The team Phil Brown picked shows us exactly why we’re now one more winless game from the relegation places. Look at the evidence:

- We have a keeper who doesn’t command.

- We have an admirable back four left stranded by a lethargic midfield and that keeper who doesn’t command.

- We have one midfielder who is distinctly lacking in any footballing class; another whose personal routine leaves him out of the tactical loop during the week; and a third who is unfit.

- We have one forward who is one-dimensional; one who is elderly by the game’s standards and unable to play three games in seven days as the climate heats up.

- And we have Nicky Forster, who is pretty much entirely blameless, and we should all feel as sorry for him almost as much as we justifiably feel sorry for ourselves.

Meanwhile, the bench consists of a human butter mountain; a sicknote-wielding human accident; a defender shorn of every shred of confidence in his being; and a scruple-free Scouse kid who wants to go home to his mummy. And Matt Duke.

These are good players. They are, however, lacking in form, fitness, appetite or pride in their shirt, or maybe all of the above, in some cases – a lethal, awful, grisly combination at this time of the season when our club is in Christ-motheringly urgent need of points.

If we go down, we can look back at numerous games which have made their contribution to a grotesque downfall. The early surrender against Barnsley; the unforgivable incompetence of the team at Burnley and Preston; the humiliation at Colchester; the meek capitulation offered to Leicester; the kamikaze fare served up at home to Ipswich; the unbothered dirge at Wolves. But when it’s Colchester at home, a tough but clearly winnable game, and most of the players simply don’t look fussed or interested at all – AT ALL – then that’s when the heart and the will of the City fan finally begins to break.

Phil Brown says it’s still in our hands and it is, in that if we match or better Leeds United’s results in our final three games then we’ll stay up (this assumes Southend won’t their last three while we do lots of drawing, of course) but Leeds are winning. Leeds are fighting. Leeds are showing bottle and spirit and a bit of stomach. We aren’t. You can imagine Dennis Wise getting into his players heads as they now begin their short, sharp burst of results which will make them safe. Relegation is a bad enough possibility; to be relegated by a resurgent Leeds United and all their arrogance and faux worthiness and fawning via a disgustingly obsequious national media would be beyond words. Ask me to write about that occasion when it happens and I’ll tell you to ... well, the Anglo-Saxon expression I have in mind is pretty predictable.

City lined up with two changes from Wolves, thanks to the recall of the utterly pointless Vaz Te by Bolton and the recognition of Peltier’s appalling attitude. So, it was Myhill; Ricketts, Turner, Delaney, Dawson; Parlour, Ashbee, Livermore; Forster, Windass, Elliott. Livermore’s return from injury was well-received upon its confirmation; quickly it was established as the game got underway that it had come too soon.

Now, our visitors. Colchester’s history, circumstances and standing makes them a target for opposition fans who like to mock and scorn, scathe and patronise. They may have only a 6,000 capacity at Layer Road and a recent non-league history, but they are Better Than We Are. Right now, they are. This is hard enough to take; it’d be even harder if Colchester, despite their chairman’s greed in haggling over a manager who was clearly as much use as a fedora on a bloke with no head, were in any way unlikeable. They’re not.

And they can play. They have it down to a tee, proving that the game is simple if you supply the basics in your team. Extra-strong, dominant centre back – yep. Creative midfielder – check. Capable strikers – absolutely. Not astro-physics, just common sense.

The performance of Johnnie Jackson in their midfield was one of the great individual displays against City this season. He was at the core of everything Colchester tried, helped further by City’s tragic habit of letting him roam free, with or without ball. Up front, Iwelumo is awkward and cunning; Cureton is nippy and in absolutely blinding form. Once these conclusions were reached in the opening ten minutes of this match, it was even clearer to those who didn’t go to Layer Road (I did – the therapist has made a fortune out of me) just what a task we had on our hands.

A large crowd, swelled by Mr Pearson’s final cheapo ticket incentive of the season, watched eleven bags of nerves wearing the City strip. The visitors settled down much more quickly, sprayed the ball about with nonchalance and class, and looked quite likely to score just about any time their two centre forwards got involved.

Jackson’s impeccable footwork and forward thinking bypassed a whole City midfield and gave Cureton some room to feed Iwelumo. A rushed shot spared City’s sanity and the fans’ chagrin. But we were carved open so easily by this, and it wouldn’t be the first time. In possession, we kept the ball but the passing was stale and negative; we made next to no progress at all, and even the redoubtable Forster found, for once, that he had a full back against him who was his match for pace, so few of those entertaining dashes from the ageing striker caused any strife.

