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Saturday, 19 December 2009


Some people would say it’s a curse. If it is it’s a very frail, Church of England type of juju. In England you are born to a team in the same way you might be born into a peerage or a religion, it’s mostly inescapable. It’s not my fault that the team I support manage to sustain mid-table mediocrity season after season. I watch the other supporters on Saturday’s trains, they look happy. Happy they’ve been watching football. Fuck knows what I’ve been watching, but it hasn’t made me smile like that. I’ve been huddled with my tribe in a creaky, antique stadium, sipping watery tea and wondering why the small brigade of Sheffield fans opposite are singing so much louder then us. Bovril and scratchy nylon scarves don’t have the same romance anymore. Now they’re just horrible. There’s only one Dougie Freedman, but there’s only one Cesc Fabregas as well and if I’m being blasphemously honest… I’d rather watch the latter.

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