Blackpool 1 Leeds United 0

Blackpool; the undoubted High Priest amongst tacky holiday destinations, a place where people you’d ordinarily never choose to spend your time with, congregate en masse for an orgy of binge drinking, drugs, fighting, fast food, horrendous cuddly toys and kitsch memorabilia. A Mecca for the Jeremy Kyle generation no less; a place where the benefits brigade make their holy pilgrimage – this is how Castleford might’ve looked had it not been land-locked.

He's Leeds and he knows he is!

Those who market the town do little to help of course; while more aspiring seaside towns seek to keep the stag do and hen party crowd at bay, Blackpool positively embraces them, adverts in pub windows proclaim that groups of lewd violently drunk, sex starved, gobshites are welcome…maybe it’s in an effort to raise the tone? After all, when the resort’s core demographic of youthful idiots is drawn almost exclusively from Manchester and Merseyside, what harm can it do?

But even with its hard core apostles in toe, Blackpool has the aura of a place dying on its arse, especially on an April weekday when the Pleasure Beach is closed. The sea front is punctuated with vacant properties, which in turned are flanked by tattooists and bargain clearance outlets, the only sign of life being pairs of men, working to lure you in to play an exorbitantly priced darts game in an effort to win something from the rows upon rows of cheap teddies (also available around the corner for fraction of the fee required to win one). As usual, they play an ace card; in this case a 2 foot Smurfette – I could’ve won her too, had I been required to score 180 in 12 darts, rather than 3.

Blackpool's a shithole...

Beyond that, you have Blackpool’s main attractions, its key USPs, the centrepiece and the constituent parts of what make the ‘Golden Mile’ the envy of similarly downtrodden destinations – the tower and the illuminations. Blackpool Tower, once a majestic feat of engineering magnificence, these days has more the appearance of an architecturally interesting telephone mast, while the world famous illuminations even suffer in comparison to the Leeds Christmas lights. You can only get away with polishing a turd for so long – no wonder the town so aggressively campaigned for the UK’s biggest Super Casino; the place is f**ked!

Mid-Enoch tribute

Still, Blackpool has pubs, and plenty of them, so those who braved the Scum hotbed could at least get appropriately shitfaced. Fans who’d travelled and stayed overnight had ample justification for being paralytic by early afternoon – there was absolutely nothing else to do! For our sins, we visited The Manchester, purely on the basis that it’s usually rowdy; it was, clusters of barely articulate Leeds fans, arms aloft, providing spirited vocal accompaniment as ‘Leeds United Calypso’ shimmied its way out of the speaker system. As luck would have it the entire greatest hits album was on heavy rotation – though let’s go a little easier with ‘Football in a Yorkshire Rose’ next time, eh? DJ! – the playlist further adorned with ‘Tom Hark’ and a Hi-NRG dance track that provided an unconventional if perfect backing for the Enoch song. 

Bloomfied Road - the bit they want you to see

To the ground, and a surprising contrast; Bloomfield Road is a very tidy stadium from the outside, somewhat helped by a landscaping scheme that most retail park managers would die for. Adorning the main entrance to the North Stand is a statue of Stan Mortenson, however our interest lie around the corner where a (far more impressive) statue of Jimmy Armfield looked outward – one Leeds scarf later and a fitting tribute was complete.

Going back, I think I ought to qualify the remark about how decent the stadium looks, by adding the caveat that the away end is factored out of the equation. Yes, the East Stand is a temporary construction, but with £60m of Premier League cash in the coffers you’d at least expect them to make an effort. The steel sheet fronted turnstiles were a first, and the A4 signs that read ‘Please refrain from bouncing in the stand’, more of a worry; add the Portakabin toilets and the revolutionary ‘un-numbered seats’ layout and you have a ‘unique’ match day experience – I was even able to find some elements of  London Road that compare favourably.

...and the bit they didn't.

As the game kicked-off, the atmosphere was lively; particularly helped by some pockets of all-dayers conducting their own sing-alongs, oblivious that a game was going on in the background. The chant de rigueur of the early stages became ‘If Billy scores, we’re in the sea’, but although he did slot home from an offside position early on, there was little prospect of a moonlight swim; indeed Paynter’s premature exit signalled a chorus of ‘We’re not going in the sea’.

The first-half itself was nothing revelatory; Blackpool edging possession and having the better of the chances, but deprived of Rachubka’s 3 assists, they had to settle for going in level. For their part, Leeds threatened in bursts, one Webber shot forcing Gilks to palm the ball around the post. McCormack also had a decent penalty shout when bundled over by Crainey; the ref looked non-plussed and checked with the assistant who merely looked vacant. ‘Play on’ was the verdict and a new ‘Shit Bald B**stard’ was born on the touchline.

