Slobbering Baseball Caps

A dark, damp, miserably grey afternoon in Bristol bearing all the hallmarks of a festive fixture – and almost complete with the customary winter disappointment too.

It was a hectic game, dominated by half-chances and counter-attacks.

In different circumstances we could probably have landed all three points today, but Bristol City’s fans will be saying much the same thing.

The prevailing positives are that we have survived another game without defeat.

We are growing in resilience, we no longer look worlds away from taking the lead, and the side is peppered with players whose confidence levels are rising notably with each game.

The negatives include the fact that we again did our utmost to throw the fixture entirely.

Lee Camp’s heroics have kept the club from the foot of the table - just.

Despite a bold contribution from nearly all concerned, we never looked entirely stable and City’s swift, decisive movement of the ball always threatened to undo us.

For all of our huffing and puffing, neither equaliser can have been considered a surprise.

But that is not to say that we didn’t cause problems of our own. At 1-0, 2-1 and even 2-2 we spurned opportunities to seal the points.

It was another vast improvement, all things considered. Ignoring one or two fleeting shirks in the midfield it was a full-blooded affair, and we clearly gave our hosts more of a game than they had been anticipating.

One thing that nobody failed to pick up on was the work rate of the players, and the award of another last gasp penalty had heads in hands.

Like most people, I feared the potential damage presented by a defeat in spite of such a committed performance.

I also feared the rage that would inevitably result from having to take in the celebrations of the slobbering Bristol folk in their baseball caps.

And so, just like I did at Pride Park, I turned my back on the action.

I only rejoined it when I saw the loafers behind me leave the concrete in celebration. Lee Camp, the loathsome, egotistical genius, had spared us again.

The view from the away end at Ashton Gate is irksomely inadequate; seats sinking into themselves and pillars galore are a relentless obstruction.

But I witnessed clearly enough Camp raising two arms smugly above his head in triumph.

I left the ground with a grin.

Whether or not today’s result goes down as a success will depend on our ability to capitalise on back-to-back Saturdays at the City Ground and a crucial Tuesday evening in South Yorkshire.

In any case, it could have been a lot worse.