Saturday’s performance and result wasn’t entirely unexpected by the faithful.

Twitter had plenty of people concerned about the potential for #TypicalCity to make an appearance.

I was confident of victory. Fairly confident, anyway. But not confident enough to mention so on Twitter. And aware enough to be tempted to back us to lose 3-0 (I decided that it was a stupid idea – just like I decided backing Iceland to beat England 2-1 was a stupid idea).

Also I had to contend with #TypicalMe. No, not the typical hangover, but the fact that I had long ago stupidly agreed to go look at some trees and shit in Kew Gardens on Saturday. And hence was missing a vital Hull City game that I desperately wanted to watch, so I could cheer us going 5 points clear of the relegation zone.


I have to say that Kew Gardens was very relaxing. Exceptionally pleasant and soothing on the soul. Rather middle-class, calm with well-priced beers to sit outside The only thing in common with the football was the slightly sparse attendance. Oh and the quietness. And the person in the ticket booth had the customer service skills, of, oooh Ehab Allam.

The only part of the experience that reminded me of watching Hull City, was seeing the peacock strut around trying to score to absolutely no effect or success – the female appearing as interested as Elmohamady has in defending all year. Shortly after, news reached me of Sunderland’s first goal. And not too much later, the second goal.

I felt relieved that fate had meant that I could not watch the game, could not be subjected to the abject misery and was feeling rather cheerful after a very pleasant day. Followed by an excellent dinner.

And then we went to the pub. Guess what was showing? Game Of The Day. Hull City vs fucking Sunderland. Of course.

It didn’t take long before my levels of misery became more appropriate. What an abject performance that was. I tried not to watch it too closely – I was with friends that had as much interest in footbasll as I do in make-up and jewellery. But my eyes would often be attracted to the game.

It seemed to me that we could have won. We have been lucky at times under Silva, and had Pickford not had such a good performance, a point or 3 could easily have been ours. It wasn’t exactly as if we were outplayed.

But we were crap. Crapper than Sunderland. Typically crap, in fact.

I had previously concluded that the Marco Silva effect included a rebutting of #TypicalCity. But really, it has just been one long case of #TypicalCity – getting our hopes up to the point of expectation, getting our home form to the point where only Tottenham could better it, giving belief to all the players, fans and possibly even Paul Merson – then abjectly throwing it all away in the most perfect example of #TypicalCity.

By time I had watched the game and read the whole of Twitter, I decided to compound my dawning depression by watching Match Of The Day. And eating some crap southern fried chicken too.

I awoke typically hungover, then realised that for my first away game of the season, I could be watching us get relegated. Typical.

Of course, #TypicalCity works both ways – it would be equally appropriate for us to snatch survival from the depths of doom.

Though it means winning away. It means winning away. It means that we need to win away. Away from home.

I won’t be counting my peacocks.

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