| Queens Park Rangers 2 v 1 Birmingham City EFL Championship Tuesday, 9th December 2025 Kick-off 20:00 |  |
A Morgasm – Report Wednesday, 10th Dec 2025 20:47 by Clive Whittingham QPR knocked off a quiet and routine 2-1 victory against midtable Birmingham on Tuesday night to move back into the play-off places with five wins from six. It’s the noise. I’ve sat here all day trying to do it justice. More lost than loft. To put into words what you feel when your body dumps 156 fluid ounces of adrenaline into your brain and your heart beats into the back of your teeth. What it’s like to take a middle-aged gentleman you’ve sat near for 30 years, but never got around to a name, and aggressively wrestle him down a flight of concrete steps. To feel the plastic seat you’ve shared 27 years of your life with - through feast and famine, joy and bereavement, Vauxhall Motors, and that time Didier Drogba got sent off – finally crack and splinter beneath your weight as you get over intimate with ‘Ginger Dave’. QPR Operations… it's me again. Maybe that’s it. Maybe it’s time for the gratuitous, bi-annual, mawkish LFW long read about a dead relative. Steak knife, card shark, con job, dead dad; standing in line to see the show tonight. Sitting through it with your little brother. Watching that tile wall grow on the back of the South Africa Road stand as your mate adds his parents’ names to the ghosts of the past, who keep drawing us back here to feel close to them, even though it never ever is quite the same again. Turn the whole thing into the fucking Tim Minchin Christmas song. Football, the most important of the least important things. Maybe everybody should want something they’ve always wanted. Perhaps a societal piece. State of the nation, state of the world, state of society, state of our dialogue. How we ever got to this point. And why we lock ourselves in a blue shed twice a fortnight and pretend none of that is as important as QPR v Birmingham City. That none of it is even happening. Go big to go small. An essay on masculinity? Come on, you’d love it. Men who can’t even talk to their children expressing undying love for a football team through song. Or a spiteful Kermodian rant, on how the arbiters of this emotional crack on which we’re all hopelessly hooked think that, really, what moments like last night need is a three-minute pause in the riot while a festering gimp of a man applies Microsoft Paint to a grainy still frame shot from 60 yards away to see if Rumarn Burrell had “strayed offside” and/or “obstructed the goalkeeper’s view”. “James, I think you should come across and look at the monitor?” Yeh? He’ll have to remove it from your sphincter first. How about a player piece. Amadou Mbengue, who remains at large from a man with a giant butterfly net, starting the game with a headbutt, finishing it with a yellow card for “over celebrating” a goal he wasn’t even on the pitch for – 4/1 for a card anytime, truly a printing press for easy money in straightened times when he can even find a way to antagonise officials after he’s been substituted. Kieran Morgan, back story, back acne, back in the team, back of the net, standing there in pants and vest like a junior school PE lesson, arms aloft in front of the Loft. Just a boy, giving all these grown-ups such a moment. Where’s my shirt/clothes? Bill King calling Scott Hatteberg, the crowd into insane life, how do you explain it? You explain it with that noise. It’s all there. The context, feeling and emotion. The history, anguish and elation. The disappointment. The years and years of it. Years and years. The rail replacement bus services. Ye Gods. Different to a normal goal, different even to a last minute goal, different to a winning goal. The ball in space, at feet, the time up, the touch, the cry of shooooooooot. The eyes widen, the pupils expand, the lean in. The collective intake of breath, and the reverential moment of silence. In through the nose. Out through the mouth. This room is about to flashover. Every single molecule here is about to turn to fire. A Birmingham City fan trapped in here has maybe two seconds to run. Everybody else is about to die the death we always dreamed of. Somebody always realises first and lets out a little “oh” as the boot goes through the ball. And then