The Damned United
Welcome to the jungle, folks. Apparently they’ve got fun and games.
I suppose the fun stops when you get the Ebola virus. Not much joy to be had when spraying your pulped innards on the side of a lemon tree; keeling over in shock, using your grubby trousers as a pillow, waiting for the wolves to find you. Nope. No fun at all.
With that enchanting image firmly lodged in your brain tanks, we move forward. It’s F.A Cup night. The punishment for too much fannying about in the front of goal last time around- the not altogether enviable task of going to Elland Road and trying to vanquish Leeds on their own back patio. We haven’t been here for a while, January 2004 in fact (Keane scored the winner for us), but rest assured it’s still a place with a formidable look about it. For all their dithering in the lower leagues, Leeds, when called for, can park forty-thousand-plus buttocks in their stands. More than most top flight grounds. They may have lost their Premiership way some years ago now, but their homestead would have you believe anything but. If this was the property market, they’d be MTV Cribs in a League of full of How Clean is Your House?
As ever, my requests are fairly modest. Advancement. Sure, an enthralling game with some classic Cup atmosphere would be a bonus, but in truth, I’d settle for complete silence, a dull-to-the-point-of-ridiculous ninety-minutes, just as long as we’re in the hat come the end of the evening.
Oh why not. 4-4. Tottenham win 13-12 on penalties.