Gah, Illan. Here, now, in the bitter fury of what I wanted to happen not having happened (in improbable yet predictably Leedsy circumstances) I am blinded by my hatred of the awful thing. Just pick it up. Pick up the gently bouncing ball and flop on the floor for a minute and then we can all have a lovely weekend. Hold it like precious cargo. A fragile pet, easily gathered and loved and cherished and held close and safe to your breast.

Keep it there and don’t let it go. Drink in the sweet Mackem boos as you bounce it over and over. As you squeeze it to make sure it’s still there there belt it clean and clear into the floodlit starry sky and chalk up another three notches on the prison wall of second-tier purgatory. Bring home a whole 45 minutes of carefully ceded possession. 1-2. Three points. Season well and truly back on track.

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