there it is. A raw, animalistic, explosive fury. You have to go through a lot to get to that noise, to create that sound. In life, in work, in football. There has to be a deep and lasting frustration with your lot. Clubs that can’t sell out an FA Cup semi-final because they’ve been to Wembley too many times and people are bored cannot make this noise now. Manchester City could, once, and we were there for it. We shook their hands. But they’ve priced themselves out of unbridled joy. You have to lose 3-1 at Norwich. You have to stay in the Championship for ten years. You have to go to Preston every bastard Easter. This noise is an outpouring, of pure joy, sure, but also an act of defiance. You make this noise when you lose to everybody, all of the time. When all of your neighbours and rivals go past you. When the sport leaves you behind. And when you’ve sat through 96 minutes of this. Nobody’s going to pretend QPR were perfect in this game. I enjoyed Jonathan Varane’s spectacular minute and 30 in the first half when he passed the ball to a Birmingham player once, got it back, chipped it straight to another Birmingham player, and then, when given a third chance of a reprieve, was so startled by the universal plea to “TURN. AROUND.” outright panicked, pivoted, and whacked the ball straight into the commentary gantry. Oy vey. School for the gifted. And by “enjoy”, I mean I’d rather tear out my own arm and eat it than watch that again. But I thought Rangers were terrific here. Not pretty, not technical, not winning any prizes for aesthetics, but a QPR team in the finest traditions of Ian Holloway’s first spell – two big bastards up front working their arses off, two little bastards out wide running their legs off, pitch stretched wide, high press, helter-skelter, you’ll get bored of this before we will, relentless Rangers. Relentless. You R’s. We’re a laundry Ollie, we press, we rinse, we repeat. And I will repeat it – you will get bored of this before we will, before Rumarn Burrell will, before Richard Kone will. Play around in front of them and see what they do. Against another bunch of hubristic weirdoes, still labouring under the misapprehension you win football games by completing the most passes in your own penalty box, it was note perfect. Blues’ back line were squeezed so hard, so incessantly, they’ll be lucky if they’ve got one bollock left between the four of them. You keep pisballing about in front of Kone and Burrell instead of going over them early and you’re going to get found out here this season. “Right way to play” my arse. The visitors had either not seen tape, or elected to ignore it. Arrogance not befitting a side with this away record (2-2-7). The billionaire in the blue suit says Birmingham are going to move to the humbly titled “Powerhouse”, a theme park based on a Victorian workhouse where Brummies can go to concerts, Peaky Blinders cosplay, and occasionally, presumably, a football game. Here they played with a pasty butcher’s apprentice in goal, and he looked scared of the lights. This is a football ground, and people like David Bardsley have been arcing crosses like Koki Saito’s magnificent fortieth minute ball of outstanding natural beauty in here for generations. Here comes Jimmy Dunne, you’ll have heard of him, he wants it a lot more than any of yours do and that’s one nil just for a start. Cross with the curvature of a Brazilian supermodel’s lower spine. Beads of sweat cascading. Talk to me about assists again, go on. You could tell who wanted this and who didn’t from very early on indeed. Very early. Amadou Mbengue was put on Demarai Gray duty and pocketed him immediately. First challenge full of meat and intent, Gray had a little word about it so Mbengue stuck the nut in. You’re in my house now, fake chimneys on order. Jay Stansfield, meanwhile, who Birmingham paid 15 million English pounds to take penalties for them in League One, had a bit of a sit down and a prolonged stretch of his neck before deciding that he was absolutely fine after all. Phew. Thoughts and prayers. Paul Nardi’s Flappy McGrew routine under crosses I’d have caught myself kept things interesting. But Paul Smyth was close to a third headed goal of the season, and Saito being free to head back across for the Northern Irishman to