Ben Parker: Unsung Hero

Benjamin Brian Colin Parker – after 17 years at Elland Road, 7 as a professional, so it has come to this; the saddest of partings from one of our very own.

The classic Ben Parker pose: complete with crutches

When it was announced that our left back-cum-treatment room fetishist was to be released last week, there seemed to be little other than a collective, accepting, philosophical shrug of the shoulders amongst supporters. A stilted career had run its natural course and another, once promising youngster was to be hitching a ride, looking for a kindly manager in the lower league backwaters to take him on. Yet to let Ben go with so little fanfare would be a disservice to a man who’s been woven into the very fabric of our darkest years and despite the injury setbacks, the setbacks during the setbacks and the horror of being cast aside for George McCartney, has through his indomitable spirit – or delusional denial – never lost the desire to come back, and back, and back again…

2007/08: Breakthrough season

It’s hard to conceive that supporters were once excited about Ben Parker; that he represented England at U16, 17, 18 and 19 levels. I can remember feeling disappointed by Kevin Blackwell’s decision to ship him out to Bradford for a season in 2006. I can remember believing that he could be one of the big positives of our first season in League One. In fact he did get 14 games under his belt that season after making his bow in a League Cup tie against Macclesfield, before fate dealt him his first bad hand; a loan spell at Darlington to make room for the arrival of Alan Sheehan.

Such a damning decision may have broken weaker spirited players, but not Ben. He was back pre-season and ready to rip League One a new arsehole! And so it was to be, Ben Parker, Leeds United regular… well, not week in, week out, remember who this is, but all the same, 31 (THIRTY ONE) appearances between August and May – never mind the play-off heartache at the hands of Millwall or Simon Grayson’s arrival, this was the Ben Parker season; 60% of his appearances, crammed into 8 months; his only goal (a 35 yarder at Northampton in an FA Cup replay) and that run, yeah, you know the run, box-to-box, cut back to Becchio…1-0!!!! – F**k you, Jimmy Abdou!

A jubilant Ben lies in the background with his arms aloft in acclaim - his finest moment on the pitch.

But that was his season, hell there were even whispers of an U21 call-up for the Euros. A full uninterrupted pre-season followed, it seemed we might just have a player on our hands. On the opening day it all looked so good, another lung bursting run from deep and an assist for Beckford to put Leeds ahead against Exeter, then it happened, a hamstring injury.

Since then Ben’s had to contend himself with baffling medical experts from all corners; only he could end up having surgery on his hip as part of that recovery process, or find himself leaving the pitch with a calf injury on his first start, 7 months down the line. Remarkably, that season was the most prolific of his final 3, the 4 bit-part appearances double his outings last season, this campaign he only had a cup tie with Bradford under his belt. It could never end with anything but a parting of the ways.

Pre-season 2011, Hillsborough

Yet despite chiefly remaining in our consciousness through the medium of sporadic injury update sound bites and tales of almost mythical proportions of behind closed door comeback games on the official site, Ben has left an indelible mark on our history. Although I cannot be sure of the origin of the phrase “weeks not months” I’d like to believe that Ben will one day be awarded any patenting and merchandising rights.

His spirit cannot be knocked either. Had he been a race horse, the vet would’ve been in with a lethal dose of succinylcholine some ago, but Ben never gave up, and I never gave up on him; the sight of Tony Capaldi and Shane Lowry in the white told me I couldn’t give up. Despite spending half of his career unable to walk unassisted, here was a lad who saw off those chancers, who remained not just in the treatment room, but at the back of the gaffer’s mind (in a very dark corner by the end, admittedly) while the lesser lights of Sheehan and Bessone were shipped out.

Welcome back to the first team...

Even last season, with the odds outrageously against him, he was still there, still smiling, still believing. “Right Ben, I realise you’ve barely kicked a ball in anger in 18 months, but you’re starting at the Emirates…oh and Walcott might get a run out. Is that okay?” – YES BOSS! The poor guy was on a hiding to nothing, but did he hide? No! Conceding that late penalty was rough on Ben, but nowhere near as rough as learning the replay had paid for George McCartney’s return – we all shared his pain there.

It didn’t get him down though, nothing ever seemed to. In the end he even appeared to achieve the impossible, he found a soft spot in Ken Bates’ heart! When Mika Vayrynen was unceremoniously dumped out of the club, Bates bleated about the £500,000 pissed away by the club, yet on the back of the 2009-10 season where Ben barely mustered 2 hours game time, Ken was moved to create a ‘Special Chairman’s Award’ at the end of season bash, just to honour our number 19.

