Being a Sheffield Wednesday supporter has been something of a hardship, particularly over the last 16 years. It’s been like following someone with a debilitating muscle wasting disease whilst they’re shuffling round a supermarket trying to do their weekly big shop. You remember watching them effortlessly perform the simplest of tasks, but suddenly they’re struggling to grip a tin of peas and have wet themselves in aisle 7.
When I was growing up they were a magnificent team, replete with players of international calibre oozing class and guile. We had the talismanic Chris Waddle, a player with more ability in a single strand of flowing bleached mullet hair than most Premier League wingers performing today. Waddle was brilliant, and possessed the twinkle-toed dexterity of a young Fred Talbot dancing across the floating map of Great Britain (but without the internal thoughts of horrifying perversion).
Then there was David Hirst, who…
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