My FA Cup Pain

I can only liken my feelings when Stephen Wright sent that header over Westwood to my days of watching Dr Who behind the sofa. I was seven, and unaware of what the word cliché meant, let alone the fact that I was the embodiment of one as I ran for cover while a Dalek floated up some stairs to get Sylvester McCoy.

It starts with a paralysis of limbs, then a drying of the throat like it's been blow-torched. There's some blurred vision, and finally a sickness in the stomach.

All this got worse when Mokoena headed past Westwood. The pain went below the pit of my stomach, beyond my bowels into a place I'd never known: the lost City of Anguish. It was like an itch that can't be scratched; the G-spot of my despair.

Lord help me if something ever really tragic happens in my life.

"Are you alright?" my ladyfriend asked me afterwards. Of course, I tried to put things into perspective. I told her that we had to learn from this and move on, and that there's the league to concentrate on now. She looked at me in silence, her brow slightly furrowed, puzzled. Eventually she said, "You're not alright, are you."

I wasn't.

She even took me upstairs for a bit of consoling. It didn't work. I just kept thinking of the helpless looks on our players' faces at the final whistle. Goodness, if I feel bad, how can they feel? These are not ideal thoughts when one is trying to perform.

Last night I watched Reading teach other Championship sides a lesson in despatching Premier League opposition. They took the game to Liverpool, even when they had the lead. They were fearless, and relentless. In contrast the Sky Blues looked shy with a one-goal lead. We took our lead, scampered back inside and tried to lock all the doors as the tide came in. Eventually we were going to spring a leak.

I will get over this eventually. Give it two or three weeks, I'll come around, at least start talking to people again.