BSAD report: Besides, we’re top of the league. Properly top of the league, not just keeping it warm for Fulham. All the other stuff still matters, of course…but the crap that life throws at you seems to stick less easily when you’ve got a league table to gaze lovingly at.
BSAD report: Today we sing, coz we love our team. They kept out a hard-working bunch of bastards who’d got an inexplicable grudge against us and interrupted our every attempt at complicated passing, which made us look like we either couldn’t get in the game or weren’t trying hard enough to do so.
BSAD report: All teams, including us, will go on a bad run at some stage during the season (as Fulham are demonstrating to a minor extent at the moment). We just have to hope ours won’t last too long, and that it doesn’t happen for a few games yet.
I hate Gillingham. In an admiring sort of way. They’re a pain in the arse, obviously. We haven’t beaten them since the invention of the combustion engine and, on last night’s evidence, we’ll have seen a few more inventions come and go before we beat them again. They know how to make themselves unpopular, that’s for sure. Perhaps they’ve burst our bubble at an appropriate moment, though.
On the subject of our forwards, Gifton on an off-night plays depressingly more like a Harlem Globetrotter than Michael Jordan; and with a wall of blue meanies facing them, even Tommy Smith back in a central role couldn’t jinx a way through.
BSAD report: Saturday was great in every respect. Hell, even the second half tannoy announcement that trains were going no further south than Harrow proved to be insignificant – by the time I’d fortified myself for a nightmare journey with a suitable amount of Guinness, everything was running smoothly. And I have to mention the Irish Hornets, Pat and Joe, whose post-match contribution to the laughter and merriment and plain old happiness was second only to that of the team. It was a “top of the world, top of the league” sort of day. The kind that leaves you a million miles away from the drudgery and irritation of the working week, that feels like a very welcome holiday.
BSAD reports: Ah, Birmingham. Our familiar, if strangely accented, friends. Welcome back, with your song that has fifty-seven verses of proudly but unintelligibly mumbled nonsense. Welcome back, with your fully developed sense of “sleeping giant” superiority that gets you nowhere at all and turns you into Wolves Mk II. Welcome back, with your manager who seems to have a permanent cold and a permanent bad mood to go with it. Really, we’ve missed you.
Tricky one, this. We’ll all look back on it – players, staff, fans – and think, whoa, good side, Birmingham, big test, two-nil, hey, we were sailing along. Truth to tell, it was mucky work, and anyone with a slightly better memory for detail will always recall that too.
September has only just slipped by but the bookies have effectively closed the betting on the First Division title race. Fulham, nine wins on the bounce, have it sewn up and the others are competing for the minor placings. That theory, which became more compelling after Jean Tigana’s remarkably consistent team eased their way to victory at Bolton, is a trifle harsh on Watford, who have themselves started as though the season is a sprint and not a marathon.