“I don’t like switching to a negative style of play at such a late stage, as there’s an increased chance you can lose the game. I prefer to attack and keep possession high up the pitch. Sometimes we might not win, but there’s less chance of losing.”

Peter Taylor?

Nah.

The words of the unknown but certainly laudable Rob Kelly, fast-growing in his reputation as he prises Leicester City away from danger in the Championship. His more illustrious predecessor seems to have a different policy when the game’s even and tight in the closing minutes. We all know what it is; we’ve become used to it. This doesn’t make it more bearable when we capitulate, as we did at the Walkers Stadium. Badly, in fact.

It was very irritating. And, with Millwall winning, also somewhat worrying. Let’s go beyond that; it’s infuriating, Mr Taylor. Really it is. We have some fine attacking players, it’s time we started inflicting them on the rest more often, more devastatingly, more conclusively, more positively. What’s the harm in winning?

Don’t let the scoreline fool you either. This was different to the 3-2 defeat of seven days previously.

Firstly, we didn’t play well. We did last week.

Secondly, the opposition didn’t possess a quarter of the class, composure, organisation or ability of Wolves.

Thirdly, despite sometimes having a tactical plan to contradict such, we looked like winning this one for much of the game, which is, if we’re honest, more than we ever did last week.

And we didn’t. And then a colossal City following then had to listen to this admirable rookie manager on the local BBC station extolling the optimistic tactical virtues for which we’ve been begging our own manager. And also while sitting in traffic queues on the optimistically named Brazil Street (leading to Lineker Road, natch) which actually meant that vacating the city of Leicester took longer than the game did.

But queueing was a key feature of this day. Leicester is an accessible city and the ground is brilliant. Unlike many of the newer stadia, it has a natural bowl (crisp gags when you’re ready, ta) a dust-free PA system, excellent all round views and an atmosphere.

However, it also has apparently only one, at a push maybe two working turnstiles.

So the day didn’t start so well for the many hundreds of City fans who chose, as was their right, to travel to the game with the intention of paying at the door. After all, this wasn’t an all-ticket game. Your author wasn’t one of them; my ticket had arrived in the post and I therefore used another turnstile which was comparatively quiet. This doesn’t make me right. No City fan was in the wrong.

It was Leicester City’s organisational co-ordinators who got it wrong. Very wrong. Hundreds of metres of supporters, decked in black and amber, in an S-shaped line waiting at just one (one!) poxy turnstile trying to get in and getting tense. There had been a spectacularly vast underestimation of the number of away followers looking to get into the ground (convenient trip, known prolific support, new ground to visit, managerial connection, relegation six-pointer – not rocket science, is it?) and as a consequence many highly disgruntled fans were still filing into the allocated corner of the ground ten minutes and more after kick off. For the first time in my supporting life, I observed cordoned seating areas being opened to accommodate the law-abiders who just wanted to see a game and had arrived without breaking any instructions. It was almost funny.

Some berk at Leicester issued a press release afterwards aiming all the culpability for the turnstile farce at fans for not following “advice” to purchase tickets in advance. Maybe next time they’ll make it an all-ticket game and take their heads out of their posteriors. As usual, it’s never a corporate problem. Poor Joe Public’s on a whole life tariff with the amount of flak he gets.

The latecomers missed next to nothing, mind. The first 20 minutes were a catatonically dull scrap of real nervousness. Mr Taylor, undoubtedly buoyed by the surprising success of his 4-5-1 system against Wolves, selected it again, man for man. Bo Myhill; Alton Thelwell, Leon Cort, Damien Delaney, Alan Rogers; Ryan France; Stuart Green; Keith Andrews; Mark Noble; Stuart Elliott; Jon Parkin. The only eyebrow-raiser was the complete absence of Craig Fagan from the bench. We await further developments on that one. Kevin Ellison was recalled to take a seat, completing a trio of ex-Leicester players in the City ranks with Delaney and Rogers (or “you fat bastard”, as the Leicester fans so originally bellowed at him) also making a return to semi-familiar territory. Leicester wore their traditional off-dark/royal blue, so naturally we wore the black kit rather than the stripes. Honestly… The difficulty in the sunshine to make out who was who as a consequence brought back memories of that laughable identikit scenario at Plymouth (although at least we won that).

And, of course, much attention was paid by the bums-on-seats to the City boss. “There’s only one Peter Taylor” was sung with typically dependable gusto. Leicester fans responded in a predictably less flattering vein. This was the only real point of interest over the opening period until, finally, someone dared to set up a chance.

Green, looking reassuringly lively, found room on the inside right channel to feed the mobile Noble, and his final ball was just too far ahead of Parkin, with Leicester goalkeeper Paul Henderson just grasping the ball at the feet of the Beast, despite Parkin’s best warning glare. Rogers, encouraged by the fantastic City fans watching his expansive bottom charging forward, then took a pop from 25 yards which was untroublesome until it unwittingly struck Green and cannoned closer to goal, still without too many worries for Leicester. But at least City had decided to play.

As usual at this point, the opposition did the “against the run of play” routine and went ahead.

Andrews misplaced a pass (he does do this a lot at the moment, and it’s a concern) in midfield and Leicester rapidly sliced through the City middle like the proverbial knife, eventually presenting a gilt-edged chance to Ian Hume, who slotted it past Myhill while everyone waited for an offside flag which didn’t come.

We didn’t deserve to be behind, really. And, gratifyingly, we weren’t for long. Something in our game has improved of late; our facility to bounce back when we go behind early in games. It’s had to happen; the last time we were in the lead in any game was for those precious two minutes and 44 seconds at Millwall. That’s a bit of a concern.

