sfc

When will it end for Saints?

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The rear of the Chapel Stand, St Marys Stadium, Southampton

The rear of the Chapel Stand, St Mary's Stadium, Southampton - © Dan Kerins 2008

The whole sorry affair of Southampton FC is hopefully moving towards something resembling resolution, judging by some of the things being said at the moment.

While it’s safe to say we won’t be seeing investment of Paul Allen proportions, at least the administration debacle should be behind us and we can start afresh (appeals not withstanding) regardless of who the owner is – although us Southampton fans know that not just anyone should be welcomed into the board room.

However, the new owner certainly won’t be the council – as proposed in a column in the Telegraph. They’ve said they are interested in the stadium, which is not something I have a problem with – but the club itself would probably be a step too far for the electorate to stomach.

But after reading the piece, it brings up almost utopian visions of what could be if British football clubs were run for the benefit of the community rather than the pursuit of profit. Like I said, it’s never going to happen, but the possibilities are certainly worth pondering.

Emotional rollercoaster

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The missus choose a good weekend to go away for a couple of hen dos – a huge emotional trauma struck me on Saturday.

The R word.

Not recession. Not redundancy. The worst possible R word. Relegation.

There are only two things you can do to overcome the heartbreak  associated with your team being demoted – mope and drink.

These are two things that are very hard to do when your better half is around. They just don’t understand, you see. “It’s only a game” or “There’s always next year” and “Well why don’t you do something else that won’t make you depressed?” are not the things any man wants to hear when the overpaid bunch of dinlos whose wages you pay cock-up monumentally and lose to teams from glamorous locales such as Doncaster.

I’ve heard it said numerous times that a bad result can ruin her weekend (and the weekend’s of my mates’ girlfriends) when the Saints fail to hit the arse of a cow with a banjo. The mood such miserable failures put us menfolk in is, well, not the greatest. But as all football fans will tell you, the lows only make you enjoy the highs even more. So surely, in a few years I can guarantee endless weekends of ecstasy pleasure not known by anyone since Venus herself.

I just hope the missus is patient…