A Christmas Wish.

 In an earlier piece I talked briefly about how sport and emotion are intrinsically linked. Here I shall reminisce about how it used to feel, and why increasingly it's becoming not just a bore - but a chore.

Why we just don't care any more.

Arguably, things have changed slightly in the Cardoza era. Whether we want to admit or not - money breeds impatience - even for a club as tin-pot as ours; and when you've had even a small amount of power; it can be extremely difficult to relinquish it.

Whilst Sixfields has never been the San Siro (or even the San bloody Racecourse), in the early days there was still a buzz in the ears; if not an outright rumbling. People tend to look back on the past with fondness - as we grow older it's in our nature - however I am not going to delude you into thinking there was ever a cauldron of noise. I cannot speak for the County Ground days as sadly I was too busy glory-hunting as a baby, but on those first trips to Sixfields and even in those first few years, it was still such a thrill to look down on the hill and see the newness of hope dazzling in glorious bright white light before us.

Who still gets that feeling now? If you closed your eyes once, and you let yourself go, I swear you could reach out and touch it; you could caress that sense of excitement until you felt it creep under your skin. Sixfields has aged with us - quickly and sourly - 'til all that's left seems to be dull concrete blocks and desolate corners which are battered by the freezing elements.

Every match day was Christmas day as a young'un. I pulled up with my Mum, looked skyward with doe-eyed wonder at our very own stadium of dreams, and dragged a whole net of butterflies with me. My net these days gets about as much use as the ones we use in shooting practice; seeing as it's full of dead, rotting fish, optimism seeping steadily out of their every pore until all that's left is the smell of dread.

Santa delivered more often than not; some days the raleigh bicycle we always wanted, other days the cheap supermarket knock-up. But that was the day you realised he didn't exist, and you understood it was all your parents could afford. You learnt to respect that they'd slaved away to buy something that would fall apart within the week. Atkins' team was like that. Sometimes the quality of the product was shocking, but when you saw their blood, sweat and tears, you knew that they cared - and that more often than not, the day would be a winner.

It used to be fun around the dinner table that was Sixfields. You'd look to your left and see a friend. You'd look to the pitch and see a friend. You'd look to the dugout and you'd see the manager; making sure everything was in its right place, that everyone knew their role. And even if our role wasn't always to entertain - even if the standard of cooking was more McDonalds than Michelin - the important thing was that we left feeling full of the warmth of family.

Now we look to the seat next to us - it's empty. We look to the pitch and we see a stranger, a beggar who hops his way from family to family cheating them out of food when the reality is he earns a lot bloody more than the rest of us. We'll probably never see him again. Even the dugout has become a revolving one - by the end of the ninety minutes its turned 180 degrees and a whole new set of conners have taken their seats; the truth is they're never likely to get up off their a**e. As for the manager, who is it? An assistant? A goalkeeping coach? The sodding postman? The truth is I have as good an idea as the rest of you; no idea.

That is why we just don't care. We turn up passionless, we go home pointless. We don't just expect defeat - we expect disaster. We step into our own home and we know no-one. We walk out blind and numb onto deserted streets - as empty as the feeling inside our hollow hearts.

Forget Santa - I only have one wish this Christmas.

Dear Cobblers,

Please, please, please, make me fall back in love with you.

All the farce of the fair.

As I looked up toward the North stand car park, there seemed something cruelly surreal about it. The fairground lights dazzled with intoxicating dreams, as young things full of hope flew wild and high into the night sky.

Then I looked down at it. I say it – I can’t bear to give it a name any more. It has become a shame, an embarrassment. If it were a fairground ride – then I clambered on at the top – and it plummeted toward the depths of hell at unstoppable speed.

Just occasionally, there are terrified screams. ‘Let me off, let me out.’

For the lucky ones, they are able to escape. More recently, they throw themselves off whilst the ride has barely begun. For many of us, we are less fortunate. We are super glued to our seats, programmed for life just like machine to be strapped on this sickening descent.

Misery becomes an addiction when you’ve been tortured for so long and last Saturday we got beaten ‘til we could barely lift a finger in protest. The life has been so choked out of us, that where others might throw bottles, we throw only boos – even they are timid in nature. When you’re so used to watching a disgrace, disgust almost seems frivolous. As losing becomes the norm, perhaps we should start cheering instead - the bigger the breakdown – the louder our lungs are lured to scream. On Saturday it would have been a standing ovation. Stockholm syndrome comes to Sixfields; no need to be kidnapped for the pleasure.

