Diary Of A Bad Dad
I’ve agonised about whether I should encourage Toddlernator the Terrible into following the less than righteous path of becoming a Leeds United fan. His f ’ther and his f ’ther’s f ’ther and his f ’ther’s f ’ther’s f ’ther were all part of the Elland Road faithful. We were all born and bred in Leeds and didn’t really have much choice but T the T is a Fenny by geography if not wholly by genes.
I’ve taught him the Leeds salute –which for those of you who have better things to know about consists of clenching your fist, then beating it against your heart while rapidly chanting Leeds, Leeds, Leeds.
His grandad is a season ticket holder at Arsenal and although I remind him that I’ve seen Leeds beat the Gunners in two Wembley finals still looks at me with pity. He’s already trying to convince T the T that the Emirates is the place to be and I caught him attempting to teach him some dodgy Arsenal song.
I was just about to protest when T the T responded by beating his little chest and shouting Lee, Lee, Lee at his grandad.
He doesn’t know it yet, but that moment has condemned him to years of misery. He might have been born in Peterborough City Hospital but he’s Leeds and he knows he is.