If you ever needed an example of what a complete fuck up our club has become you need look no further than the events of the last week. On Wednesday night English champions and cash drenched Manchester City visited the Olympic Stadium in Rome for do or die Champions League encounter backed by a paltry 1500 followers.

Twitterwhites recoiled in disdain at a so called football giant’s pitiful effort and cast their minds back to the early noughties when three times that number converged on the eternal city to bask in the glory of O’Leary’s runny nosed ‘babies’. It is upon such trivia that the lunacy of our predicament is most keenly felt.

We are again at the whim of a youthful brigade but Saturday’s defeat saw us slip into the bottom six alongside such storied names as Millwall, Brighton and Rotherham. It was another result that perhaps suggests that our young cubs may not be quite as good as we think they are.

A vexing afternoon was compounded by the victorious return of a certain Scottish striker whose dream it’s said, was to play at the half empty and often anaemic Craven Cottage. Strangely the old house refrained from the stinging vitriol usually reserved for quislings and to be fair the player himself acknowledged the disagreeable nature of his departure.



Part One: Whites 2 Rams 0

This is how it was supposed to be. When Don Massimo and Neil Redfearn committed to a permanent alliance they must have dreamt of days like these. Throughout the murk of a week bogged down with self-doubt and crass Middle Eastern feuds, Redders’ faith shone like a beacon and in a joyous ninety minutes our youthful and runny nosed band answered their mentor’s call.

The rampant Rams travelled North expecting victory as a side of their quality should but appeared ‘staggered’ by a ‘faultless’ opposition that undressed them at will. It is always remiss to signal out individuals on such occasions but the guile of Antenucci and the breathless brilliance of our teenage midfield trio, were only slightly overshadowed by the rabble rousing captain Stephen Warnock who ‘covered the field like a rash’. The ease of our victory left visiting manager Steve McClaren visibly bewildered.

Part Two: Town 4 Whites 1

Unfortunately this is Leeds United and typically our delight was short-lived. The football League’s decision to disqualify our tempestuous owner served as a stark reminder of the vulnerability of our club and had many supporters smelling a rat.

While the game’s mandarins had allowed Bahraini bandits and a bearded cancer to plunder their way through a decade, they seem intent on making an example of the current incumbent. It is perhaps a move designed to disrupt rather than dethrone but it certainly seems one born out of petulance. The practicality of banning an owner for four months is nonsensical and leads even the more level-headed of supporters to argue the existence of malicious intent.

Naturally Don Massimo’s indignation took on Latin proportions and his defiance could signal a courtroom scuffle that would embarrass the not so sacred corridors of power. Such a prospect will leave a certain chief executive feeling particularly queasy.

A ‘grim’ episode in Suffolk did little to detract from the ‘shit storm’ of another boardroom controversy. Don Massimo’s flagging spirits would have been lifted by supporters’ growing contempt for the game’s overlords and the glowing praise from coach Redfearn but another abject effort didn’t support the rhetoric. Our feeble offering succumbed meekly to a seasoned Ipswich side in an afternoon littered with ineptitude. Mirco Antenucci’s early strike was followed by the sort of capitulation that has peppered recent times and left the coach bemoaning an ‘unacceptable’ experience.

Rovers 2 Whites 1

Posted: November 23, 2014 in Uncategorized
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Andy Hughes Is Fucking Brilliant

In a recent interview with Radio Leeds club favourite Andrew Hughes argued that ‘you are only as good as your last game’. If that is the case we are in deep trouble. Another winning position was squandered by yet another spineless self-destruction that suggests we lack of the sort of moral fibre that oozed from the heroic Hughes’ every pore.

Perhaps we were ‘professional’ and ‘excellent’ for seventy minutes but talk of muggers and cheats should in no way deflect from the shoddy workmanship that followed. The only people who deserve to feel aggrieved were the 7,000 wretched souls that travelled across the Pennines to witness a number of their players ‘robbing a living’. The drop zone beckons.


Cherry Cruyff

It’s a shame that the second half took place at all. It was so far removed from the first and dampened the mood somewhat. Perhaps it’s indicative of where our young team is at the moment as it struggles to grasp a foothold in an unforgiving division. Maybe tempering expectation is no bad thing.

