“In the history of the Premier League eight teams had less than 20 points from 29 games and all eight finished bottom of the table.
Lesta City took 19 points from their first 29 games and 22 points from their last eight. Probably the greatest escape from relegation that the premier league has ever known.”

While I do get the great escape thing, let’s not pretend that there are a shedload of similarities between Nigel Pearson and Steve McQueen. I can’t imagine mad Nige attempting to escape from football journalists or ostriches with a motorbike chase and an epic attempt to leap the barbed wire that separates the championship from the Prem (more likely he’d abuse the prison guards in the press conference and try to throttle them in a friendly fashion.) Although I am sure that Esteban Cambiasso (he’s magic you knooooooo) would not get caught out with that cunning Nazi trick use of English, ‘good luck old boy’ in the way that Gordon Jackson did.

Away from all this iconic film rambling TLF was having her own great escape dilemma.

“To go or not to go, that is the question-
Whether tis Nobler in the mind to suffer
The slings and arrows of outrageous bus replacement service
Or to take the Arms of Sky sports
And by opposing end the adventure in an unsatisfactory way? To bail out, to wear the lucky polo shirt-
No more; and by bailing out turn our backs on celebrating
The heartache we missed and the thousand natural shocks
That Lesta fans are heir to? Tis a consummation
Devoutly to be avoided. To get my free beer, to watch a game without a care or worry, to embrace hope,
To embrace hope perchance to Dream; Aye there’s the rub.
WE ARE PREMIER LEAGUE.”

Better go then!

The one good thing about a two hour coach journey from Bedford to Lesta (via Wellingborough, Kettering and Market Harborough) is that it does serve as a good advert for the oft maligned railways. When I was a mere cub, the coach journey was half the fun of a school trip. But now I am a grumpy old TLF, who takes up more space than my six year old self, who is no longer travelling with mates festooned with sweets and various versions of Top Trumps and doesn’t have the option of sitting upfront next to Mrs Mee in the event that I feel a bit coach sick (possibly down to the consumption of body weight in barley sugars before had left the school car park), the novelty has officially worn off. Taxi quotes for the journey back to Bedford were quickly obtained on the walk down to the ground.

The bit of luck that had seen my malodorous coach neighbour exit the bus at Kettering seemed to be hanging around for the day as I bumped into my season ticket neighbours in the queue for the free beers. While there will never been the same banter levels that I am lucky enough to enjoy at Clarence Park, the fact is I do sit with some nice people most of whom have been in the same seats since we moved into the stadium. And to be sat next to the next two generations of the much missed Peter Briggs makes it even better. I’m not sure what he would have made of it all but I bet like me he would have shed a wee tear…and sworn a bit too.

Avoiding relegation, particularly after that 140 day slump (for definition of slump please refer to the chart below) is maybe not something that you should celebrate as loudly as we did . After all, you are being delighted that while you flirted with being one of the worst three teams in the Prem, you just avoided it. But from the minute we scored that late winner against West Ham, while I didn’t do any of that hope malarkey, the noise and passion and incredulity were worth every minute.

And on that last day, before we knew it, we’d scored five goals, Cambiasso (he’s magic etc etc) had pirouetted a wonderful ‘thank you’ and what may sadly prove to be a ‘goodbye’ bow and our Ingurland international…. Let me say that again. Our Ingurland international had been cheered off the pitch, the greatest escape was all over. Time to go home and worry about next season.
Foxes never quit.
And sometimes we get a taxi.
Lazarus Fox

Like that tricky second album I did fear for the quality of Part Deux of the birthday trilogy. The scene was surely set for TLF to be proved right and for the “we are staying up” balloon to burst. Nigel Pearson had been awarded Manager of the month which generally heralds the end of any wining streak and frankly Lesta just don’t win this many games. It’s kind of the law.

Around me there was a nauseating whiff of hope (unless it was my lucky polo shirt, unwashed in 6 games) and it was getting to me. On the train the steely, grumpy and cynical TLF shell, was starting to crumble. I could feel the weight of destiny on my shoulders….Yes Mr TLF was coming to a game.

