I don’t understand why everyone keeps saying ‘sign a left back’ when we’ve got Junior Firpo. Who cares if he can’t defend? What does it matter that he was part of that scummy squad who weren’t all that arsed about fighting relegation? So what if the chariot of promise our £13m Barça man arrived on glittered but was not gold?

He’s got a grin that could launch a thousand ships or sell me a car – an expensive one at that – hell, put him in a white shirt and I’d even accept a drink from him in Revolution. As far as I’m concerned, a nice smile and one breathtaking ninety minutes of football per season are enough to keep someone in your life. Most of us can’t do half of that, a lot of us can’t do any of it, and not one of us can say we’ve single-handedly put Wayne Rooney out of a job.

No, you can’t get rid of the one guy who brought me joy in the gloomy shitscape of the 2022/23 season. What happens the next time everything goes to pot? Who’ll cheer me up then?

Waking up to watch Leeds United host fellow relegation battlers Southampton last February was a rotten affair. Twelve hours before I was due at Elland Road, I was standing piss-drunk on Lower Briggate falling out with my best mate. And it wasn’t even about something stupid, the trivial shit that the bladdered get too easily wound up about, no, this one mattered so much my mate got straight into a taxi, while I was left to hurtle around the New Penny alone, powered only by VK and distress.

The next morning, my task was not straightforward – getting to LS11 while being upright for more than a couple of minutes at a time seemed about as likely as Junior Firpo doing something useful for Leeds. But that would be the easy part. Once I’d heaved my bones to Beeston, I was then expected to try and enjoy myself watching the same Leeds United team who had taken four points from their last ten games.

While I was prepared to give it my best go, the universe was prepared to slam the door in my earnestly-trying face. I was already late for kick-off and I was already sweating like an overindulged little piggy, VK blue practically rolling down my pallid brow. Then the arsehole turnstile malfunctioned in front of my very own very bloodshot eyes.

My barcode wouldn’t scan a second time so I was packed off to plead my case in that shed they call the ticket office. I twitched in the queue because the game had begun, and the scent of a cigarette threatened to destabilise my stomach in quite a catastrophic fashion. If there’s one thing worse than a Leeds United team shaped by Jesse Marsch, it’s throwing up on yourself with an audience of men whose experience of the ticket office and a Leeds United team shaped by Jesse Marsch has made their patience thinner than that same bastard team’s survival odds.

My quest looked bleak as the man behind the glass told me that since I am not Paul Bloggs, who bought the ticket, he can’t do anything about my already-used barcode. Cast down by the realisation that no, obviously the Old Peacock aren’t showing it you moron, it’s 3pm on a Saturday, I was almost resigned to forking out £40 for an afternoon huffing and puffing around Beeston, perhaps only to be cheered up by a 99p cheeseburger eaten to the soundtrack of the Saints’ away section going barmy up the road. Almost.

Now, I’m not much of a charmer, so I was surprised when I managed to smooth-talk my way into the stadium. As it turns out, when you’re going through a terrible hangover, it’s much easier to beg like a pathetic little worm as your dignity has got nowhere to go.

It says a lot about Leeds United’s final horrible Premier League season that a person in a high-vis quietly reneging on the Elland Road entry policy produced the most optimism and excitement I’d felt all campaign.

So after the dread of thinking, ‘can I really bring myself to overcome a hangover only to watch Leeds throw away one of their best chances to claw back something in this most dire of relegation scraps?’, I was positively chirpy as I bounced down the steps of the South Stand.

And then, there was Junior Firpo. Sweet little Junior, kicking with his weaker right foot, his deceptive, bobbling shot making two Southampton players look even more pathetic than me. Georgi Rutter was there, Bambo was there — but no, he thought ‘I’ll have that’.

His goal earned Leeds three points, and himself an opportunity to impress fans further. Plonked in front of the cameras, Firpo charmed with his smile and did a great impression of a strong leader ready to help his brothers out of a mess.

“Probably it’s been one of the toughest weeks but I have all this gorgeous team,” he said. “I said to them before the game, ‘we have one of the best dressing rooms that I have ever met and we deserve to be here in the Premier League’.”

Ah well. I can’t honestly sit here and say that Junior Firpo turned the worst day ever into the best. But I’d seen Firpo and I was fucking off home with a bigger smile than I could hope for, one day after drinking my body weight in fluorescent blue fluid. ⬢