….and so it begins again. After the summer of Euro 2004, USA tours, the Grim Town UK tour, and five new faces, the old season slipped effortlessly into the new season. Same bus, same driver, same old (slightly older, actually) faces in the same old seats, same moans, same whines, the same jokes, and yet another picture in the papers of an Iraqi guerrilla in a mags shirt. The same A1, same roadworks, same hold-ups, and the now customary tour of suburban East Midlands which precedes games at Coventry combined to produce a journey time of four and a half hours to Hinkley, our chosen spot for a bit of R&R. To be honest, pre-match socialising is a bit like riding a bike – you soon get back into the swing of things, and if you get it wrong, it can play hell with your knees. Oh, and it’s advisable to wear a helmet. We had so much to catch up on, we didn’t even bother with the usual game of cards, choosing instead to be conned into Ronnie’s patent (and very complicated) North East football prediction game “all winnings to be distributed and spent during the promotion party at West Ham”. We’ll see. Individual moods and opinion on our fortunes in the coming season ranged (as in any group of fans) from the insanely optimistic to the suicidally pessimistic.

We’d learned with joy that the mag players would have no excuse for turning up for matches tired, as they’re getting lots of shut-eye at the training ground, but we were looking forward to some flair from our new signings.

All of this nonsense culminated in a “connect 4” challenge – on a five foot high set, with pieces the size of saucers – while we soaked up the sun in a particularly hot beet garden. (August “” champion Ms L. Owens) We turned down the offer of a game of Kerplunk when it was explained that pool cues would be used as sticks, but we did find a way to prevent Rob from having “one last one” just before we left by means of providing beer in a three-pint glass.

So, on to Coventry, past the pubs designated “visitors only”, where optimism seemed high, and into Highfield road. Like Luton in the cup a few years back, it is scary to think that this ground, the country’s first all-seater, was less that two decades ago regarded as the cutting edge of sports stadia. As times have moved on, it looks horribly dated, and provided our last chance for a victory there as the new ground is a rapidly growing tangle of steelwork a few hundred yards away.

The weather was much like last year’s opener at Forest, but the more open nature of our section meant less fainting and sweating as the usual suspects renewed acquaintance with each other. I had to spend an inordinate amount of time explaining that my scarf has indeed been retired (not yet in a glass case, but sitting on the bus – I couldn’t bring myself to leave it at home after all these years).

So off we went, and Coventry went off as well. The first half was a fairly toothless affair, with most of the excitement coming from the debate between those who sang for Reid to give them a wave, and those who would happily have shot him, had not the Gateman spotted the AK-47 up the shirt and confiscated it. Me, I didn’t clap him, I didn’t boo him. Had he left us when we were 7th with a Keegan-esque admission that he could improve them no more, then I would have clapped. On the other hand, I enjoyed the good times too much to boo.

It was a bit disappointing to see only Elliott of the new boys start the match, and, while he strove manfully, neither he nor Stewart gave their keeper anything to worry about. The second half was livelier, but, with Robinson having one of his defensive days and our wingers looking pretty but unproductive, our midfield provided the forwards little to chew on. Coventry’s one weak point was the nine-foot centre half (Davenport?), who won everything above six feet, but had boots of clay. Needless to say, we steadfastly refused to play the ball around his feet and force him to turn, and he only looked troubled when Kyle came on and bumped him around a bit. His central partner, Richard Shaw, on the other hand, hardly put a foot wrong, and produced several timely challenges to allow the goalie to keep his hands in his pockets.

A fairly even contest, with us having more of the midfield ball, but they looking more dangerous on the break, was heading towards an acceptable, if frustrating, 0-0, when George had his Coldplay moment. One quickly became two, which was tough on Pooooom, who’d made several top saves.

So, another crap start to a season, and it’s hard to take many positives from this one. Lawrence and Whitehead looked like they meant business, but weren’t around long enough to be effective. The forwards got too little good service and showed poor movement and lack of understanding, while the midfield – well, I’ve already talked about them. Central defence was the area where we looked decent, with both Clark and Breen turning in assured performances, so they share my man of the match award. OK, I know I should work a little harder to create a differential and decide on one individual, but of the team can’t be inventive, then why the hell should I bother.

The biggest smile of the day came on the way home, when we discovered that at least six people on the bus knew all the dialogue of “Blazing Saddles”. Smiles restored despite being mooned at by two hairy-arsed mackems on another bus – is it only us who aren’t allowed to drink beer while on the move?

Midnight, back into Bishop Market place, where it was all squashed burgers, swearing contests, peeing in shop doorways, vomit, and lasses trying to fight lads. New season? It’s like we’ve never been away.