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.
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