This is getting out of hand.
We’re not on a ‘decent run’, we’re not ‘going steady’, we’re not even punching above our weight.
In actual fact we’re bulldozing our way aimlessly but inexorably into paradise.
Time and again I brace myself for the collapse; the jaw-shattering reality check. Time and again Brooding Bill outstrips, outfights and outfoxes all challengers.
When Chris Cohen’s curling effort crept past Scott Carson’s grasping fingertips this evening I found myself floundering in footballing delirium.
I literally could not believe we were 3-0 up against the promotion certainties – in their own parlour.
It didn’t make sense. And for three solid minutes I howled, gesticulated and bounced through the confusion.
But in retrospect, from the sanctuary of a warm home and with several hours of reflection elapsed, I can almost see a method to this madness.
Cast your minds to the explosion of furious ecstasy from Radoslaw Majewski as his impossible volley bulged the net. Remember fondly the sobbing elation of Chris Cohen as he sealed the points. Consider warmly the indefatigable, incredulous work rate of every single player.
Our team is an ocean of superlatives. Their endeavour could be deemed machine-like if the expression did not so crudely dismiss the sheer organic quality of our heart-on-sleeve heroes.
The quality is there, Fuming Bill has made certain of that. But the potion he has stirred surreptitiously into the cocktail is worth two of every penny he has spent.
If nothing comes of our outlandish foray, the manager will retain a firm place in my affections for his success in restoring romance to our football.
Remember cowering beneath a bin bag as a month’s rain fell on Swindon?
Remember standing in the biting cold as amateurs Woking punched Megson in the kidneys?
Remember cringing on a windy night in Southend as Calderwood had a nervous breakdown?
It’s all gone.
My feet buzzed with the sensation of total numbness this evening; my fingers throbbed red as blistering cold gnawed the flesh. But all I could think was: ‘this is proper stuff, this’.
I didn’t even mind the 45-minute lap of Sandwell as stewards and locked gates made for a complicated route back to the car.
It takes a marvellous man to achieve these things.
So that’s that. We’re perfect and everything is beautiful. There are another thousand games until the end of the season and all manner of catastrophes are lurking.
But please, Angry Bill, let’s stay perfect and beautiful until the end of January.
If satisfaction is delivered on the penultimate day of this month I might be ready to die happy.
Ratings:
Camp – 8.5 – gobbled up what felt like hundreds of crosses and searching corners.
Gunter – 7.5 – one or two early errors but a fearless performance.
Morgan – 8 – coped well with the influx of beasts in the second half.
Wilson – 8 – what a turnaround from the petulant brat who dropped a nut at Bramall Lane.
Shorey – 8 – who’s Gareth Bale? Get your wallet out Supreme Leader Doughty.
Cohen – 7.5 – one or two untidy moments, but his work rate (and goal) proved invaluable.
Majewski – 8 – what a finish. I happen to think he had an appalling first 20 minutes; slipping between absent and atrocious. But he certainly shut me up.
Moussi – 8 – untold benefits in shaking up the middle of the park; his Mr Tickle-style legs creeping around every loose ball.
McKenna – 8 – I don’t know how football happens without him.
Anderson – 8 – the whippet. Unstoppable brilliance and he should have had a penalty.
Blackstock – 8 – the hardest he has ever worked in a Forest shirt, and it paid off.
Subs:
Tyson – 7
Adebola - 7
Perch – 7.5
Fans – 10 – other than 20 minutes of insufferable tension at the end of the game, the Forest fans dominated proceedings throughout with a display to make Reds across the globe very proud indeed. Many Bubbly Brummies, on the other hand, skulked out on 60 minutes.
