In my daily waking life football means almost nothing; however, last Thursday morning I awoke at the preverbial 4 AM with the feeling something was tragically wrong - something fundamental to a healthy and fresh existence had been overlooked and was rotting and collapsing somewhere where my subconscious meets universal truth. It took a while to grasp it, but I got it in the end, looking at my wife's pregnant belly:

West Ham 10 minutes from Wembley, Birmingham score 3 unanswered goals - my at-the-time torpid acceptance clearly hadn't been enough to deal with the symbolic weight of the event.