Nothing comes close to 2012. Nor could it. We'd been in their shadow for far too long and that day, they thought they'd kept us there, 'til Serge slid the dagger into their fucking hearts. Every time I see that goal I try and picture one of their utterly c untish fans (Patrick Kielty, James Nesbitt etc) and imagine the sheer fucking horror on their faces as it dawns on them just what's happened. If you could have written a more brutal, deathly, ghastly, heart-wrenching, murderously savage way for us to win it, well, you couldn't. I remember the guttural roar as we paraded the trophy the next day. It built up from Albert Sq and as it came round past the 1st bend, it was like a fucking tidal wave of years of upset, torment, frustration and utter fucking joy. Never heard a roar like it. It wasn't a cheer. It was a full on fucking roar. I looked around and it was twenty deep with blokes. A few kids, couple of women and the odd family. But, by and large, just grown men. This was our moment. The lads who'd followed them through thin and fucking thinner.