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I tried it once—don’t judge me, now! Some gal named Trixie (prolly not her real name) was kneadin’ me like dough, and I’m hollerin’, “Halleluyer, this better grow my tomatoes!” She laughed, I laughed, but lordy, it felt good. Made me happy as a pig in mud! ‘Til she charged me $80—EIGHTY DOLLAHS?! I ‘bout fell out my chair, screamin’, “You robbin’ me blind, Trixie!” She just smirked, like, “That’s the game, Madea.” Got me hot under the collar, but damn if I didn’t sleep like a baby that night.

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Anyway, I’m sipping my drink, and I hear this commotion outside. I peek out, and there’s a bunch of lads on the corner of Market Street, shouting about some football match. Apparently, Bradford City was playing, and they were buzzing. I mean, I get it, footie is life for some folks. But the way they were going on, you’d think they were about to win the World Cup or something.

Tears of despair followed by ones of joy for Bradford City promotion hero Antoni Sarcevic as Graham Alexander savours fates being gloriously with Bantams