Rare Leeds attack in the first half

The only other memorable vignette from the opening 45 minutes was a 10 minute burst of ‘Leeds United Calypso’, punctured at the end of each line with a resounding ‘Bates Out! – I can only imagine the frantic efforts of Eddie Gray to drown out the chant from his commentary position amongst the depths of the Leeds support.

After the break, again the stands provided a more compelling spectacle than the game as four Leeds fans in quick succession engaged in fisticuffs in the neighbouring stand; the final fella tumbling down 4 rows of seats, as if paying homage to the legendary fan at the Manor Ground in 1990. In fairness, the Blackpool support offered more than the Reading fans last time out; a genuine passion invigorated ‘We all hate Leeds scum’ - they must still be seething from that 3-1 reverse back in season 1970-71 when we last played them.

The penalty shout

Inevitably, back on the pitch, as Blackpool pushed for a late winner, Leeds collapsed. Phillips and Ince both… well, I was gonna say raped the back four, but that would be both distasteful, and also inaccurate, being that term suggests a degree of resistance. It was left to Angel Martinez beat Lees and Bromby to snatch the winner, before O’Dea kept up Warnock’s ‘average’... albeit only on red cards; moments later Clayton clattered another opponent and was swiftly withdrawn.

At least it wasn’t 5…

Leeds United 4 Peterborough 1

Finally, after weeks of abject misery, a chance to leave Elland Road at 4.50pm with something approaching a state of happiness...well contentment, no actually scratch that, just relief that for once, it “wasn’t all that bad!” A day when the customary, soul destroying, anaemic spectacle of 90 minutes football was cast aside, giving way to an almost mildly diverting experience!

Enthusiasm come 3 o’clock was hardly all-consuming; the football over the last few games has become something almost incidental that occurs in the background, while thoughts are trained on concerns more worthy of attention, like what to have for tea; the sight of 11 players moving around aimlessly, initially intriguing but soon losing its attraction – a bit an aquarium...but without a visible ‘war chest’.

Billy's goal in all it's detailed glory...

Today was different though, the instantaneous apathy that greets the kick-off replaced by an energy, zest and hunger that United maintained for nigh on 5 minutes! But what a 5 minutes; the recalled Billy Paynter twice presented with gilt-edged chances to end his 14 month scoring hiatus, only to prove himself more adept at finding the stray boots of defenders rather than the bottom corner.

Inevitably the high intensity took its toll, and after such a blistering opening, the players retreated back to their default awfulness; arguments and abdication of defensive responsibilities aplenty. Tom Lees, now playing in the customary ‘taken out of the firing line’ right back berth looked suitably horrified every time he received the ball, desperately gesticulating for a sympathetic team mate to relieve him of his ball retention nightmare, to absolve any responsibility of running with the shiny, spherical white thing that seems to intimidate him so. With Pugh on the receiving end of a tongue lashing from Clayton and O’Dea setting the benchmark in backing off, it looked like being another afternoon to endure rather than enjoy.

The early exit of ‘The Robbie Rogers’ added to the despondency; two challenges now made at Elland Road, two premature exits - thousands of females mourned his departure, while thousands of males sighed with despondency as Danny Webber replaced him. Gone was the poster boy, but moments later, stepping into the void was a new poster girl; the Peterborough physio; a rather striking, petit lady with fair shoulder-length hair who made her Elland Road bow to the predictable chorus of wolf-whistles and sexist remarks before leaving the pitch to the rather more original chant of “Fergie’s gonna beat ya!”

It was a moment of light relief, temporarily distracting the crowd from the task in hand of witnessing a defensive capitulation, but on 38 minutes, everyone was firmly back on task. Charlie Taylor, having shown promise on his debut in the Autumn, quickly proved his suitability in his audition for the Leeds United defensive unit by inexplicably giving the ball away on the edge of the area, Joe Newell burst through, going past Danny Pugh as if he was...Danny Pugh and slipping the ball through the large gap Andy Lonergan had opened between his legs. Warnock, who’d waved his fist frantically at the concession of possession, was apoplectic – Same old Leeds, same old shit.

Then, in the dying embers of first-half injury time it all changed; Billy scored (seriously, he did). Apart from the final touch not coming off his arse, it was the exactly sort of goal every fan visualised, the ball falling to Paynter via a goalkeeping fumble and a centre half’s back – inexplicably, Billy chose to aim between the white sticks and...GOAL!!! Paynter peeled away, rubbing his eyes; whether it was a gesture to symbolise shedding tears of emotion or articulate his disbelief was unclear. As he left the pitch for the interval, he gave his shirt to a spectator in the West Stand; the star exhibit for the new museum, senselessly discarded.