By half time the old house was as contented as a newly born baby suckling on a plump breast. Coach Redfearn’s youthful charges had set about this ‘must win’ contest with the verve and vitality of two Alsatians fighting over a pork chop and their efforts were rewarded with a wonderful display of attacking football.  Watching on in pure rapture at an imperious and wanton destruction of a hapless opponent, I began to wonder about the days when Don Revies’ ‘football gods’ unleashed hell on their mortal inferiors. Is this how it felt to view such plenitude?

Both performance and victory will have provided some light relief for our beleaguered president and perhaps served to harden his determination to succeed. Don Massimo’s chequered past and temperamental present leave him open to vilification from the media and his motives continually questioned by many of his own supporters.

Amidst the talk about yachts and ‘coach killing’ little is mentioned when he steps in to fund a loss making charity event and even less is said about the interminable battle to lift the club from the scum and villainy of previous regimes. In a week of media interviews the Italian hinted at the strength sapping mess left by the ungodly greed of Bahraini Bandits and a ‘bearded tumour’. He also pointed to a lack of respect and the Football League’s fear that a healthy Leeds United will wreak swift and merciless revenge on its antagonists. It was an argument that struck a chord with many.



Sniff And Bill

By half time members of a meagre and browbeaten crowd were discussing Neil Redfearn’s return to the academy in terms of ‘when’ and not ‘if’. The first half was a pretty laboured affair despite the efforts of Warnock, Antenucci and our twinkle toed Brazilian man child. A desire to force the pace seemed to be constantly thwarted by sloppy passing and a referee’s lust for the limelight.

The second period proved to be as frustrating as the first had been impoverished. Alex Mowatt’s searing double strike deserved to wrest success from an awkward evening but was undermined by the ineptitude of others. Marco Silvestri allowed a weak effort to dribble between his thighs following even more shoddy defending, before an attention seeking match official decided his time had come. When Referee Graham Salisbury awarded the Addicks a controversial point saving penalty he did so with such relish, you would have been forgiven for thinking it had been a premeditated manoeuvre. The thrill of it all would have given the whistle happy Salisbury a dribble between his thighs too no doubt.


On the surface Neil Redfearn appears to be a humble and quietly spoken individual but my word he’s got gumption. As well as being the only man with the confidence to refer to the President by his Christian name, he had the audacity to stand toe to toe with our impulsive Italian during this week’s contract negotiations.

When former Leeds not so favourite and double European champion John McGovern managed a teenage ‘Redders’ in the struggling Bolton side of the early eighties, he found a tough and straight talking character that bellied the inexperience of youth and despite rumours to the contrary it appears that such qualities are still respected at Elland Road these days. Throughout a summer of chaos and cuts the then Academy Director saw his reputation enhanced with an owner smitten by the quality on show and the warmth is genuinely reciprocated.

In a week where we again suffered the mockery of media and supporters alike, there was a sense of real positivity surrounding the appointment. Fears that developments could damage our burgeoning youth set up were laid to rest somewhat and an expectation that the new man will at some point fall victim to Don Massimo’s hot temper and cold steel were tempered by the realisation that the local boy’s time had come.

We haven’t triumphed in Cardiff since George McCluskey’s comedy winner nearly thirty years ago and to expect a sudden change in fortune at this time was perhaps unrealistic. The White’s battled gamely but succumbed to another second half collapse sparked by deflections and ‘comedy bandbox’ defending, leaving the travelling masses to contemplate the potential of another skirmish with relegation.

Bates' Bile

While international hiatuses offer solace from the anguish of match day combat they are seldom shorn of incident. This time the Ridings throbbed with the vastly differing emotions caused by two men at the opposite end of the spectrum in terms of both age and distinction.

Those of us that had naively hoped to see Kenneth William Bates expunged from our consciousness were given a rude awakening with the news that the ‘odious old goat’ will be allowed to continue his morbid fascination with our club. Don Massimo had agreed to allow a new look Radio Bates a slice of match day commentary rights, in a bid to stave off the impending courtroom battle stemming from Uncle Ken’s sacking by former owners GFH. In a decade of bile soaked mismanagement our former leader had used the defunct ‘Yorkshire Radio’ to torment both supporters and former directors of a pensionable age and now used his new outlet to trumpet the announcement in typically self-congratulatory fashion. Many fans reacted angrily to the taunts amidst fears of a return but such thoughts appear unfounded. The club made no mention of the development and a source close to the president moved swiftly to assure the restless.

