23rd February – Norwich 2 Southend 1

After leading the League leaders for 78 minutes, even the most apathetic of football fan could be forgiven for showing the least smidgeon of excitement.

You see, this has been the single most tumultuous season I can remember and, as a Southend United fan, that’s saying something. When we haven’t been caught out on the field, we’ve been caught up in court, courtesy of Her Majesty Revenue and Customs like a handful of other clubs this season.

Unfortunately for us, both the events are intrinsically linked to our downfall. We started the season with a squad woefully short of numbers and, because of our problems with the tax man, were handicapped in our approaches to boost our numbers at the hands of a transfer embargo. Forced to beg and borrow, our squad hasn’t had the chance to gel and it’s definitely showed… Adam Barrett having more defensive partners than Ashley Cole’s had hairdresser hotel rendezvous’.

The tax problems came and were seemingly dealt with, but we were left to sift through the debris, trying to find something salvageable to prop us up. Loans were used to swell the ranks, some good (A fully fit Jean Yves M’voto is capable of destruction), some more than capable at this level like reformed Colchester scumbag Pat Baldwin and some just downright awful: Roy O’Donovan the only striker to look more useful running away from goal.

Never the less, after two seasons of reasonable success against the odds, to find ourselves in the midst of a relegation scrap despite having a capable squad of players on paper was a shock to the system. The signs had been ominous, with only one centre back present in August and a squad thinner than John Terry’s grasp on humility, it was clear that this season was going to be a long, unforgiving slog.

That all pales into insignificance, though, when Scott Vernon prods home a Damien Scannell cross to give you a half time lead. Suddenly, you can stay up… such is the eternal optimism of the supporters mind, Hell, with a winning streak we could reach the play-offs.

So, when Oli fucking Johnson rose from the bench to score twice in twelve minutes, condemning us to an eighth consecutive game without a win, forgive me if I never want to see another wretched Delia Smith cookbook as long as I live.

That’s the life of a football fan, though. A constant, degrading battle with emotion that will either leave you exacerbated in the throes of ecstasy that is a last minute winner, or longing the sweet, sweet mercy of death as you’re side throw away what could prove to be an all-important three points against the league leaders in a futile attempt to stave off relegation.

That aside, it’s Charlton on Friday and a chance to make an insufferable ginger tosser’s 90 minutes as hellish and torturous as possible. That should make me feel better…