Time eludes us all.
I always find the climax of a season sad. It's like the end of a gig. All that noise and then silence ringing in your ears.
This is it for me. I can't go to Peterborough. It's a beautiful spectacle though. A sell out. A defiant two fingers to fate from the unfortunate Rams and a middle finger to all the inexpert preseason predictions from us.
I hope tomorrow is better than the away game. At Pride Park we seemed to be enacting some kind of bet to see if each consecutive attack could be slower than the one that came before. We have seldom been as poor this year. We've been good, bad and indifferent but rarely as insipid and with so little fight.
End of season matches where neither team has anything really to play for can't be cagey, coy, shadow boxing. They must be shambolic, carefree, joyful celebrations of the flaws of the two teams. Go at each other and may the least worst team win.
We invent meaning. We must get as many points, we must finish on a high, we must finish above them lot.
All the meaning is invented anyway. These things matter as much as anything else which is not at all and very much at the same time. The most important thing is that there's another Saturday. Another game. The next season. Hope springs eternal. Disaster is always on the horizon. You can win every trophy there is and yet, come the new season it all starts again. You can lose and lose and lose and yet, come preseason, be dreaming of triumph.
Derby County must surely come again. They must surely pick themselves up from the canvas and spit out the blood and broken teeth and fight on. 134 years must surely become 135.
All together.
FUCK THE EFL.
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