A little bit different to how Robert Zemeckis predicted 21st October 2015.
Sadly, Leeds United were in Division 2 back in 1989 and they’ve returned there 26 years later.
There have been many occasions during my time as a Leeds fan where I have been left feeling very angry. The two relegations, losing to Histon in the FA Cup and two play off final defeats are just a few instances. Then there was Ken Bates, who sold our best young players (mostly to Norwich) and sacked my favourite manager, Simon Grayson.
All of these events would have enraged any football fan, had it happened to their club; and I was certainly not the only Leeds supporter to be angered by them.
Despite Leeds entering their 12th season outside the Premier League and playing crap football for as long as I can remember, my tolerance of the club has been kept relatively mellow lately. That was, until today, when the Leeds owner, Massimo Cellino, sacked the current manager and hired Steve Evans as his replacement.
I was not angry about the sacking (although it was a little harsh). My wrath was at the appointment of the successor – Mr. Evans. In my opinion, he is a repugnant man and possesses a vile temperament, which I have witnessed with my own eyes and ears, when his Crawley Town side played Bath City at Twerton Park. He has previous criminal convictions (just search Google) – something which Leeds United does not need right now. What’s more, he hasn’t really done anything in The Championship, where Leeds play their football.
What few supporters Evans has will argue that he won promotion with Boston, Crawley and Rotherham. Those two clubs had money and the success came in lower divisions. Still, if Leeds are relegated back to League One (which is looking ever likely), at least we’re set up for it. Although it does make me depressed to think that we’ve basically become Boston United and Crawley Town.
The only thing I can do to cheer myself up, is look through the huge collection of “Yo Mama is so fat” jokes on the internet, swapping the words “Yo Mama” for “Steve Evans”.
Last night, I inflicted serious pain upon myself. Not in a sick, perverted kind of way – it was totally accidental. I was in the shower and I poked myself in the eye. Always a painful and stupid thing to do – even worse when you do what I did… poke yourself in the eyeball when your hand is covered in shampoo! Therefore you get the pain from the eye prod and the stinging agony of the shampoo, destroying your retina. Luckily I didn’t go blind – a lucky escape. I’ll be more careful next time by ensuring I wear mittens while in the shower and use ‘No More Tears’ baby shampoo.
While arriving home from a long day in Essex, watching Bath City (which I’ll come onto later), we were greeted by someone waiting for us outside our front door. Admittedly, I didn’t notice them until I had gone into the house and turned the light on. Our guest was far from welcome and gave me a huge fright! A huge, black spider was crawling up our front door. I did what any man would do in this situation – scream for his wife. Claire screamed back, asking where “the jar” was, so we could capture it. Whenever “the jar” comes out in our house, you know there’s a spider about. I don’t remember its original purpose, but it is big enough to hold a large quantity of spaghetti, so hopefully sufficient to contain any spider that resides in this country.
Frozen to my spot, I was unable to be of much help, so Claire ran past the spider – something she was scared of doing and understandably so – before collecting the jar from the bathroom. During her time upstairs, the spider had begun to reach the top of our door and was millimetres away from entering our house! At this point, I panicked and slammed the door shut, as hard as I could. The neighbours must have wondered what on earth was going on, with slamming doors and screams coming from our house. The problem with me locking the spider outside was that Claire’s car door was left open, as in her haste to assist with capturing the beast, had dropped everything else she was doing. She told me to open up the door, to which I refused. I knew what was behind the door – a very big, very pissed off and probably very hungry spider. Claire was getting angry at this point, which, on hindsight I can see why. Had her car been stolen, it would have resulted in a very embarrassing telephone call to the insurance company, given the reason behind the car doors being open and exposed to thieves. She opened the front door herself. The spider was still there – quite remarkable, really, considering the force of which I had slammed the door shut. If our house had been built with a chimney, it would almost certainly of fallen off. That was one strong spider! She caught it in a jar, which caused it to go berserk, before letting it go a safe distance up our street and ensuring it ran off in the opposite direction of the house.
I would, at this point, say “all’s well, that ends well”, except this morning, while I was in bed, I heard Claire scream from downstairs. While she was sat on our sofa, enjoying a cup of tea, another spider had crawled onto her neck. Tea was spilt in the process and the jar was used again. This spider was considerably smaller than the one last night. In fact, the one last night would have eaten today’s like I eat Wotsits.
