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SEASON 25/26 REPORTS AND STUFF
SEASON 2025/26 game 1 August 17th 2025
 Nottingham Forest 3Wood 5, 45+2 N'Doye 42  Bentford 1Thiago 78 (pen) Mere words cannot describe the quality of that match, so here are 26 of them.
AWESOME
SEASON 2025/26 game 2 August 24th 2025
 Palearse 1Sarr 37 Nottingham Forest 1CHO 57 If you're the guy who insists that Nuno is "dragging the club's name through the sh*t", I'd like you to explain who provides the sh*t. Is there a sh*t factory near where you live? Or perhaps Amazon does a sh*t delivery service. Is it human sh*t, or a lower quality sh*t like from dogs, bulls, horses or sheep? And how on earth does a great big club like Forest get dragged through this sh*t in the first place? Is there a sea of it? I think what you've done is confuse "sh*t" with the media. I can understand this. Both smell alike, taste alike, and come from the same place. And to be frank, both are better ignored.
We did our best to ignore the ...which turned out to be a bit of an anti-climax. Yes it did. It was not the "feisty affair" we had been promised. It was not even a particularly hostile atmosphere, unless you think that a hostile atmosphere must include a drum, a megaphone, a vile banner and Sarr cheating all over the place. To be honest, the match was quite scrappy. If the Forest scrappiness was caused by the off-field distractions, then Palearse must have suffered in the same way, because for great stretches of the match, both teams were guilty of sloppy mistakes. Perhaps the real reason for the patchy performance was that this was only the teams' second league game and neither side was fully settled or prepared. We've watched a few matches over the last weeks and most of them were messy, disconnected affairs. The quality will improve as the season goes on. This is how Forest's quality will improve...
☀ N'doye will get fitter, sharper, probably play on the left, and do several pieces of magic per game instead of just one. Anyway, by the end of the match we were definitely on top, what with Igor's cracker and Hutchinson's near thing(s). The Forest kit was beautiful, Antony Taylor did some stupid things but no more than most referees would have done, and people went home and may have had jam for tea. All we need now to ensure a really promising future is for Nuno and Marky Marks to sort out whatever problems remain. Perhaps, if you're part of the sh*t we're being dragged through, you should leave them to it.
SEASON 2025/26 game 3 August 31st 2025
Nottingham Forest 0 Wet Hams 3Bowen 84, Paqueta 88 (pen), Wilson 90+1
This was just rubbish from top to bottom. There was a lack of focus, and no wonder, considering the swarm of distractions that had invaded Forestworld over the past month or so...
Too much going on = lack of focus = crap performance.
FAKE NEWS
There has been so much misreporting of this game, we felt it our duty to put the record straight...
BOOK 5 CHAPTER 5
"Where are we going?" asked Mister Strum.
"We are going North," replied the Olde Gentleman. "To the land of the Shy Moor Folk."
Strum shuddered. He had vague but disturbing memories of the Shy Moor Folk. He remembered people talking to dogs, collecting milk bottle tops, and having one-sided conversations with windows. He also remembered a distinct lack of light.
Strum considered his next question carefully.
"Will we live?" he said.
It was a question which called for reassurance, something along the lines of "Don't be silly - of course we'll live. Now stop worrying and shovel some more coal."
But the Olde Gentleman said nothing, as if he hadn't heard the question at all.
*****
Nothing happened for many minutes, then continued to happen for many minutes more. The weather was murky, and the track ahead disappeared into an indefinable horizon. The Big Red Train rattled along at a pace which railwaymen liked to call "comfortable". Then events took a surprising turn, at least to Strum.
Through the door at the back of the cab strode a bulky, heavy coated figure with a grizzled frown where his face should have been. He glanced at Strum for a dismissive second then turned his attention to the Olde Gentleman. "What are you doing here?" he said. "I thought you died years ago."
The Olde Gentleman's mouth betrayed a whisper of a smile. He turned to face the newcomer, and said, "This, Mister Strum, is our Chief Engineer. Our Chief Engineer is responsible for the maintenance of the train. Chief Engineer, meet Mister Strum."
"Never mind all that," snapped the Chief Engineer. ""We're not going fast enough. Where's the bloody regulator on this thing?"
"We must excuse our Chief Engineer, Mister Strum," said the Olde Gentleman. "He is an impatient soul who has no time for niceties. Neither, it would seem, does he have time to do his job properly."
"Meaning?" growled the Chief Engineer.
"Meaning the maintenance of the guards van. The couplings are unsafe. Too much speed could overstrain them. It would be unwise..."
He never finished. The Chief Engineer barged past him and pulled the regulator full open. The train accelerated in a series of lurches until it reached a steady speed. The grey countryside streamed past the cab window. Above the noise of the engine and the rattling wheels, they could hear the roar of excited voices.
"That's more like it!" shouted the Chief Engineer.
And in many ways, he was right. The barrier that the Shy Moor Folk had thrown up to halt the Big Red Train's progress was breached with easy violence. The cab was sprayed with splinters and blood and bits of something which Strum didn't like the taste of, but at least they were all alive.
The Chief Engineer turned to face the Olde Gentleman. "Keep the speed up," he said. "No slacking off now, eh?"
"We're going too fast," said the Olde Gentleman, to which the Chief Engineer replied, "You worry too much, mate." Then they could hear the cheers again
as he opened the door at the back of the cab. " It'll be right, mate," he said, and left.
Fifteen minutes later the guards van couplings gave way. The carriage, connected only by power and brake cables, twisted like a breaching whale and crashed onto the tracks, smashing open the superstructure and disgorging everything from metal panels to teaspoons out of its broken back. Unable to maintain its speed, the train slowed, dragging the carcase of the guards van behind it in a shower of sparks.
