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Making a win hard for ourselves. Very Leeds. Very Bielsa. It feels brilliant to have some points on the board, but christ that was a difficult watch.

The first half was bonkers, in a good way. If you ignore the penalty, we were in control of the game. Costa and Bamford flourished, proving the doubters wrong by showing they’re able to cut it in the big leagues. Both played with a chip on their shoulders, buzzing around and just generally hassling a sloppy Fulham back line.

However, things changed after half time. To the untrained eye the second half insanity…


Well that was a football match. I suppose.

For possibly the first time since Bielsa arrived on the scene, we took part in a genuinely boring game of football. The disjointed play and lack of crowd made it feel like some sort of weird throwback to the heady days of the Johnstone’s Paint Trophy. Oh what days they were. Paul Huntington scoring against Darlington. Andy Robinson scoring against Darlington. Tresor Kandol scoring against Darlington. Now I come to thing about it, the whole thing involved a lot of Darlington. Too much Darlington, some might say.

While losing to League One…


Disappointment. Never has disappointment felt this good.

Who’d have thought that we’d be sat here today thinking that we deserved at least a point against the current champions of England?

Obviously it would have been much better to have taken something from the game. It would be daft to say anything different, but something about this feels sort of brilliant. The dissatisfaction of defeat we’re all feeling confirms that we’re back where we belong.

Before kick-off I was a bit scared about the season. There were a lot of uncertainties and so much that could have gone wrong. Everyone was…


Like all of the best things in life, it started with an advert in the paper.

Lucy Hapton was on the bus, on the bus to work. She had been taking the bus for a good few months now. She used to drive you see, but her car had packed in a while ago. Something to do with the timing belt. She was meant to be saving up to get it fixed, but things just seemed to get in the way, and although she moaned about it, she actually quite liked getting the bus, it gave her time to think.


The red package sat outside of Flat 22. No one questioned its existence. No one apart from Hester Wilhelm.

You wouldn’t know it by looking at him, but Hester was the type to question everything. It’s just the way he was. One time back in primary school, Hester was so intrigued with the teacher’s chalkboard that he proceeded to interrogate her about the origins of chalk for three hours straight. This talk went into such detail that even Graham Satchel, the so-called discoverer of chalk, was said to have fallen asleep during the discussions.

The first time Hester saw the…


Around the corner from our old house there were four rows of garages. Unspectacular, depressed additions to 1970’s housing estates. On the face of it, they were the last place you’d want to hang out. But to me, for one summer, they were everything.

You could find me and my neighbour John there most afternoons, kicking a knackered blue mitre ball against a wall. To the outside spectator we were just two kids playing a particularly intense game of wallie, but there was much more to it than that.

I’ve always loved playing football, but there’s no hiding from it…


It’s quite a nice day today. I’m glad I’m outside. There’s a bit of a breeze, but the suns out. Perfect weather. I’ve not got much planned so I thought I’d just take a stroll around town with my pal Ross. I don’t need to buy anything — I don’t have the money to tell you the truth — but I just fancied getting out of the house. Mum and Dad have been arguing a lot recently so I’ve been trying and spend as much time away from them as I can.

Me and Ross do everything together. We’re joined…


You knock on the door. It opens.

“Hello Madam, have you got a minute?” You ask.

“No. Sorry.” They always say that. That always happens.

You thank them for your time and you move on, down to the next house. This is the way you spend your days now. This is your life. You had aspirations. Once. You had plans. They’ve all gone now. You need money to survive. And apparently, door to door sales is the way you’ve decided to make your money.

You’re selling dreams. That’s what they told you when you signed up for this gig. People…


Cold.

Green.

Lumpy.

Shit.

Into the tub it goes. Again. And again. And again. It’s 8am, which means I’ve got to open shop in 3 hours. I better get a move on. These mushy peas aren’t gonna cook themselves.

I never really thought about the finer details of running a chip shop. Mum and Dad always had that side of things covered. I used to help out on weekends and that when I was in school, but it all seemed so much easier back then. Cut a few potatoes, butter some baps. Everything made sense.

To be honest though, back…

Sleepy D

Bad writing at its worst.

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