It's the morning after the night before – that annual ritual where Reading fans shuffle to the Purple Turtle to either toast a season well played or drown their sorrows. This time, the glasses were half-empty, and the conversation was heavy. A season shared, yes, but one defined by anguish, turmoil, and a complete lack of identity.
If you'd told me back in August that we'd cycle through two managers, briefly flirt with playoff contention, only to be unceremoniously dumped by spring, I'd have called you crazy. Yet here we are, back in the familiar swamp of toxicity and rage – the kind we haven't seen since the Dai Yongge era, when the villain was faceless. It hits differently when the problem is standing right in front of you.
After the night fizzled out, I stumbled home, collapsed into bed, and couldn't find peace. The game, the month, the whole miserable season kept replaying in my mind. Maybe it was the alcohol whispering to my subconscious, but just before waking, I dreamt of someone carrying a cardboard box – that classic "you're done here" TV prop. A stuffed bear. A ruler. A few books. A lucky Gonk. Subtle as a brick.
The football is, without doubt, breathtakingly bad.
Dreams can be cryptic, but this one wasn't. I don't need to spell out who it was about. The truth is painfully obvious now: Reading fans can't tolerate the manager any longer. We're being told Leam Richardson is the man for next season, that he's been tasked with building a squad in his image. But whatever that image is, it's nowhere near what he's served up in his audition.
Yes, he's had one transfer window. Yes, the injuries have been biblical. Yes, he's only been here seven months. All fair points. But the other side of the coin is far heavier. The squad – the one he's supposedly moulding – looks fractured, if not completely shattered. There's no spirit, no pride, no confidence in each other. A team in name only.
Nobody, bar Lewis Wing, wants responsibility. Nobody, bar Daniel Kyerewaa, moves with purpose. This isn't just a bad season; it's a warning sign. For fans who bleed blue and white, the question isn't whether change is needed – it's how much longer we're willing to watch the swamp swallow our club whole.