Moments after I took my seat in the Ricoh for this midweek fixture against lowly Barnsley, the man next to me but one began his interrogation.

“What you got there mate?”

“Erm, a book.”

“A book! Jesus. What’s it about?”

“India. Well, Delhi specifically.”

“Why the hell would you bring a book to football? I mean, that’s a pretty weird thing to do.”

“Well, the game doesn’t start for another 20 minutes, and I needed something to do on the train from London.”

“You haven’t got a bomb in there do you?” He said, gesturing at my limp and ostentatiously bomb-less tote bag. “Cos if you wanta blow up Cov fair play to ya but gimme a heads up first yeah so I can do one.”

“Urrr, yeah. Okay.”

Taking my leave with a final glance of utter distrust and bewilderment, he turned his attention back to his contraband Carling tinnie.

Make of that what you will people.

So far this season we’ve given two precariously employed managers a lifeline, allowing Scunthorpe and Robins to turn us over with a pathetic whimper, and Swindon to muster an unbelievably unlikely point at the death. This charitable streak suggested that Barnsley, who had gained zero points out of a possible 18 in the run up to this fixture, might have more of a chance than the cold hard stats suggested.

After about 90 seconds this hypothesis evaporated. Ryan Kent finally did what he has been threatening to do all season and it was worth the wait. He collected the ball on the left wing, drifted past a few of their defenders with his delightfully innocuous change of pace, cut onto his right and then, instead of spooning one towards the dug-out, or tripping himself up with too many stopovers, or wallowing so effectively in his own indecisiveness that a tackle arrived by default because there was no place left for his feet and the ball to go, he curled a sumptuous finish into the keeper’s far post.

One-nil; we’re sick, you’re shit; game over; I’m bored; let’s go home this is going to be a non-event.

I felt pretty soz for the sprinkling of Barnsley fans holed up in the away end. You’ve made the erroneous decision to come to a midweek game to watch your determinedly crap team try and avoid defeat for the first time in six games, and within two minutes you’re already a goal down. Considering where we are in the league and the calibre of Kent’s goal, there must have been some pretty low-beat vibes circulating around the Yorskhire contingent. Especially once the Cov fans started singing very loudly, and in unison, the tune that transcends all boundaries and brings people from all ages, races, and genders together: “You’re fucking shit. (repeat)”

The b-boys of Block 15 also took this opportunity to release a gigantic inflatable ball onto the heads of the masses. Until the nice lady steward seized it – an action that invoked a pretty rancid chorus of “you f’ing b*&$%” from all and sundry – I was living in mortal fear of it crushing my poor unsuspecting head.

We were two up shortly after. Fleck, loving life in the quarterback role, rifled a perfect cross field pass out to the area where Barnsley’s left back had inexplicably gone AWOL from. In his place was Aaron Phillips who had taken some time out from giving away unnecessary penalties in order to play a perfect cross into the path of the onrushing Armstrong. I had a perfect view of the very small, ball-shaped gap that the keeper had left between him and his near post. “Don’t take it on the full mate,” I thought to myself. “You’re good but you’re not that good.” Apparently he is that good. Running at full-speed he took the ball first-time in his stride and needless to say it ended up in the bottom corner. Two-nil. What the fudge.

I was happy, but suspiciously so. We were doing exactly what the form book suggested, and doing it in style. To add to my delight, the minors who sit next to me were still monging out after their mephadrone bender or weren’t allowed to this particular school-night fixture, one of the two. As Cov fixtures go, this was completely unrepresentative and I urge anyone whose first game this was to remove it from their memory immediately.

Cole was making his home debut but in all honesty, he was probably the most unremarkable Cov player on the pitch. Most of his passes were either pedestrian or slightly sloppy and I can’t remember him contributing usefully in the first 45.

