TIME TO PRETEND

Reading string 8 leagues in a row together at a the denouement of the season? Yeah, and the cow jumped over the moon and the dish ran away with the spoon. In the words of the unlamented Richard Keys, late of SKY Sports: "do me a favour, love".

This is all very un-Reading isn't it? Almost uncomfortably so. Where are the serial bottlejobs I have come to know and love? Have they been gagged and bound in the back of the A Team van, as Howling Mad Brian Mc, BA Gibbs and Sal 'The Faceman' Bibbo cobble together a promotion charge using some clumsily discarded blow torches, some perspex and some tungsten tip screws to build Matthieu Manset under the watchful eye of a smug-looking Hannibal Madejski smoking a big fat fuck off cigar rolled on the thighs of Cilla Black. I love it when a plan comes together.

Leicester were our latest hapless victims, providing us with satisfaction immeasurable in beating an expensively assembled squad of well-paid loanees, smoothly stewarded by suave Sven - himself picking up his usual pretty penny, no doubt. The Foxes were latest victims of the Berkshire Hunt and although the visitors played all the football we took all the points. Leicester's pass and move was incisive until they came up against our spine of Leigertwood and Karacan, and the pelvis of Mills and Zurab was practically inpenetrable. They had most of the ball, we had most of the goals. A Reading side mugging the opposition and marching relentlessly on during the normally nervous spring months? These are mysterious times.

Reading's strength is their strength. Attacks were broken down as bodies flew into challenges, clearances were timed to perfection and tackles broke up the glacial Foxes who melted twice in as many minutes during the first half. Shane Long - upper-body of a Hod Carrier - shrugged his way into the box via byline and his pull back was dispatched into the roof of the net by Kebe. McAnuff was then fed by the Malian Pele and gave himself room inside the box to place firmly beyond Weale who Wealey had no chance. This was two minutes of footballing opium for the Madejski masses. After the communal fist pumping died down the adrenaline was still pumping. I'll book the Wembley tickets. You man the island and the cocaine and the elegent cars.

The second half was Testimonial stuff for the most part. Leicester continued to ping the ball around admirably, by now only posing the remotest discomfort to the Reading defence. A third goal followed as Kebe nipped the ball of a Leicester foot from their throw in level with our 18-yard box. Jim then set of on a run mazier than the final scene of The Shining, his pull back landed at the feet of Hunt. Drill, three-nil, and we're all pilled-up in a footballing sense. There is plenty of time left to enjoy Yakubu nod a free header wide of McCarthy's far upright and there is even a thoroughly patronising round of applause as King slots one in for Leicester late on.

Pieces of eight, what a fantastic run we have plundered. Next up, We All Love Leeds on Good Friday. We'll crucify 'em. McDermott is our Pontius Pilate. Wembley or save a few quid and invade our own pitch again against Derby? We were fated to pretend.

A LITTLE RESPECT

It's not the despair, Laura. I can take the despair. It's the hope I can't stand.

Can there be a crueler football club than Reading FC towards its fans in terms of building up expectation which can only be dashed? Dead and buried in play-off terms 7 weeks ago after an insipid 1-1 draw against Watford marked a fifth consecutive match without victory, we fell 9 points adrift of a top six place and promotion seemed about as likely as John Madejski buying a round of drinks.

Another decent cup run lifted spirits, but fans seemed resigned to more single-breasted midtabling respectability and the spectre of the bigger boys swooping for our star assets, the likes of Long and Kebe. Hold on, Long and Kebe? Didn't they used to be crap? Long striding around the pitch purposelessly like a happy-go-lucky Blarney Bambi. Kebe sprinting his way down blind alleys and shanking crosses wretchedly into the North Stand. Both carried as much scoring threat as Kenneth Williams. Not so any longer; Long has 22 goals this season alone dontcha know, whilst Kebe himself has scored 16 goals from the wing under BMc's stewardship.

And that in itself tells its own story. McDermott's undoubted success since inheriting the crumbling remains of the short-lived Rodgers Project, itself doomed to failure after the fire-sale which followed the downing of Coppell's Empire has been extraordinary and reliant almost entirely on getting the best out of the players we didn't flog to avoid post-Premiership financial meltdown. Adding short-term signings like Griffin firstly and then Leigertwood latterly along with other experienced loanees such as Zurab and mxing them with a tyro team of triers such as Karacan, Church and HRK has gradually worked a nice chemistry into our team. Something is stirring again in Berkshire and McDermott is our ladle.