Before any of that though I had a promise to keep. During one of the thinnest of thin periods in Lesta’s absence from the Prem I had promised myself that if we ever got back I would expand my tattoo collection to include a fox related item. It had occurred to me recently that if I wasn’t careful Lesta would be exiting the Prem before the ink was dry. It being me, I did of course worry that a new tattoo could either prove to be very lucky or very unlucky. What if we lost – would it be evil and unwanted, unlucky tattoo? What if we won? Would the act of tattooing be technically judged as so lucky that I needed to get one before every match? Aggghh.

Fortunately Nick the resident artist at Blue Ink Tattoo, has a better sense of perspective than me and so, in a studio co-owned by Wes Morgan (captain of the mighty Lesta) it was a question of sit still and let the man do his work. Forty-five minutes and one good chat later I was off to meet Mr TLF at Filbert Way, accompanied by my cling film wrapped upper arm.

Courtesy of the lovely David and Mel of DG Legal we were on this occasion, temporary members of the prawn sandwich brigade. Well to be accurate, the “chargrilled salmon, beetroot and watercress salad, followed by beef and Guinness pie and five beers” brigade. Great pre-match food and great company, including my favourite member of the House of Lords (and fellow season ticket holder), Lord Willy Bach and the Southampton supporting President of the Law Society, Andrew Caplen.

Oh and this hooligan, Jemima who attracted the attention of the stewards with her flagrant disregard of the “no bottles on the terraces” rule. Memo to LCFC – you may wish to upgrade your CCTV cameras.

The game itself? Well a bit of haze if I’m honest, but clearly those bu**ers are doing their very best to prove me wrong as they walked off with another 3 points. Witnessing a celebratory man hug between Mr TLF and a peer of the realm to celebrate Lesta’s opening goal was the cherry on the top of this occasion.

Still not quite ready to believe TLF

The denouement of the St Albans City act of the two act (well two club) tragi-comedy that is my 2014/15 season plays out away against Hayes and Yeading. That doesn’t involve a trip to Hayes or even Yeading on the grounds that the club is currently well, Er, groundless and so tenants at another ground. And for that reason the St Albans hordes make their way over to Maidenheadstone. Not a location you have come across before? Well clearly your geography and memory are better than that of your average TLF. The temporary abode of H&Y is not one that seems capable of lodging in my little TLF head and so I spend the week in the run up to the game looking up my train journey details to Maidenhead one day and then to Maidstone the next and wondering how the journey time and departing London station can change so much in the space of 24 hours – honestly the railways in this country!!!

Eventually Maidenhead does stick, if only because I discover that Maidenhead United’s ground is the oldest continually used football ground in the world, with the first game taking place in 1871. That convoluted little wording does have a purpose. Technically Bramall Lane is the world’s oldest ground because it was built in 1862 but hasn’t been continually used by one club. Bosh, one in the eye for Maidenhead. Stone. Head!!!!!!!!

It was hard to imagine that the last day of the season could be a patch on last years, involving as it did a winning play off final on my birthday. But I should know by now that even when there is nothing to play for, except pride and maybe a goal bonus, the players and fans of the mighty Saints will bring the yellow and blue curtain down in style. Not only is Maidenheadstone an historic ground, it’s also a nice quirky one with Stella on draft, which our joint manager Graham Golds managed to incorporate into his pre-match routine.

The boys had done the team proud. Not only were they fantastic FKWs (full kit somethings… I leave the ‘w’ to your imagination) but they were also in kitman homage mode. A whole set of Fenners masks is an unnerving sight.

But possibly not as unnerving as Gaz letting it all hang out.

While there was a game going on out on the pitch I confess I was distracted by serious conversations on the terraces. In the first half I finally got to speak to Julie; midwife, mother, genius shopper, music fan and football supporter. While I don’t do midwifery or motherhood I do all the rest and so you can imagine it was quite an animated non-stop chat, which for some strange reason seemed quite disturbing for the steward stood in front us; poor sensitive little lamb.

Apart from chat there was another distraction. I have never let the woes of the Foxes distract me from watching the Saints but things had taken an interesting turn recently and it was hard to pretend the game was not happening. Particularly by the time of my fifth beer. I was stood next to Ray and I couldn’t resist so I took a sneaky look at the twitter. The Foxes had just scored! Now all they had to do is defend that lead for the rest of the match. All I had to do was worry. And I am good at that. I whispered the news to Ray. He was delighted for me (am guessing that the common factor here might be beer consumption….).

