Will be the first day I can start getting over last Saturday.
Although I suspect even numbing the pain with Guinness and whisky might still not be enough.
But I have been asking myself, why have I felt so abjectly miserable since our trip to South Bermondsey?
It's not as if I haven't seen us get stuffed by zampa's boys before and had to endure the pain of local plastics giving it large.
It's not that I haven't been corralled like an animal at a football match before, or been kept waiting till the last old granny out of the home disabled bays has got on her sunshine bus for the ten minute journey home before I can get out of a poxy urine smelling away end.
It's not even that once escorted by Her Majesty's finest constabulary through a labyrinth of platforms and alleyways making sure that I have no contact with the rest of humanity, that I am then abandoned to make my way home whilst mingling with the very people they had spent the previous two hours keeping me away from.
Regrettably it may well be that Saturday like no other day before made me realise that our fragile grip on promotion had just begun to evaporate.
Although I recognised that our performances in the weeks, even months before were at best adequate. The way we allowed a team who are likely to be with us in the shake up, out battle us, out desire us and unfortunately for the period of the game that mattered most, outplay us, was as bigger shock to the system as the sight of a sea of gnarled faces pointing in my direction showing as much hatred as they did enjoyment.
My only hope is that this is just another episode in the roller coaster ride of an Addick and that come Saturday evening my emotions would have come full circle and I am once again, perhaps pointlessly, dreaming of automatic promotion.
But you know what they say about hope eh!
Now make mine a double!!!!!
0
Comments