beat Jack Robinson in the air just, again, gave little (very little) indications of who was up for this and who was not. Rhys Norrington-Davies nearly scored with a cross-cum-shot, and Rangers were well on top by the time they took the lead. They stayed there too. I hadn’t, to this point, seen Julien Stéphan this animated. Eventually booked for trying to come on and play left wing, the Frenchman covered more ground in his technical area than Birmingham’s expensively assembled midfield did on the pitch. Urging, constantly, windmilling arms, his team further forwards, higher press, greater intensity. Pedal to the metal. Richmond Oiler ball. I loved it. I’m here for it. I’ll watch QPR play like this all day and all night. Bright Osayi-Samuel did not love this and was not here for this. Birmingham are grotesquely misusing what was once this division's most dangerous winger - just because Jose says it doesn't make it a thing, guys. Still, he didn’t fancy this at all on his return to Loftus Road, and failed to trouble the second half scorers. Jack Robinson wasn’t far behind him into the clean bath water. Bye Jack. Mumble grumble. Prick. Mbengue strode onto a 25 yarder and caught it cleaner than Gwyneth Paltrow’s colon after a three-week juice cleanse. Sorry, that’s an Anthony Bourdain rip off, but we’ve had it on the pad for a while and just imagine if that hadn’t been deflected away. Is the pound in the jar arrangement still in place at Browns? You get the cab, I’m going to the cash machine. Two of Paul Smyth’s medium throws in quick succession adds up to one normal team’s long one. Rhys Norrington-Davis, impressive at left back, had an effort clawed out by Beadle by the post as Dunne closed in once more. Prolonged pressure ensued. Richard Kone cut into a shooting position and was crowded out. Rangers recycled, and recycled again. High press from Burrell. High press from Kone. High press from Smyth. Outright farce and panic among the visitors. Why are you playing like this? Why do you think this is going to work? It deserved a punishment goal, and sadly Kone hooked over at the back post when well placed to score. Loft alive and kicking. Blues under the pump. It’s all there for us. Push her down son. No serpent in Eden. I loved that we kept going. I loved that we didn’t sit back. Game state? Give a shit. GO. Fire into the air, she’ll run off. Big Lyndon The Non-Scoring Striker? Come now. (By the way, we tried to say...) However, a couple of things did happen to turn the tide. Paul Smyth, QPR’s most defensively adept winger, was removed for Karamoko Dembele, their least. Chris Davies took barely 30 seconds to hook Robinson from left back and put a better footballer out there. Steve Cook’s fantastic clearance under heavy artillery fire, Paul Nardi’s remarkable save when Tommy Doyle tried to whip a corner straight in at the near post, had both down injured. Mbengue collapsed with a sympathy pregnancy. Instead of shifting Dunne out to the right and introducing Morrison, Stéphan elected to go with Kieran Morgan. It’s the exciting, attacking, progressive choice. I would, in general, always rather us be like that. But going from Mbengue and Smyth to Morgan and Dembele opened the tiny cage Gray had been imprisoned in all night. His only opposition now was time. In the third minute added onto the end he got free, banged in a low cross, Roberts smacked it in at the back post, and for all of that, for all of that, QPR had a 1-1 draw and a poxy point. You went all that way on two lousy pair? Holy Toledo. We’ll stay and clap them off, on our way to the river. To make a noise like that, you have to go through it. To come back from four goals down to draw you do first half to go four goals down – QPR were a last-minute penalty save from Lee bloody Camp away from achieving that against Birmingham here six years ago and Blues have regretted doing that to us ever since. This a club whose relegation was eight parts Wayne Rooney to one part Jimmy Dunne last minute howitzer. The away end in full voice didn’t know it, but there was one more sting to come. That panicked voice in the guest Sky commentator, when the gantry starts to shake. Credit to the players, credit to the manager, credit to this team that they went again the way they did. Back on