The highlight of the international break was without doubt the development squad’s gorgeous six goal demolition of Doncaster Rovers. It was a result that augmented the first team’s perceived improvement and enhanced the view that better times were ahead. The performance showcased the club’s impressive mix of local and continental youth and further embellished the reputation of a prodigious Brazilian teenager with the facial features of a pre pubescent tomboy.

Adryan Tavares de Oliveira’s arrival ‘on loan with a view to a permanent deal’ was precipitated by week of intense dialogue between agents and various clubs with every whisper enveloped by speculation and intrigue. Dubbed the ‘new Kaka’ in his homeland the youngster had struggled to adapt to such platitudes but had still attracted the attention of our wily Italian owner. Despite not kicking a first team ball in anger Adryan was already enjoying the divine status given to him by a devoted section of supporters keen to anoint a new messiah. Our growing legion of first team coaches had thus far resisted such hysterical overtures but the Donny display lead many to believe that a small town in South Yorkshire would provide the setting for the second coming.

Hey Boots

Millers 2 Whites 1

In his ridiculously abrubt tenure Darko Milanic had proven himself to be a quiet and thoughtful man and under the circumstances it was just as well. Much of the noisy pre match build up had emanated from our Southerly cousins and in particular their belligerent and dislikeable manager Steve Evans. The Scot had spent almost two weeks stoking the cup final fervour with constant and almost deferential reference to a fallen giant’s glorious past and was keen to outline his desire to vanquish such an illustrious opponent.

To the disappointment of many our Latin American man-child was only good for a place on the bench but it didn’t seem to matter. By half time Rotherham appeared to have succumbed to the pressure of their leader’s verbal foreplay as a slick Whites breezed into a deserved lead. Our second half disintegration was as inexplicable as it was grotesque and the travelling hordes looked on in horror as flabby mascara clad Evans bounced around like a lunatic while his charges bullied our pitiful band. The final whistle sparked typical bickering between a bemused fan base keen to assess the merits of Darko’s continental style in a league allegedly brimming with long balls and physical presence. It was another sickening denouement that ensured another miserable weekend.

 Canaries 1 Whites 1

A trip to Carrow Road is not the sort of journey relished by a little known manager without a win to his name. The ‘second biggest club in East Anglia’ are another whose supporters seem intent on manufacturing some kind of rivalry and it is one in which they have generally prevailed over the last few years.

Darko’s tactics and team selection caused the usual debate and allowed the conspiracy theorists their fun. When the self style Norfolk giants’ god forsaken goal music chimed after an hour we all feared for the worst until Adryan, Antenucci and Doukara crafted an immediate response. Most of us would have considered it a pleasing evening until the spectre of racism reared its ugly head.

Whites 1 Wolves 2

Don’t let it be said that Massimo Cellino doesn’t listen. Another ugly Elland Road experience left the old house chanting Neil Redfearn’s name and social media networks ringing to cries of ‘sack the useless twat’. By 6pm the call had been answered and another mid-term sacking had ensued.

The merits of Darko’s continental style had been a cause for much debate since the Slovenian’s arrival just thirty-two days before. A tame surrender at Griffin Park was disappointing but not unusual and two home draws that followed suggested improvement. It was a Friday night collapse in Rotherham that set the alarm bells ringing. Quite why Darko chose to conservatively protect a lead in a contest we had hitherto dominated was as inexplicable as it was submissive and invited an onslaught that bellied our opponents’ ordinariness. An unconvincing point in Norfolk lifted the gloom but another negative tactical switch against Wolves stole abject defeat from the clutches of heartening triumph and sparked an unforgiving president into ruthless action.

Don Massimo was quick to explain his reasoning and apologise for another mistake but it didn’t lift the despond. Albert Einstein once remarked that ‘insanity was doing the same things over and over again and expecting different results’. Such a rationale suggests il Presidente suffers more than most. We have learned to live with his love for camping out on the edge of legality but the constant procession of managerial casualties continue to upset and hurt. Those fans that weren’t involved in the usual navel gazing were left to spend Saturday night vulnerable to the derision of others. Most of our antagonists could only dream of our glorious history and untapped potential but the promised rebirth seems as far away as ever.