I don't know why I do it to myself - really I don't. Maybe it's the fact that I feel like I spent all evening wandering through an industrial estate, maybe it's the fact that my train journey home seemed to take about four years crawling through north Birmingham, maybe it's the fact that now I'm home I don't have that beer that I was sure I'd stashed at the back of the cupboard, but I haven't felt so disappointed since going to see last season's Watford game (and at least then I was more angry than disconsolant and I didn't have to get up for work the next day). It's on nights like this that I take my hat off to all of you that turn out week after week, always knowing that the team likely as not won't bother. The fact that I had a terrible view was offset by the fact that the game and performance were both so bad that I felt a lot more cheerful not being able to see it properly. It's not that we need a striker - that would just give us a new person wandering around disconsolate and alone in the opposition's half. I don't know what it is. I'm just sick of feeling like the opposition have got twice as many players as we have, I'm sick of the stupid mistakes and I'm sick of the stupid pre-game optimism that lets me down 95% of the time. Glad I've got that off my chest, anyway. Bit of melodrama for a tuesday evening.
That's one of the best reports I've read for a while. The sense of hopelessness really shines through.
You were listening to an excerpt from "Misery Memoir - a life of despair with the Reds" by Harold Pinter writing under the pseudonym of Sestren, available from all good branches of the Samaritans.
