The Damned Utd

You wake up and for those few seconds, minutes, you forget; forget you are injured; forget you are finished.

He once told me, Instead of scoring thirty goals a season, why don't you score twenty-five and help someone else to score fifteen? That way the team's ten goals better off.

There are stains on their knees, stains on their arses. Dirty Leeds.

How you harangue referees. How you fall over when you've not been touched. How you make a meal out of every tackle to try and get the other player booked. How you protest when you have nothing to fucking protest about –

I've seen it before. Been here before. Played or managed here, six or seven times in six or seven years. Always a visitor, always away.

Johnny Watters bends down, sponge in his hand, tongue in your ear, he whispers, "How shall we live, Brian? How shall we live?

The smell of blood. The smell of sweat. The smell of tears. The smell of Algipan. You want to smell these smells for the rest of your life.

They love me for what I'm not. They hate me for what I am.

The sun comes out but the rain stays put. No rainbows today. Not here.

Age does not count. It’s what you know about football that matters.

A boy with a ball. A boy with a dream.

You are afraid, afraid of your dreams, your dreams which were once your friends, your best friends, are now your enemies, your worst enemies.

They are waiting for us again. My youngest lad and me. The crows around the floodlights. The dogs around the gates. They are waiting for us because we are late again. My youngest lad and me.

No matter how good you think you are or how clever... How many fancy new friends you make on the telly... The reality of footballing life is this: The chairman is the boss, then comes the directors... Then the secretary, then the fans, then the players... And then finally, last of all... bottom of the heap, the lowest of the low... comes the one, who in the end, we can all do without... The fucking manager.