Dave’s Ramblings – Brighton and Hove Albion
Where do I even begin with that embarrassment of a performance?
You know how after a bad game people often say “that was awful” out of habit? This time it wasn’t exaggeration. It felt like a public service announcement.
Honestly, I’ve seen more urgency in a queue at the post office. The players looked like they’d all just met five minutes before kickoff and were politely trying not to inconvenience each other. At one point, I wasn’t sure if we were pressing or just socially distancing.
It wasn’t that we played badly, that would imply effort. We simply chose not to participate. If Robert Sanchez hadn’t turned into a one-man crisis management team, this horror show could’ve finished 5, 6 or 7 nil without anyone blinking.
I’m being entirely serious when I say I cannot remember a Chelsea side ever playing that badly. I’ve seen charity matches with three-legged dads show more urgency.
Brighton dominated us from the first minute and, to be honest, from several minutes before kick-off as well. Mitoma nearly recreated his goal against Spurs last weekend with a first-time volley, but thankfully Sanchez remembered he’s allowed to use his hands and made the save. Brighton scored from the resulting corner in the third minute, after a clearance by Hato, that can best be described as generous.
The chances kept coming for them. One header was well saved, another effort was cleared off the line after a pass from Sanchez that had all the composure of a shopping trolley on ice, and another flew over the bar when it looked harder to miss. It was only a matter of time before they scored again, and in the 56th minute time politely collected what it was owed.
It was complete one-way traffic. We managed just one attempt of any kind in the opening 40 minutes, a blocked shot from Chalobah on the edge of the box. Our away end responded by singing “we’ve had a shot,” which was less a chant and more a historical record.
Late on, Garnacho and Marc Guiu both had efforts wide, mainly to reassure statisticians that we had technically attacked. Brighton should’ve scored more in the second half, but eventually settled for a third when Welbeck (naturally, as is tradition) smashed one into the roof of the net. Some things in life are inevitable: death, taxes, and Danny Welbeck scoring against us.
My takeaways… feel free to skip this part as it’s going to be a long winded rant. You have been warned!
Liam Rosenior, looking like a man who’d just been told his dog ran off with his car keys, once again threw the players under the bus after the game. At this point, that bus must be carrying the full squad, coaching staff, and a few unlucky fans. This defeat, and this performance, has been brewing for weeks, if not months. I’m still amazed I woke up this morning and he was somehow still employed.
It’s been 114 years since we last lost 5 league games in a row. The last time it happened, the Titanic had just sunk and people still thought moustaches were formalwear.
We’ve now gone 476 minutes without scoring a league goal. Nearly 8 hours. You could binge-watch two films, do a shift at work, and get a full night’s sleep in less time than it’s taken us to find the net.
The players genuinely look like they don’t care. It’s easy for them. Win or lose their bank accounts increase substantially each month. At the end of the season they can agitate for a transfer if they think we aren’t good enough. We are stuck, we can’t just transfer our affection to another team.
I understand why, but the atmosphere at the moment is more toxic than a leaking nuclear plant. Anti Clearlake and Rosenior songs were constantly ringing round our end and to be fair, they’ve got more energy than the team has shown all season.
But at some point, we do need to sing something in support of the players too. Not because they’ve earned it, mind you, but because someone out there should remember they’re meant to be playing football. It won’t be easy, trying to rally behind this lot currently feels like cheering on a three-point turn.
Still, the players need a bit of pressure. Right now it feels like they’re carrying unlimited get-out-of-jail-free cards and using one every time a five-yard pass goes astray. Miss a sitter? Card. Don’t track your runner? Card. Lose 3–0 and clap the fans? Gold card.
I don’t like stats. I don’t care about stats. Half the time they’re just numbers in a trench coat pretending to matter. But there is one statistic even I can’t ignore: every single team we play seems to run about 14 miles more than us.
Our opponents sprint, press, chase, harass and generally behave like people with jobs to do. We, meanwhile, stroll around like we’ve accidentally turned up to a garden centre on a Sunday afternoon.
Opponents break forward like greyhounds out of the traps. Our lads react like someone’s just asked them to help move a sofa.
It’s not even that we’re being outplayed anymore. We’re being out-jogged, out-hustled and out-bothered. Other teams look desperate for points. We look desperate for a sit down.
At times they move with the urgency of a fire drill. We move with the urgency of a queue for the post office.
And that’s the real issue: they care, they scrap, they run through walls. We look like we wouldn’t run through a puddle.
The one genuine highlight of the day came after the final whistle, which says everything you need to know. One of their stewards took pity on me and handed over a free sausage roll and a programme. A lovely gesture. The next nice touch from Liam would be to personally refund everyone’s tickets, ideally financed from his severance pay, paid in instalments if necessary.
Is it all his fault? Of course not. This circus had clowns in it long before he arrived. But if you accept a job you are plainly miles out of your depth for, then some responsibility comes with the tracksuit. You don’t get to park the team in relegation form and then claim diplomatic immunity.
Who comes in next? Absolutely no idea. At this stage they could announce a Bichon Frisé with a clipboard and I’d hear them out. But if these allegedly clever, smart, visionary owners possess even a teaspoon of common sense, they’ll appoint a proven manager. Preferably one with a pulse, a backbone, and the rare ability to say “no” instead of nodding along like one of those dashboard dogs.
Just as I reached page 7,482 of this rant, the breaking news arrived that Liam Rosenior has joined the ever-expanding gallery of our ex-managers. At this point, the list is less a list and more a historical archive requiring its own postcode.
Dirty Leeds fans must be absolutely heartbroken. They were no doubt clinging to the dream that his sacking would be delayed until after Sunday’s game, allowing one final ceremonial disaster before the axe fell.
I don’t dislike him, and genuinely wish him all the best. He seems a decent bloke who has been wheeled out like a crash-test dummy while others steer the vehicle into a canal.
Because let’s be honest, the real masterminds behind this travelling circus are the Sporting Directors. They’ve dismantled our football club with the precision of toddlers taking apart a microwave.
Would it be too much to ask that their continued employment also comes under scrutiny? Or are they to remain untouched, like ancient gods watching chaos unfold from the executive box?
Dirty Leeds next. What could possibly go wrong…
Onwards and upwards. UTC 💙
Dave M