As is our wont when we go one or more goals ahead we got pretty casual. This climaxed when RCC and Fleck almost gifted them a goal by playing one too many pointless one-twos in our box. Shit-munchers that Barnsley are, they didn’t even realise we were offering them a free goal and declined to lash it in the net.

Straight after half-time they scored a near post header from a corner. If being 2-0 up at home against a crap team on a Tuesday is relatively dull, then being only 2-1 up is even more boring. With Swindon still fresh in the memory, it makes you that bit more agitated than you would ever want to be and causes you to dislike almost everything about a situation that is still, objectively, a positive one.

An ominous Dickensian mist was rolling into the stadium that seemed to suggest all was not as rosy as it once was. Armer put paid to any suggestions of pathetic fallacy by racing onto the simplest of u11’s-football over-the-top flicks and placing it past the keeper with the minimum of fuss. He may walk like his legs don’t bend, have a terrible lid, and wear shorts and socks so much too big for him it is hard to accurately assert whether he has ordinary human limbs at all, but boy can he finish; left or right, it is literally irrelevant. Let’s enjoy this cheat while it lasts.

Order was restored. I could chill. Three-one. Barnsley are surely going to give up now. Or not.

Next thing I know the ball is bouncing wildly outside our 18-yard box, one of our defenders loses an aerial battle, and a little Barnsley player – none of whom have done anything remotely impressive all game – drills an impeccable volley beyond RCC’s right claw and into the far corner. What the F! Stop it Barnsley. Just stop it! You know you can’t win. We’re a massive deal and if we tried our best we could probably smash about ten past you. But we’ve decided to be nice – and look how you’ve responded. I hope you know you’ve made everyone feel uncomfortable and the whole evening is going to be less enjoyable because of your repeated insubordination.

This arrogant supposition was backed-up by England International and Ball D’Or winner Joe Cole stepping up to curl a 23-yard free-kick in off the underside of the bar. 4-2. Now will you shut up Barnsley?

I know it sounds like it was an end-to-end goal bonanza, but quite frankly, it was actually a pretty dull game. People see seven goals and they think holy guacamole that must have been a club banger. Incorrect. At no point was there any real tension during this fixture. Yes it was nice to score goals, and yes it was nice to have a little bit of resistance, but this was a cake-walk and should have been significantly sweeter.

Cole was taken off just after his goal. Perhaps because unless he’s in a situation where no one else is allowed to run then he is effectively redundant. The Cov faithful demonstrated their reliable fickleness by giving Ryan Kent a standing ovation as he left the pitch, while I was lodged in a bizarre, winning purgatory, unsure of my own feelings towards a match that was edging in the direction of victory but had delivered me little in the way of satisfaction or entertainment.

A few players had rare off days. RCC dropped 4 crosses (that I counted) and generally looked a way off the impressively high standards he has set for himself since he exploded onto the scene like the massive baller he is. Lameiras came on and looked short of ideas and energy. Murphy roasted them a few times during the last 5 minutes but other than that this substitute appearance was not his best. Fleck lost his way in the second half and gave maybe his worst 45 minute performance in a city shirt this season. Not to worry though ginge – definitely better to get it out of your system against these bottom feeders. And Aaron Phillips was doing relatively Okay – including that sublime assist for Armstrong – until he gave away an unbelievably stupid penalty in the dying seconds. The ball had been crossed over and was about to go out for a throw-in when he decided to tickle it with his trailing hand. How stupid is this kid? Can someone answer me that. Once is pretty crap form – twice! He needs to be cleaning everyone’s boots.

We saw out an awkward final few minutes without incident. Everyone was a bit pissed off that it had even come to that though. Ignoring those facts, we won and promotion is tentatively becoming a possibility.

Yoko Oh No

Soaked at Priestfield

No hay in the meadow

Once more unto the breach, dear friends, once more

TLS Awards: Volume 3

TLS Awards: Volume 2

The Lonely Season's Alternative End of Season Awards, Volume 1

The Final Squeak

90 minutes of paradise