[Ska'dForLife-WBA]

To fall in love, without exception, is to create one's own religion in worship of a fallible god; and there are few more fallible than West Bromwich Albion. As the unhappy parousia of Tony Mowbray reached its undignified and largely inevitable conclusion last weekend, the curtain effectively fell on yet another season, with the playoffs now only reachable by a set of permutations so unlikely that even American soap writers would think twice about conjuring them up. Not least among the obstacles: Albion would need to win both remaining games, at Cardiff this Saturday and at home to Luton the next, coming off back-to-back Easter defeats and poised on the joint-worst winless away streak outside the top flight in our history (equalling 14 under Keith Burkinshaw in 1994, which we'll duly surpass with anything short of a win tomorrow). Even interim boss James Morrison has tried to keep things realistic in his pre-match pressers, talking only about "positivity" and "restoring pride"; I wish Mozza all the best in the attempt, but it'll take a lot more than eight days to accomplish.

And yet, and yet...

We're the last of the good old-fashioned steam-powered trains.

We'll huff and puff till we blow this world away.

We'll keep on rolling till our dying day.

And you'd better believe: we don't know where we're going, or why we came.