As the clock struck one we disembarked on Green Street (aye, we’re rock), noted the array of eateries and newsagents and took the sensible option of loading up on food and drink before heading for the nearby Central pub. It was good in there the night we won the league down here, loads of mates seemed to have it on their itinerary and the queues at the bar were tolerable so it seemed as good a choice as any.

In amongst the obligatory ticket exchanges it became apparent that we had one too many; veteran seller Chris Hardy had attended a lingerie fashion show with wannabe ALS models on the Tuesday, went to the after show party, got wrecked on the free drinks, fell asleep on a random model’s settee, rolled off in the middle of the night onto a stray wine glass, impaled his neck spectacularly, lost two pints of blood until someone awoke for a life-saving piss and spotted him, spent five hours in surgery.... and then decided to sack the match off, the part timer. After that the conversation focused on Tom Bright's admittance to turning up late because he’d been attending Jade Goody’s wake. Mad.

It was all sunglasses, t shirts and happy reunions on the sun drenched doorstep of The Central until one barrow boy, who’d been part of a group goading us from other the road, decided to run up and hurl a can of lager in. The Met had a van over in seconds, bundled him in, and we shrugged at how that had happened when the two sets of fans had always rubbed along so well previously. And like most away days of late that was that really, you’ve seen your mates, drank in the anticipation and the day just nosedives from there.

Ricky Sbragia shunned his favoured flat back ten formation for the game, boldly starting with one man (Cisse) up front and instructing our other players to pass the ball sideways occasionally. The man has negativity tattooed all over his head and, to compound the grumbles about the formation, many were in despair as Daryl Murphy trotted out for the start. I don’t think he’s as bad as people make out and the lack of sweat Jones has been getting on lately has been worrying but I’d rather have Kenwyne lining up at 60% fit than any of our other striking options. The McCarthy era showed that putting unlimited faith in honest tryers just doesn’t work. KJ and Cisse are a class above any of the rest and, if we insist on playing 4-5-1, can’t we have Jones up front and Djibril bombing down the right as he often did at Liverpool?

At the other end of the pitch, Ben Haim had an absolute shocker at left back. I blame him for practising his trade all week and still being incapable of playing a ball with his weaker foot, the bloke next to me laid into the manager for not starting Collins at left back instead. Either way, he was gash. For my money Sbragia got the recall of Gordon ahead of Fulop bang on though. The Scot carried on as he had done in the cup at Ewood, pulling off several decent stops and protecting a goal difference figure that could be vital by May.

Despite the aforementioned negativity we actually weren’t too bad first half. Their goal came as a sucker punch, the Hammers breaking after clearing a corner that arose as a result of a Cisse pile driver. That was a couple of minutes before half time and Tomkins rose to nod their second a few minutes after the interval. Game over, and the rest of the match was truly forgettable save for news of Chelsea’s goals sailing in and some quite amusing baiting from the Chicken Run to a female in our end who they accused of looking like Vicky Pollard and being riddled with Chlamydia.
By the time she’d retaliated by getting her tits out we were jogging out of the exits and glad to draw a line under the whole sorry experience.

Final Score: 0-2

Man of the Match: Bardo

Barney Summner

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