Ten years apart: Newcastle, Liverpool, you and me

Alright? Let’s not sugar coat it, lads. I’m writing today with the cold, callous fingertips of a fairweather Luton fan. Maybe the worst one.

Farewell and the New Football

I genuinely love you, mate. Oi, don’t look down at your pint… I’m talking to you.

The return of Pelly Ruddock Mpanzu

Where did it all go, the flowing football that defined Luton’s goodbye kiss to non-league football? The swagger. The goals. Was it really all down to Andre Gray? Were we that much of a one man team? Maybe. Or maybe, part of the answer at least, was just a week away...

Modern Love: Power Court and Nathan Jones

Grab it with both hands before the new dawn fades. A new ground in the centre of Town, a new manager. No more looking back. New Year, new me, new you…

Up the Junction

I never thought that it would happen, with us and the bloke from Newham

That night we won promotion, that night we ain't forgotten

Pressure Drop

Rumour, intrigue and speculative boos from the spectacularly boozed. When you’re the manager of a fourth division football club called Luton Town, eventually the pressure’s gonna drop on you.

Mark Tyler: Luton’s number one at 38

Before the season is out Luton Town’s Mark Tyler will turn 39 years of age. 21 years, or a Cameron McGeehan-and-a-bit ago, he made his senior debut. Picture the scene...

There was no Stephen McNulty at the Checkatrade.com Stadium. Stephen McNulty was in Tranmere.

It's lost its novelty value hasn't it, walking for miles through unglamorous suburban woodland, via a concrete underpass to a football ground named after a corporate website?

Turning one win into two

Pub pundits and Twitter Tactics Truckers united in confusion this week as John Still’s Luton Town returned from the road with nine league points in eight days.

Not going

Life has conspired against me. It’s mid September and I am yet to see Luton Town Football Club kick a ball in actual real life this season. I can’t speak to anyone about anything. I sit alone, a worthless armchair bore. As empty inside as a Watford trophy cabinet; smelling only slightly less of hollow, synthetic, production-line pizza. So here follows 500 words on what I think is going wrong on the pitch.