AAAAAAAAaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaarrrrrgh. An echo rings around the Main Stand at Kenilworth Road. The laughing eyes of the long since departed faithful begin to fade as work rumbles on outside, the new guided busway burrowing into the side of the old girl.
This is how it’ll end. Once the last ball has been kicked; the final Golden Gamble ticket drawn. The ground will stand empty and we will lean against the bars of public houses that were never meant for men in shorts, and have a long hard look at the face staring back from the half empty pint glass.
What optimism we had last time it was this warm.
The season that is dead and nearly buried was far from vintage. Expectations have finally dipped below the IQ of Robbie Willmott, approaching the shoe-size of Andre Scarlett. Season ticket holders flick past unused stubs in their book at the turnstiles, many picking and choosing their games for the first time. They said it could get worse before it got better, well this must be it. And you’re living every second of it with me, you special chosen few.
Our only hope, brothers and sisters, is that a quiet summer of hard work lies ahead at the training ground and some shrewd new signings made. John and his team need to instil a work ethic and organisation in an eleven that will turn up week in week out and play without feeling the pressure of what may be 5 more than it is 6 thousand loyal fans.
Pressure they will be free from so long as they: play it on the deck, wear black boots, chase down every hopeless pass, not ever have played for Watford/MK Dons/QPR, do not participate in twitter “bantz”, do not moonlight for Herbal life or similar, not have Kev Nicholls as an agent, play it on the deck, denounce the FA, play it on the deck, have a name that fits into a decent Specials song and play it on the deck. If it’s not too much trouble, like.
And don't act like you wont renew. Even if you don't you'll find yourself helplessly applying the breaks, gawping as you roll past what you hope won't be too dramatic a car crash.
Next year you’ll all be back, hoping for a rebirth on the pitch, and that McNulty doesn’t give birth (I’ve got a feeling we’ll need every pound of that cultured gut before this sorry saga is over).
The truth is we’ll be back because we know it can’t possibly get any worse than this. And because this obsession you have with a non-league football club is doubtless covering up some as-yet undiagnosed sociopathic issues. More power to you.
Still, Norwich away was alright though, eh?