Chris Finn's view: Fine fightback shows Leicester City mean business

One for sorrow, two for joy as the old song goes.

After a first half that left you wanting to contact a Swiss clinic, the second brought a revival of Red Cross proportions.

In the end, Leicester City were worthy winners, getting off to the start the fans wanted – three points. A healthy 26,000 packed into the Walkers Stadium to see them do it, including around 3,000 Swansea fans, who arrived on so many coaches it resembled a motorised Armada.

There were plenty who had arrived under their own steam. I encountered a few on Aylestone Road who were trying to find "The County Hall."

Having negotiated the near 200-mile journey from South Wales to Leicester, they had slipped up yards from their target.

"County Hall is in Glenfield, miles away," said a helpful City fan.

"No," said Arfon, Dai or whatever his name was. "It's a pub we're supposed to be meeting at," as he removed a can of Stella from his mouth.

"Ah," replied the fan. "You mean The Counting House." And that, my friends, was the last I saw of them.

Talking of counting, have you ever seen a bigger City line-up? Most of them were bigger than Filbert Fox. If football ever links up with volleyball, my money's on the boys in blue. And they were taller than most of the boys in blue outside the ground.

A minute's applause was held for the late, great Sir Bobby Robson. Was there ever a man in football so well loved? Sir Bobby was magical with words even though it sometimes took a wand to unravel what he actually meant.

"The first 90 minutes are the most important," was a great Sir Bobbyism. So were "Practice makes permanent" and "In a year's time, he's a year older." He called Southgate Woodgate and once said "Good morning Bobby," to Bryan Robson, who somewhat mystified replied: "You're Bobby, I'm Bryan."

However, the best of the lot was the young lad that who queued for hours to get a book signed. He eventually met the great man and asked him "How many have you signed today?" Dear Bobby replied: "Oh hundreds and hundreds." On leaving the shop, he opened the book and it said "Best wishes, Bobby Hundreds."

I digress. Back to the game and there were not many Swansea players you would recognise. One was called Angel Rangel, presumably from Narborough or Harborough with a penchant for Scritti Politti. The goalkeeper was called de Vries, but seemed more commanding in the air than the previous one who played in blue a few years ago.

City went behind in the 15th minute and you could sense one or two irritations among the fans. In truth, their first half was poor.

After the interval, the reverse was true. Dany N'Guessan and Martyn Waghorn went on to replace Andy King and Matty Fryatt and very quickly looked the business.

Fryatt had had a poor game, maybe not match-fit enough. Waghorn, wearing lovely turquoise boots and about eight pairs of socks, freshened things up somewhat and, once he had got the equaliser on 68 minutes, the fans were right behind City.

Before that, Stephen Howard had missed a penalty and there was a feeling it was not going to be one of those days.

But with Waghorn's leveller, and a goal from N'Guessan three minutes later, the tide had turned.

In the end, City were worthy winners.

Swansea fans had cheered on their team as best they could although, sadly, they had not the initiative to throw around an inflatable paddling pool, as one visiting team did a few years ago. And, I suspect, they left, 15 minutes after everybody else, with a sinking feeling.

One for sorrow, two for joy, three points for us and none for you, boyo!