It cannot end with a whimper.

Nothing about Adebayo Akinfenwa's career at the Cobblers has been boring.

From the very moment this large, plump duck waddled on from pond to pitch, you knew there would be something special about it. Something different. And as the duck spread its considerable feathers - rising magnificently to plant beak to ball against Swindon - so the crowd cowered, afraid. So the duck became not breast, but beast.

The colossus was born, and a kind of Cobbler cult emerged to adopt him as their own. From that moment on, we've been living in a Bayo wonderland. Not so much Northampton Town; more Akinfenwa country.

Much taunted, much maligned but mostly much loved, the big man with a big heart has had a huge impact on our mostly forgotten club. Now people remember, now people know who we are. Okay, well perhaps not us, but they know who he is and vitally they know where he slumbers in his cave, ready to be awakened and unleashed on fearful defenders. Sixfields.

Fame comes with two things, adulation and jealousy, and often the two have split our support right down the middle, even when a third possibility is on the table.

He's too fat. He's all muscle.
He can't run. He can destroy.
He makes us one dimensional. He is four dimensional.

He eats Nando's. He gobbles up chances.

The truth is probably somewhere inbetween, but we need not mention the truth. The truth is dull, and with big personalities come huge extremities of opinion. I love him, yet I acknowledge his detractors as also having a point. With Bayo, one does not live without the other. He brings a divide, yet an overwhelming sense of togetherness in his tender moments. After scoring, as he points to the sky and his fanatic followers chant their chorus, sometimes I can't help but feel something religious inside.

When he left for Gillingham it was like we lost a piece of ourselves. He'd helped us rediscover from some loss of identity, and yet even before his leaving we already lost regularly enough. We were sinking without trace, and seeing him rise in a different shirt just seemed to compound our misery. We were doomed, and without our monster upfront we needed more than a Pelé to stop us from firing blanks.

There had long been rumours, but when the beast almost inevitably returned home, opinion once more differed furiously. An overwhelming majority welcomed back their demigod, yet there were still dissenting voices, concrete in their view that you should 'never go back'.

Still the same player, still the same effervescent man, his second spell has sparked just as many debates as his first - as many arguments, as many column inches. As many runs as barren as a Saharan drought, as many streaks as scorching as a page three stunner.

What you cannot argue with is his cult status. It has been rubber-stamped since his return, and whilst his goal scoring record is also pretty bloody good, not one Cobbler will ever forget him. Not one. Rarely has one being left such an imprint upon a place, upon his battered victims nor even his detractors.

So please, Adebayo. You have a lasting legacy waiting; your dreams of ambition are ours of promotion. Do not let it all go to waste.

Since January and murmurings of a final good-bayo, for the first time I look on with disinterest as he strolls a slow, sedated death. Though he'd currently receive better service at his favourite fast-food chain, there was once a time when he created his very own three-course menu. Goals, goals, goals.

No longer does it amaze to see 'that brick sh*thouse from the gym' on a football field that isn't American. No longer do the opposition break at first sight, no longer has he simply the aura to terrorize.

For God's sake Bayo. For our sakes. Get your mind off your biceps and lift up our saddened souls, now weighing almost as heavy as those dumbbells you so adore. Please I pray, get that claw out one final time. There are three battles left to be won, and you are still our most violent weapon when you want to be.

Want to be, Bayo. Don't settle for cult status. Want to be a hero.

It cannot end with a whimper. It simply cannot. It just wouldn't be right. It wouldn't be you.

Follow the leader.

Northampton Town 1 'The real Wimbledon' 0

Never before, on Valentine's Day, has a clean sheet brought about so much satisfaction for so many.

The tension that clung stiff and thickly to every burdened body was finally released - as our new, dominant lover punched the air with ferocious irony; there was nothing more romantic than finding eleven virgins left come the end of the night. In failing to find 'the back of our net', they succeeded in erecting some long-forgotten hope in our hymen hearts.

There was no question that the Wombles were limp up front, but by repelling even the smallest signs of seduction, psychological proof seemed to swell in all of us that our submissive nature is about to turn stubborn.

