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Every
morning it’s the same: I stand in front of the mirror, staring at
a tired face, singing;
We
are Leeds, We are Leeds, We are Leeds in
a throaty whisper, telling myself it sounds like the Gelderd End
at Elland Road.
We
are Leeds. We are Leeds. We are Leeds. My stubble stands on
end like a cartoon electrocution, and I take up the razor and run
it across my face.
I have
to keep it up: Marching on together, We’re gonna see you win, Na
na na na na na. I’ve done both cheeks, my chin, my moustache. We
are so proud, We shout it out loud, We love you Leeds, Leeds, Leeds.
My throat. Any solitary bristles I might have missed. And it doesn’t
matter if I’m using one, two or three blades, a swivel head, a lubricating
strip, whatever . . . this is the best shave a Leeds fan can get.
In
the pub you get a pint and stand at the back of forty or fifty fans
watching a large screen. The game is twenty-five minutes in. You
put your pint on the side of the pool table. Rio Ferdinand scrambles
to reach a wayward free kick and lofts the ball back into the box.
You take your jacket off. The ball skims off the head of a Liverpool
defender and falls to Kewell’s feet. You stop taking your jacket
off, it hangs from your arm. Kewell hits it. The ball deflects off
two Liverpool players and settles in the back of the net. And, like
most of the others, you shout like you’re at the football. The camera
is not on the referee. It even says one-nil on the screen. And Liverpool
are taking the ball back to the centre circle. It’s real. It’s one-nil.
Two
groups of three lads by the pool table do not cheer. They look angry.
They must be Liverpool. The bar is now thick with smoke as you watch
the game on the small TV screen above the pool table. You can’t
see the big screen for people, some eating as they watch, all drinking.
There is an easy atmosphere. It’s not like watching Leeds in a city
centre pub where it can be fierce, everyone pissed up, part of a
mob of five hundred.
You
wonder what would happen if Liverpool scored. The six lads by the
pool table would go up and cheer. You’d have to step back from them,
disassociate yourself, just in case something happened. You’ve been
in pubs – admittedly for Leeds-Man U games – where celebrating Man
U fans have had to hide under tables from a shower of glasses and
stools.
The
half-time whistle goes. Liverpool 0 Leeds 1. The two lots of Liverpool
fans swear and head for the bar.
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