Weeks and weeks after we normally throw the towel in on our season, Coventry City were still playing football. Days away from June, with close, sticky heat intensifying the swarms of jubilation that were slowly being sucked towards west London from all over the globe, we had a game to play; it all came down to this.
I woke up intensely depressed. Somehow I’d managed to orchestrate, the astute conductor that I am, the coincidence of the most apocalyptic emotional disaster in my personal life with the most joyous, and long-awaited day in my 18 years of following Coventry City. All self-inflicted and my own fault, naturally, but nonetheless, sort of like walking up to cash in your Euro Millions ticket and seeing that the T’s & C’s include a nice bout of untreatable pancreatic cancer. The only thing keeping me going were the reports coming out of Leamington station that Tom Davies had been papped in his Coventry suit already halfway through a six-pack of Stella. I