A Cry From The Heart
Our Mate Richard from NBT let's rip about the current state of our club

Not so long ago the Coventry defeat would have hurt. I’d be stewing on it after. I’d be itching for the next game. Not now. The owner has driven that out of me. No one else has. He has. I haven’t grown out of it. I haven’t moved on. I love my football club. But not this shits-how masquerading as the thing I fell in love with one April afternoon in 1984. The owner has, consciously or not, squirrelled inside and eked the soul out of it. It’s very sad. It’s not depressing by the way, let’s be clear about that, it’s just very sad. I want my football club back.

Let’s be straight. It’s nothing to do with not going to games. It’s a shits-how irrespective of us all being together in person (which would really help right now). This has deeper roots. These cables were laid on a sunny night in Burton in 2016.

Yes, some of you had “Save Our Owls” and all that bollocks of the 1970’s. You came through. The club flourished off the back of it. Many fans have been through the Dave Allen years, High Court hearings and two relegations to League one in 7 years. The difference here is, through all of that, all of that, it was still YOUR Club. If you wanted to you could own a share in it, I did. If not, you knew someone that did, and while that status quo remained no one could take it from you. At least the dickheads in charge then lived down the road, round the corner, or drank in the pub your Aunty went in. Somewhere deep down they were Wednesday. Their Dads were Wednesday. Their kids were Wednesday. Their dogs were Wednesday. Now it’s different. It’s very different. Some bloke owns it because he can. My football club is as disposable as a car, a restaurant, a cannery, or any other investment opportunity. It’s an ego flutter. A titillation. It’s gone wrong. He’s losing. This man is dangerous. This is out of control. It’s a runaway train. We are merely voyeurs leering through the curtains. Awaiting the inevitable crash and burn. Strap in.

As the dust has begun to settle, I find that my numbness is giving way to anger. The way that the haze of the post-match Barracks merriment cedes to nausea and ultimately a bastard behind the eyes. I am in bed and I’m staring at the ceiling quietly seething so as not to wake the wife up. That’s a good thing right? There’s been an awakening. A reckoning is coming. You are either part of the solution or part of the problem.

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