Half-time arrived, playing host to the usual Ben Fry show; our presenter smugly parading about the pitch, resembling a potato wrapped in a hot water tank insulation blanket, plugging LUFC Insurance services and reminding everyone how taking up membership is the only way fans can guarantee tickets in a half-empty stadium. His fawning attempts to sound hip by commenting “Ooh, very casual” during the ‘You Bet, You Score’ challenge as Felix - a man who exuded ‘dudeness’ – chipped in from 35 yards, failed miserably to mask his everyday persona of gimp-cum-muppet-cum-octogenarian arse kisser.

Taxi for Mrs Ferguson...

Come the second half, come another 5 minute whirlwind, though this time it produced two goals, both for McCormack; the first from a Bromby throw, a far post finish fumbled in via the keeper, the second a tap-in after Clayton covered acres of ground on the overlap to lay on an inviting cross. In less than 4 minutes of football, Leeds had scored 3 goals and Peterborough had capitulated; thoughts immediately strayed 100 miles south where Mrs Ferguson was most likely hiding away the cat and frantically booking into a Novotel for the night. In contrast, flummoxed Leeds supporters joyously chanted “What the f**k is going on?” Snoddy responded by holding his arms aloft in puzzlement as he jogged back to the half-way line with a smile on his face.

From that point on the game was over; Leeds had somehow found a side more mediocre, de-motivated and defensively shambolic than themselves, from here it was more a case of how many more the team could score. There was certainly plenty of opportunities over the remaining 40 minutes, though sadly most fell to Danny Webber; the amount of time and space afforded to him down the left and through the middle was astonishing, yet time after time he produced the square root of f**k all. Leeds United committed a cardinal sin some years ago by releasing goalkeeper Nicky Byrne to unleash a reign of insipid pop terror through the medium of Westlife; it appears that karmic retribution has been had in the guise of JLS reject, sent to Elland Road on a short-term contract, his mission: to screw up every goal scoring opportunity that presents itself.

LEEDS UNITED 4 (Paynter 2 (TWO), McCormack 2) PETERBOROUGH 1 (Newell)

Another goal did come though, and it was Billy, and it was a good striker’s goal (really); just reward too for a man who was transformed after his opener – it was glorious spectacle, like watching the moment when Forrest Gump shed his leg braces and then suddenly, anything was possible! Run Billy, Run!!! ...True balance was only restored in the universe when ‘Barn Door’ sliced his big hat-trick opportunity into the South Stand.

When the final whistle arrived the players were, just for once, able to look at the crowd in the eye as they applauded...

...all in all, that was almost fun!

Leeds United 0 Derby County 2

For those with strong Christian beliefs, Easter Sunday was a time of celebration; a time to give thanks that an all-round good egg (pun intended) of a fella who had a penchant for preaching – and was also quite nifty at putting together a coffee table – had risen from the dead. The alleged ‘Son of God’, saviour of humanity and founder of the planet’s largest religion had really socked it to the haters…

For those who’d be more inclined to enter ‘Leeds United’ under the religious beliefs section of the Census, behold; another resurrection! Sadly, this was no footballing messiah, fabled to be afforded deity-like status in the annuls of footballing history; but a man rather more akin to the little donkey that Mary rode into Bethlehem on – yes, Paul Connolly was back! (Again!)

He's not the messiah, he's a very naughty boy!

That seems to be where Leeds United is at currently. Twice now, Connolly’s been castigated, twice publicly crucified…and yet, he keeps coming back. Grayson didn’t want him, and it seemed that Warnock had surely seen enough after Watford – do we not use nails for our metaphorical crucifixions at Elland Road, instead favouring Pritt Stick? Paul Connolly and a pestilence of utterly incapable footballers – the Damned United, indeed!

In fairness to Warnock, I think deep down he knows that Connolly is bad for him, that he’ll only let him down when he needs him the most, that he’s gonna break his heart; but like one of those girls who keeps going back to bastard ex-boyfriends, despite being able to do so much better for herself, Warnock keeps looking around in the mistaken belief that there’s no one else out there – Neil, it’s not you, it’s him!

It’s little wonder that the Elland Road crowd were so subdued, the ovation to greet the teams, comparable to the reluctant applause that inevitably follow most home games (10 and counting). It’s been a long time since Leeds have played an ‘end of season’ fixture before the Easter break is up and they haven’t been missed. Not that you’d have thought it was a ‘dead rubber’ for Derby, their players joined for a pre-match huddle; I can only assume it was a motivational thing, as opposed a strategy to instil the courage necessary to perform at the ‘fortress’.