And so his bonhomie and general happiness beguiles me into a confession. Under my Saints away shirt I am wearing my Lesta polo shirt which has been worn and not washed for every game since we beat West Ham. Fortunately this is not a turbulent priest hearing my confession. This is Ray and Ray gets it. Because Ray knows that the reason Chelsea won the Champions League was not down to tactics or Didier Drgoba. It was down to him, persisting with the kebab pizza, even though he had to go to Marshalswick for every game and also the 12 cans of 440ml Budweiser, initially attractive because they were on offer in Morrisons, but then just plain expensive in the local off licence, and also plain essential to ensure European glory. Like I say, Ray gets it.

In amongst all this sharing of deepest, darkest secrets a football match was still going on in front of us and the Saints see us off in style scoring 3 goals in the last quarter of the game. There is a handy ledge behind us on which to rest our pint glasses, ensuring celebrations can be suitably enthusiastic.

As is Ray’s fine chorus of, “We love you Lesta we do.” Although he does warn me that all bets are off when Lesta play his beloved Chelsea the following week. Fickle.
The final whistle goes and the players come over for their curtain call. The fat lady in yellow and blue has sung her last for this season and left the Saints in comfortable mid-table position. By Tuesday the season ticket renewal form is on the website.
Where do I sign?
Finale Fox

Match Stats
St Albans City 3 Hayes and Yeading o
Attendance: 330
Away raffle tickets, sold in a very convincing fashion: 1
Lager consumed: 4 Stellas, 1 over-priced craft lager
Snackage: 1 packet bacon flavoured wheat crunchies,1 M&S pulled pork and coleslaw wrap and a pale shadow of a bacon cob
Sneaky checks of the Lesta score: a LOT

We must accept finite disappointment but never lose infinite hope.
Martin Luther King Junior

I can only assume that Mr King was no football fan. Personally I am against hope. It is brutal, cruel and there to barbed wire-coat every vague moment when your team might do something great and then they don’t.

For that reason as far I was concerned last Satday I was not going up to the void to see the game against Swansea. For starters, while two successive wins for Lesta City were very welcome, this was clearly the match when normal service would be resumed and the slight pause in our inextricable slide back to the Championship would be back on track. Plus there has been a rule this season that when the fixture list has the cheek to turn up clashing home fixtures for the Saints and the Foxes, the former always wins. Not only is it a mere 30 minute walk to the ground and a 40 minute sway back, but there’s no train fare, the company is of the highest calibre, there are bacon-based snacks aplenty and on this occasion it was the last home game of the season.

I had however forgotten about tradition. Traditionally my Swansea supporting mate, Melena and I travel from London to said fixture. When I say ‘traditionally’ that is maybe stretching it a smidgen (and let’s face it, one person’s smidgen is another person’s country mile). We have done it once. Since then I don’t think our teams have been in the same league. If they had been then clearly we would have always done it. So technically it is a tradition, just not one that we have been able to honour through no fault of our own….Anyway the point is we had agreed at the start of the season that we would keep the tradition alive and a promise is a promise.

I was a bit gutted at the thought of no end of season appearance at the banter strewn Clarence Park, where the rivers are made of Stella and the streets are paved with winning golden goal tickets. But I was assured of good company on the journey up to the Void plus they had promised to get in the train beer supplies. And that’s what I got, but even with beer goggles are applied, I remained sensible enough to eschew our fickle friend hope, and was confidently predicting an away win.

Benjamin Franklin was pretty good on hope, “He that lives upon hope will die fasting.” Fortunately for us as hope was off the menu we could take in a smorgasbord of brilliantly cooked Indian starters at the previously visited Spicy Handii. I know I should resist the joke but I can’t. It IS handi for the ground…….sorry.

There’s not many things I would put up against Andy’s bacon cobs but their lamb samosas would be in with a chance. Their case is probably helped by the fact that Andy’s van does not provide complementary Baileys. When I say complementary I do mean it was free, not that it said the shade of my Lesta City polo shirt matches my eyes. Baileys is probably not the best beverage post Indian meal but the very large and free brandy that followed it seemed to aid digestion….And also my belief that even though Lesta were still doomed this had been a good thing to do. Get the match over, get home. Job done.