Anyway, Noble drew a man in from the flank and Thelwell exploited the room outside him as a consequence, taking the energetic West ham loanee’s pass and sliding a delightful through ball to Parkin, in the inside right channel. The Beast again showed his fleet-footedness by switching toes and chipping a gorgeous ball across Henderson’s six yard box in a “head me in Stuart, pleeeeeeze” kind of way. Elliott, unmarked totally, obliged and parity was restored.

City nearly harried themselves back into the descendancy; Leicester had a purple patch towards the end but chances were largely uncreated except for when Delaney somehow managed to glance an unperilous cross on to his own crossbar and over. The 1-1 half time score was reflective of the evenness (ie, ineffectiveness) of the two teams and better things lay ahead.

The second half could have had early promise, with City flicking passes about in style, only for the referee’s whistle twice in succession to blow for some innocuously misplaced breath or some other minor felony just as a chance was being set up in the Leicester box. Then France, looking comfortable and vibrant again in his natural attacking berth, swept through some half-bothered tackles and attempted trips to get room for a shot which was deflected for a corner. We were making progress, and Mr Taylor instilled the disciplinary requirement by bringing John Welsh on for the worked-up Noble, who’d been a bit too tasty for the ref’s liking on the odd occasion and was probably hauled off for his own sake. Lest we forget he’s a teenager.

Leicester’s response was to score a goal which was wonderful; certainly weird, and almost certainly intentional. It also didn’t show Myhill up in a good light; something which we don’t say very often.

Joey Gudjonsson, a heroic architect in an otherwise functional Leicester midfield (and who is so frustrated at the drifting state of the club he’s packing his bags in the summer) collected a loose ball just inside his own half and wellied it. High. Long. Swerving. And a few thousand black and amber brains pondered the whereabouts of our beloved keeper as the ball began to drop…

No harm or shame in giving Gudjonsson real congratulation for impudence, imagination and sheer cheek, but nobody should ever concede a goal like that. Don’t care if you are an unspoilt David Beckham. Myhill was too far off his line, probably trying to anticipate a long pass of a much more predictable trajectory to the edge of the area. Instead he watched the ball swoop over his head and under his bar. Leicester’s fans, not unsurprisingly, went crazy in their celebration and mirth. They were laughing directly at us, and they were right to.

Mr Taylor changed things immediately, chucking on Darryl Duffy for Thelwell, switching to a 4-4-2 and, with the bear taking his newspaper to his woodland lavatory, putting France into the defence again. The forcing of France into that more reticent position didn’t, somehow, stop him adopting the role of City’s Main Threat (Elliott, on the other flank, was at his frustratingly quietest by now) and, having taken a deliciously sweeping Parkin ball and sprinted 30 yards unchallenged, he almost returned the favour with bells on when the centre landed perfectly on to the Beast’s instep, only for Henderson to administer an impossible block on the ball. France took heart and had another pop at goal himself, this time with a chest-down and dipper which dropped inches wide as City stepped it up.

This intricate, classy brand of football was our best spell of the game and it deserved a goal. It did eventually get one, but there was little grace about it until the finish as Myhill punted one from his hands on to the Parkin skull, and his twisting flick dropped with immaculate timing on to Green’s instep. The shot was made all the more unreachable by the midfielder’s momentum as he galloped into the path of the ball and instantly swept it across Henderson and into the corner.

It was a great goal. Green’s first from open play this season and now we’d win it, wouldn’t we? We were better than them, full of ideas again, tranquil yet urgent; confident yet disciplined. Remember, this wasn’t like Wolves. This game was ours with fewer than 20 minutes left.

Oh, come on…

Leicester brought on their new loan signing, the excellent winger Andy Welsh who, despite having no body muscle whatsoever, has an uncanny propensity for holding off full backs with some ease at this level. He quickly had France sussed as his dangerous thinking panicked City into adopting their gruesome backing-off habit and gave Leicester the advantage back again. Backing off against a skilful, on loan Premiership winger? What the…?

Welsh darted across France and got a cross in; it was returned back to him near the byline and the second go was half-cleared to Gudjonsson, who could release and make a killing on a whole video called How To Shoot Accurately with just his two efforts from this game on show. He controlled the ball and carefully placed a sweet effort in the far corner, with Myhill only managing a mere brush with a glove tip. City’s defenders did what they always do in this situation – watched.

There were six minutes left, plus four added on, and City had little left in response this time. Billy Paynter came on for Andrews, but that achieved nothing. The Leicester Welsh missed an open goal with the last kick of the game as Myhill came up for a point-saving corner and found himself hopelessly away from his goal as Leicester cleared to the winger, who got a bobble at the last moment and ballooned the chance. The whistle for full time immediately sounded and the frustration at the City end was plain for all to hear.

For the second game in a row we had gone behind, equalised, gone behind and equalised again, then gone behind for a conclusive and crucial third time. But, as said at the outset, this wasn’t like the Wolves game.

We still have daylight between us and the trapdoor triumvirate, but Millwall’s win keeps the quest to get some points on the board active and alert. We’re 20th now, with three defeats in a row, and it’s hard to believe that the side who went to Stoke (above us) and cuffed them easily, and to Luton (above us) and slapped them aside is this team we have before us now – capable, energetic, but lacking in any real guile or guidance when the going toughens, and certainly lacking in nerve.

Expect changes in personnel and/or formation for Plymouth Argyle’s big visit next week; and, at the very least, hope for a change in attitude, even if you don’t expect it. We have to stop being so negative when we’re in a position of strength; the consequences of going all protective weren’t lost on the opposition manager. That’s why he collected three points and the Leicester fans were chanting his name, while also intermittently yelling Taylor Out for their own smug benefit. They won on all counts and we only had ourselves – again – to blame. (MR)