It took all of about a minute to have our worst fears confirmed, that’s how long the opposition took to find a gaping hole between centre back and left back. By the 6^th minute, Paul Robinson was already ripping into Tom Lees for losing his marker; Lees looked forlorn – maybe some time in the reserves will do him good, after all, everyone’ll “do it for Redders!” If the writing wasn’t already on the wall, Michael Brown got out the spray can and went all Banksy on our asses – a tackle with the leading leg at a 90 degree angle is generally frowned upon, even a little bit at Leeds. Today’s #Brownfact – that was f**king stupid!

1-0

So onwards in the relentless pursuit of defeat; it didn’t take long to pick up the momentum, Craig Bryson joining the esteemed and seemingly never-ending list of players who’ve scored thumping long range efforts against Leeds this season. The game looked dead from that moment, and despite plenty of effort (but very little else), it was; 60 minutes of a jejune, somniferous spectacle, leading to only one conclusion.

Warnock, one of the football’s great pachyderms, but evidently despairing at the state of the playing squad, was quick to try and distance himself from many of the individuals that represented him today, quick to regale to the radio audience the tale of his conversation with Nigel Clough who was warned that he’d “never see another team of Neil Warnock’s like this”. Some may suggest that Warnock’s policy talking openly about the need to re-haul the squad is in some small way responsible for recent performances, if so, haven’t those same players implicated proved themselves to be of insufficient character to rise to the challenge of proving him wrong? With the season dead, I’d much rather hear straight talking rhetoric about team building and clear-outs, heaping pressure on Bates and Harvey, as opposed to sound bites about “pushing on” and “looking for a response”.

Danny Pugh in default 'left for dead' pose...

The only question I’d ask of Warnock is where he intends to start. In goal, Lonergan’s been far from our poorest player this season, but still a liability and not of the standard required for a promotion chasing team; Connolly, I could write a dissertation on… I think I’ll stick with the midfield on this occasion, or rather the lack of – could a midfield that has Brown and Pugh at its heart , not to mention Nunez even hope to cut it at League One level?

Brown is maybe good for another year, given a full pre-season and on the understanding that he’s not going to be an ever present, but somebody who’s utilised in certain games, particularly on the road. The other two mentioned though, forget it. Warnock commented on Friday that Pugh had shown him something new on Friday – I only assume it was his ability to foul. Buoyed by those words, Pugh spent the entire first half slide tackling; what, I’m not sure – there were never any players in his range, but he may have aggressively displaced some air. It’s a common theme for Danny, a man capable of losing his own shadow at a corner. It was no surprise to see Steve Davis drift past him as if he wasn’t there, en route to the second goal. As for Ramon…I found myself counting white shirts, just to make sure he was still there.  

That Danny Webber moment, for anyone who's missed it!

It wasn’t all bad though; ‘The Robbie Rogers’ came on for a run-out and having already been knocked unconscious and captained the side in his previous appearances, today, 49 seconds in, he finally touched the ball – it was a good one too; a nice pass down the touchline, Ramon’s Opta Index rating eclipsed in one deft flick of the boot. There was also Danny Webber: thank you Danny, for that effort when clean through on goal, it brought back memories of Enoch and Ricketts in their pomp. I’m still smiling about it now.

The Kop - no, the game hasn't finished

Apparently Warnock can’t wait for next season to start and has promised that “The team I put out at the start of the season will absolutely love playing at Elland Road!” I hope so, as I’d quite like to love watching football at the ground.

For now, there’s just four more games left to go, so as Warnock also says, “Let’s just grin and bear it”. 

Leeds United Movie Poster Mash-up #10

In humble homage to the chosen one...

#10 BROWN ALMIGHTY

Suggestions for future projects welcome as ever...

Reading 2 Leeds United 0

Oh Snoddy, what were you thinking?

That was the moment, or rather it should’ve been it; the glorious realisation of one of those ‘Leeds United against the world' triumphs, pissed away in the blink of a lame finish. Even then, Becchio had the chance to cast that aberration into the shadows of irrelevance, but he didn’t follow in McCormack’s fiercely struck free-kick. Why oh why, didn’t you react, Luciano?

Certainly a better name for a stand than the Pink Link at the Gapharm

Hesitation in the end was the difference between victory and defeat. Becchio hesitated when anticipation’s reward was a tap-in, minutes later, Lonergan hesitated (for the umpteenth time), leaving himself in no position to claim the ball, nor to intercept Robson-Kanu’s intelligent nod back to Adam Le Fondre. At that moment, the game was up for a shattered Leeds side, the second goal, merely added insult to Paul Robinson’s injury; flattering a home side long since reduced to sacrificing their footballing principles in favour of an aerial assault.