The latest test for the team - and the fans nerves - was to come at the City Ground, home of twice former European Cup winners Nottingham Forest who will still see themselves as top flight table-sitters despite more than a decade away from that gravy train. Reading fans are a nervous, timid lot, afraid to say boo to a Cyril the Swan at the best of times, their nerves shot by so many play-off near misses. And the bastard club are putting us all through it again. This time though, as we arrived in Nottingham and hot-footed it to the Vat & Fiddle in the blazing East Midlands sunshine I noticed something different in our collective attitudes. An expectation of victory. Against a side with only one home defeat in 40-odd encounters? Yep, no problem. This kind of belief hasn't been seen around Berkshire way since our first naive brush with the roulette table of the play-offs back in 1994/95.

The match was ambrosia itself. It had everything we love about football; goals, controversy, heroes, villains - indeed, a pantomime villain on the touchline in Billy 'Widow McTwanky' Davies patrolling and harrumphing his domain as Brian tried to work alongside him. I can imagine that their eyes didn't meet once despite standing 5 feet away from each other all afternoon. Their styles so very different of course; Brian gently cadjoling his boys, Billy a little whirling dervish of pointing flapping and shouting. Brian is 50 years old now of course, he doesn't want to get involved in touchline tantrums. But would you fight with him? He looks like a right old slugger, a Big Daddy tribute band in himself.

Reading led after twenty. Manset fed Long who tumbled typically theatrically causing furious outrage in Billy's balcony. Manset, making a rare start, was tremendously useful throughout in bumping and grinding an increasingly knackered-looking Forest defence, although his frame and at-first-unconvincing attempts at ball control make him seem at once like Shakin' Stevens meets Victor Ubogu at a Tony Rougier Impersonation Contest. Harte schwazed in the freekick, 1-0. The goalscorer however was at fault when leaden-footed at a throw in, losing his man who went over Leigertwood's big toe. 1-1 from the penalty spot and Kris Boyd celebrated unecessarily in front of the Reading fans, displaying great joy at finally adding something worthwhile to the game, having hitherto and henceforth shown all the speed and movement of Madge's mobility scooter parked up in Benidorm with its battery worn down.

Reading fell behind after half time when goofy taff Earnshaw got in behind Griffin to finish smartly for his 1,000th career goal against Reading. He celebrated grandiosely in the corner, which was surprising given his later zero-tolerance approach towards timewasting after Forest had later fallen behind, placing the ball down pointedly for McCarthy to take a freekick post-haste following an offiside decision against the home team. The lead changing hands phased our boys not one iota as two Reading corners snatched the lead back almost as soon as we had lost it - Karacan's imperious Gunnarssonesque header for 2-2, Kebe stabbing instinctively into the roof of the net for 2-3 after Ivar's retrieval of the ball from a left side flag kick set up Zurab's poke at goal which was palmed away by the tiresome Lee Camp. Kebe celebrated noisily in front of the away end, showing uncharacteristic emotion by ripping off his shirt and screaming at us although we couldn't hear what he was shouting because we were screaming back at him. Mon Dieu!

If a Forest player falls in the box and there are 22,000 people there to see and hear it, does the referee make a sound? Indeed he did, referee Pawson paused, linesman flagged and a naive challenge from HRK resulted in a soft penalty with barely 2 minutes left. As McGugan sent McCarthy the wrong way, all thoughts were of satisfaction at a point which would keep the home side 3 points below us. But you could have so much more. In inury time, Griffin pinged a quick freekick down the line, Karacan's cross was bundled in at the near post by a combination of Luke Chambers and Simon Church; the latter a grateful substitute credited with a winner made partly by the wearing and tearing of a tired defence by the aforementioned substituted Manset.