Just when you think you’ve seen it all, you haven’t. Apparently it was our worst league defeat at home since 1947, a year when most of our team consisted of war heroes – albeit most of them left standing on one bloody leg. I only wish some of today’s team could put one foot forward, let alone a whole limb. If only we could sentence them for cowardice; then banish them to some long-forgotten isle where the few indigenous people left laugh in their faces when they claim they are ‘a professional football team’ -  and that’s after they’ve seen them play!

There is no point in a match report. We all know what happened. We want to forget. The only thing I cannot forget is the sheer horror inside me; blood boiling, bitter and burnt as I dragged myself desperately toward the centre-circle at half-time. It normally takes a lot for me to dish out abuse to my own kind, although I am not one of the many Sixfields zombies, generally I refrain from kicking our players in the Cobblers when they’re down. And down we are at the moment, or at least seem destined to be.

However, that all changed there and then. Perhaps it was that I’d been slaving away in a warehouse since 5am. Perhaps it was that newfound feeling for me at least – when your money is hard earned it hurts that little bit more when you feel it being frittered away on hopelessness.

‘Spineless!’

As soon as the word came shooting from my heavy hurting heart, I didn’t regret it. There was not even a second of guilt, the only following thought involved chucking my scarf away and walking out with my dignity intact. Don’t worry, it didn’t last long. I stayed sat in my seat long after the man in black had cast a white shadow over my cheeks, the life all but drained out of me and every single home supporter. There was no sense of relief – okay so if it had gone on any longer we would have been looking at triple-figures - but mostly there was just stunned silence. No-one seemed surprised; simply shocked at quite how much it had fulfilled our expectations. We came suspecting a thrashing and we left in bits, bones brittle and broken.

As I staggered to the car radio drunk with despair, at least our manager or the imposter acting as one would offer some sobering words of comfort. No, no it was too much to ask. Of course it was. There was no apology – only the apoplectic arseholery of an alcoholic. Perhaps David Lee himself had turned to drink in the face of our calamitous collapse, either that or he was determined to prove himself the most dislikeable person on the entire planet. Why should I be surprised? Lee the clown to the left of us, Joker Johnson to the right. Us stuck in the middle – the closest bloody thing to a manager there is.

Although Lee was not the answer nor even close to it, we are still left hanging like that awkward interview, question after question with no sign of response. That is something you cannot deny. My question is thus: How much more of this can we take? How much longer can we keep climbing on this reckless ride to the bottom before it gets too painful. Before we disappear and sink without trace beneath the surface. 

Fairgrounds for divorce? I bloody well hope not.

We never looked good in bed together.

There we were, just over 8 months ago. About to face Shrewsbury at home, anticipation throbbing through our veins, not just excited by the prospect of Gary Johnson 'the new messiah', but practically aroused.

Here we are 8 months later, about to face Shrewsbury at home - and with the bed sheets well and truly sullied, finally we have ripped them unceremoniously from the stained mattress and chucked them in with all the other dirty washing. 

The linen basket in the chairman's office must be rammed full by now - the lid sealed with some kind of super-superglue to make sure the crazies never escape again. We do not even try for one final spin. There is no point. The marks are so permanent, even your Gran who always gets it clean in the end wouldn't have a hope. There is no chemical in the land that can whiten our blushing cheeks. We are an embarrassment - and it's much better to shut the lid now and pretend it never happened than to recount the horror in our heads. The horrors... the horrors...

So many have we been through, we're experienced now. Failed relationship after failed relationship, and though they claim 'mutual consent', there was nothing mutual about how we kicked him out on his a**e. We should have done it long ago. The truth is - nothing worked and nothing ever looked like doing so.

From the very first date, it looked an odd match. His personal ad read

'Unemployed giant of World football seeks to meet similarly ambitious and attractive club for special, bouncy relationship. International experience, house full of trophies, bed full of surprises ;) VGSOH'.

Where as ours read
'Small minded, shy football club living in the shadow of wildly successful rugby club seeks to meet quiet individual who hates the limelight for quiet but lasting relationship. Bad past experiences, would like someone dignified who appreciates action over words. No sense of humour due to recent abuse, must handle with care as extremely fragile'.

It was never really going to work, was it? The only surprise was how spectacular it was. The failure. So spectacular, that there is no heartache, no loss. Only relief.