It was a day where notions of injustice predominated; not just in terms of events on the pitch, there was a wider picture, one that extended to those in the stands and an appreciation of where the two clubs represented are currently heading. When I arrived home last night, another (not unexpected) dimension was added to the tick list, as I re-lived the experience through two nauseating hours of Sky punditry.

On the pitch, United gave as much as could be expected; everything the supporters could’ve demanded – it wasn’t pretty, but if nothing else, 7 years under Ken Bates has moulded those who follow the Whites into some of football’s most unwilling pragmatists – and in return, they received the sort of backing that could only leave the home supporters looking on in resigned envy at. As always seems to be the case at Leeds, the greater the adversity, the more intense the backing.

Rash? Thompson, yes. Referee...?

Of course, the referee more than played his part to that end; the decision to brandish a red card at Zac Thompson, a ridiculous decision. A 19 year old, getting his first game under a new manager, foolishly lost the ball in a dangerous area and desperately tried to redeem himself – yes a lunge, but one-footed and on the ground; a complete loss of common sense under the influence exerted by the cynical over-reaction of Gorkss, ending both Thompson’s involvement and the game as a spectacle.

Darren Drysdale’s subsequent handling of what followed just served to exacerbate questions about his performance; he appeared to spend the remainder of the game attempting to portray the image of a man with an incredibly relaxed attitude towards the physical aspects of the game. If anybody had wanted to argue Danny Pugh’s right to still be on the pitch at half-time, his continued presence until the final whistle on the back of the combination of his first-half lunge and second-half clattering of McAnuff cast the officials in a ludicrous light.

Corner (3 of 16)

Those three challenges apart though, there was nothing else reckless or incendiary of note; not that you’d know it from the reaction of the home side, nor the ‘neutrals’ in the media. Watching Sky’s ‘balanced’ coverage was enough to convince that the time and expense lavished on travelling to the Madejski was more than worthwhile. Don Goodman’s limp comments about every challenge made, betrayed a career played out during a period where a degree of physicality was the norm, rather than a cue for mock outrage; the fact that all talk leading in to, and during the interval centred on whether Pugh should have walked, rather than why Thompson did, an exemplification of the tone – unsurprisingly, Sky’s studio guest, Reading’s Championship winning captain, Graeme Murty could not possibly conceive an opinion to the contrary.

The commentary wasn’t just restricted to those challenges though; Michael Brown had his motives openly questioned with every tackle he made, yet Mikele Leigertwood’s persistent fouling of Brown went unnoticed. In contrast, Jason Roberts, all prima donna whingeing and flailing arms, was praised for his strength and wily experience. What is it with Roberts? He appears to have adopted a new air of arrogance, common to many media personalities. Quite why I don’t know; moving from a non-descript Premier League club to a progressive if uninteresting Championship side is nothing to boast about, while taking Leroy Rosenior’s overwhelming blandness and importing it, lock, stock and barrel to 606 certainly isn’t!

Michael Brown - wouldn't hurt a fly!

The Sky team had a script in their mind; a confident, progressive Reading side, coming up against a dogged but limited Leeds United team. Sophistication against physicality, footballers against grafters… the Thompson challenge fit the script perfectly and after that they were going to crowbar in every incident that followed it, fashioning it to suit their needs. It seems that, not happy with skewing the modern game beyond recognition and inflicting ridiculous kick-off times on supporters, Sky will not be happy until they’ve suffocated all evidence of on-the-pitch aggression with a large corporate damp flannel as they crusade to present football as the shiny, airbrushed, soulless spectacle that so many of those who were there prior to the ‘revolution’ abhor.

Sadly, most of the Reading fans appear to be amongst the post-Revolution gate crashers, which brings into question a greater perceived injustice; while media digs and on the pitch hard luck stories are meat and drink to Leeds fans, there was something which was in turn both wholly depressing and uplifting about being in the away end yesterday.

To be clear, I have no dislike of Reading, in fact I much rather they secured promotion ahead of West Ham whose promotion strategy has been to buy every player in sight then try and steamroller the league through the medium of hoofball. In Brian McDermott, Reading have a likeable, progressive manager, excellent players who play the game as it should be and most crucially, a chairman whose ambitions have always ultimately placed football above all other matters. When Anton Zingarevich appeared on the scene, Madejski’s reaction was to step aside for the good of the club.

But then I look in the stands. I travelled yesterday expecting a buzzing stadium, it was anything but. For such a pivotal game, the atmosphere bordered on the pathetic – as bad as Elland Road has become, the sighs of apathy common to most homes games would’ve still been sufficient to drown out the Reading support. Where was the passion, the hunger? Bar a few pockets of ‘hard core’ locals in the two sections by the Leeds fans, the entire stadium was almost without exception, inanimate throughout. The few that did sing, mustering a few simplistic, handclap-synchronised chants that petered out in a matter of seconds; it took Le Fondre’s goal to confound my suspicions that two-thirds of the stadium was actually wheelchair bound.

