Tagline: A psychotropic rampage through the Midlands, where Forest’s Kouki turned goals into hallucinations and Leicester’s collapse became performance art.
In the feverish twilight of December football, Nottingham Forest tore through Leicester City like a pack of wild dogs chasing invisible spirits. Seven goals, five from the mercurial A. Kouki, and not a shred of mercy in sight. The scoreline—7–1—reads like an act of ritual cleansing rather than sport.
By the seventh minute, Kouki had already found his groove, a slick finish that opened the gates. Carratt and Correa joined the delirium soon after, turning Leicester’s backline into paper mache. When Kouki’s penalty made it four before halftime, the City players looked less like professionals and more like bewildered tourists lost in a fog of red shirts and bad dreams.
Ruiz clawed one back for Leicester before the break, a small flicker of dignity snuffed out almost immediately. Jeppesen’s red card at 64 minutes ended any illusion of control; from there, it was bloodsport. Kouki struck again—twice—dragging reality into parody with his fifth in stoppage time. The man was untouchable, perhaps unreal.
Forest’s 2.87 xG against Leicester’s meager 0.42 tells the statistical story of domination, but it doesn’t capture the strange beauty of the destruction. This wasn’t just football; it was performance mania. The City defenders seemed hypnotized, compelled to watch as their world melted away beneath the boots of the possessed.
The final whistle brought silence. 7–1. A number, a statement, a fever dream. Nottingham walks away cleansed; Leicester, bewildered. Somewhere, Kouki still runs—laughing, untethered, a myth in boots.