When I was asked to write a piece commemorating the two-and-a-half-year whirlwind reign of Oliver Glasner, I knew there was only one place to start:
The Den, New Year’s Day, 2011.
The archetypal morning after the night before. Oh lord, it’s 10.30am – why on earth am I going to a midday kick off? Why am I even awake right now? Taunted by hangover shivers, I stepped gingerly from the train station out into the icy grey light of South Bermondsey, shielding my eyes from the brightness with one hand and wrapping my Palace scarf around my neck with the other.
From the stands, I marvelled at our gameplan – try and contain an average Millwall side and maybe nick one on the break – perhaps not quite what one may label “burning ambition”. And lo, the only individual who showed any real fire that day was a future Palace hero, a young, pre-teary Jason Puncheon, who scored a hat-trick against us that lunchtime with the ease of a lad chucking three rotten apples into a nearby bin.
3-0. Back to South Bermondsey station. I felt physically and emotionally sick. Turned out I wasn’t alone – the manager was gone before I’d gone back to bed. Apparently sleepwalking towards League One, I remember thinking – what next?