A goal...and confirmation that Reading fans have the power to stand

In the quieter moments there was that familiar, depressing sound of a lone drummer, somewhere secreted from the view of disapproving eyes; there was even pre-arranged scarf waving to greet the teams at the start - it was like being at Doncaster, but on a grander scale. When the goal arrived, the inevitable musical accompaniment kicked in, the ultimate affirmation of another soulless club, moving up in the world as Leeds struggle.

In contrast, the Leeds fans, with nothing to excite them beyond the prospect of watching a decimated, unremarkable squad of journeymen, grafting to try to and secure something against a club that regarded Aldershot as its main rivals before their liquidation, in a facile effort to try and prolong the hopeless spectacle of a play-off charge… well, it was there for all to witness. Non-stop, passionate backing throughout; it’s testament to our away following that some people bemoaned the fact that we could only muster 3,126 followers for a relatively meaningless, television game, some 200 miles away.

While there was a degree of pride to be taken from hearing the Leeds end drown out any attempts of backing from the pockets of home fans, I couldn’t help wondering how Elland Road would’ve sounded had it been the Whites, playing a crucial Easter game with pole position in the table up for grabs. I dare say it would’ve been deafening – the Madejski merely resembled another place where ambition was being wasted on those who appreciate it the least. Reading’s new owner made his choice based on his experiences during a brief college stint. Is it too much to wish that some moneyed philanthropist might stop off for a piss at Tropical World in Roundhay Park and feel similarly seduced? Someone with enough money to make even Bates listen?

Still, at least there’s our support to hold on to; away from home especially where we’re the equal of any, envy of almost all. I suppose that’s what it all comes down to in the end; do you want to watch Premier League football in a sterile environment at a well-run club, set up to sustain survival, or would you rather go through the pain of watching Leeds, knowing that when finally our day arrives, it will be embraced with the sort of passion that Reading fans can only dream of?

So good luck Reading; I do hope they go up (even if my dislike of West Ham is part of the reason), although to be clear, when Friday comes around at Saint Mary’s, I’ll be firmly backing the home side; Southampton are a club with both tradition and a passionate support.

As for Leeds? Well, it could get better next year, or it could be a long time coming yet. But no matter how it pans out, I know where I’d still rather be watching my football, week in, week out, and who with. If we’re still here now in numbers and voice, after all this, imagine how it'll be when there’s actually something that’s worth turning up for and singing about.

Hang in there...

Leeds United: The age of the metrosexual cometh?

With the passing of the managerial baton at Elland Road from Simon Grayson to Neil Warnock, there appears to have been a sea change in attitude and philosophy at the club. I’m not talking about improvements on the pitch here, but rather something less anticipated – a new emphasis on image; is this man, initially perceived as a dour, no-nonsense Yorkshireman leading Leeds United headlong into a new metrosexual age of enlightenment?

Elland Road has proudly stood as one of the few remaining strongholds of resistance against the footballer as a modern man. If a player possesses a face that resembles the back end of a bus, cropped hair and considers tracksuit tops and jeans as sophisticated casualwear then acceptance is a given. Exposure to any other breed of footballer is almost universally met with mockery. Years spent in the football wilderness, in splendid isolation from the bright lights of the Premier League and a never-ending stream of sophisticated European imports has protected supporters against the influx of ‘image savvy’ talent.

Prutts: The trailblazer

Previously, only David Prutton and his luscious locks have been embraced in LS11; though a combination of Prutts’ disarming charm, self-mockery and credible resemblance to the son of God were all extenuating factors in his favour. More typically, players suspected of being driven by vanity are regarded with suspicion, both their commitment to the cause and masculinity questioned.

That man bag...

Has Warnock now appeared on the scene with a mandate to challenge such Luddite sensibilities? While the leaked photograph of his meeting in Monaco with Bates and Harvey had the internet buzzing over his appointment, I was far from alone in noticing him proudly sporting a man bag. Over the opening weeks of his reign has anybody failed to appreciate his perfectly maintained eyebrows, his beautifully moisturised skin and his repeated application of lip balm while in the dug-out? No wonder he exudes so much confidence in front of the cameras; offering a devilish smile, a joke…practically undressing the viewer with his lingering eye contact. Contrast that to the demeanour of Simon Grayson, portraying the shifting eyes and body language of a guilty school boy.

If anybody doubts the shift in attitude I would implore them to listen to Warnock’s interview from after the Millwall game; while discussing the defensive performance he remarks that there are “…not many good looking lads in our team at the back!” Is this a wake-up call for those players; a warning that looking the part is an all-encompassing term that stretches beyond merely displaying the ability to play? 

