All Derby supporters know the story of the 'Gypsy's Curse' that was supposedly placed on the old Baseball Ground.

It is said by some that if palms hadn't been crossed with silver in order for the curse to be lifted beforehand, the Rams would have been doomed to certain defeat by Charlton Athletic in the 1946 F.A. Cup Final.

Footballers the world over have their own foibles and rituals that help them get in the right frame of mind – whether it's putting left boot on before right, always entering the field of play last, attempting to bring a Witch Doctor to the 2006 World Cup or leaving a deposit in the referee's toilet (all right, the last one isn't a ritual – more the calling-card of a Savage).

Superstition and I never used to go hand-in-hand. Sure, I used to play cricket in my lucky jock-strap (I did wear other clothes too) and watch Derby with confidence during the Cloughie years, grateful in the knowledge that I sported lucky socks, lucky jumper and lucky scarf, but that wasn't superstition really – just common sense.

With Derby struggling for consistency last season, I felt that a new Derby hat was called for – nothing ostentatious - plain black with the white Ram on the front – and immediately our heroes embarked on a run of seven successive victories. A change of month led to a few hiccups on the field, but I soon determined what was wrong – the hat, powerful as it was, needed a boost.

A visit to the RamsTrust stall at the Eagle Centre Market brought forth the answer – the hat needed badges. Week after week a new Derby County badge was purchased and pinned proudly to the hat, and week after week another three points were safely banked. Then – disaster! The hat was washed by an unthinking wife, the badges were replaced in the wrong order and no matter how I adjusted them, Derby were doomed to the lottery of the playoffs.

What to do, what to do? The spell of the hat was broken, and the first leg of the semi-finals and Southampton loomed on the horizon. With a lunchtime's contemplation in Iveagh Gardens, Dublin came possible salvation. A coin lobbed into the fountain and a pair of magpies (two for joy) saluted with vigour were rewarded in the appropriate manner – a pint in the Porterhouse and a brace of Steve Howard goals.

The second leg was an altogether different affair. The fountain profited once more, but the magpies flew singly that evening. One for sorrow? It seemed that way as Southampton levelled on aggregate. I redoubled my own efforts in the pub, drinking extra beer to overcome the curse of the singleton bird as the game went to penalties, and we duly emerged victorious.

The final was a foregone conclusion. A Euro in the Liffey, another in the fountain and one in the waterfall was just for starters. As I was sitting in the park, I glimpsed something plummeting to the ground – a baby thrush had fallen from its nest. Quick as a flash, a magpie pounced, and the throstle was gone faster than you can say 'Jason Koumas'. Two hours later, Stephen Pearson had gobbled up his own opportunity just as eagerly and Derby County had made it to the Promised Land.

On the eve of this season, I purchased a new Rams shirt. It was worn with pride against Portsmouth, and the hat came along too. A great Rams performance and a hard-earned point resulted, but the games against Manchester City and Tottenham found me naked, so to speak. Hat and shirt were both unworn, and the results speak for themselves.

It's all my fault – it stands to reason.

Photo: Action Images

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