There were other enduring facets to the lad too; the humour especially. The Soccer AM ‘Crossbar Challenge’ appearance where he declared himself, “Ben Parker – stripper”. He also became the default face of Leeds United for the ceremonial on-pitch presentations and supporter chats, whether he chose to do it so as to still feel involved, or so as to assure worried supporters that he was still alive is unclear, but he excelled.

One particular friend of mine, not usually renown for shying away from public speaking and publicity seeking on the back of an electoral campaign was left a bumbling wreck on the Elland Road pitch by Parker. While standing at the hustings represented no problems, appearing on the hallowed turf inspired an attack of the nerves – sensing his uneasiness, Ben simply assured him everything would be fine and that he was just going to be asked 3 simple questions… he never revealed what they were, then chose to mime them to him, live on the pitch; a certain Mr We Beat The Scum One Nil, for once dumbstruck!

2008/09 - His season

Heck, there was precious little that Ben didn’t possess in his armour, he even became an unlikely sex symbol… or maybe that was just my football wife, Jenny. She loved ‘Sexy Arse’ as much for his buns as his runs – any other takers, ladies?

Ben’s most defining act though, his coup de grace, his finest legacy, that was the moment he stood up and socked it to the man and it’s the reason why I’ll always have a place in my heart that’s marked ‘forever Ben’; it occurred on Saturday 21st January 2012 at the Pavilion pre-match ramble, prior to the Ipswich game. With emotions running high and the board’s ‘fans’ representative’ already being barracked from all directions, he then reduced Peter Lorimer to a raging, flustered mess after contradicting his pay masters to reveal Jonny Howson was sold for the money and not out of any desire to leave. He’d lost his mate and the team its captain and he wasn’t gonna take it lying down.

Inevitably and as widely predicted, he was shipped out on loan days later, up to Carlisle, home for the discarded and damaged footballers of LS11 – his time was up anyway, but he chose to go out in a blaze of glory. It was a beautiful moment and I only regret my boycott of all refreshments at Elland Road deprived me of witnessing its glory. But it laid the path for others; when Snoddy spoke out earlier this month, was his decision merely an expression of his frustration, or inspired by Ben’s act of martyrdom?

If other players follow and fight the good PR fight, our captain may in retrospect be considered a visionary, yet it will serve our great Scot well to remember the words of Isaac Newton:

“If I have been able to see further, it was only because I stood on the shoulders of giants.”

Footballer, Leeds fan, sickpot

And yet, even now, even after his enrolment as an honorary dissident, Ken Bates, a man typically defined by his bitterness towards those who undermine him, even he was still eager to praise our beloved departing left back last week, offering words of sincere affection and revealing that he’ll be welcome to have continued use of the training facilities.

Ben Parker – what a man!

Leeds United 1 Leicester City 2

“It's SHITE being Scottish! We're the lowest of the low, the scum of the fucking earth, the most wretched, miserable, servile, pathetic trash that was ever shat into civilization. Some people hate the English, I don't. They're just wankers. We, on the other hand, are colonized by wankers. We can't even find a decent culture to be colonized by. We are ruled by effete arseholes. It's a shite state of affairs to be in, Tommy! And all the fresh air in the world won't make any fucking difference!”

Ewan McGregor really ought to patronise a 'Leeds on the Road' event.

No, that wasn’t the sound of Peter Lorimer finally breaking down in The Pavilion yesterday morning; it’s actually taken from a scene in Trainspotting; a fantastically cutting and articulate monologue from Renton in response to his mate’s misguided assertions of national pride. The unpalatable truth remains that those words could quite conceivably be spinning around in Lorimer’s head, when in his more reflective moments, he may wonder how his principles and how his soul have ended up being sold to Bates and Harvey; a plot of emotional real estate, used as foundations for another Caddick constructed re-development scheme. 

But it’s not just Lormier, it’s us supporters too; we cannot be utterly absolved of blame as this season has been allowed to slide, just like so many before under the current regime with barely a whisper of dissent. According to Shaun Harvey, in defending his decision to ban LUST members from buying tickets, “Players play, managers manage and supporters support”. Damningly it seems that too many Leeds fans either buy into that mantra or have simply been battered into a mood of all-consuming apathy. For my part, I’d suggest that supporters who are worth their salt actually get off their arses and do something about it, rather than watch on silently as their club slowly has the life strangled out of it.

Again we go into the summer no longer expecting, just merely hoping for the best, as far as player recruitment and retention goes. But we do so, already knowing that a significant chunk of the ‘war chest’ is now likely to be earmarked to pay the legal fees resulting from our chairman’s latest pathetic character assassination attempt, no less than “a fortune” at Shaun Harvey’s own admittance. All this at a club that’s finished 14th, the exact same position it did at the end of Bates’ first season - "a shite state of affairs to be in", indeed!

