My local team, Leyton Orient, are on the cusp of relegation to League Two. Despite the high falutin' name, League Two is the lowest professional division available to English football teams. It's the Poundland of the beautiful game. And it's traditionally a notch below even Orient's modest abilities.
We've been in League Two before of course, but our natural habitat is League One, the middle of League One to be precise. We tend to get a nosebleed when we stray too close to the promotion places. We led the division for nearly the entire season last year, and we're still reeling from the trip, which in some way explains our shocking descent to Aunt Sally status this time around.
Relegation this year will, as it always does, cause a schism among the faithful - between those who want heads on platters and the Pollyanna set, who would turn up and cheer even if the team decided to play inside a nuclear reactor.
I have some sympathy for the moaners on this one. The club has been laughably mismanaged this year, and this has led to lacklustre performances on the pitch. Also, dropping into League Two means there's no scope for a repeat performance next year. There's no safety net down there. If you slip up, you're out of the professional game, and that is unacceptable.
It's true that some Orient supporters thrive on complaining. You can hear them screaming for the Government to step in and compulsiry purchase the club after back-to-back goalless draws. But everyone will be in a foul mood next season, myself included.
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