Back in the Habit

There was still twenty five hours until kick off when I completed half of the journey to Portsmouth. I was in London for a few beers and to visit an exhibition of photography. Certainly a first!

From St Pancras I made my way around east to Shoreditch, a rather trendy little area full of swept fringe types and shops with what looked like only six items of clothing for sale. A tad pretentious, maybe but I soon decided it was a great little place to spend a Friday afternoon. My stay in Shoreditch lasted well into the evening and included a meet with Cags late afternoon and a foray around a few bars in the area including the superbly named Red Dog Saloon! Another visit somewhere down the line is a must. Our visit to West Ham in January would be an ideal opportunity.

The following morning the two of us set off from Victoria to Portsmouth. Two hours later we were arriving at Fratton, a little before midday. We wandered into town and eventually found ourselves in Lloyds. Despite having stayed down for the game last season my recollection of the city centre was sketchy at best. What I definitely could remember, however, was this Lloyds which is like no other one I have been in anywhere. It was a touch more tranquil in the early afternoon but no doubt it would be jumping again several hours later.

The rest of the bars were about somewhere but we couldn't find them and thought we'd head towards the ground to try our luck. We gambled at the Rifle which was a supporters club type place that we expected to deny us entry but we got in with no questions asked.

From there it was into the ground which was instantly hilarious when Ebby's mrs went for a tumble down the stairs. She milked it for all it was worth and people stopped laughing thinking she was badly hurt while I got some stares due to my continued chuckling! At half-time we were unlucky to be behind but we had wasted our various chances, including a glorious one for Mcgugan which got stuck under his feet. There was further laughing at half time during the prize draw when the winner of a new TV was announced as Mr Brian Rice! Cue a loud cheer from the away fans which must have bemused the rest of the ground and particularly Brian Rice himself! The weird thing was that this had followed the previous winner which was announced as Cotterill. I began to think someone was having a little wind-up until the name was later corrected to Coppell. Stupid Pompey fans and their football manager names!

The game was far from bad and there were a number of positives to take but I found it hard to justify us being that unlucky. You don't lose games by that scoreline by being unfortunate, you lose them like we did; not taking our own chances and letting the other team score with ease. The difference was perhaps best seen in the goalscorers; Kitson and Huskelepp who, between them, provided a goal scorer and a constant creative force who also managed to grab himself a brace. We just don't have those type of players who can do that on a regular basis.

Because of that very fact we, the fans and Steve Cotterill, were left to the mercy of the jubilant home fans. To their credit they didn't barrack their former boss in the way that I had expected but they sure enjoyed rubbing it in when the game was all but won. It all transpired to turn it into a torrid afternoon and I couldn't wait to get out of there. We have played far worse this season but our decent (ish) performance made the result even worse in many ways. We trudged back to the nearby train station along with PL who I saw for the only time that day. He was treating the Woman to a relaxing weekend on the South Coast and was preparing for a night on the town.

It was a long old trek back into London where Cags departed and then onto Nottingham. Some drunk Forest fan recognised me at St Pancras and began embarrassing me by shouting 'You Reds' across the platform before coming over for a cuddle as the dozens of people looked on! Other than that I was on my own to gather my thoughts on another defeat. Once again we have that frustrating trait of losing in a poor manner before an international break.

See you in Cardiff. Anyone, no?