Yet as much as people are quick to almost universally condemn Bates, where is this evident in the stands, or more constructively, at LUST meetings? Having been to every such gathering this year, the board have to be congratulated on their incredible efforts, truly astonishing progress has been made in a very short space of time, yet typically, there are only around 30 to 40 people attend, and while some brilliant ideas have been shared and developed amongst those people, the fact is that for a fan base our size, such a low turnout reflects pathetically on our support as a whole. Maybe it’s true that you get the chairman you deserve; on occasions like last Thursday night, it would be hard to argue.

Farewell?

So come Saturday lunchtime, and suddenly over 25,000 are at Elland Road, and as much as I’d love to see a full stadium, week in, week out, to see such a show of loyalty on this day was almost dispiriting – if ever there was an end of season game for the paying supporter to boycott, it was this. A diabolical season, being seen off in the company of a large number of players who aren’t fit to grace the white shirt…what was there to celebrate, to give thanks for? Instead, the impressive turnout felt more of a vindication for the work of Bates, rather than a reflection of discontentment. Maybe it’s just me – it’s been a long 9 months!

Like so many before it, the game was one to try and tolerate, rather than enjoy; a 90 minute endurance challenge, a spectacle in which Neil Warnock remained more animated throughout than at least half the starting line-up. But hey, at least there was Becks; finally back at the ground where his status alternated between goal scoring god, and sulky, lazy b**stard on an almost fortnightly basis, and finally receiving the recognition his exploits at the club deserved.

Will anyone EVER tire of this photo?

Call it hindsight, call it rose-tinted nostalgia, or just label it a simple case of not realising what you had ‘til it had gone, but Jermaine was afforded a welcome comparable with any past player I can remember at Elland Road – the feeling was mutual as well; as his “fucking great goal” was rejoiced in song, Beckford applauded the fans while actually in the process of kicking off the game, moments later in Leicester’s first attack, another ovation from the Kop was rewarded with a sly ‘Leeds salute’; the first corner of the game and more acclaim from the terraces, the applause reciprocated by old number 9. Immediately, Alex Bruce, in recognition of the acclaim offered to swap shirts – a nice touch by our centre half, and a fond memory to leave behind from his last appearance. The Kop responded in kind to the moment as inevitable chants of “Sign him up” resounded outward. I even found myself longing for him to score one more time in front of the Kop, just for old time's sake. Ironically, Bates recently revealed that he’s twice turned down the chance to re-sign Beckford; another sign of how our regime and the fan base stand poles apart on the key issue of football.

With the highly diverting and eminently preferable Jermaine Beckford side show over, it was sadly time to concentrate on the football, only I couldn’t, this season’s taken its toll. I spent my time trying to punctuate the boredom by counting down the minutes in my head and scanning through my twitter timeline – it seemed that everyone felt the same. At least we had Danny Pugh, his efforts to scale as yet undiscovered heights of hopelessness an on-going quest that you can but only witness in awe. An early lapse necessitated a desperate shirt pull that had sections of fans demanding a red card and the disappointment amongst many was palpable as the ref settled for yellow – a tad harsh?... maybe not, as our utility man (football talk for shit in all positions) was to prove in the lead up to Leicester’s opening goal - while Michael Brown’s sliced attempt at a clearance possessed a real comedic flair, it couldn’t compete with Pugh’s laughable attempt to get the ball ahead of Martyn Waghorn; the Leicester forward went on to finish with aplomb – of course he did, this is Leeds.

If the first half was intolerable, the not exactly surprising decision of Nigel Pearson to remove a love struck Beckford at the interval ensured that the prospect of one last 45 minutes was almost unbearable. So it proved; while I found myself constantly distracted from the football in the opening period, it seemed the whole of N11 were engaged in conversation for most of the second period. Mid-way through the half I found myself eavesdropping on a conversation about an episode of The One Show that apparently involved very charming guest appearances by Julia Bradbury and Richard Hammond…sadly as the discussion moved on to the lovely Alex Jones, a defiant WACCOE chant swept over the Kop, leaving me frustrated in my quest to discreetly gauge opinion on the lovely Welsh lady.

