Always next season

Dear Reader, I think we can consider the season over.

I speak as a dedicated follower of Luton Town FC, of course. A club with a fine history - the first southern club to go fully professional, indeed. And since 1891, when that notable event occurred, we have won - I would dare to say - several matches, including on one occasion the Football League Trophy (not be confused with the Football League Cup, which is a completely different tournament which happens to have similar words in the name. But entirely different sponsors.)

And over  the years, I have first sat in the Bobbers' stand as a young boy, then stood on the Oak Road end when that was for the home fans, and then latterly the Kenilworth Road end. Although, latterly, the Archdruid has banned me from attending as I have, as she puts it, "books to cook" on Saturdays. And she also suggests it is good for my mental health.

My love of Luton has of course only been strengthened by their habit of constantly getting relegated, going into administration, being run by power-mad or publicity-hungry fools, installing plastic pitches or banning away fans. Culminating in yesterday's heartbreak as the news filtered through that we had missed out on promotion from the Blue Square Conference National Premier Division. On penalties.

But there is always next season. That is the faith of the true football supporter. Next season we will win the league outright - or failing that, win the playoffs. Or failing that avoid relegation. Next season will be a year of consolidation, or the year we break through, or when we finally - against all the odds - win a game.  Next year the parade of over-paid carthorses we swore at through the muddy fields of February will be a Brazil-like outfit, stroking the ball through the dappled shade of September. Next year the gawky kids will, swan-like, glide around the hallowed acres of Kenilworth Road, and a host of unexpectedly wise signings will drive the team through the opposition. And we might stay out of administration. And one day, after 60 years of trying, we might finally get a new ground.

For this season, the broken  dreams are put away. The metaphorical straw hat is put in its box. We are left with memories of Eric Morecambe, David Pleat's jig of joy, Malcolm MacDonald, the marvellous Alan West and the Futcher Twins. And the hope of next season.

There's always next season.