City pick away at Colchester without really managing anything worthwhile. Gerken, not feeling greatly troubled in the U’s goal, plucks a dangerous Ricketts cross from the sky as Windass piles in for a header. A long throw from the same full back causes minor havoc but as Ashbee heads goalwards, a flag goes up for offside.

Insignificant stuff, really. Then we scored.

Honestly, we are ridiculous. We show next to nothing in terms of craft or vision or endeavour, and then we go and take the lead. Welcome though the goal was, it just emphasises how damned frustrating we are.

Nice goal, mind. Dawson throws short to Ashbee, who does what Parlour should be doing by looking up and sweeping a scrumptious cross towards the area which evades the flicked attempt of Windass but is then calmly and cleverly stroked home on a sidefoot volley by Forster. 1-0, a spot of respite, breathing space.

Forster’s scored in both of our games against Colchester now. Shame that both games are ones we all need to forget. Fast.

The visitors aren’t remotely perturbed by this setback. They continue to play the brighter stuff, showcasing a fine passing game which, if it’s been replicated all season, must have made travelling the nation watching the U’s a most enjoyable activity. Jackson is inevitably at the helm of this, chipping a near post tempter towards Iwelumo, whose flick is met unmarked by a stretching Cureton. The header is on target by Myhill is there to clutch and sigh in relief.

Elliott, whose role in this team seems to be to win headers and set pieces and do next to no crossing or shooting, finally manages to deliver a cross at this stage. Windass, with his hat-trick goal against Southend replaying in his brain, goes for the low volley again but skewers it a long way wide.

It wasn’t even close, but it stops this report looking one-sided.

Turner, clearly affected by Iwelumo’s leggy presence around him (and maybe thinking of his nadir this season down at Layer Road) commits himself too urgently to a bouncing ball, misjudges and liberates Iwelumo to release Cureton. For once he snatches the shot well wide. A proper let off.

City have another go, of sorts. Delaney refuses to shoot when the ball lands at his feet from a corner (because it landed on his weaker right side) and instead plays it back into the mixer where Elliott gets it stuck between his ankles and the defence whips it away.

Turner further sinks down in the estimation of the Tiger Nation when he lumps a ball out of play because Ephraim is down even though a) FIFA now tells players they shouldn’t take responsibility for stopping the game; and b) Colchester didn’t do so likewise seconds earlier when Windass was prostrate. This unsatisfactory situation is aggravated back on the pitch when Parlour clumps the feigning Ephraim near the corner flag and gets a yellow card for his trouble – the only troubles Parlour went to all afternoon, really.

The free kick is only semi-cleared and the ball is quickly spread by Jackson to Cureton on the right. The cross is ready to be guided in by Iwelumo’s hungry instep until Ricketts – now one of only two candidates for player of the season, as far as I’m concerned – gets a heroic boot to the ball.

Back come the visitors again. Pretty much relentless now. Some fine tiptoe magic from supplementary forward Garcia gets rid of Dawson and Elliott at the same time but his resulting cross is poked wide by Iwelumo. Colchester are being profligate by their standards, but there is the definite sense that their time will come. A wishy-washy Delaney, having one of his worst halves of football ever, is robbed by Cureton in a dangerously central position but Dawson does well to cover and clear.

Jackson then goes in strongly on Forster to the extent that the City forward is literally kicked up in the air by the force of the tackle. Howls and hoots from the East Stand and a booking for Jackson, with Forster eventually getting up, to visible relief among both fans and team-mates. It seems bizarre to say it when you think back to that vile September-November period, but without Forster in their ranks, City really are hopeless. Once he’s up, the game quietens down with the hazy heat taking some toll and the whistle goes for half time. Somehow we’re ahead, though it doesn’t seem like it.

The concourse conversations over pies and pints all followed the same general theme – if City need to get three points to stay up against Plymouth at the KC on the last day, then a repeat of the jitteriness on show here will put paid to that idea and we’ll go down, horribly and lamely. There was an unreassuring consensus that Colchester would definitely equalise, and also possibly go on to win. It’s happened before – we lost at home to Barnsley and Leicester after going ahead.

It started dirtily, which was a surprise. Ephraim went into a challenge on Ricketts with a lateness even the Post Office would conduct an internal inquiry about, while the niggly challenges piled in throughout the pitch. Once football was re-established as the reason for our existences, the U’s took their firmest grip on things yet. Duguid, a skipper who’s seen all the tops and tails at Layer Road, doozied a blatantly shot-to-bits Livermore on the right and crossed for Cureton to belt over. Then Jackson smacked a left footer goalwards which Myhill did well to keep out of harm’s way. But it was almost a case of wishing Colchester would get it over with.

