Rather than rant incessantly, and under the influence of a bottle of wine, I considered it rather a good idea (at the time) to answer instead through the medium of poetry. Half an hour later...
"But we’ve all taken our share of the criticism. I’ve been criticised, Ken Bates has been criticised and Shaun Harvey’s been criticised. That’s totally out of order because we’ve done b***** all wrong." (Peter Lorimer, 17th February, 2012)
So let’s get this right Pete,
You’re not to blame.
Nor Harvey, nor Bates,
Not one of you shamed
It’s all down to Grayson,
Who got us promoted,
Not down to Ken,
The man you deep throated?
Well let’s look at the evidence to see if you’re right,
Is it the truth or propaganda?
Are you talking shite?
Now first there’s Shaun Harvey
The Chief Exec King,
Been at three clubs,
Led them all to admin,
Admitted culpability for the summer transfer sham,
And yet now Grayson is carrying the can.
Then there’s our Ken,
Should the buck not stop here?
The supporters want him out on his ear,
Yet you remain blind to the entire farce,
Still, it’s hard to see with your head up his arse.
Only £9.5m annually to pay for a squad,
And yet our mediocrity you consider quite odd,
After Brum you fumed that our defence went and fudged it,
Against a man earning a quarter of our entire wage budget
Is Ken’s lack of investors really down to us?
Chanting bad things and causing a fuss.
Or can the reason actually be found,
In nil team investment and the half empty ground?
Or maybe Ken doesn’t want investment at Leeds,
The notoriety of being a twat’s what he needs?
Three credible consortiums dismissed out of hand,
All mention omitted from the match programme.
“Simon had to go!”
We hear the club say.
Another season we can’t throw away
“We need a change now, to give us a chance”
“And where’s this new man?” ask all the fans,
Yet the silence is deafening down at Elland Road,
While Bates eyes the cheap option and gives him a go
Then there’s you Peter,
Not a care for our club,
Just here for cash to subsidise your pub.
Spouting shit weekly in the Evening Post,
“We want promotion!”; that is your boast.
But from your pathetic diatribes it’s easy to see.
You’d fight your mother for her last 50p
How could you ever stoop so low?
The club that made you left to go...
...drifting slowly towards obscurity,
While you feather you own nest – job security?
So now you see Peter,
You’ve got it all wrong,
You’ve shafted the club that’s made you a song.
So why don’t you go back to you pub?
“You 'turncoat' b******d...GET OUT OF OUR CLUB!!”