Unconcerned police officers observed me drawing on the container of dark liquid as I waited for the train to arrive. I wanted to balance the fresh misery with the whisky's anaesthetic in order that I might feel nothing at all. It's one of the few times I've ever needed to drink in order to get drunk.
I got to the train station, and dialled the number of the blonde woman whom I knew would always comfort me at times of petits crises: it was 13 April 2002, and Barnsley had just been relegated to the third division. Over-ambition and ineptitude had led us to the precipice, and we duly fell over the edge in an inert, resigned afternoon, losing 2-0 at home to Norwich City.
I'd been preparing for it since August, but the inevitable coup de grace still caused my soul to wobble. I reflected on this as I queued inside the green-liveried supermarket for the bottle which would obliterate me; joking with the woman serving me that I was gathering supplies for my relegation party.
It had been obvious for months: a horrible capitulation away to Sheffield Wednesday in October which led my friend to pass his 'someone else's mother' comment. He felt he'd intruded on a private grief and was embarrassed to stare at the wan, stinking creature I'd taken him to see. I woke up late the next day knowing full well that my phone would be full of messages saying: the manager's gone! and so it proved. There might have been eight, or 10.
By then, it was too late - the rot had set in. No amount of remedial work could undo the damage. I was destined to be catapulted headlong into the blonde woman's arms, and into a hangover which suspended reality somewhere beyond my grasp and caused my temples thump like a drum.
I fear that history is about to repeat itself. I intend to eschew either alcohol or blondes this time around; blondes who pull the car up in the middle of God knows where and press themselves against me, pinning me down on the back seat as I thrash my limbs and wail angrily like an animal to the slaughter.
I fear that history is about to repeat itself. The important things in the world - wars, religion, banks, politicians, climate change, corruption, bravery, love, books, freedom, expression - all reduce to a dot in the background because the waters will soon close over Barnsley again. We are condemned to this repetition, bouncing between the second and third divisions, and relegation or elevation should surprise nobody. Yet it never fails to surprise me.
Even if it's not this year, it'll be next year or the one after. The steamroller which flattens me, the disappointment I feel when I see something along these lines (unashamedly derived from the BBC's website) never fails to manifest itself fully, though:
It's there in bald, unambiguous text - news organisations don't usually deal with facts in such an unmedicated way. Princess Diana 0-1 Tunnel (Princess Diana killed); Real IRA 1-0 Peace (two soldiers relegated); Israel 0-0 Palestine (replay on Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday....); Barnsley 1-3 Wolves (Nogomet throwing up into a bucket with dead eyes).