Pout for me, you sexy b**tard!!

My take is perhaps that the seeds of change were planted some time ago by our chairman. It stands to reason that for a man to whom Leeds United represents a vanity project, image would be such an integral concern. The tell-tale signs were there for all to see: an octogenarian deciding to undergo eye laser surgery, his continued references to Susannah’s influence on matters in the radio addresses, the ‘magnificent’ new East Stand boxes – ‘Leeds United: the beautification project’ is all systems go.

Under this scheme, Simon Grayson was the inevitable first victim. He returned pre-season with the appearance of a man with little concern for his image. As he stood on the touchline, donning a tight-fitting training t-shirt that did nothing but accentuate his growing stomach, he resembled a middle-aged dad who’d long since abandoned any notions or desire to impress the opposite sex; the selection of shorts over tracksuit bottoms, merely compounding the grave wardrobe selection.

Grayson was an ill-fit with these new found ambitions; high fashion and grooming regimes, untrusted bedfellows for a man perhaps now better suited to a post in a town that will re-assuredly shelter him from any such progressive notions. Ironic then, that the final permanent signing of his tenure is a pointer for the direction in which the club is going.

Robbie Rogers: Brand, model, humanitarian... and erm, footballer.

‘The Robbie Rogers’ is not so much a footballer, but a brand. He has his own website, his own corporate sponsors that include talent and global marketing agencies, and his own clothing line. His most recent ‘journal’ post effused about his new Spring Collection, particularly a line of lemon English twill shorts. Add to that his plugging of humanitarian housing projects in Brazil and we’re talking ‘GQ – Man of the Year’ material here. The photographs posted on his twitter feed, not so much a ramshackle assortment of images, rather a selected portfolio of poses, fit to adorn any Littlewoods catalogue.

So what are the implications for this Bates/Warnock/Rogers fronted narcissistic revolution? Will the influence spread to all areas of the club? After years of shambling around in a tatty leather jacket, is Peter Lorimer going to have a consultation with a stylist? Might Shaun Harvey track down Wayne Rooney to find out about his hair weave? Maybe Billy Paynter will finally have a tummy tuck? Are there implications for our summer recruitment strategy? Will targets now be selected on their potential to fit with a pulchritude-obsessed merchandise catalogue as well as the wage structure?

The commercial angle is the most intriguing. The scope is there for the superstore to introduce an entire range of beauty products. Luciano has to be the poster boy for shampoos and conditioners, Ramon Nunez (so I’m told) has skin to die for, so that’s the moisturisers covered – what are the chances of getting Tom Lees to start spray tanning? How about next season’s away kits moving away from black and Chelsea blue and being produced in seasonal pastel shades?

Snoddy: A man not immune to the temptress that is vanity

Then there’s Snoddy, a whole project in himself; beloved captain but suffering with severe complexion issues. A new regular LUTV show is surely in the offing here, following his transformation from ugly duckling to swan; a daily regime involving an oatifix face mask, ocean salt cleanser and tea tree water, followed by enzymion moisturiser from the Lush facial range could transform his oily, spot prone skin, providing an invigorated, warm and balanced healthy glow (thanks for the input, Lauren).

Oh, and we can never forget Ben Fry. How about doing away with the morally dubious tie-in with Sporting Bet and have Kenco sponsoring an on-pitch enema; the lucky contestants asked to name the contents of the discharge pan (all contents consumed in Howard’s restaurant) in exchange for a prized meal for two?

We shouldn’t mock though, this affects us all; if you think the beer is sub-standard and the steak and peppercorn pies are crimes against football catering, think on - next season it could be pinot grigio and feta cheese salads.

Prepare yourself for Leeds United 2012/13: If your nails aren’t manicured, you’re not coming in…

Leeds United 0 Watford 2

Onwards to Beeston, where Leeds United were once more offering all and sundry the opportunity pay one more visit to the Elland Road ‘last chance saloon’. A proposition to indulge on over-priced refreshments of negligible quality whilst watching the Leeds United dancing girls performing for your pleasure on the vast green stage.

In recent weeks, so many fixtures have fallen into ‘last chance saloon’ category that the club could’ve probably opened up a network of branches; plans are already afoot for a Reading franchise, although supporter interest is understood to be now on the wane. It’s as if the club has become the footballing equivalent of the Little Chef, marketing games as the one more opportunity, another little pit stop at which to treat yourself on the collective journey to destination Premier League.