Proof came about because we were tough, cold and unspectacularly gritty. There was nothing sexy about us, let alone the game. The only swashbuckling swagger came from a Portuguese Scouser, only just old enough to reach for the top shelf. It needn't matter.

For once what we really needed was a start; forget the end product. The product was largely shocking, however the glimmers of strength and unity where previously there was only brittleness, suggested some hope written on the horizon. Although colourless clouds abound, thin slivers of light are breaking through the gloom and giving us a future glimpse at life without the darkness.

That one man can change so many is not a miracle, but a testament to why values of humanity are still essential on a football field. Much has been written about Carlisle the thinker, but Captain Clarke commands respect not because his brain cells can beguile a ball, but because his calm, sensitive, assured demeanour make him an instant leader of men.

Shouting can help and the boy can talk for all of us, however the biggest influence he instils is being a thoroughly decent bloke - communicating a kind of trustworthy dignity that many footballers seem to lack completely if recent weeks and months are to go by.

One man and one result cannot change our season, but it can spark the belief in all of us to look inside ourselves and find the fight that has so fizzled out whilst no-one has stood up and led from the bloody front.

So thank you, Clarke Carlisle, for telling us that we can. Because I look upto you, and I believe again.

The fight goes on.

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.

Inevitability

It's always a dagger to the heart. Stab, stab, stab. Always.

Well anyway, it used to be.

Once upon a time, we lived in fear. A dreadful, collective fear. The fear of conceding; The fear of losing; The fear of relegation. The fear of utter, utter hopelessness. If I wrote a small book - one of those sh*tty, patronising 'how to' books you usually find forced upon you at Christmas - then fear would be written into every page. How to be a fan - you must, must fear it.
Don't get me wrong, I'm not saying supporting a football club is comparable to living under Mugabe - just that it's the instability of emotional anxiety that make it such a thrill for the senses.

When you meet people who aren't into sport - they almost unanimously seem to put it down to the visual element. I don't understand it, I don't 'get' it - were the rules made up by some mad, confused wizard? It's boring, it's all stop and start. It's vile, look at the way the fans all throw bricks at each other. How can you find THAT fun? I've had more fun doing crosswords on my wall of drying paint (It's usually a toss up as to whether they're being serious at this point..).

Okay, okay. I don't wish to be too condescending to people who choose to fill their lives with other passions. I know a few myself - everyone does - and they are not bad people, merely unenlightened. Well,  it's my chance to enlighten them. Sure, it bloody well helps if you love it, if you know people who play it, if you understand it; visual stimulation is all part of the game. But what those people often fail to understand - is sport is just life in short, intense dosages - with the added bonus of not having to watch your girlfriend cry. I'm kidding, the whole point is that it IS about watching 5000 girlfriends cry - and most of them are your average, stubborn man.

Yes, there is undeniable enjoyment in seeing a cracker by Crackers, cracking it into the top corner from 80 yards. (Have you noticed that, whenever we try and recall a famous goal with hazy memory, we always add a yard or two on each year..  'Oh do you remember that wonder goal, straight from the goal kick wasn't it?!) Yes, I can sit here and discuss tactics 'til I'm blue in the face - except I'd never, ever dream of turning blue in the face. Hopefully, if I'm ever strangled to death, my body will fulfill my 'last request' - to turn a little claret instead.

Yes, I love all the things that make sport so great - but most of all it's the emotion that matters. When I recount the most emotional moments of my life, those searing, tingling moments of pure bliss or pure bollocks, many of them have come in a sporting arena. Not just any sporting arena - my sporting arena, my second home. Whilst some people may question why I compare a third-tier football match against Bristol Rovers with the birth of my first child**, I'll answer back with this; If you don't understand why, you don't understand sport. I cannot explain what runs inside us, what makes our heart beat a thousand times a minute when on a Saturday, we get that first glimpse of the stadium. What makes the agony of seeing my second home destroyed by greed, what makes facing the prospect of administration and no club ruin not just my week, but my whole life.

