Red hand gang

I discovered that Thaksin is a red, which explains quite a lot, even if the other choice is only yellow. Put myself through the misery of our last meaningful game of the season on Thursday night, and am carrying the scars to prove it.

You see, I watched the game in the kids' room to allow them to watch the Mr Bean movie in the sitting room. I think I made the right choice.



The kids have bunk beds, and the best vantage point for the TV is from the lower bunk, where I firmly ensconced myself and proceeded to scream and leap around for a couple of hours. Caicedo so incensed me with a glaring miss at one stage that I threw my fist up at the slats of the top bunk, grazing my knuckle in the process. Not realising I was bleeding, I folded my arm behind my head during a few seconds of calm, before looking down and noticing that I had bled on the pillow. In doing so, I managed to spread yet more red stuff on the sheet before leaping clear. Now I was in trouble, I knew, and had to try to change the bedding before anyone noticed. I think I got away with it, though I probably spread more blood around as I tried to right my wrong.

We lost. That's history now, as is our season, but I - in common with any right thinking person - was heartened by our display, Micah Richards notwithstanding. Peter sodding Drury and David dickhead Pleat didn't make things any easier of course, constantly jinxing with their nonsense about past games and great comebacks - including the Gillingham game all those years ago, and especially citing Middlesbrough's 'great adventure' in the UEFA Cup. Our defending was its usual abysmal self and we were bound to run out of steam after the brain-dead Dunne got his red.

Whither the future? Martin Jol, Sven again or some other ludicrous appointment, but one thing's sure - the future's not orange.