Well we came back unfortunately.
Selling Jordan Mutch for magic beans sent us livid, and we'd vowed not to renew our season tickets....because...well...what's the point? Eh? But...we came back.
As that countdown clock was a-tickin, we panicked and sent off the forms for renewal. I mean the club's dying and the football is abhorrent but they're nice seats. They are. Nice views. Nice they are. Far enough to fix Block XI a steely glare without violent repercussions, yet close enough to enjoy the ripples of atmosphere.
Put up with the shit now and when the billionaire buys us out we'll have prime time seats.
This season will be testing though. Behind us are about seven or eight kids, three in audible range. Dreaded teens. They play fight; they talk incessantly, rabbiting on but in shrill tones; they scream down our ears; they lash out and pretend it's an accident; they never shut up.
One looks like a plump Eskimo. As if Channel Four had thought up a documentary where they grab an Inuit, take him to an O'Neills surf shop, throw a hoody over him and then dump him in Small Heath. The other, a bit rodenty. The third some generic Hogwarts extra. Unconventional Blues fans.
I'm coming across harsh, I know, but they really are insufferable. If there's one thing you remember from this blog, make it that.
There's only so long you can have Jack Whitehall 'gags' screamed, honestly screamed, down your ears and get sharply knee'd in your spinal cord when you're watching your team lose 5-0 at home to Barnsley before the veins in your eyeballs start to crack and you stare at the sky crazed and inert with madness.
At half time a plump contestant in joggers chipped the ball into the net from the 6 yard box and nabbed himself free tickets to the next Blues home game. 'Do you want to gamble?'
'No, i'll take the tickets.'
I couldn't help but stare across the cold, blue, sea of empty seats at this delighted man and wonder why? Why would you want the tickets? We have to come down here because we've got season tickets, because we're reserving seats for when the billionaire comes in. You, you've got free choice. Go home to the warmth. Get out of here.
When Barnsley scored the third goal the Eskimo and Jedward stormed off. Finally, now I could watch the sight of Barnsley ripping us apart in peace and quiet.
Barnsley were the best footballing side we saw down St Andrews last season. They were bloody marvelous today too. Pass and move. Pass and move. Keep ball. Overseen by a manager that looks like Phoenix Night's 'Young Kenny'. It's an impressive duo, and they were well worth their lead.
They were irrepressible.
Looked like they'd score whenever they fancied it. That's the sign. That's the sign for change.
The time has now come for Carson Yeung to sell the club and let us start afresh.
Three managers, 40 odd players, all in the space of two seasons. It can't go on. We're applying plasters to axe wounds. Hoovering up anybody's shit [Lita, Elliot, Ambrose, Mullins] because it's free. We can't function that way.
And what's Yeung getting from holding on?
The value of the club drops every day. The club is decaying. And yet it seems the board are refusing to relinquish it. But if you can't stop the decay, you won't invest in players, why refuse to sell? You're not going to get anywhere near the ludicrous price you paid. Time to compromise.
Ultimately though the fans might have to apply pressure to force a change of ownership.
My idea?
Relocate the kids behind us to Carson Yeung's box. If their Jack Whitehall gags don't finish him off - the Russell Howard ones will.
Ta ra.