The sad thing was, that first date got off to a good start. He arrived - portly, jolly gentleman - wooed us with his pretty talk and eyes hungry with success. Never doubt him, for his CV is a dream. He'd make you believe that 'fling' with our bitter ex-girlfriend, a bit of a p*sh tart was just that - a fling. It didn't mean much. She warned us..we should have listened. All she said came true. Keep your friends close and all that...
Personally, I enjoyed that first date - one of the very few lasting memories. Crackers thrived on the crackling tension and delivered two stunning compliments, bang bang, bearings of such beauty that they'd be shown off on some crappy 'how to' video - how to find true love at first sight. Unfortunately, there was no room left for dessert that night, and it ended in bittersweet parting. We both had a lovely time, but there was no canoodling. No points. As it turned out, no point in asking each other out again. It went downhill, quickly. True love turned to true disaster.

It was never his fault. We quickly got to learn that. All men are stubborn as they say - and he certainly had enough excuses for the entire bloody male population. Under Sammo, we were treading water. Some say he was never well backed - but if the signing of Harrad and the following demolition of Crewe wasn't a step to get back where we were - then frankly, nothing would be. In retrospect though - we'd rather have the droll but respectable tone of a legend than the bleating bollocks of an intruding imposter. You learn with experience, as they say.

We were the china shop, and we needed a bunny. Not a bull. Quickly, he sought to break us, first the spirit then the personnel. You have to adapt to your position, and instead he continued in his missionary, military fashion - he clambered on top straight away and instead of caressing - he craved to seek salvation when we first needed stabilizing. The truth is, you walk into any job and assume promotion on your first day - and you'll split the place in two.

Those that did not go with him did not last long. We had enough to survive with something to spare, but grafters were deemed not good enough. It's true, many of them were not, yet this was no time to build a royal castle. Our council flat would do - be enough to see us through. If you try to build something without the necessary materials then inevitably you and it will fall flat on your face. By God, we very nearly did. We were held up by three single bricks in the end which were donated free of charge by Stevenage. Yet all they started with was a tin and a pot.

The summer sun just about rose, and we tried to put the 'R' word out of our minds. We would never be in this position again. He got it wrong, he admitted it - for one time only.

Time and again he promised us that this time round would be different. His stamp, his team, the chairman's wallet. Yet again, we were foolishly taken in. The abuse from behind the dugout was dug out and thrown away, and we shouted encouragement once more. The belief was back. It didn't last long.

For a few precious moments, he looked back into our eyes and we thought we saw a spark. Ignited by Ipswich, burnt out by idiocy. There was no connection, just a couple of flukes. The sexy football quickly turned ugly - and soon enough we could barely be bothered to turn up any more. Date after date we sat in silence, stunned only be the sheer profligacy of the bill. Forget the house wine - Johnson had turned to the back pages and ordered a whole case of champagne - and what we got in return was simply a cham-bles. Increasingly, we were being cheated. It was like walking into a club filled with cheap chandeliers and VIP booths, glamorous babes with their lovely lines. Only, for a while we never actually stopped to listen to the words. We were taken in by the shallow, attractive promise. All they really spouted was bullsh*t. All they really served were glasses so empty - you could get drunk more quickly with a box of liqueurs.

When we finally woke up from this nightmare, dared to open our eyes, we realised that we were just fine with our small-town mentality after all. It's what we know. Perhaps, perhaps, with the right fit, he could have made it big like in the past. More likely though - he had lost his marbles, and player after player got sick of being told 'it's all in your heads'. Clue - it isn't. It's mostly in their feet.

On the final morning, we yawned, stretched out, and felt for our sore heads. Our head was clear. Just once, just this once, we longed for a hangover from drug-fuelled ecstasy of the night before. As it was - the previous night's date had been the final straw when we noticed he'd brought with him a whole crowd. Apparently they were all on trial, but when I questioned them it turned out they were a bunch of confused American tourists who just wanted to see a 'soccer ball' in real life.

That was that. The room that morning was full of them, hunched over each other so tightly it was almost like a concentration camp of left-backs. The worst thing was, we knew we'd bloody gone and signed them all. Gary Johnson deserved much more abuse than he received. That's the truth. He took us for a ride, all of us, and made us believe in fairytales. As a collective, we opened our mouths - now mouths of hell - and screamed 'BUGGER OFF YOU USELESS T*SSER'.


It worked, it had to. We forget that when we need something, we are strong together. He got a damn good kicking, and crawled meekly away, fairy tail between his legs. Now he is gone, we've chucked out his King-size throne - never so much as bounced upon - and retrieved our old and dusty trusted single mattress from out the garage. It can go on the floor - I don't care - at least the floor is painted claret. We've shipped the left-backs back to 'soccerland' and labelled them all defective. We've taken a collective sigh, and gone peacefully back to sleep - safe in the knowledge that we'll never see that porky face again. Goodnight, Gary.

May we never meet again.