the press. Back on the recycle. Relentless to the end. This is my favourite bit of Stéphan-ball so far; like Kevin Keegan in a rollneck (and this was a rollneck). I felt like the whole world had fallen out of my arse, and there they were running 96th minute doggies. Packing the opposition box. Play to win. Jimmy Dunne on the penalty spot – theirs, not ours – attacking, directing traffic, straining every sinew. Look at him in the highlights. Watch Jimmy Dunne. Captain’s knock. Brum thought we were done, they even helpfully ran the ball back to the centre spot for a quick kick off for us (curses spending that word ‘hubristic’ so early in this piece), but we were the farthest thing from done. This team in this mood is never done. Back on the offensive, back on the front foot, back with a free kick in a nice position. Back with the excellent Nicolas Madsen, who made the dead ball come alive, and Kwame Poku, with an impressive cameo against the prize he could have won. They kept going, and going, and going, and going and going. Through Rumarn Burrell’s attempted bicycle kick, Richard Kone’s aborted turn, bobbles and bumbles and shovels and shuffles, and come the fuck on Rangers, and half-hearted penalty appeals for a shove on Poku and then, with the Loft crackling and the time up… then a moment of silence and calm. As the room took breath. And Kieran Morgan took aim. The Lower Loft dissolved. R Block evaporated. The bench emptied. Morgan stripped down to his kecks. Kone ran off with the corner flag. From bath toaster to dick roaster in two- and a-bit minutes. Clean up in aisle me. One of those nights, under the lights, at Loftus Road, And for the stunned masses high in the School End? Who’d previously suffered such a fate to Samuel Di Carmine? A well-thumbed version of Pigbag so tinny you could store tuna in it. How do you like those apples? I recently said it was a difficult club to love. You look round that ground in moments like that and there’s nowhere else you’d rather be. So many people, with so much going on in their lives, so unashamedly happy. When Ulysses reached the sirens, they tried to keep him forever. And Mbengue covered the spread with a yellow card from the bench. Keep right on to the end of the road, they said. So, we did. Links >>> Ratings and Reports >>> Message Board Match Thread QPR: Nardi 6; Mbengue 8 (Morgan 86, -), Dunne 7, Cook 7, Norrington-Davies 7; Smyth 7 (Dembele 67, 6), Varane 6, Madsen 7, Saito 7 (Poku 79, 7); Kone 7, Burrell 7 Subs not used: Frey, Hamer, Bennie, Hayden, Esquerdinha, Morrison Goals: Dunne 40 (assisted Saito), Morgan 90+6 (assisted Varane) Yellow Cards: Morgan 90+7 (getting undressed in a public place), Mbengue 90+7 (lunacy) Birmingham: Beadle 5; Osayi-Samuel 4 (Doyle 46, 6), Neumann 5 (Anderson 82, -), Klarer 5, Robinson 4 (Cashin 68, 6); Iwata 5, Seung-ho 5; Roberts 6, Stansfield 5 (Dykes 68, 5), Gray 6; Ducksch 4 (Furuhashi 46, 5) Subs not used: Allsop, Koumas, Leonard, Sampsted Goals: Roberts 90+3 (assisted Gray) Yellow Cards: Seuong-Ho 80 (foul) QPR Star Man – Amadou Mbengue 8 Mad as a bag of bees, but made it very clear to Gray he wouldn’t be getting an inch right from the first clash between them and pocketed Birmingham’s most dangerous player all night. As soon as he went off, Brum got in down that side and scored – they wouldn’t have done so if he was still on the field. A yellow card for over celebrating a goal he didn’t score, and wasn’t even on the field for, is pretty peak. Referee – James Bell (Sheffield) 7 Not sure how devoid of love and joy in your life you have to be to be handing out cards for over celebrating in those circumstances, but to be fair Kieran Morgan was down to his y-fronts at one stage and I thought he refereed the game well apart from that. Back-to-back very steady performances on this ground. Very small point in the context of it all, but six minutes added to the second half here when Gavin Ward added seven to a half at the weekend in which we had to have the ambulance staff on the pitch really does show what a complete nonsense Championship refereeing, and particularly its timekeeping, really is. Attendance – 14,947 (1,760 Blues approx.) Back at the Crown & Sceptre, a room full of smiling faces. 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