Blackburn, with its four thousand holes, birthplace of Barry Gray, composer of the Thunderbirds theme (and every other Gerry Anderson’s Supermarionation classic), was possibly where it all started going wrong.
In 1991-92, Forest had finished an eminently respectable 8th in the last season of the old First Division. Blackburn hadn’t been in it. ’92-93 started brightly enough with a 1-0 home win over Liverpool in the first ever televised Sky Super Sunday match. The sales of Des Walker and Teddy Sheringham heralded (if that is the right term for something so negative) a run of four straight defeats, including a bizarre 5-3 loss to Oldham Athletic, then a team of huge promise.
Next up, Blackburn away and my own first away trip of the season. I wasn’t a regular on the legend that was Jack’s bus, but I drank in the Newshouse, the spiritual and magical home for many a Forest fan. Town died a bit for many of us the day they closed the Newshouse. Jack’s bus, based really in the far northern reaches of the county, but picking up on Maid Marian Way, was the preferred modes of transport for the majority of the Newhouse (ir)regulars. Fair to say, Jack’s bus had a reputation as a ‘big drinking’ day out, the pre-match gallon, often being an aim for many.
Forest-wise things had to get better and recent form could only be a blip. Surely. Spirits were high and so were Trippy Roy and Paul, who had opted for a more exotic and altogether more adventurous relaxant than the PMG. The bus parked up in a pub adjacent-ish to Elwood Park, and the session started. Roy and Paul continued their psychedelic journey of enlightenment and all was well with the world.
We even got to the match. On time. Which was a pity as Forest were destroyed 4-1, the kind of result which really shouldn’t have been happening with players the quality of Stuart Pearce, Nigel Clough, Roy Keane and Steve Stone in the squad and a reasonable looking, in theory at least, collection of others around them. Shearer was unplayable and Mark Crossley, Big Norm, helped Rovers out by throwing the ball into his own net.
Back to the pub to find the bus was poorly. Really quite terminally ill. We were going to be there for a while. The local constabulary decided the sensible option was to corral us in the pub and let us drink ourselves into a collective coma. Things, however, got testy. The north Notts contingent became irritated with Trippy Roy and Paul’s increasingly spaced-out behaviour and the atmosphere soured. Our two intrepid heroes decided to escape the pub, possibly in search of the holes and to check whether they actually would fill the Albert Hall. Whatever their noble, cosmic aim, they ended up in a fight in McDonalds. As you do. News of this filtered back to the pub, whereupon a mass breakout ensued, in search of the assailants. The one PC on door duty was overwhelmed and possibly not a little surprised. A Keystone Cops pursuit followed, a boozed-up, drugged up red horde, chasing a bunch of locals, in turn chased by the law. In an unlikely turn of events, said chase included passing through the inside of a neighbouring house and one unfortunate being bitten on the arse by the householder’s Alsatian, before ending up right back where it all started in the pub.
At this point, Martin and myself decided it might be good to get a break and set off in search of a calmer environment, which presented itself in the form of a fantastic old working men’s club, with beer at about 7p a pint and free snooker. A break indeed!
Bus eventually repaired – I have no idea now how Martin and I knew; this is pre-mobile phones – the happy day trippers set off for home. For some though, there had not been enough excitement, so a stop off at a pub in Barnsley was hastily arranged. This passed without incident and we arrived back in Nottingham in the early hours of Sunday. Naturally, only one thing to do under those circumstances, namely to head to the Irish for a few more. Such was life.
Forest were relegated, bottom, 4 points adrift of ‘Boro and 9 short of Palace, that season - Cloughie’s sad last-stand. We were back the ‘94-5 season and finished third behind Man United and champions… Blackburn who, to be fair, beat us home and away two and three nil.
Still, ’95-6 would be promising with UEFA Cup football. Hero-striker Stan Collymore had been sold to Liverpool, but the team still looked strong. A twelve match unbeaten run – too many draws to be real title shots though – and progress through Europe and all was tickety-boo until… Blackburn away mid-November, where a team destined to finish only three points above us managed to put 7 (seven) past us, including a hat-trick from Shearer and a brace from the wonderful Lars Bohinen, the man responsible for a short-lived outbreak of Viking helmet wearing at the City Ground, who we had recently sold to them. Embarrassing score line apart, this was a match notable for a substitution that would, until recent times, have rated as the most uninspiring ever – Jason Lee taken off to be replaced by Andrea Silenzi – possibly the worst player seen in Garibaldi Red in a generation. Not content with that, they also did us 5-1 at home.
So, to tonight. Miraculously, a shade under 24,000 bothered to turn out for this one, surely anticipating getting points on the board. Forest started brightly, faded, went one nil down, equalised, lost 2-1. A familiar pattern by now. A dark atmosphere prevailed. Horrible. Fans sniped at players, the team were booed off at half-time and the decision to take off promising youngster Alex Mighten to make way for Joao Carvalho was met with derision and chants of “You don’t know what you’re doing.” In the closing minutes, a tragi-comic back pass from the half way line (we were one nil down) by the lamentable Tobias Figueiredo caught equally lamentable ‘keeper Brice Samba by surprise (maybe with some justification; have I mentioned that we were one nil down) and narrowly missed. Never before have I felt a home crowd actually willing an own goal in, but these are strange times.
Personally, TMBBU didn’t show tonight, which was a bonus. It must’ve been the toxic atmosphere though as I managed to start a row with his replacement. In my defence, he had been very vocal in in his moaning, it really wasn’t helping and he had rather smugly celebrated the Blackburn goal. After a slightly awkward ten minutes or so though, I apologised. To be fair, he was only saying what we were all thinking. Transpires, he and his family, who I’d dismissed as part-timers from out of town, travel up when they can from Wiltshire and he’d been suffering with the rest of us for a good forty plus years now. Man deserves a medal, not grief from me! As does Paul’s lad Louie, who took an afternoon’s holiday from work, got the train up from London and sat through this horror show. He’s a mild-mannered, laid-back lad, but I’ve never seen him so angry. Post-match, plans afoot to figure out how best to time getting Covid from Little Pete’s lad Finn, who missed Saturday and tonight in self-isolation. No point getting it quite yet; we’re not at home now until the 12th of September, if you discount paying for the EFL Cup match v Wolves next week, which seems a bit of a ‘no-brainer’.
Twitter is in danger of breaking. No calls seen for BD tonight, with Eddie Howe’s name being mentioned repeatedly. It’s a fantasy. Why on Earth would he want to?
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