**Purely hypothetical at this point

I cannot really explain any of this rationally, to some people it still seems utterly baffling. The only explanation I can really give - is emotion is what drives us on as human beings, is what makes us do great things, what makes a life worth living. And sport, at it's very heart, has a huge, huge emotional pull.

And that's why supporting the Cobblers feels so entirely pointless so often at the moment. There is no fear. When the opposition get near our goal, there is only one single emotion. Inevitability - it's not even an emotion.

Why we just don't care any more - look out for an accompanying piece to come soon!

Part-timer.

Now now - don't you ever go accusing me of being an armchair fan.


I'll have you know, I'd long since finished my prawn sandwiches, necked a bottle of sparkling mineral water, brushed up on my League Two knowledge - all before I got my lazy backside off my thousand-quid recliner.  No, No. I'm not your average armchair fan. I am passionate. I even booked a table at the pub, just to make sure I'd get the perfectly prime location - the 360 puborama, as us football fanatics like to call it. On one side you have the crisp, clean viewing lines of the 5000-inch HDextra 3DD monster, but crane your neck around, and the bar is still in sight; relief for when the football is just too sh*t. 


It took me thirty seconds to become a dedicated follower of alcohol whilst watching the Cobblers.


Alas, this is no AA meeting. If I wanted to admit my sins - my claret confession would probably be the most shameful. IF I ever find myself at the pearly gates (and it's a bloody big if I tell you) and God is really probing me, I reckon I'd declare myself a Manchester United fan. At a push, you understand. 
I did once see them on TV. Not once, but twice. I think that over qualifies me. Gates, open!


Unfortunately, this television has switched alliances as well as channels. Is something faulty with it? I look around the pub. The clientele look bemused. You have to call them clientele now. Not boozers - or losers. As the clientele splash their cash, I try not to look unemployed. I slip my scarf off in secret. It doesn't seem to be the done thing in here. I sacrifice food so I can be a part of it. This crowd looks much more respectable than the Sixfields mob - I find myself thinking, guiltily. 


"One G and T please. And makes it a er... a fancy one." 


I've never ordered gin and tonic before. I don't know what having it fancy means.


"Excuse me there fellow." The bartender looks confused. I wonder if I did something wrong.   


"Isn't that.... ? That ground on TV. I think I drove past there once. That wee place looks familiar." 


I look up at him, about to respond. How could he not know his home ground, for Christ's sake. 'I go there every week you p***k. It's my wee home.' That's what I say to him, in my head, anger bursting out of me. The reality is quite different.


"Oh I er...hm. Yes, it does look familiar doesn't it? Isn't that somewhere local?" 


I vow not to get involved with such stupid people. Life is too short. I take a sip of my drink. I don't like the taste, but it tastes expensive so I take another sip. To my right, another conversation. Well... whispered murmurings. Rumour is spread.


"Hey isn't that...? Oh my God. Look. It is!" A mate prods his mate, and he in turn nearly falls over laughing. "You're right! The Cobblers are on the box. Haha. Isn't there any other football on  today then?" A third joins in. "Shouldn't it be darker than this if they played last night? What do you mean it's not highlights...."


I shake my head. How dare they be so condescending, about MY team. At least I go to the games. At least...  my eye catches the monster screen. Oh crap. I've missed the first five minutes. I was too busy ordering. Did anything happen? Of course it didn't. Relief - nil-nil. It's just like being there.


"But Mummy.." Woah, this is noisier than the usual match day experience. A little boy stomps his feet. "You said Arsenal were playing today. Mummy.. can't I go home and play FIFA Mummy. I'm one match from the treble." She gives him some spiel about how it's polite to watch your local team when  the underdogs have got a big match on against a much bigger team...  


WHAT THE..?! Doesn't she know we're playing Crawley. Okay, so they're richer, have better players, and won't be in our division next year... but bigger than us? I almost correct her, but I'll feel an even smugger sense of satisfaction once I rip off my cardy and reveal my strip of pride underneath. I bet Superman has never had such a feeling, I bet he's never made a whole pub look ridiculous. 
'1-0, to Northampton Town.' I know all the songs, I'll show them.


