My first instinct after the final whistle was to call the other half of NUFC.com (who was unable to get to the game) and tell him to just re-post the Bolton away report, changing the scorer and ground name, allowing me to hoof it back to the pub for more Holts Bitter at the bargain price of £1.35 a squirt.

No, I thought, that would count as dereliction of duty, letting down those misguided enough have come to rely on our output. Just because the team may have started doing it again, there's no reason for us trot out a shoddy rehash of previous rubbish in the hope nobody will notice.  

To get topical for a second, if East Manchester were Iraq (and there are certain remarkable similarities, believe me) then those behind the goal supporting the visitors would have had hoods on their heads, being urinated on by Robert, Ambrose, Ameobi and Viana. And there would be no doubt which unit or battalion was involved...the toon army.

What the hell was wrong with us? Did Dyer's pre-match media bleating give all and sundry an attack of the collywobbles? Did we fall prey to the sick building syndrome that seemed to have afflicted this stadium? Or are we just fated to balls things up again and again when the pressure starts to build?

It all began promisingly enough, with Robert finding space down the left and appearing to have the beating of Sun Jihai at will. And with Ambrose also making some forays down the opposite flank, we were in danger of having some balance. 

Shearer and Shola once again appeared to be broadcasting on different frequencies, but such was the inadequacy and nervy disposition of Keegan's team that they looked on the verge of imploding of their own accord, with a minimum of input from our apparently-focused and determined fourth place aspirants.

Gradually though we gave them a sight of goal and they managed to create one chance of note before halftime, Dunne's header from a corner bringing an instinctive stop from Given. 

Everything else though in blue was a litany of averted gazes, shrugged shoulders and arched eyebrows as Sinclair, Wanchope, Anelka and Wright-Phillips gave passable impressions of people who'd only recently been introduced to the game they were playing, never mind each other.

To quote from their anthem, you saw me standing alone - we did, frequently - none more so than the Dutch Glyn Hodges aka Paul Bosvelt, whom we had once tried to sign but thankfully failed.

Meanwhile, Lancashire property magnate Robbie Fowler sat on the bench no doubt worrying about having to extend his mortgage if Man City fell into the depths of the Nationwide, while the apparently injured Steve McManaman probably played with his hair and wondered who'd won the 3.15 at Haydock Park. Anyone would think they were toon players, given their obvious disinterest in the cause that's funding their lavish and languid lifestyles.

There seemed to be a general feeling at half time that we've saved our goal(s) for the second half in front of the away end, but the second 45 minutes was an utter non-event as far as action at our end of the field was concerned. Had David James known, he could easily have whiled away the afternoon with his playstation - certainly nothing we did would have disturbed him....

Post-match saw a wave of inappropriate hyperbole and redundant superlatives clogging the ether, both from mug punters and so-called experts on the telly. Both Andy Townsend on the Premiership and some Frank Sidebottom sound-alike on Radio 5 called City's performance "superb" - absolute twaddle.

In reality City were a relegation-haunted team of underachievers, managed by a charismatic but one-dimensional coach and with a brittleness and lack of confidence that virtually invited teams to punish them. Make that teams not wearing black and white stripes. 

Like Wolves, Leicester, Leeds, Spurs Everton, Portsmouth and Blackburn (aka the current bottom eight teams in the league) we weren't sufficiently skilful, committed, motivated, professional or bothered enough to leave here with three points. 

We're at the stage of the season where results are of paramount importance and goals like Shearer's rocket last week are celebrated as lustily as a four yard tap in via some unsuspecting defender's ear. 

But how are we meant to fluke goals when we never get within 50 yards of the goal for half the game, when our supply lines consist of big boots upfield from defenders and with the exception of Speed our midfield have the collective punch and cutting edge of a juvenile jazz band? Viana never crossed the halfway line, Ambrose just disppeared and Robert dropped off the radar totally. 

Don't blame the opposition, the surface, the injuries or the match schedule, just blame the team on the pitch, part of what Sir Bobby called the strongest squad he's ever managed.

That now includes a 19 year-old from Cramlington in the shape of Martin Brittain, who may or may not be the answer in time but is making up the numbers as much as the completely hacked off looking Chopra is. That's not bad luck, that's bad planning. 

Almost the final word to the City fans, "Champions League, you're having a laugh!" For once the deluded bunch who follow these lot hit the nail fairly and squarely on the head. 

This is a massive week for Newcastle, which has got off to a thoroughly depressing start. Some radical readjustment of attitude in certain quarters is required immediately if next Sunday isn't to see Bobby and the boys trudging round the pitch on yet another loser's parade. 

We now go to France with pride and hope, but a nagging feeling that our season finally went up in smoke when Woodgate limped off the field last week. Prove you're professionals, prove me wrong. Please.