "The boss said I should get myself sent off near the end," said Chambers. "Then the board might pull their fingers out of their arses and get us some defensive cover at centre back. He also told Joel (Lynch) and Chris (Cohen) to mess things up on the left, so's we'd get some left-sided specialists. Fair do's, it worked a treat." Manager Davies dismissed the allegation, explaining that Chambers was "short on brains" and had misunderstood his instructions. Reading Manager Brendan Rodgers was at a loss to explain his team's inability to score since before time began. "My youngsters played well, but they were frightened by the Forest players who were big and rough and kept shouting a lot, and their fans shouted a lot too and threw shoes at us. I didn't see the sending off incident, but Shane is a clean living boy who doesn't go down a lot." MUDDLESBROUGH 0 SHEFFIELD UNDEAD 0 - Short of a handful of efforts from the edge of the area, neither side were able to trouble the other too much as the game eventually petered out into something that resembled lockjaw. With striker Tuncay Sanli, who is expected to leave to join the other Hobbits in their quest to save Middle Earth, left out through ring-sickness, Southgate handed debuts to three players in his starting line-up, with opposite number Kevin Blackwell naming four in his. With only seven players on the pitch, tired legs meant that the match quickly drifted into stalemate. Both managers said they were satisfied at least twice a week. CAERDYDD 4 SCUMTHORPE 0 - Caerdydd manager Dave Jones refused to get carried away after seeing his side romp to an impressive 4-0 victory over Scumthorpe in their first league match at the new Caerdydd City Stadium blah blah blah. In short, Smug Dave was as smug as a pig in smug as he moaned on about "hard old slogs", but in the end it all boiled down to "If you can't beat Scumthorpe, you can't beat sh*t." Nigel Adkins tried to put his usual jokey slant on things, but ultimately he, like his team, had no real defence. Caerdydd chairman Peter Riddlesdale praised the new £50M stadium, saying it would "help with the debt". How does that work then? DIRTY 2 PETERBOGHEROROUGH 1 - Darren Ferguson's belief that he can take Peterbogherorough into the Barclays Premier League was unshaken despite an opening-day defeat at Dirty. "Everyone might think it's mental and mad to say we can get into the Premiership but I know what I have got in the dressing room and I want to take Peterbogherorough into the Premier League," he said. "It's what I dream about. I dream about Benny the Caterpillar and his friend Jethro the Cardboard Box, and we have tea on the lawn and agree on many things." Nigel Clough said the match was a thoroughly entertaining spectacle. "I was especially delighted at how fat some of my players were," he said. "We've got a policy here of importing fat players and making them even fatter. I was also pleased that Robbie Savage got through yet another match with nobody noticing that he does bugger all yet still gets praised for controlling the game. If he can stack on a few more pounds he'll get away with absolute murder." THE BORG 2 SWANSEA 1 - Nigel Pearson believes his Leicester side can mount a promotion challenge after seeing the Foxes make a winning return to the Coca-Cola Championship. Really? Oh yes. Is that what he said? Oh yes. Did he say anything else? Oh yes. He said many things. What kind of things? Oh, the usual stuff, you know. About collectives, and the superiority of the hive mentality, that sort of thing. Really? That's quite interesting. Well, no it's not, actually. Isn't it? No. Nigel Pearson has won awards for being not quite interesting. Has he? Oh yes. Swansea manager Kaiser Sauzee was equally not quite interesting. His job is to replicate the success of last season, which was produced by a fluent, winning team, but his view that "after Joe Allen went off injured our forwards lost confidence and we went on to concede the game" sounds like someone who is already making excuses. Oh dear. WATFORD 1 DUNGCASTER 1 - Dungcaster manager Sean O'Driscoll refused to blame the match officials but believes his side were denied a legitimate goal during their 1-1 draw at Watford, and my God did he go on about it: "We've got a tape of the game and it's clearly over the line," he said. "It's a difficult one to give. The linesman was 40 yards away and the referee's in line with it, but until you get cameras on the goalline it's one of those that you've got to take on the chin. I don't think you can blame anybody. I