So, a City corner is caught by Gerken, his long goal kick heads Iwelumowards and he causes all sorts of strife for our defence again. The ball drops, Dawson collects, Cureton steals and strokes an excellent shot through Dawson’s attempt at a recovery challenge and beyond Myhill’s glove. 1-1 and about time, really.

After the equaliser, City looked like they would settle for the point; a criminally irresponsible and unwise thing to do – not only because one point in a home game isn’t enough within our league table; but also because we are patently incapable of defending collectively, as a unit and with any degree of competence, beyond the sterling work by the two full backs.

There was one exception – Forster.

Ricketts feeds him wide on the right, and the relentless striker cuts inside and wellies a fine left foot shot just wide of Gerken’s post.

While Myhill pleased fans and snappers alike with an airborne, full-length save from the impudent Jackson – it was a hell of a shot – City fans were more enamoured by the superhuman efforts of Forster. It was like his showing at Middlesbrough all over again.

With Elliott a passenger and Windass a pedestrian (both through heat-related fatigue, though being ill and ‘mature’ respectively couldn’t have helped), we were now entirely reliant on Forster to give us a spark up front. He didn’t disappoint – one piece of tireless chasing and harrying forced a throw-in near the U’s corner flag and prompted massive applause from the East Stand – but he needed back up. There was none forthcoming.

Elliott was hauled off and on came Parkin. The Beast. He’d lost a stone and gained three goals at Stoke. Would this turnaround in physical and marksmanship fortune continue back at the KC? Would he look fresher, fitter, keener, scarier? Would he batter and destroy all those in blue around him? Would he anticipate the play, get into position quickly and positively, direct his team-mates as to where the ball needed to be to get the maximum effect out of him?

Erm, well…

Parkin avoided the first high ball to go his way and immediately the judge and jury had concluded that Nothing Had Changed. The introduction of McPhee for Windass was more welcome, but way too late, as if Mr Brown was wholly unconvinced that McPhee was fit enough to be even within lawnmowing distance of the KC pitch. He’s a lot more bovver than a hovver.

McPhee fell over twice, touched the ball once and then the whistle went. He was on for a lot longer than such succinctness makes it sound, but the truth is that even with a refreshed attack, City’s midfield didn’t have a clue who to find or how. Peltier, on earlier for the wrecked Livermore, looked like a kid who’d struggle to remember which way to put his shorts on, never mind play intelligent, defence-penetrating passes to his fellow subs. Ashbee did his huffing and puffing act but aside from the cross for the goal, was wasteful, guileless and again not quite cutting that extra bit of dash which a Championship midfielder needs. Parlour cuts that dash, but now seems hell bent on not wanting to.

So, 1-1. Not disastrous entirely, providing results elsewhere went our way. Sadly, Leeds and Barnsley both won, leaving us adrift of the Tykes and now merely level with those other hateables, just a blessedly superior goal difference preventing a harrowing inhalation of the water which has now almost certainly engulfed Luton and Southend.

The fans forum this week should be interesting now, if not necessarily fun. One foppish AN regular suggested it should be altered slightly – instead of questions and healthy argument, it should just become one almighty Kick in the Cock session. We are feeling our pain – it’s questionable whether many of the players are feeling theirs.

Forster was fantastic. The full backs are absolved from blame. Delaney and Turner made errors but coped with an unspeakable workload. The rest have problems. And they have made City one big problem now.

Saving graces are hide to find, but City’s terrific win at Stoke last season, and hopefully a stack of inside knowledge from Parkin (aside from where the key to the banqueting suite’s fridge is) will give us half a chance at the ugly Britannia Stadium. That’s one.

Another is that Cardiff may well be out of contention for the play-offs by the time we head to Wales, so may be putting their windbreaks up on some sandy hideaway in their heads by the time we pitch up.

Lastly, Leeds do have – on paper – a much tougher run in than us. However, this division throws up mentalist results – Birmingham keep getting beaten by the rubbisher teams, for example – so there’s no comfort in the assumption that Derby and Southampton will trample Leeds to death, although the prospect of Derby v Leeds on the last day, with one needing a win to go up and the other to stay up, is quite mouthwatering.

I preferred it when City were mediocre and predictable under Peter Taylor, you know. At least we got results. (MR)