Generally unpalatable, leaving a weird taste in the mouth as your flagging body begs for mercy.
No, not so much the effect of a four-pack of tangy Carabao funnelling down the gullet, but the consequence of the brand’s football fixture with Reading, which no amount of caffeine could have livened up.
It’s not that it wasn’t palatable in parts. But when you get to the warm, syrupy dregs at the bottom of the can, you can barely take another sip as the clock strikes 10 and you’re forced to crack open another.
Maybe the rest of the 20,000 felt differently, but my heartbeat was like a blue whale’s when the penalties were raining in, thumping intermittently as we eventually won the shootout. Erasure called for a ‘little respect’ as we left.
The team selection suggested that we did just that, playing Bennett in the heart of a back three, Neves as skipper in the middle and Cutrone up top in a 3-4-3.
With Doherty and Vinagre on the wings, it was a strong side on paper, but it just never really got going.
Ruddy was a clear man-of-the-match which probably says it all, while his buddy Bennett was quite outstanding alongside a non-nonsense Kilman and an altogether out-of-sorts Vallejo.
Neto and Jordao were the two that generated most interest. Both were really promising in parts with the latter’s evening curtailed as it was starting to get going. Neto is an exciting prospect for sure and I’ll stick my neck out and predict he’ll be a superstar in the years to come. Both display the DNA befitting of a Nuno player; dexterous, deft, slick and slight. It’s easy to see why we signed them, but less obvious to picture them in the starting line-up any time soon.
The disappointment was an inability to keep hold of the ball, as has been the case in the league until now. Forty-seven per cent possession and a 6-13 shot ratio aren’t stats to write home about, although the stretchering of sub Shabani distorted the figures as we soldiered on with 10 men near the end (nine if you count a lame Cutrone).
By that time, most of the entertainment had been found in the faces of the Billy Wright brethren, as their ears bled to the sound of S-X at half time, a grammy nominated Wolves fan who seized the mic to sing.
“This ain’t music,” muttered one. “It’s noise!” “Never heard of ‘im,” scoffed another, as the Phil Collins connoisseurs tried to make sense of it all. A gaggle of Love Island contestants would have done a better job dissecting the poetic merits of Yeats.
‘An aged man is but a paltry thing. A tattered coat upon a stick.’
You’re not wrong after last night’s viewing William. Pass me a Carabao!