Scary Clowns Earlier Today

Gers on Sunday – Now’s the time to say goodbye?

It’s Goodnight From Me, And It’s Goodnight From Him
In the week that plucky underdogs Leicester romped to their first ever Premiere League championship, we basically imploded in spectacular fashion, and I’m not just talking about on the pitch.
Gers on Sunday
Gers on Sunday

There’s little point in pouring over the faults once again. To be quite frank I’m sick and tired of the whole thing. And now it would appear that Winkelman and Robinson have fallen out. I don’t really care who’s to blame. Both, one, none of them! Who cares! We’re done, and going down. The only pertinent thing that I’ve read over the last couple of weeks came from Winkelman. He, and excuse me if I paraphrase here, gave an interview to the local press, where the stand out phrase went along the lines that he was sick and tired of seeing players walking around the stadium, drawing a wage, while not playing. Who’s to blame for that? Robbo for once again bringing in a marquee name in Upson, only to find out that he’s past his sell by date? The non-existent scouting system, putting duds forward for the club to sign? The council for pissing around with Woughton, thus our injury list lengthens week after week? The training itself? The coaching staff? I’ve no idea. And to be quite frank, I don’t give a shit. And here’s why.

Anyone who’s read this blog over the last few weeks will be well aware that I’ve followed this club for 11yrs, and more. Home and away. I was one of the hundred or so idiots who went to Cardiff on a Tuesday night for a League Cup second round tie. I could bore you senseless recounting all the other pathetic stuff I’ve done in my support for the club, but as above, I just can’t really be arsed any longer.
In the aforementioned 11yrs, I’ve only left a game early 5 times. And all this season you’ll note. Coincidence? I think not.
  • Getafe: It was boring
  • QPR away: It was a shit game, and we wanted to miss the crowd in order to catch the train home.
  • Burnley: I was ill
  • Brentford: We were shit, and there was a better game on the telly
  • Ipswich: I was threatened with violence from a fellow supporter for not towing the happy-clapper line
Ruby the Don DogYep’, you’ve read that right. Apparently spending somewhere around the £100 mark on a day out, doesn’t give you the right to have a laugh with your mates, and basically take the piss out of what looked like 11 strangers who all turned up wearing the same coloured jerseys, and thus Robbo threw them on the pitch and hoped for the best (It didn’t work by the way) and generally having a good day. Up until halftime at any rate.
I’m a firm believer in free speech. Always have been, always will be. I may not agree with what you say, but I fully uphold your right to say it. Even if it makes you look like a right wanker. In actual fact, more so if you’ll end up looking like a wanker. What I won’t do however is fight for that right. I’m not much cop at punching other people’s dads, and violence, in my opinion, gets you nowhere, except locked up. Trust me on this. I’m originally from the west coast of Scotland, I know.
There have been a fair few ‘incidents’ this season. No need to rake over them again here. But to focus on one in particular, with a certain resonance to what happened last Saturday, I give you, QPR away.
Everyone had their own take on what happened that afternoon. But most of you are wrong. Here’s what actually happened. Some morons took exception to a gang of adolescent males having a day out down that London, singing some stupid songs, and generally having a good time, while drunk, and thought throwing a few punches around was a good idea. It wasn’t. Someone I know personally ended up being banned for a short while. He’d done nothing but have the temerity to be stood in the wrong place at the wrong time. He was innocent. And by the conventions of modern law, you’re supposed to remain innocent until proven guilty. Well not at MK it soon transpired.
Jeans Lewington
Jeans Lewington

Him, and others, were soon convicted by the kangaroo court of social media. They were young. They were wearing clobber that was widely associated with an unsavoury element. They were drunk. But most importantly of all, they weren’t like us. So they must be guilty. The backlash was pathetic. Almost to a man, and it’s almost exclusively males who post on footy related forums, they had already made their minds up. Guilty as charged. Take them down. Ban ’em, and throw the book at ’em. The club chipped in with a nice wee ‘warning’ that certain fans were being watched. And recently the widely ineffective supporters association posted their own Johnny-come-lately, lapdog response.

This is what you’re up against. I’ve actually come across an MK supporter who, this season, went on one of the fans forums and said that he’d rather we played our usual ‘play it out from the back’ style of footy and lose, that adapt to the style The Championship requires and win. I shit you not. He’d rather we played and lost, than won. What chance do you stand against that?
One of the main attractions of following this club for me is down to the fact that it’s not like other clubs. It’s a bit of a joke really. But I don’t mind. We’re a massive windup in the face of traditional footy. But when fellow supporters tap one of your friends on the shoulder and tell him basically to wind his neck in, or else, well that’s it for me.
A deserted stadium today (and every day)
A deserted stadium today (and every day)

That’s why I walked out of Portman Road at halftime, and got a train back home. Sorry to those on the mini-bus that I came with for any worry and distress I caused, but I’m so angry at what happened that I gave my season ticket to someone else for Saturday’s game against Forest, and decided to spend the afternoon in the garden, which now looks lovely. I didn’t listen to the game on the wireless, and I’ve no interest in the result. I’m assuming we got a right kicking.

I’m not going to throw my season ticket back at the club like some of my friends have in past seasons, and wage a campaign stating that it was all a property deal, because basically right at this moment I couldn’t give a shit. It’s obviously tied up in a property development scheme. Big deal. Who cares? At least The Guardian have stopped referring to Winkleman as an ex-music mogul, and only this week called him a property developer. So if the shoe fits…
I wasn’t at The Winterland Ballroom in January ’78, so I didn’t hear John Lydon asking the crowd if they ever had the feeling that they’d been cheated. But after last weekend I didn’t need to be.