Except of course Mr Pearson and the men in blue (partly aided by a Swansea team who to be honest did look a bit like they were working out whether it would be Ibiza or Mykonos this summer) were doing their best to tempt me in, to make me hope. An early goal, some near misses, the occasional heart stopping moment plus a second goal in the eighty-fifth minute sent adults, children and TLFs demented. You don’t just bounce in these situations, you act like a complete lunatic with no control. You scream, you jump up and down, you hug people you would normally cross the street to avoid and in my case I snagged an ultimate cliche and I kissed the top of the bald head of the complete stranger sitting next to me……I suppose that last action could have been down to the brandy not the goal.

You go home beaming, checking the league tables and working out the implications and before you know it, that untrustworthy bas*ard has wormed his way back into your life and you start to hop……NOOO you don’t. You get in touch with your inner Friedrich Nietzsche. You shake your head at the people saying that your team is surging up the table….and not just because moving up two spots in the relegation zone doesn’t look like much of a surge to me. And you remember what Mr N said,
“Hope in reality is the worst of all evils because it prolongs the torments of man.”
And Foxes.

Dante Fox

Plural noun
Notional privileges that are gained by defeating a close rival.
OR
What you earn when the person you live with, whom you begged not to bet on their football team to beat yours, as that would be profiting out of your misery, finds themselves tearing up their futile and pointless and LOSING betting slip.

And to think I almost missed the whole shebang.

It was definitely Lesta’s turn but following a fine lunch with my Dad and step-mum I confess I did start to think the unthinkable. I had a bout of disloyalbastardius. We had lunched well at Carluccio’s (other Mediterranean comestible outlets are available), I was full of lasagne and their finest vino and I did start to think that if I stuck to the plan of rolling down to Filbert Way post luncheon that could only lead to misery.

Maybe I could just slope off home? Pretend I was never going in the first place, “nothing to see here, lalala.” Did I really want to go and witness Mr TLF’s team humiliate mine? Did I need to watch a football match with 30,000 other people when 500 actually does very nicely thank you? Did I need that Premier League fancy-smancy presentation? Maybe I didn’t care anymore. Maybe my finely balanced dual-City equilibrium had tipped over towards my Roman residence.

The very firm answer from family members was YES I did have to go. They informed me that I have (gulp), “responsibilities.” Plus I had been given art, from Liz, a family friend who reads the blog. ART! Very lovely art with the colours of both my Cities. So it would have been churlish not to go and nobody likes a churl. Even though it makes for a good word. So like the non-churl that I am, I trudged to the ground, prepared for the worst.

I don’t like to say this often but sometimes it is amazing how wrong I can be. The wife, son and grandson of the dearly departed and much missed Pete were in attendance and seeing them is always a bonus. And then….that first early Lesta goal goes in and it’s like I have never been away and nothing can possibly go wrong now. Closely followed by the foolish, premature, have-you-learned-nothing celebration as we get a penalty minutes later and the despair as we miss it, watch our team drop their heads and invite the inevitable equaliser. Which still makes you feel sick when it does come. At that point all we can do is give generous guidance to the opposition fans as to where they should stick their bubbles…

At this point of I am remembering that I must be some kind of relegation masochist as I indulge in the usual hair-tearing-out-heart-in-the-mouth-that-git-will-never-shut-up-about-this-when-I-get-home-and-did-I-ever-tell-you-I-hate-football second half where we miss chances and West Ham contrive not to score (for which much thanks). Until the 86th minute when our sub stabs the ball home and we go bonkers. There is a group hug with Pete’s family and suddenly it is all worthwhile. Four minutes plus stoppage time during which we wait for our team to eff it up because life is like that. But we don’t.

Of course any fule will kno that this only delays the inevitable. It gives us hope rather than the good old slap of relegation reality around our “we-know-how-to-do-a-royal-burial” East Miglands chops.

Wouldn’t have missed it for the world though….AHEM.

After all that there is also the triumphant return a la Chez TLF. I am nothing if not magnanimous in victory. Honest. But apparently I do look more cheerful than usual. Mr TLF is of course more mature than I would have been had the result been reversed. He does not sulk.

He just tells me that my celebratory dinner is laced with ricin. I’m still here so I think he must have been joking…unless it’s a very slow working batch.

Lost and found fox
Match stats
Lesta City 2 West Ham 1
Attendance: 31, 863
Pre-match snacks: lasagne with a red onion & tomato salad
Pre match beverages: 2 glasses rose (ever the culture vulture)
Pre match art unveiling: 1
Grumpy and out of pocket Mr TLFs just the one…but that’s all a Fox needs