When the final whistle blew on Friday, I was furious. Furious that we had lost. Furious that we had clawed our way back to parity and then thrown it away. Furious that our set-piece was shaky and erratic. Furious that we had yet again failed to do the simple things well. Furious that we had the lion’s share of our wage packet sitting redundant on the bench for half the game and furious that despite seeing the last vestiges of a disappointing season finally wither on the vine, someone thought it appropriate to play Sweet Caroline as if a jolly old sing-song was all that was needed to wash away the memory of the emotional roller-coaster to which we had been subjected.
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Of course, all those moments of fury can easily be explained away with a modicum of rational thought.
