I need a pint. Several pints. Give us a minute before I even start this.

Elland Road’s a proper ground, I’ll give them that much and not a word more. Old brick, tight corners, none of your soulless new-build nonsense — the kind of place that’s been putting the fear into away fans since before any of us were born. We’re rammed into the corner of the West Stand and even before kick-off you can hear that home end going, Marching On Together, over and over, louder every time, and it gets in your chest whether you like it or not. Dry night, mild, no rain — so no, don’t even try telling me the weather did us in. We did us in.

Six minutes. Six minutes is all it takes to turn a decent night out into a bloody disaster. A deflection, then another deflection, in off one of our own lads twice basically, and I’m stood there like an absolute mug thinking, fine, unlucky, these things happen, we’ll be alright. Then a header goes in that shouldn’t have counted for toffee and it’s two, and I’m not thinking “unlucky” any more, I’m swearing my head off at nobody in particular because there’s nobody else to swear at. Third one goes in right on the whistle and honestly, half of me wanted to walk straight out there and then. Three-nil at half-time away at bloody Leeds. Elland Road bouncing, absolutely loving it, and us just stood there taking it on the chin like a pack of mugs who paid good money and took a day off work to watch this.

I was livid. Proper livid. Not the “oh well” kind, the kind where you’re shouting at strangers and not even caring how it sounds. Some individual mistakes in there I won’t repeat what I called them at the time, not in print anyway.

Second half we finally turned up, and for twenty minutes I let myself hope, God help me. Big roar when the subs came on, proper eruption when one of them cracked the bar, whole end up on its feet before the ball’s even landed. Then they go and score a fourth right in the middle of it and it’s like getting your pint knocked out your hand — you weren’t even doing anything wrong, it just happens to you. Some absolute muppets started leaving after that. Didn’t blame them. Wanted to join them, if I’m honest.

Scored a consolation at the death and I was up cheering like a lunatic over absolutely nothing, because that’s what you’re reduced to by that point — four-one’s four-one, doesn’t matter how you dress it up, but I’ll take one daft cheer over ninety minutes of silence any day of the week.

Walked out of there properly seething. Not at the lads giving everything, at the manner of it — getting bullied, pushed about, made to look like a Sunday league side by a team who simply wanted it more for an hour. That should not happen. Not to us, not at any level, not ever, and I don’t care how new the manager is. Long drive home, nobody said a word till Wetherby, work at half eight the next morning after that. Brilliant.

Right. Head’s talking now, because somebody’s got to. It’s early days. New manager, barely five minutes into the job, and this is the kind of night that happens to a team still figuring itself out — I know that, I do. He’s earned a bit of rope, and I’ll give it to him.

But I’ll tell you what — I’m sick to the back teeth of “early days,” and I’m sick of being patient, and if I have to watch us get run over like that again I’m not going to be nearly this reasonable about it. Give him his time. He’ll get it. I’ll just be effing and blinding at the telly the whole way through, same as I was tonight. Hull at home Saturday. Better be better than this. Has to be.

Davies Robson is a fictional character, giving the fan’s-eye view from the terraces.