Well, I was as good as my word and went to Orient's final home game of a frankly wretched 2014-15 campaign on Saturday. We were a shambles. It's just as well they slashed the ticket prices because I'd have been spitting blood had I shelled out twenty quid to watch that sheight. We were actually worse than at the first game of the season, and I thought that an all-time low at the time.
I suppose one should take succour from the fact that we were playing high-flying Sheffield United and still manged to bag a point, but they were having an off-day so had we been any use, we'd have turned them over. The game (if I might dignify the players' efforts by employing this word) was an absolute howler. Route-one football, poorly executed. At least it was a nice day.
Come the end, it was clear we were doomed. Every other team around us won, against the odds, and our fate is now out of our hands. The mood among the fans is one of resignation. We don't deserve to stay up; it would be daylight robbery on one of the other blameless clubs if we did. No, we made our bed, shat on the pillow, and now we must lie in it. The best we can hope for it a steamroller season next year. Come up as champions with 100 points. I'll be there for some of it....again. The trouble is I've been doing this for 30 years and I'm less emotionally and mentally robust than I used to be. It takes its toll.
Up The Os, as we say in my neck of the woods.
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