Dave’s Ramblings – Leeds United

December 4, 2025 Admin

So here it is, not Christmas, despite what Slade might insist on screeching, but our grand expedition to face dirty Leeds. We came prepared, of course: vaccines administered, bottled water at the ready, insect repellent fully deployed. You never know what you might encounter when you reach the outskirts of the city.

But honestly, I’ve never fully understood why our clubs have such a dramatic, soap-opera-level feud. Well… apart from Chelsea being the glamorous, well-groomed darlings of the King’s Road, while Leeds are… well from Leeds. It’s a bit like a rivalry between a Bond villain’s penthouse and a Wetherspoons at a particularly dodgy closing time.

Things really started boiling over in the 60s, when both clubs were competing for trophies. Chelsea trying to win them, Leeds attempting to win them and the fight that came with them. It all built up to the 1970 FA Cup final which, if played today, would have ended with both teams reduced to roughly one surviving player each, probably missing a leg and held together by Velcro and various bit of blue tack.

As you know, Chelsea’s recent history hasn’t just been successful, oh no, that would be far too ordinary. It has been a glorious, shimmering epic, the kind of saga ancient poets would’ve carved into marble if they hadn’t been too busy inventing sandals. We’ve lifted league titles as though plucking golden fruit from football’s most exclusive orchard. We’ve claimed Champions Leagues with the elegance of a tuxedoed jewel thief stealing diamonds under the moonlight. And then, because Europe obviously wasn’t enough, we strode onto an even bigger stage and declared ourselves champions of the world.

In truth, statues should be erected. Choirs should be rehearsed. A national holiday feels more than appropriate.

While we were conquering planets, Leeds were bravely performing the league-version of the hokey kokey: you’re in, you’re out, you’re in, you’re out, shake the Championship all about. Their promotions and relegations came so frequently that fans needed seatbelts, helmets, and possibly a small paramedic team on retainer.

Their journey has been a heroic sequence of promotions and relegations. A climb, a fall, a bounce, a plunge, a comeback, a collapse. Truly, a story with more ups and downs than a toddler on a trampoline.

Where we have built an empire of glittering excellence, Leeds built… an emotional rollercoaster so intense it should probably come with a height restriction and a waiver form.

In recent times we seem to have an unfortunate habit of playing teams just after they have appointed a new boss. Tonight we had a chance to help get rid of Leeds current manager. Silly Farke that he is. Sadly it was our own Farke of a manager who Farked up.

Our manager, tactical genius in his own imagination, decided the perfect moment to reinvent football was right before facing a team clinging to Premier League survival like a cat on a washing line.

So what does he do? Changes half the team. HALF. As if the opposition wouldn’t see that and think, “Oh lovely, they don’t even rate us. Let’s play like our mortgage depends on it.”

And of course, the collection of baffling and unnecessary changes came back to haunt us almost immediately. Six minutes in (yes that’s six!), and they’ve scored. Because apparently playing three centre-backs is pointless if none of them fancy the radical idea of… you know… heading the ball at a corner.

In fairness they could easily have already been ahead as we looked absolutely clueless. Clearly the master plan had been left back in London.

With just two minutes left in the half we decided, very generously, that it was time to gift them another goal. Honestly, we surrendered the ball with all the resistance of a damp paper towel.

And the cherry on top? The absolute masterpiece?

Neither of the scorers had ever put the ball in the net for Leeds before. So congratulations to us: not only did we give them goals, we gave them milestones. We’re basically running a charity at this point, “First Goals for Leeds: Donations Welcome.”

Second half begins, and Maresca suddenly has a moment of clarity. Possibly triggered by a rogue breeze or the distant sound of fans groaning in unison. He decides it’s time to try and undo his earlier masterpieces of chaos.

First, Gusto comes on for the eternally bewildered Badiashile (who, at this point, I’m still not convinced we pay, he might just be showing up out of habit). Then Neto replaced poor Estêvão, this was not the game for him. Not his movie. Not even his trailer. Bournemouth away would’ve made far more sense, at least there he might’ve touched the ball without being spiritually vaporised.

We came out for the second half looking like a team that had collectively remembered they are, in fact, paid to play football. Half time super sub Pedro Neto even managed to pull one back in the 50th minute, which briefly tricked everyone into thinking a comeback might be on the menu. And then… disaster. Pure, hand-crafted disaster.

In the 72nd minute, we once again decided defending was optional. Tosin produced a defensive howler so loud it probably registered on the Richter scale. He basically gift-wrapped the ball, included a bow, wrote a heartfelt note, (well it is nearly Christmas) and presented it directly to Dominic Calvert-Lewin for the easiest tap-in of his entire career. Leeds happily restored their two goal lead and secured a desperately needed win while we fall to fourth.

My takeaways…

I’m glad I stayed over after the match. If I’d tried to drive home my car would’ve been zigzagging down the M6 like it was auditioning for Mario Kart. I was that bloody angry with the blue world that I had steam coming out of my ears, eye twitching, questioning every life choice that led me to support this circus of a club. Of course that will all be forgotten in the morning. Well certainly by Saturday.

If you’ve never been to Elland Road, don’t bother. I’m not being bitter; bitterness would at least add flavour. It’s just a dump. A genuine not so lovingly preserved dump. At least thats for away fans. The view looks like it was designed by someone who hates necks. The facilities are what you’d get if you asked a medieval village to “have a crack at modern plumbing.” And getting in and out? Forget it. You don’t enter Elland Road, you queue, you shuffle, you question your life, and eventually you emerge hours later like you’ve escaped a minor natural disaster.

By the time you’re back on the road, you feel like you should receive a certificate, a medal, and possibly counselling.

Doombar in hand, and writing slowly, I’ve arrived at the following conclusion. In football, as in life, you never disrespect your opponents. Because the moment you do, fate pops out from behind a bush, screams “SURPRISE, IDIOT!”, and smacks you with a frying pan.

But Maresca? This man underestimates opponents with such consistency it should be classified as a renewable resource. His day too often appears to be, wake up, brush teeth, underestimate opponent, make breakfast.

Is it too much to hope this might be the last time? I hope so but I’m guessing the answer is a resounding not! If the football gods tattooed “STOP DISRESPECTING YOUR OPPONENTS” across the sky in giant flaming letters, Maresca would squint, shrug, and send out a starting 11 that violates at least 42 known laws of common sense.

Give him a giant flashing neon sign saying “DO NOT DO THIS AGAIN,” and he will (in no particular order):

1. Tap it.

2. Shake it.

3. Press it repeatedly like he’s trying to reset a broken lift.

4. Whisper, “But what if it works this time?”

Maresca is not learning this lesson. He is allergic to this lesson. He is the human embodiment of “Surely it’ll be different even though I changed nothing.”

Look… I know you’re probably thinking I’m overreacting a little, and I know that I probably am. But it’s late, I’m tired and we have just made a poor team look good.

Onwards and upwards. Still champions of the world and Bournemouth next. What could possibly go wrong…

Dave M