1-0...that's where the ball went Tom

However, like those stung by the Little Chef experience, many Leeds fans have seen it all too often before, they feel no longer more tempted to pay upwards of £30 to witness the depressing spectacle of 11 journeymen struggle to make any sort of headway against another collective of allegedly inferior journeymen. Indeed, even the brief rush of joy and nominal nutritional value to be derived from a Little Chef breakfast often compares very favourably with the produce to be had in LS11.

And so it showed in the attendance, the shadow of the Forest nightmare loomed large in too many minds as only 21,766 bought into the onward rolling of the play-off bandwagon rhetoric. Today marked a resounding victory for the pragmatists, the realists and the naysayers; their collective barrier of pessimism, shielding them from the spirit sapping spectacle that was barely able to occupy the minds of those who’d thought otherwise.

Leeds started the game as they intended to go on, in a lackadaisical fashion that as time passed, sought to redefine the meaning of the word ‘apathetic’. Inside 6 minutes they trailed and deservedly so as Paul Robinson attempted a fancy flick – later to be charitably described by Warnock as "criminal" – which only served to free Troy Deeney down the right; Bruce backed off, and off, and then off again, before deciding to stop being such an irritant and to just get out of the way; a confused Lees was torn between following his man or the ball and did neither as Iwelumo was played through… 1-0.

If there was a response, I must have missed it, maybe between blinks; a couple of ineffective Alex Bruce headers and a palmed away Robert Snodgrass cross, the best of the first half-highlights to be shown on the big screen. After the interval it was barely better, the hopelessly ineffective White replaced by the barely involved Webber. Apart from one awful miss from Snodgrass and a brief flicker of promise from Nunez in a sub cameo, Leeds offered nothing.

Second goal goes in - exit en masse

Arguably the most compelling debate was the area of pitch that offered most cause for concern. Becchio, obviously targeted as a key man by Watford was strongly marshalled by 2 or 3 players at any one time, the all-action grafter of previous weeks, reduced to impersonating a draught excluder. That was Plan A down the toilet, so what about Plan B? Sadly, any alternative course of action demanded a little more bravery on the ball, some thought and creativity…seemingly a step too far for our midfield.

Then there was our back four, bless those crazy guys – they never lose the ability to surprise! Have we really fallen so low that Darren O’Dea’s absence should be felt quite so keenly? Lees and Bruce were up against Troy Deeney and Chris Iwelumo, the former, a man who averages a goal every seven goals, his senior partner, one in five; yet the pair resembled Samuel Eto’o and Didier Drogba in their prime – it was like men against boys, John Parkin and Preston North End, all over again. In fact, all over the pitch Watford dominated the physical battles.

Lees in particular looked a broken man; his confidence shot to pieces in the aftermath of the Forest game. There was a strong argument for him to be withdrawn at half-time, the case was only made more convincing as he pathetically surrendered the ball to Deeney who really should have added a second. Not to worry, the clincher was shortly to follow and it was every bit as bad as the opener; Shaun Murray going unchallenged in the box, despite a first touch that took the ball 5 yards away from him, Deeney's shot parried by Lonergan straight into the path of Iwelumo... Lees gave up and having waited since October for a goal, Iwelumo now had a second.

Even Paul Connolly’s late dismissal couldn’t come to our aid; though his impending absence and the reaction his stupid challenge drew from Warnock who deemed it “irresponsible” and a sign he “obviously doesn’t want to play at Reading…that’s how I saw it!” provided at least one crumb of comfort.

Questions answered Neil

Warnock indeed had a lot to say at the end; all of which rang true and was very close to the bone. He was quick to push Eddie Gray aside from his fence-sitting to label the performance as “drivel”, providing a telling assessment of the playing staff:

“What we haven’t got is enough of everything…haven’t got enough guts, haven’t got enough quality, haven’t got enough desire – you name it, we haven’t got it!”

He then went on to talk of the major surgery required as Eddie flapped, desperately trying to cut short the interview before manager could voice crazy notions like spending sprees that’d be liable to give his employer heart failure.

It's a moose!!!

I loved his plain talking. We were clueless, our ‘characters’ on the pitch did go AWOL, and yes we were only playing Watford! Watford for f**ks sake, a team managed by a man with a voice better suited for a kinky premium rate phoneline, and a club that couldn’t even manage to incorporate a stag into their club badge (that’s a moose!)...never mind the fact they regard Luton Town as credible rivals!!!

They’re shit! And yet they beat us…comfortably! Where does that leave Leeds? Warnock can plan, coach and get in players’ faces all he wants - fact is, we have nothing like the personnel we require to prosper. Sound management can prove enough to win some games, too often though it isn’t.

Anchorman was on TV later in the evening and as Paul Rudd unveiled his Sex Panther cologne, he boasted, “They’ve done studies you know. 60% of the time it works all of the time.”

The Bates propaganda machine might want to use that line in the next programme notes...