The sad truth is, I didn’t even know we hate Manchester United until I was in my teens. How could I? Up until that point, and for a good many years after, I had never even MET a fellow Leeds United supporter. It was around the age of sixteen that it dawned on me — the “bitter rivalry” I’d occasionally heard Martin Tyler mention during the one Premier League match being shown in Australia that week was actually commentator code for: “These fuckers hate those fuckers, and those fuckers hate these fuckers, and this shit is about to get crazy.”

I had first taken a shine to Leeds in 1996, when a mercurially talented young Australian made his first-team debut for the Whites. Long before he outed himself as a snake, Harry Kewell was a revelation to me; not only for seeing a fellow Aussie strut his stuff on the biggest stage my limited football mind knew existed, but seeing somebody only a few years my senior striking fear into the hearts of some of the best defenders in the world. Before I’d even had time to decide if I was a Leeds fan, I was a Leeds fan.

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