Out of nowhere, Leeds equalised… it had to be Danny Webber, didn’t it?! The one man who could still hold aspirations of pipping Connolly and Pugh to become the most consistently awful Leeds player of the season, undeservedly capping a 30 minute object lesson in the art doing the square root of f**k all with a tap-in, following Snoddy’s good work. It was like a final kick in the teeth, like I was even going to be denied a full-on rant of self-righteous indignation, my efforts undermined by a fortunate Leeds escape that saved the team from that 11th home defeat and lower half finish…still, it did spark a few minutes of excitement as the team displayed a token spell of desire and will to win. It came to nothing though.

Hoping clubs do actually do their business in May...

So to injury time, and there it was, it took its time, but finally arrived; a last gasp, deflected Leicester City winner. On the balance of play, just reward for the visitors, on the balance of the season, a more fitting epitaph, you'd struggle to find; self-righteous indignation, back on the agenda.

In the end, I felt compelled to stay for the ‘Lap of Thanks’, just to revel in the spectacle of a watching a collection of sheepish looking footballers, awkwardly making their way around the stadium in an apologetic fashion, heads bowed as the supporters celebrated all that they haven’t achieved over the last 9 months. Danny Pugh chose to carry his baby around with him – a touching fatherly gesture or a move made to ensure that nobody tried to deck him? I’ll let you decide. At least Warnock enjoyed himself, playing up to the chants from the Gelderd End, though mercifully stopping short of removing his tracksuit pants as he stripped off souvenirs to distribute to the masses.

Whether Warnock will be sporting a rather bigger smile nice year is another thing entirely. When I was scanning through my radio pre-sets this morning I was quite taken aback (and a little pleased) to hear Debbie Gibson’s ‘Shake Your Love’ get and airing and it threw into perspective the job at hand for our manager. I can hazily recall the pop princess in her pomp back in the late 80s and her battle for chart supremacy and teenage magazine spreads with arch-rival Tiffany.

The Rolls Royce of pop princessess

I rather see Leicester City as a footballing representation of Debbie Gibson; awash with natural talent, a splash of glamour and possessing all the resources and potential to thrive in the higher echelons of next year’s Championship. Step forward Leeds United, the Tiffany of the league. While the Debbie Gibsons of this world with the right guidance can effortlessly glide towards the top, our rather less desirable looking outfit will have to slum it out, week upon week of touring the shopping malls-cum-football stadia of the nation in the hope that our hard graft and endeavour will pay dividends; that grit, dedication and a steely ambition will get us to where we want to be.

The grafter

It’s not often that I’d suggest that a football club draw inspiration from a fleeting 80s icon, but examine the career of Tiffany and therein lies a lesson.  For Leeds next year we’re going to need a team of grafters, players driven to get to the top and unrelenting in their pursuit; players capable of working harder than the opposition at every venue. We may support the biggest club in the league, but while Bates rules we’ll never have a side that, ability-wise, reflects that. That’s not to exempt Bates of his responsibilities – even Tiffany was received significant financial backing in her promotional slog… and in the end, when it mattered, when it really mattered, she only went and pipped Debbie Gibson to that coveted maiden top slot. A lesson for all at Elland Road that it can be done!

Only in our dreams?

Well, Tiffany, never believed every word that Debbie sang…

Cardiff City 1 Leeds United 1

So this was supposed to be it; a trip into the dragon’s den, a hotbed of heathenry, to face the great unwashed, the unenlightened, the barbaric Neanderthals of Wales’ first city. The omens weren’t good; history was against us – Frankie Goes To Hollywood were celebrating their first number one when the Whites last triumphed – while for those who for those who remain more sceptical about such factors, the overwhelming shitness of our injury and suspension ravaged squad also offered reasons for pessimism.

Right on cue, the dark clouds started to gather as the final stretch of the journey, the M4 reared its ugly head; a bleak tarmacked expanse running to the west, offering road signs, displaying both familiar looking words, and below them, others that seemed desperately short of vowels. With the city on high alert for such an explosive clash, and so as to minimise any potential flashpoints, Leeds supporters were required to collect their tickets by exchanging vouchers from a pre-ordained, Cardiff West Services… I’m not sure how publicly advertising online a pre-match rendezvous point for all Leeds fans serves to outfox highly organised bands of troublemakers – maybe they can’t drive?

Low profile Leeds fans at Cardiff West Services

Fittingly, for the occasion, for the upcoming St. George’s Day and quite handily as a metaphor for this report, one coach load of supporters had turned up en masse dressed as Crusaders; adorned in a brilliantly uniformed manner, the testosterone fuelled gathering of men, pleasingly complemented by a number of wenches dotted about the contingent. Pre-trip advice for Cardiff games is usually to go travel incognito, to leave your colours at home, arriving in the Welsh capital in armour and a St. George’s cross emblazoned across the chest, a rather defiant “F*ck you!” to commonly perceived logic.

