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The radio is my home on nights like these,
usually hacked off, annoyed and frustrated.
As bad news filters through with inevitable regularity
as another season drones on in the grip of a fight for survival.
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From what I’ve seen and heard it’s been really bad,
simply dire all season
and whatever Holloway has tried simply ain’t worked.
The constant tinkering of players and positions and formations
leave some of us convinced he don’t know what he’s doing.
But then sometimes he gets lucky, picks a team that can perform
but then for the next game there will be a whole host of changes.
Victory means they deserve a rest but some of us
don’t see any real sense in that as we seek some continuity.
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Alan Dunne on 51 minutes means Millwall 1 Birmingham 0
the radio reporter announces.
And delight sweeps through me,
reward I’m convinced for all the good writing work I did today.
But then suddenly a fear engulfs me as I think to myself,
39 minutes at least to mess it up again.
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The Hoff is just awful, celebrates obvious own-goals
as if he’s won the World Cup
when we got a goal-scorer on the bench.
Along with some great young kids who I’d rather see play
than a lot of the dross our beloved manager had decided to bring in.
Our bizarre, philosophical, comical leader
who dazzles the press with his words and his players with his tactics.
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Then news comes through,
Leeds are one-nil up and will widen the gap
before Saturday’s little showdown unless we cling on.
With our defence holding firm, marshalled by Dunney,
about 10 minutes now before this agony is over.
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It gets so bad I feel a little twitch when he utters the words
‘an update from B…..’ until it becomes clear,
wow, there ain’t any update
But tonight, in lo-fi land,
the presenter seems more concerned
with reporting from Anfield
than telling me if my team have held on.