A lady giving off very strong East Oxford energy came up to us as we arrived at the stadium yesterday; “Are you here for the protest?” she said. I suppose so, I said, before launching into a fifteen-minute tirade about Gary Rowett being too reliant on set pieces.

Turns out she wasn’t protesting about Rowett’s tactics, she was fighting fascists. Apparently, there were going to be protests and counter-protests about migrants being held at the hotel. In the end the protests were called off, perhaps they realised no sane person would travel across the world to live in a Holiday Inn.

A few protestors might have enlivened the pre-match atmosphere which seemed subdued, although with the Grenoble Road now being 80% roadworks, it’s harder to judge just how popular a game might be.

For the casual fan, I suspect Millwall offers little. I don’t understand it, why would you gloat about how disliked you are? If it was a person, you’d think they’re the most tedious individual alive and stay well clear.

As a club they’ve always been at pains to play up their credentials as being family-friendly, engaging with their community and being staunchly anti-racist. I’m sure it’s true, but as an opposition fan, with so many ways to spend your time, they still aren’t an attractive draw.

Maybe the attempts to portray themselves as normal functioning humans informed their choice of kit. As the players emerged, they appeared to be wearing an entirely neutral all-taupe number. These earthy tones seem to be very Autumn/Winter 2025 after Oxford launched a range of brown merchandise this week. Pass me the furry rug, everyone’s gone hygge. 

There was a mercifully short Remembrance Day ‘service’, as Peter Rhoades-Brown called it. The reading of ‘For the Fallen’ was barked at such a volume, it felt like someone had got us by the throat and was shouting ‘YOU’RE NOT REMEMBERING ENOUGH’ while covering us in spittle. Even the corner flags had poppies on them, although they were fluttering disrespectfully during the minute’s silence. Which, incidentally, is not silent if a trumpeter is soloing all the way through it.

Finally, the game got underway, and I fell into my usual semi-hypnotic state; sometimes consciously watching, sometimes less so. The opening minutes were spent chatting adjacently about a harrowing book Brinyhoof is reading about global nuclear war. It gave the barrage of long throws that punctuated the opening plays an added menace.

The first time I look at the scoreboard, we were seventeen minutes into the game. Which was odd because as it felt like we’d just kicked-off. We were also a goal down from a long wanging throw into the box which everyone missed and Thierno Ballo headed in. The game was being played at such a breakneck speed, it was as if someone had edited out the bits in between the main bits. 

We looked at risk of being over-run, but it felt like the game was almost too quick for some of the Millwall players as well. Touches were rushed, challenges full-throated, nobody had a moment to breathe or think.

The ball appeared in each box as if by magic. There was almost no build-up. If someone was trying to pull the strings in midfield, they’d have quickly got rope burns from its rapid unravelling. The Millwall fans barracked Gary Rowett, saying his football was shit, ignoring that Alex Neil’s football is equally meat and potatoes. The only difference is their meat is tenderer and they have bigger potatoes.

I’d said before the game that any disruption to Millwall’s model could be enough to knock them off their four-match winning streak. As it turned out the game pivoted on an injury to Femi Azeez, suddenly their bubble seemed to deflate a little. The loss of energy in their play allowed us space to establish ourselves. We finally began to compete.

With a rhythm starting to blend, we didn’t need half-time but as the board was being prepped, it looked like we’d run out of time. While we waited for the whistle, Stan Mills turned inside in the hope of finding a new angle to launch a final attack. He shaped to shoot, but faked and rolled the ball into the path of Cameron Brannagan who swept a looping arcing shot into the top left-hand corner. Brannagan normalises the spectacular, there are many ways to beat a goalkeeper, pace, over the top, bending away, with accuracy, Brannagan combined them all to beat Max Crocombe in every conceivable way.

Half-time entertainment was a marching band, which I’m a sucker for. Parading up and down the concrete surrounding the pitch, they hammered out a few traditional bangers while Greg Leigh, warming up with his hood up to protect him from the rain, did the Crip Walk to the rhythm. The driving rain seemed to add to the sense of a game just whizzing past.

Predictably enough, at the restart, we lost the rhythm that we’d built up over the latter stages of the first half, and predictably enough just after the hour they took the lead from a Jake Cooper tap-in after conceding possession on the right.

A sense of inevitability descended, the temperature dropped, darkness fell, you got the feeling that many people were more interested in going home than us getting back into it. We looked to the bench, but nobody inspired, we won corners to no more than polite applause. There was an apathy and acceptance, the final minutes were handed over to the players.

The injury time board went up indicating there’d be four minutes before we could be released. Siriki Dembele ran into traffic on the edge of the box and was upended. Even the prospect of more Brannagan magic seemed distant, we’d already had our dose of that in the first half. His free-kick was true, but Crocombe was sharp to it. That was that, wasn’t it?

But where the rest of the game had flown by, time began to congeal, hitting a thick viscous gloop, each second laboured into the next, the world slowed. There was a frenzy on the edge of the box, Dembele attempted a cross but it was deflected off Emakhu down an improbable corridor across the edge of the box. Placheta was stood in an acre of space ready to pounce. But which Placheta? The one who scored against Bristol City? Enthralling and unpredictable, or the one who spoons his shot like he’s trying to control an oblong ball. Instinctively – he’s at his best when he’s instinctive – he swept his foot at the ball unleashing a carpet missile that weaved its way through the crowd of players. Crocombe dived hopelessly as it arrowed into the corner.

We’d fracked some hope from a hopeless situation, the players refused to accept their destiny when all others had accepted theirs. As Championship seasons go, this is the most Championshippy. Lots of teams of a similar nature, nicking moments off each other. We’re above Sheffield United, Norwich and Southampton but below Derby, Hull and Charlton. The table refuses to settle, there will be lulls, there will be mistakes, but if we remain a ninety minute team and a 46 game club, we can piece together the moments that make a successful season.