don't think anybody can actually see. I don't think even our players would be, if they're honest, totally sure. I don't think we can hark on about it. I think it would be a bit churlish to blame a linesman who is 40 yards away and a referee who's got a million and one other things to look at. I think he's in the right position to see what's going on in the box, but, unfortunately, not in the right position to see if the ball's gone over the line." Good grief! By the way Sean, it's "harp" on about something, not "hark" on about it. "Hark" means "Listen to", as in "Hark the herald angels sing", and I don't think you meant to say "I don't think we can listen on about it", did you? Or maybe you did. But you should remember that the correct expression is "harp on about". It's a simple reference to playing a musical instrument. Of course, some people think it derives from the Harpies, who were winged spirits best known for constantly stealing food from Phineas the blind bloke, but that doesn't sound likely. Watford manager Milky Mackay played the incident down and said: "I've not managed to get a look at it yet, so I don't know, but I'm certainly not going to carp on about it." PRESTON NOB END (misprint) 2 BORSTAL CITY 2 - There is something so persistently fluky about Nob End that it's becoming, quite frankly, irritating. Year after year they slither unconvincingly to the higher reaches of the table with a lumberingly ordinary team, a fan base made up of old men who remember when Sir Tom plumbed in their boiler and youngsters who buy single cigarettes from off-licences, and virtually no financial backing, but they do get there. In this match, for example, they are dead and buried at two nil down, but with nine minutes to go, with many Nob End fans drifting home to finish that Jane Austen novel they've become so involved with, the grotesque Parkin scrambles one in, and in the 96th minute they are gifted a penalty. How on earth do these things keep happening? The only explanation is provided by Borstal boss Gary Johnson, who joked that referee Michael Oliver had been their opponents' "best forward". Except that it wasn't a joke. Hopefully, with McKenna gone, Nob End's luck will run out this season, and those dismal fans can spend more time at home discussing whether Mr Darcy represents pride or prejudice. SHEFFIELD WENDIES 2 BARNSLEY DOWN 2 - Wendies manager Brian Laws and Barnsley counterpart Simon Davey both expect to strengthen their squads next week. Laws said: "Money's tight but I'm trying to manoeuvre some money so we can go and bring in a player and it will be a striker if we do that. I've already had permission from a Premier League club to speak to the player and I'm doing that as we speak. I spoke with him on Friday and his agent and I'll be speaking again with him on Sunday to try and persuade him to come to this club." Laws later revealed that he may have been making this up, citing "irreconcilable differences" between his imagination and the real world. Davey revealed he expects Jamaica international defender O'Neil Thompson, Liverpool winger Adam Hammill and Icelandic midfielder Emil Hallfredsson, who has played in Italy with Reggina, to all agree deals with Barnsley early next week. He said: "O'Neil is waiting for a work permit, Hammill is coming in tomorrow to have his prosthetic arm re-fitted, and we think the Icelandic guy will play for fish." We'd better watch out for these Yarkshire giants - they're obviously on the way up. QUEENS PARK LADIES 1 BLACKPOO 1 - Jim Magilton was incoherent after Peter Ramage's late equaliser rescued him from a nightmare start as QPL manager. He admitted: "At's a maxture of feeln ralieved and also dassappainered thot we dant wan the geam." Ian Hologram, back at the club that fired him in 2006, admitted Ladies deserved at least a point from the game. In between media commitments, he said: "My boys are disappointed we didn't win but I have to say I'd have felt like a complete robber if we had won. I'd have felt like a robber who's just robbed his grandad's walking stick from where it was hidden under his bed in the kitchen where he used to beat the living daylights out of us on Wednesdays after he lost at bingo and drank himself into a murderous fury. But hey, that's how you breed character in my book. A draw was a fair result, at the end of the day. Football's all about swings, ebbs and flows - and desperately trying to hang on to a reality so fragile it threatens to snap and leave you wallowing in nightmare, but hey, it was a point, after all."