There was still time for Long to have a penalty saved by Camp, who performed more pathetic histrionics after palming away the spot kick despite his side actually trailing at the time deep in injury time. Zurab made a last ditch clearance at the other end, then time and a mass love in at the end of a memorable game. A huge win which cuts down Forest's play-off hopes, gives us a nice cushion and - whisper it - puts second place in sight. I mentioned a little earlier 1994/95 and that season we timed our run at the end to perfection. We finished a gobsmackingly unexpected 2nd place in a season where only one club was to be promoted automatically. No such bad luck would befall the runners-up this season, but on Grand National day 2011 RFC cleared Bechers Brook and began the gallop towards a potential photo finish. It would almost be rude to write BMc's team off. They deserve a little respect.

BEE IS FOR BANDWAGON

We're approaching a decade since the finest moment ever at the Madejski. Forget the Derby Championship-cakewalk, forgot the battle-back against Boro - Nicky Forster's cameo against Wigan in the play-off semi-final second leg on 16th May 2001 was almost certainly the most-hairaising moment in the history of the stadium.

That dramatic night Fozzie wrote himself into Reading folklore, forever to be remembered as a true Reading hero. Nicky Forster was a pleasure to watch. Like shit off a stick in a tsunami, the guy was quick. Coupled with an ability to finish chances from long and short range defying all manner of impossible angles, Forster also had mesmeric close control and was a menace to defences in his six thrilling seasons at the Madj.

He's getting on a bit now, mind. And that blinding speed now needs to be transfered into speed of thought; he is in coaching now you see, at one of his former clubs Brentford. Brentford FC are of course an Aladdin's Cave for RFC, a footballing car boot sale of a club with whom we have shared many players and coaches in recent years; Coppell, Downes, Ingimarsson, Sidwell, Owusu and many more besides. In 2002, a Brentford team boasting all those named RFC will-be-legends lost out on promotion to Pardew's wobblers on the final day of the season. We subsequently pinched their manager, coach, their best players and got promoted to the top flight whilst the Bees bellyflopped into division 4. Cheers, we toast you with a pint of Fullers!

It's hard not to have a soft-spot for our neighbours from down the M4. Notwithstanding the Forster link and a whole host of intermingling Royal family tree second-cousins-once-removed, they are also big game losers like ourselves. Two play off final defeats, like ourselves. They had also lost twice in the Associate Members Cup final prior to yesterday's third appearance in the final, vs Carlisle. With my own family links to the Bees, I couldn't resist jumping on the Bandwagon and joining in the buzz down Wembley way.

40,000 supporters gathered for this final. Which other country in the world could attract that many fans to a third division football match? This probably best explains why England deserves to host a World Cup again, were it not for the fallible old fools at the FA - themselves led by a big-mouthed politician who couldn’t keep his penis in his pants together with a goofy entourage if ‘dignitaries’ incorporating Brain-box Beckham and Prince Nice-but-Dim putting the kibosh on our chances. There was a tremendously bubbly atmosphere outside the ground as supporters from two unfashionable clubs posed for pictures, bedecked in those god-awful jesters hats and the make-up choice of the retarded: face-paint. One wonders how fans of the big clubs who tend to get through to the more famous big finals this ground has held over the years feel on their big days out? A shrug, presumably, as they stroll up from Wembley Park station. They almost certainly don’t bring a camera.

Big game, bad football match. There is a reason why Brentford and Carlisle don’t play on the big stage very often – they’re no bloody good. Carlisle at least strung a few passes together first half and led through Murphy’s prod into the net after he was inexplicably allowed two touches in the box from a corner. Brentford were all scruffy long ball, which was a great disappointment that such a great footballer in Forster would preach such ineffective percentage-football pap. From our seats high above the corner flag in Club Wembley (drinks aren’t free) for the princely-sum of £44 we watched a somewhat more eventful second half as Brentford’s Schlupp wriggled free of the colossal thug Michalik to inexplicably thunk an effort onto the near post and a couple of set-piece sitters were headed high and not-very handsomely over.

Towards the end Brentford’s angular clumsy midfielder Diagouraga – who played like a blindfolded Kalifa Cisse – came crashing through at the end of two poor passes inside the space of two minutes and was dismissed. It was the end for Brentford who now boast an impressive 5 defeats from major finals. This was nothing new for Forster himself – his heroics against Wigan, after all, were to be followed by woe against Walsall.