You know it’s squeaky bum time when the daffodils are out and the crocuses are lighting up the ring road.
Spring has sprung, and so has my arsehole as the advent of this hope-laden period signals the real beginning of the football season.

Mick: Was under pressure last season
Most pundits say the league table doesn’t take shape until you’re 6 games in. Not according to my old man, who would give me a slap if he caught me playing with my Score League Ladders before March.
So now the lambs are skipping about, it’s safe to have a look. We’re 16th with 8 games left.
And with that in mind, it will be time for me to ramp up my perennial OCDs with immediate effect in an attempt to keep us in the league.
As our Championship winning campaign began to waver around February, my foibles became more prolific than SEB, as a load of inexplicable rituals came to the fore, two examples of many are below.
· As I shuffled along row Q to get to my seat against Watford, I accidentally kicked an empty balti pie dish with my left foot. Fearing that my bi-rhythms had been affected, I had to ferret on the floor for the piece of crumpled foil, just so I could kick it with the exact amount of force with my right foot, to even out any imbalance.
The impromptu pie dish hunt generated as much noise as I’ve ever heard in the Billy Wright Stand, as half of WV6 screamed ‘SIT DOWN YOU IDIOT.’ We won 3-1 so it was worth it.
· And then there was our 1-0 win at Sheffield Wednesday, when SEB scored after 5 minutes. For the remaining 85 minutes I sat crouched on my living room chair, clenching the radio aerial exactly as I first held it, for the remainder of the game.
One slip, one movement away from my near fetal position and we would have conceded. Fact. Despite my living room being 80 miles from Hillsbrough, and not entering the field of play at any point. Again, we won, so I felt I earned the beers that evening.
But just as I thought I could consign such stupidity to the dustbin this season, back came the behavior when we were hanging on for dear life at Turf Moor the other week.
As I paced the living room listening to WM (digital set, by now), Burnley’s attacks got more and more relentless. They’d have scored for sure if I had sat back down, or changed one single dynamic of my living room set-up.
It was at that point that my old University friend (who was visiting for the first time in years) decided to stand up alongside me in an attempt to share my burden.
The carpet barely found the balls of his feet before I threw him back onto the sofa with such force that his wife asked me what my problem was.
“I’ll tell you what my problem is. Robbie Blake hit the post at the precise moment that Chris stood up. He should know better.”
Don’t think we’ll be seeing them for a while. But as for my inexplicable OCDs…I think I’ll be seeing a lot more of them between now and May 9th. I apologise in advance!





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“We'd never afford his wages, and I doubt he'd drop down anyway. Wouldn't be surprised if he retires now. ”