Yesterday I went to bed excited about possibly adding yet another trophy to the cabinet, potentially one of a few more this season. Of seeing the club I have loved since I was tiny lad lift another trophy at Wembley. To watch some of the world’s best players — at my club, which I never thought would be possible — play some of the best football in the world to do it.
But I’ve woken up with a sense of dread. I now realise that winning silverware is not what I thought it would be. Being successful is a hallow, lifeless existence; it is not morally and spiritually fulfilling like being ****, nicking a draw here and there against clubs like Sunderland, and desperately trying to attract the likes of McManaman, Fowler, and Quinn before they retire. I don’t find joy in anything now, inside or outside of football. Our dominance in English football has destroyed my ability to enjoy even the smallest pleasure. Why, or why, cannot we not be little old City again, everyone’s second team, nonthreatening and lovable? Those were the days of true fulfilment.
I know now that winning is a curse, a waking nightmare from which there is no escape.
I will watch our lads playing some of the best football the world has ever seen in a cup final today with only despair and disillusionment.
Where did it all go wrong?