With vouchers exchanged for match tickets, that were literally given out from the back of a van, it was onwards to the stadium…this is it – heads down, voices down, low profile everybody, ok?

Fortress Cardiff City Stadium

Well, actually no! The whole Cardiff City experience was actually overwhelmingly civilized – surprisingly so, disconcertingly so, perhaps maybe, even a little depressingly so. On the short walk from the car park to the stadium, I looked nervously for the first signs of adolescents in baseball caps, Stone Island jumpers and scarfs wrapped around their faces, and nothing…well, maybe later.

Really?

But later never came; sat outside KFC was a skinhead, but he sported an immaculate shirt and jumper combo and was talking to his friend about super annuities and his reluctance to relocate his children during their schooling. Moments earlier when ordering my food, I’d been reminded of the wonders of the Welsh accent – an endearing and sexy string to any lady’s bow (although it does still make men sound like idiots), and this area of Wales had brought us Joanna Page and Alex Jones too. Suddenly my beliefs were starting to crumble. On the walk to the away end, we passed a banner proclaiming Cardiff City to be the ‘Football League family club of the year’ – alright, steady on!

Geordie Shore comes to South Wales

Then it happened again; this time, the stewards! On walking through the turnstiles at Cardiff we were actually greeted by a steward who welcomed us and unprompted, directed us to the bar! It was like being affronted by a Redcoat on temazepam, but with a hi-vis jacket – Bates, take note!  At the bar, the mood was reassuringly ‘final away trip/celebratory’ mode, the Crusaders joined by an astonishing array other fancy dress followers. Batman, death row inmates, penguins, Oompa Loompas all represented, though costume of the day would have to go to Saddam Hussein; the most ridiculously random? Howard from the Halifax, take a bow son!

Tonight Matthew, I'm going to be...

Like Blackpool before it, the game was almost incidental; albeit the ‘last hurrah’ vibe rather more responsible for high spirits than alcohol. From the teams’ entrance until the half-time whistle, the Leeds support was relentless. In contrast, from the Cardiff end, nothing! Bar a half-hearted ‘We all hate Leeds Scum’ pre-kick off, there was barely a whisper, just the odd punctuated incidences of internationally recognised hand gestures in retaliation to the taunts… and there were plenty. “Your mum’s a sheep, your dad’s a sheep” was pick of the insults, but none fostered a response.  

Disappointed that the Cardiff fans weren’t in the mood to play, the Leeds support entertained themselves; “We’ll sing on our own…” and “Sit down, like the Cardiff fans” a couple of choice cuts. A stray shoe also found itself in the Leeds end from where it was launched several times, before exiting the stand – cue chants of “Sit down, if you’ve got both shoes!” A couple of inflatable rings were also used as makeshift Frisbees, one throw nestling perfectly over a bald fella’s head – GET THAT MAN A GOLDFISH!!

A disturbingly civilised venue

On the pitch, Leeds competed well, but suffered another blow; Bromby snapping his patella, and there he was again, Paul Connolly. I’m becoming genuinely unnerved by Connolly’s continued presence, it’s as if he haunts our every moment. I dare not mention his name three times in case he’s like Candyman – I’ve even taken to checking under my bed for him every night, the bogeyman reincarnate!

We used to despair about Kasper's star jumps...

Talking of limited footballers, another ill-timed Lonergan intervention quickly followed, allowing Joe Mason to convert Peter Whittingham’s long pass – behind again. The defensive part of our ‘spine’ are almost like nipples on a male, they don’t serve any purpose, they’re just seemingly put there as it looks right; in fairness, our nipples of choice today, Lees and Bruce appeared fairly functional, leaving only Lonergan as the nubbin, the supernumerary or accessory nipple – pointless, inexplicable, but there. Decent saves are no good from a keeper who can’t be trusted to do the basics.

Webber and Nunez in the same picture...hard to believe we scored

After the break Leeds continued to compete well, the ball pleasingly stayed grounded for longer periods as Snodgrass and McCormack worked tirelessly. Reward came when a lung busting run from Conno… nearly said it for a third time, finished with a cross to Becchio at the far post and a deserved equaliser. There were only two things left to ponder in the closing stages; firstly, Danny Webber’s contribution, and whether an administrative cock-up has resulted in his contract containing a ‘disappearance bonus’; and to wonder what became of the Cardiff atmosphere.

At the final whistle, Warnock rightly insisted that every Leeds player throw their shirt to the fans; the least such backing deserves. All that was left to do then was to exit in a conga to the strains of ‘Sweet Caroline’, head back to the car and hope for better things come August.  

On, on, on…  

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”.