Better to have loved and lost that never loved at all......it’s time to call it a day.
So after a decade of slumming it in sleazy bars and cellars we eventually got an invite to the cocktail party of the rich and famous. A gold edged invitation to mix with the glitterati and galcticos of the EPL. Yes, it was a bit embarrassing that we turned up with a crate of Peroni when all the others were bringing Dom Perignon but, hey, we are Sheffield United and we do it our own way. To our surprise we went down quite well at first.
A breath of fresh air to clear away the acrid, money induced halitosis of the ‘Big 6’ ( remember them? They were the ones that kept on chattering and laughing as West Ham ripped up the legal and moral rule book and consigned us to our own personal oblivion). Chris went down very well, quite the up and coming social star and darling of the media. Quite a crowd gathered around him and some of them even tried drop of the Peroni for themselves “overlapping centre backs? Really Chris, do go on, that quaint Sheffield accent really does turn me on....”. There was even talk we may get an invite to the super exclusive ‘European Room’ upstairs where the stench of money and exclusivity almost overpowers all sense of what football is about and who it is for.
Sadly , as the evening draws on, the heady expensive wine replaces the Peroni and goes to our heads. £18 million here, £23 million there, we didn’t care, this is the Prem party and we are havin’ a gooood time. “Chris, sorry to interrupt but those friends of yours in the corner don’t really fit in do they?” “you mean Oli and Lunny?? Nah they’re fine - let ‘em have a couple of drinks, they’ve earned it, now have you heard me speak about the importance of ‘pashun’.....?
The talk becomes more strident and repetitive, the crowd of people begin to drift away, Chris cuts an increasingly lonely figure. Even that nice Mr Klopp comments “isn’t he the chappy whose team is bottom of the league now.....he’s a bit, how you say, ‘gobby’ isn’t he?”
it becomes increasingly clear that we are beggars at the feast rather than in with the in-crowd. If we are to take our leave, then let’s do it with dignity and good grace. It was great to be invited and thanks for such a good time. Too late, Oli and Lunny are now so pissed they can’t walk in a straight line and have lost all sense of purpose and direction. “We need to go out the front door!” Yells Chris in a way that suggests he has had way too many and has completely lost the plot. We are firmly guided to the tradesman’s entrance, a party bag of parachute money stuffed into our coats and the party sounds fade to a dull, unintelligible rumble as the door shuts and locks behind us.. The outside chill hits us full on and sobers us up pretty quickly but a check in our empty back pockets confirms the fact that it was real and we have spunked over £100 million mixing with the rich and famous. We trudge down the drive hoping to get in at that Championship House party much further down the road. Behind us, the distinct sounds of a fat lady singing drift through the cold night air...