Déjà vu all over again. It seems barely a month since we visited the City Ground, mainly because it’s only a month since we visited the City Ground. The last performance had been a decent enough pre-season jaunt, this time around Keano has expressed his intent to shake off his cup (of any sorts) hoodoo and actually win a game - or at least put in a decent performance.

I’d originally planned to do a half day at work, then changed my mind and had a nice lie in, just to prepare myself for the big day out. A nice breakfast down the Market Place, then sort out the finances for John’s stag weekend and Chelsea extravaganza, and I was back off home to out my bait up when I was accosted by the Bishop Sweary Woman (Tina Tourette). I know it’s not fashionable to mock the afflicted, but a woman well into her pensionable years dressed in a bright red coat, and pulling a shopping trolley, calling me a ****ing **nt because the ***king state wouldn’t give enough ****ing money to buy her ****ing shopping, the ****ing **nts, did make me giggle more than a fair bit. Out loud, as well, mind.

Bait duly put up, I nipped through to Spenny for an early pint, only to find that the Penny Gill had all its pumpclips turned around, and the Frog and Ferret not opening until 3. So it was the Thinford for a quiet pint of Ruddles until the bus arrived – a luxury job with three seats each, and Mr Winks (aka the Hetton One) with the smallest bait-box known to man. My spy in the town revealed that Keane had entire first team (no Anton, mind) at Romero’s last night, and that they all roared safely home in their various blingmobiles at eight on the dot.

As we passed Wakfield, news confirming the acquisition of Ferdinand arrived via Winkmail. No great surprise, but after the “extra rigorous medical” because of his hamstring problems, it was welcome news. £8 million may seem a lot of money, mainly because it is, but also when you consider his well publicised lapses. Having said that, anyone who watched the Pompey – Man Utd game on Monday will have been reminded that his big bro, considered by many to be the best central defender in the land, scored a howler of an own goal for Portsmouth not that long ago, confirming that, no matter what you pay, nobody’s perfect. Except Niall Quinn and Gary Rowell, of course. Another great addition to the squad, and Sunderland’s sixth first-time Christian name of the summer.

Rather than bother the bus driver with a new location, we buzzed back into Newark, and this time found a decent pub (the Castle, near the Castle, strangely enough) where we drank Cornish beer as Mr Winks tried repair his home PC’ mystery ailment by phone. I think it’s back at the shop, with an instruction from Mrs Winks not to return it until it’s “fixed or f****d.” We tried to decide who our mystery left-back target is, with all rumours pointing to an Argentine who is currently playing for an Italian club who look very likely to make a European exit this week. So I’m none the wiser, you can make your own mind up. We headed back to the bus, past the local Dublin-style drunky woman carrying her shoes (at half five on a Wednesday, she must have a problem or two) and were away by the allocated time. All of which meant hat we were likely to repeat our early arrival at the ground, and a probable sprint for that sort of decent pub just around the corner that served a good pint of Landlord.

So I tried the pub on corner (The Trent Bridge) where the door staff advised me to go to the away friendly South Bank Bar. Two minutes into my pint, the doorman who’d passed the time of day with me as I entered came back and advised me to leave, as people were asking at the door if they could come in and see me, enquiring of my wellbeing in the same sort of language as the Bishop Sweary Woman eight hours previously . Fame at last, as for a few minutes he stood next to me “just in case.” So I went to where they advised me, only to be refused service as I was an away fan, then gave up and went to the ground.

Gordon

Chimbo Noz Collins Bardsley

Reid Steed Whitehead Murphy

Diouf Cisse

So it started, but despite my heavy betting in our favour (£2, if you must know) we never quite got into the flowing football mode. There were flashes of decent play, especially early on with a cheeky shot from Cisse, but no consistent passages of decent play, and the game sort of went on without us really putting on any authority on it. Reid, as you’d expect, endured a barrage of pie-related abuse from his former employees, but almost got his own back when he planted a trademark cross to the back post, only for Collins to head it just wide. To be honest, Forest looked like the higher ranking side, but Andy Reid ran like a steam train for the entire first half. Miller replaced Malbranque fairly early on, and we failed to get a grip of a game that we really should have. Noz messed up a twazzle, but Forest wasted the possession he conceded, then Malbranque took a knock and was replaced by Miller.

Nothing serious, I hope.

Cisse then produced a touch and move worthy of a higher stage, only to see his shot touched onto the post, then Deano broke through but saw his shot saved. Shame about the rebound being put way over the top.

No changes at the break, and Forest were first out of the blocks with Earnshaw (or was it Sammy Davis Junior?) slicing wide, but soon after he made amends after we gave away a daft free-kick 25 yards out. We could see from our end where he was going to put it, unfortunately Gordon’s view was shielded by the wall. 0-1.

On came Healy for Murphy, but it was the Forest Old Boy who came closest – Reid shooting into the side netting. With only a few minutes to go, Miller whacked a shot in, which was saved, but goal machine Phil Bardsley got the vital touch at the near post to Diouf’s ball back in, and it was all level. That after less than a year as a Sunderland right-back. Revolution indeed.

Extra time. Bollocks, there’s all my bets up the spout, but least we were building up a head of steam, with sub Leadbitter going reasonably close with an effort from distance. In the added 30, we were quickly on top, with Healy this time being the sharpest to a save from a shot from Leadbitter, who put in a typically combative shift, and knocking in our second goal. Forest managed to drop a header onto the bar, there were one or two scares, but we generally looked the more controlled side in the extra minutes. Cisse gave his new fan club a bit of a fright by producing a canny limp for the last few minutes, but I’d suspect it was just a combination of cramp and the shock at having to work so hard for the cause.

There was a touching tribute to Brian Clough in the number of green shirts on display, despite the usual “you’re supposed to be on strike” type chants directed at the home fans.

There you go, Keano’s first ever win as a cup manager, and we’re into whatever sort of hat they draw the next round from. Overall, we probably deserved it, but Forest look a very useful side who tried to play football on the ground from start to finish, and, while always physical, never resorted to putting the boot in. Watch for them doing well this season.

Snoozy journey home, and on the table when I got in was an order of service for Stephen Barker, whose funeral it was this afternoon, and where the rest of my family had been. Only 24, two bairns, cheeky, funny so-and-so as a kid but always nice with it – makes you realise that, however much we get worked up about the game we love, there are bigger things at large in the world.

Man of the Match? Effective debut from Healy –more of the same, please – but for me it has to be Reid. I know that playing against his former club shouldn’t make any difference to how a man plays, but the man showed lungs the size of his chest to keep on keeping on for the while evening. It’s skill, not shape, that determines a player’s ability, and Andy showed skill in abundance tonight.

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