Don’t call it a fairy tale.

Don’t call it a fairy tale. This is a grown-up story for the weather-worn Gurney-sceptic Kohler-Outers, the Milton Keynes-Never Pinkney-phobes and Tomlins-doubters. But every story needs an ending.

From founding members of the Premier League that never played a game or enjoyed a crumb from football’s top table. Out for the count. A distant memory of a plastic pitch, a flickering TV riot and a Tory MP. Accrington Stanley without the milk ad. Sub Stevenage. To this…

Kenilworth Road on a Saturday is a place of wonder. The whole world longs to extract the secrets of Gary Sweet and Nathan Jones. Of Harty and Big Mick. How are they doing it with that budget and that gaff? And with Pelly still here! Still Pelly!

Without a Non Fungible Token in sight or a combine harvester partner or a Fan TV. We’ve never been in it for the money. Fuck money. Fuck Richard Money.

We just wanted to get back in the league, maybe win League One and explain to the kid at work why it was the pinnacle.

There was beauty in the obscurity of the last decade. A top flight history worn lightly in our new era, where survival amongst the financial carnage of the modern game was 2020’s silverware. And they won it for us. Make no mistake, the hardest fought prize in football is already ours. We were reborn in our own skin. History, home and hats intact.

I’ll be honest, getting back to the top flight, into the Premier League, had never even crossed my mind. They can keep it.

Let Jeff Stelling mispronounce every player’s name forever. Let Carragher and Neville take something else too seriously, not this thing of ours. Let Jamie Redknapp remember watching Ricky Hill and leave his brush with elite Hatterdom at that. Do we even want to go up?

Up is the way of parachutes and yoyos and quarterly sackings and net spend. Of passing to death, a once beautiful game now over-perfect. Over sold. Where they hesitate to celebrate lest the limbs be VAR’d in vain. Where the owners have bonesaws instead of boaters.  

But mate. Mate. Then again… Imagine it.

Kenilworth Road, the Golden Gamble, the Nick Owen, Norm’s Goat Curry, Zobra Auto Parts, Block F, the SKF clock, Johnny Pyper, you and me in the Premier League. Bury Park in the Barclays. After where we’ve been.

Despite it being just a league position away after decades of decay, it still feels beyond the realms of possibility that Luton Town will become a top flight team again in the very near future. Play offs ain’t really been our scene has it? Surely?

But despite wearing the most pessimistic, #Luton-ist of Luton hats, and looking at the league table without a hint of rose-tint, I genuinely wouldn’t bet against Nathan Jones and his men doing something utterly mental over the next few weeks. Would you?

The first time I quit this blog was when my son was born. I’ve tried to end it a few times since. Even printed it out.

He’s coming to his first game on Saturday. He’s got absolutely no idea what any of this means yet.

Loves a fairy tale, mind.