It's still zero-zero at the moment though. To be honest, we're not really playing that well. Neither are they. We're twenty minutes in, and the only shots to be had are those from the bar. Talking of which, this match is frustrating me. I could really use another. Me and the barman reconvene. 


"The usual please" I state with all the confidence of a regular. 


He is distracted again. "They've scored! Look they've actually scored! Go Cabblers!"  


Cobblers. It's Cobblers you moron. I turn back to the screen, annoyed to have missed the goal. A slight feeling of excitement, though. It's quickly dashed. We're one-nil down. He's still in earshot. 


"C'mon you red and whites!" Sigh. He's really starting to grate now. He knows nothing about us. Next he'll refer to it as a 'soccer game' - I give up, and move away. 


A few drinks and several mind-numbing minutes later, I head for the loo. Perhaps, if I stay here for long enough, we'll have completed our fabulous comeback and I can shut these fools up. In a way - it's nice. If I was at Sixfields needing the toilet, that woman on my row who always looks like she's attending her child's funeral would grunt at me again. Plus - there's no flash-flood of piss, and there's even soap in the soap dispensers. Actual soap. My God.


Returning from such a clean paradise - I notice that the only grub to be seen is food. Tons of the stuff. It's halfway through the second-half. No-one seems to be watching anymore. Our ninety minutes in the limelight became 45 at most; they've all given up, and turned sides to the other set of screens.


"C'moonnn youuuu Saiinnnts."                                                                                                                    

They seem to know their songs. Well, they do only have two songs. The Saints have come marching out, and already they lead comfortably. Northampton is now not just on the map; it's the centre of the sporting Universe.  Unfortunately, one side of the galaxy is looking decidedly dreary. Surprise, surprise. It's our side. We're falling off the map again - our one chance to shine and they all love rugby now. 

Cheers fill the pub. I glance around. Bloody hell, now I'm not the biggest fan of rugby by any means, but I have to admit that was a damn fine try. A small smile creeps over my lips. It's good to see the Saints winning. It's good for the Town. The Town.. the.....   Ah yes, the Town. 

We're still playing, I just remembered. Even the 5000 inches aren't wide enough to fit Bayo in the picture, and yet we choose to bring on Savage too? Sky vow not to come here again, not until they've invented super-widescreen.

As a side-issue - they won't come here again because we've bored them all to death. Not just them, but a whole nation. Creepy Crawley have tried their best too - but whilst the picture appears to be 22 players chasing a non-existent ball all over the field - by the time the thing does finally return to earth, Crawley have had time to hire a luxury limousine down to London, hop into Harrods and come out with a 5th choice keeper made of solid gold. Ah, there's nothing like the romance of a League Two side buying their way out of the division to keep the viewers interested. Move over, Ronnie Radford. Let's be honest, that was the only reason the cameras were here in the first place. They aint called The Red Devils for nothing.


I close my eyes and imagine I'm really there. I pray for a goal, a miracle, an abandonment. Anything. Nothing happens. I open my eyes and my palms are not pressed together, merely grasping a half-empty glass of something. I couldn't remember the name of the something if I tried. I drink-up, resigned to alcoholism, just as the man in black resigns a home crowd to misery. No-one else notices. No-one else cares, they're all having fun and drinking in a victory for the Saints. The irony is, I thought I'd feel shame. I thought I'd feel remorse. What I actually feel - is glad. Glad to be warm, glad to not have that awful, patronising, happy post-match Sickfields music ringing in my ears, and glad to have saved myself enough money to drown my sorrows. In the end - though perhaps I missed the company - it wasn't that different. It wasn't that bad. Slightly less depressing, maybe.


I forget quickly, and count up my pennies to scrape enough change for a final drink. Oh - I forgot I had that tenner. The barman is there again. This time it's a warm greeting. He pushes something bitter toward me - but for once it's not the abusive tones of the West-stand folk around me.


"On the house son." It tastes alot sweeter now. I might come back here.


"Thanks mate. So did you enjoy the football? Will we be seeing you up the Cobblers any time soon?"


Suddenly the answer reverberates in my ears, as I realise a whole clientele have the same two words on their lips.


"The who?"