If it’s not SKY messing with your football, it’s Christmas (and a soupçon of the Mighty Saint’s failure to get through the last round of the FA Trophy). Two home games; two consecutive WEEK nights; not a hope of actual attendance.

Night One Monday 14 December
Lesta v Chelsea
TLF’s attendance at this game has been abandoned due to rescheduling of kick off for televisual purposes, exacerbated with the storm force warning that would have accompanied consecutive over-nighters for TLF (see Night Two).

The mighty Lesta face champions, Chelsea. The form book to date has been lightly singed, torn, spat upon and and finally ground into the East Midlands dirt while someone sings ‘hahaha’ in relation to these two teams, plus Jose and the urbane and lovely Claudio have not enjoyed what you would describe as the most respectful of rivalries. It is therefore for the media a BiG thing. TLF’s experience of what happens when the spotlight falls on Lesta is not a good one and suggests the classic equation:
Excess match build up in Sunday papers + Being on telly = Massive Lesta humiliation to the square root of Pi squared.

I am therefore ever so slightly delighted when contrary to my pessimistic predictions Jamie Vardy puts the mighty Foxes ahead. I adopt a celebratory charlestonSLASHsamba set of steps around the living room (that would probably give Len Goodman a minor aneurism) to the articulate and creative tune of that well known number, “Gettin! Effing Yes! Jamie Vardy you effing beauty!” At this point I do have to acknowledge that there are advantages to having to watch the game on telly rather than being there, as my celebratory dance space is significantly larger than my usual spot at Filbert Way.

Come the 48th minute the unimaginable happens. We score again. This time I endanger my vocal chords rather than my knee joints. We, the not really very Mighty Lestacity, whose bubble-has-to-burst-sometime-soon are 2-0 up against the Champions. And in this situation there is only one natural, primeval TLF reaction. It’s in the genes. Don’t fight it. Fight, flight or WORRY. I am good at worrying, really good at it. Mr TLF is finding it all a bit bemusing as I explain that I am worried we will blow it and lose 3-2. I frown, I hold my head in my hands and I partially hide under a blanket. The blanket gets clutched a bit tighter when Chelsea get one back. I don’t think Mr TLF knows whether to pour me a stiff drink, ignore me or have me sectioned. Fortunately for both of us, after an additional FIVE minutes stoppage time the agony finally ends. Down to our continuing good form, Chelsea not being very good and TLF obeying all her various arcane footballing laws (no replying to texts during the game, running hands through hair in panic at 2 minute intervals), Lesta have won and are TOP of the league.

Night Two Tuesday 15 December
Mighty Saints v Maidenhead Utd
TLF’s attendance at this game has been abandoned due to the first night in a hat trick of work festive parties.

TLF is so distracted with pressing work matters (that are strangely lager shaped on this particular evening) that thoughts of football are abandoned, along with thoughts of good taste, modest consumption and phoning home. The following morning after accepting that I have no idea how I made it to my hotel I am delighted to discover that St Albans have, in my absence, won 3-2 and are OUT of the relegation zone.

At the risk of being accused of repetition (but not deviation or hesitation).

Fa la la la, la la la laaaaaaaaaa!

Smug or tipsy? Possibly both

Smug or tipsy? Possibly both

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