It was not long before the Chief Engineer reappeared. He seemed fraught. "Is this as fast as she'll go?" he said.
The Olde Gentleman sighed, and said, "I'm afraid it is. Mate."
I honestly don't know what to say. At half time I was a bit giddy. At full time, the sentiment "Forest would have gladly taken a point" was only a token of disappointment. All I was left with was an imperfect blend of euphoria and doubt.
The euphoria came from a first half in which Forest were, in large parts, brilliant. I'm old enough and lucky enough to have seen Cloughie's Forest in Europe, but I never saw them play football like this. Mister Anderson was just world class. Jesus looked a born striker. After going ahead, the Bettys ended up being played off the park. It was like a dream. And, like all dreams, you had to wake up, didn't you?
I don't know what Pog said at half time, but Forest seemed like a different team in the second half. I suspect Pog's notions of game management are a confusing mixture of "slow it down (to conserve energy) and score more goals (because we're bound to concede)". The slow-it-down bit allowed the Bettys into the game. Forest's passing became sloppy and occasionally suicidal. The score-more-goals bit brought on attacking substitutions who could neither score nor hold the ball up. Things ended up looking directionless. Some of the players looked a bit broken.
There are many excuses for not winning. The heat and the humidity weighed heavy. Murillo and Aina were badly missed. The officiating seemed daft at times. Forest were away, at one of the competition's better sides.
But the doubts remain. Losing leads in every game may be part of a learning curve or it may be a result of misguided tactics. Pog says "the wins will come". It would be nice for everybody's sake if we could knock the vowels out of Sndlnd on Saturday.
There's something I'm seriously concerned about, and it's not the chaos that Pog has brought to the club - that was entirely predictable. It's the fact that some fans are desperately clinging to the idea that this mess is somehow Nuno's fault, or indeed anybody's fault apart from Pog's. This failure to face up to reality is leading to serious divisions in the fanbase while providing Pog with an endless supply of excuses.
This match, for example, was lost because Nuno stood up for himself and didn't like the direction in which the club was going. It was lost because this season's Wood is a shadow of last season's, because McAtee is as effective as a leaf, because Bakwa is not the glittering star people said he was, because Dominguez was never as effective as we hoped he would be, because Luiz and Murillo were missing, because the defence has gone to pot, because the Europa League has seriously buggered up our season. Oh, and the refs, always the refs. You can't blame Ange for any of this.
You can't blame Ange for any of this. Which is another way of saying he's not responsible for any of this. And if that's the case, what's he doing here?
What he appears to be doing here is conducting an experiment with ingredients of varying quality leading to a terrifyingly uncertain outcome. Those players out there looked neither coached nor organised. The play, until Jesus and Hutchinson came on, was tepid and pedestrian. Losses like this, especially to cloggers like Sndrlnd (no offence), will erode the bond, so carefully nurtured under Cooper and Nuno, between players and fans.
A bloke said to me a while ago that Pog was always going on about winning trophies. "Trophies," he said. "Not titles, or sustainable progress, or stability, but trophies. It wouldn't surprise me if he was prepared to sacrifice our league status for another shot at that cup."
I told him not to be so daft, because that wouldn't be in the best interests of the club.
LEGENDS OF THE FALL
And what happened next, Grandad?
Well, next we had a Europa League match against a Danish team called Midgety Land.
Where the midgets come from?
Well...
Like in Gulliver's Travels?
Look, do you want to hear this story or not?
Yes Grandad.
Right, anyway, you have to remember that this was a very special game - the first European game at the City Ground for a million years. The stadium was decked out in all Forza's finery, there was a light show, and everyone was anticipating a glorious return to winning ways. They had even wheeled out some players to say stuff like "Ange is a serial winner" and "Once it clicks, Forest will be unstoppable"
What's an Ange, Grandad?
I told you before, don't you remember? The manager who always looked like a disappointed wombat.
The one whose brain was made of crap? I told my Daddy what you said and he said you were a wicked man for using naughty words.
And in many ways your daddy was right. Does he still wet his pants, your Daddy? No matter, let us return to our tale. Where was I?
Everybody was looking forward to beating the Midgets.
Yes they were. So, of course, the Midgets scored first, then Forest equalised, then Midgety Land scored two more, then Forest scored a penalty, then the game was over. Forest had lost 2-3. People keep saying that there are more important things than football, but the only thing I could think of was sacking the idiot manager.
But why, Grandad, why?
Because of Angeball, which as far as I'm concerned involves the abandonment of defensive discipline, not replacing injured players before they get even more injured, the faulty selections and shapes, the complete dislocation of defence, midfield and attack, the lack of any coherent attacking intent, the destruction of player confidence, the lack of research or preparatory drills of any kind, the stubborn insistence on losing match after match...
Stop it Grandad, you're going red!
I've always been a Red, damn you! Do you want to know what happened after the final whistle? I'll tell you what happened. Mister Markymarks the owner thundered on to the pitch and beat Postecoglou to death with a television. Then he sank to his knees and started wailing "Forgive me, Forest, for the mistakes I have made." And then he cried, great big globby tears that only a repentant billionaire can shed.
Wake up Grandad.
What?
Wake up. You fell asleep. You were going to tell me what happened after the match.
After the Midgety match? Was I? Do you know, I've completely forgotten. I don't suppose anything happened really. I suppose that's why we're playing Derby next week.
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The Grand Arse 3
This was not, as some would have it, a disappointing game. There were signs of quality all over the pitch, and the thrills and spills of this Premier League fixture were especially appreciated by the new influx of Australian fans who energised the forums with their rough-hewn wit.
Shy Moor Folk 1
Sndrlnd 1