I did some research into what type of spider the one we saw last night was. To my horror, I learnt it was a Tube Web Spider (Google it, as I’m not putting its photo on here!). It is not native to this country, but is now becoming increasingly common. While its bite won’t cause you any serious harm, it is said to feel like a deep injection. If that spider had bitten me, I would have probably died of the shock… after soiling myself.
As I mentioned at the start of this blog, we were returning from watching Bath City. We had travelled to Essex to see them take on Harlow Town in the FA Cup. I groaned to myself when the draw was made – I hate going to Essex – mainly because we never win there! Yesterday was no exception. Harlow play two divisions below Bath City, when it comes to league football. However, so did East Thurrock, who we played last year, and they beat us 7-1.
I thought things wouldn’t be too bad, when we took the lead early on. I was surprised. Not just because we were winning in Essex, but because it was on one of those 3G pitches. Predictably, City sat back on their lead, as I have seen them do so many times in the past, along with Leeds United and the England national team. This resulted in Harlow equalising and then taking the lead themselves. Thinking to myself that it was just another one of those days, we managed to score and draw the game, which means we’re all off to Twerton Park on Tuesday night for a replay… and there was me, looking forward to watching Karl Pilkington’s new series that evening.
The more blogworthy events of Saturday’s trip was not the game itself, but the vile following of fans that Harlow have associated with them. I know it isn’t all of them, but it was a large contingent. Throughout the game all I could hear was “fuck” and “wanker”. I’m not against swearing (I occasionally swear, especially when playing GoldenEye against John and Simon) but to hear it constantly, directed towards us and our players in an aggressive manner was not nice at all – especially from a self-proclaimed “family club”. Then there was, what they would probably call “epic bantz” directed at us. Firstly “shit town in Bristol” (how original), followed by an awful joke of “somebody should pull the plug on you, Bath”. One of them embaressed themselves when another attempt at an insult failed terribly – “you have shit taps, Bath”. I won’t mention the drum their supporters beat throughout the match – long term readers of this blog will already know my views on those things. Something I haven’t seen before is a portable air raid siren, which they set off at random times during the game. At first I thought it was only reserved for goals, which, while annoying, would be understandable. However, to sound it off when the ball goes out for a throw-in is bizarre. Who uses an air raid siren these days, anyway? I know going to Essex is like stepping back in time to the 1940’s, but we don’t need the sounds from World War 2, while at a football match.
A section of the home support
Are you a cat owner? If the answer is ‘yes’, I hate you. OK, that may sound a little harsh – I don’t hate you. I do, however, find your pet very annoying. A local cat has recently taken a fancy to our front garden and has started to poo all over the lawn. Not just a little bit. Loads. It is like a herd of cows have been grazing outside our house, but instead of producing pats of grassy manure, has curled out stinking piles of half–digested meat from a tin.
We have to leave our recycling boxes on the lawn; and while we make an effort to avoid placing them on top of any cat mess, the men who dispose of our rubbish are not so careful and throw the boxes back onto the grass and into the poo. We haven’t got round to mowing the lawn yet, but when we do, the shit will quite literally hit the fan.
So why do I blame you? After all, it’s not your animal. You probably don’t live in Bath and certainly don’t share my street. You do own a cat, though. A cat who, like the one that is currently destroying my lawn, has to defecate. So while it isn’t crapping in my garden, it will be enraging one of your poor neighbours!
If/when I run the country, I would bring in a ‘cat tax’, where owners of felines (and dogs) would pay the local council a monthly fee. This fee would be used to pay a cleaner to go around the local gardens and streets, clearing up animal mess. I can’t see how this is unfair – your animal made the mess, you pay to clean it up.
About Me
So you stumbled across my blog. No doubt after searching for something bizarre on Google. Before you hit that 'Back Button', why not stay and have a read for a few minutes?
If you are after a website which gives advice on how to hack an iPhone X, download the latest Steven Seagal movie, or view nudy ladies, you've come to the wrong place and may now press 'Back'.
However, if you would like a lifestyle blog, written by a 30-something chap, living in Bath (England), feast your eyes on this.
You won't discover how to copy PlayStation 4 games. What you will find is a blog, covering life in the West Country, the highs and lows of supporting two unsuccessful football teams, while sharing a house with a wife and rabbit.
All written by a man, somewhere on the sanity-scale between normal and eccentric.
