We really are in trouble now. The glittering display of Cardiff seemed almost impossibly distant as City collapsed in the most infuriatingly supine fashion on a grey, glum afternoon at a sullen Circle. This is a bleak midwinter.

Aiming to prove that he is the man guide the Tigers to the promised land of 21^st, Phil Brown lined the Tigers up thus: Myhill; Ricketts, Coles, Delaney, Dawson; France, Livermore, Ashbee, Marney; Fagan, Bridges. It meant a swift return to the bench for Turner, where he was joined by Jon Parkin, making his first appearance in a City squad since his ankle ligament injury against Wolves in November.

Ordinarily, matches have a certain ebb and flow to them. Even the most one-sided fixture will usually see a team have a five-minute spell in which it does the bulk of the attacking. Not so yesterday, for Leicester instantly assumed the ascendancy and kept the Tigers on the back foot throughout. They forced a few early corners that were repelled with no little anxiety, before Danny Coles committed a foul on Elvis Hammond when the big striker seemed clean through. Referee Mason – more of whom later – mystifying kept both cards in his pocket when the bare minimum of a caution seemed certain. From the free-kick, Tiatto’s deflected shot wrong-footed Myhill, looped through the air and struck the City crossbar before bouncing over for a corner.

Mr Mason then cautioned Ian Ashbee for a perfect challenge on Hammond, whose balance was evidently not at its best judging by his unfortunate sequence of nasty falls. We wish him a speedy recovery from whatever presently ails him.

Back came Leicester, with Hammond’s pace and Hume’s midfield direction proving far too much for a leaden-footed City to contend with. Myhill neatly pouched a Hammond drive before his regrettable inability to remain upright when within five yards of an opposing defender saw him miss an open goal midway through the half, the ball veering between defender and goalkeeper to the already-tumbling forward, who sadly spooned it over.

The match dawdled lazily along, City failing to create anything and even the lively Fagan being dragged down into the general mess. Marney did manage to spring forward after evading a couple of men, but his 25 yard shot flew a few yards ward.

Then, with a dreary affair heading towards a half-time stalemate, a moment of inspiration by Fagan lit up the afternoon. Livermore sent the ball in from the left where Fagan controlled it and deftly sent a first time shot sailing over the head of Henderson and in via the underside of the crossbar. A gorgeous shot, a moment of superb vision and execution, and the Tigers had an improbable lead at the break.

It was not to last. City’s indolent efforts of the first half were not lifted by the undeserved lead they had taken. It took ten minutes of unlovely football before the match was level. A corner was won on the visitors’ right flank which Williams sent in. Kisnorbo’s unchallenged header sent the ball goalwards, where Myhill and the unmarked Hammond tussled for it. What happened there was unclear, but the ball squirmed past the pair and ended up in the City goal, although it has subsequently been credited to Kisnorbo. Whatever. A rubbish, miserable piece of defending.

The game was all Leicester now, not that this was an entirely recent development. Bridges was unable to get into the game, while the midfield trio of Marney, Livermore and Ashbee was failing to combine in any meaningful sense. France’s deployment as an advanced central midfielder defies any rational explanation and is way beyond his capabilities. Consequently, when Leicester tore into us from the restarted seeking a winner, the outcome was in little doubt.

Forster replaced France, as bewildered by his afternoon’s instructions as the rest of the 18,523 crowd, but with 22 minutes left the visitors finally took the lead. Fryatt knocked the ball down to Williams, who steadied himself, checked no defender was with twenty yards (there wasn’t), and smote a beautiful shot from 25 yards that rocketed past Myhill.

A great goal. Really, it was. Credit where it is due, and all that. It was a goal worthy of winning the game, and from the moment it crackled into the net there was never any doubt that it was indeed a matchwinner.

Parkin came on for the anonymous Bridges and speedily created a chance for himself, however his snapshot lacked pace and direction and was easily claimed by Henderson.

Moments later, Danny Coles was sent off. Fryatt bounded clear of him after the City defender had failed to read and react to his wrong. With the nippy forward already haring off towards goal, Coles clumsily brought him down and although there were covering defenders nearby, the red card was neither unmerited or unsurprising, our referee proudly bringing himself up to his full 5’5” height and dismissing Coles.

This was appaling play by Coles. His inability to remain goal-side of a forward means this sort of witless act is inevitable, and it was the second time in the afternoon he’d allowed it happen. He slunk off in a stony silence.

But a word about referee Mason. His actions may have had limited impact on the outcome, but nonetheless a spot of catharsis is required. He was the sort of prissy girl who was undoubtedly bullied and school, and almost certainly deserved it. Unquestionably a serial bedwetter, his fussy, pernickety style of officious officiating irked just about everyone. One imagines he views himself as a sort of Dispenser of Truth and Justice, parading around using his new found powers as a twisted revenge against Basher Croggins from Class 6b, avenging the Chinese burns and stolen dinner money of yesteryear. One supposes that upon returning from work as a traffic warden, he quickly evades his harridan wife reminding him what a feckless little bastard he is and seeks the sanctuary of his potting shed, where he spends many hours practicing blowing his whistle and waving imaginary cards with a stern yet theatrical flourish. There’s probably even a mirror in there so he can admire his own card-handling skills, and he dreams of the day when Sepp Blatter will invite him to ruin some even more important football. What a little tosspot.

Parkin had a shot well parried by Henderson, while Leicester zipped to the other end where City were numerically deficient, but Hammond failed to convert William’s cross. Marney was booked for a scything tackle, Elliott came on for Dawson, but City were as fluent as a gibbering Scottish drunk at Christmas and created nothing before Mr Mason ended proceedings, giving himself a big pat on the back while doing so, and City crept off to a low chorus of boos and festive sighs, the mood darkened further by bad news from Oakwell. 

So, Cardiff was not the sign of things to come, merely a freakish interruption of the general slide. Five points adrift at Christmas speaks its own distressing tale, and requires no further analysis here. I will spare anyone who’s made it this far through an unavoidably gloomy despatch a glib comment about requiring directions to Gillingham, the situation is too grave for forced gallows humour. The players have 21 games in which to redeem themselves. I trust they will forgive this humble scribe for doubting that they will do so. (AD)