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It’s probably just me, but there’s a perverse sense of comfort around the tail-spinning Warriors. Their accelerated plummet back to earth is a warm embrace from the past.Ìý

Don’t get me wrong, the halcyon days of 2023 will always serve as a beacon of hope for fans of the club who have endured like no other over the last quarter of a century, but now we are back in our regular rhythm. Ìý

There will be barbecues in years to come where older folk will gather around a hotplate with cans of Lion Rouge, telling lies about where they watched the games that lit a bonfire of hope beneath them. Initially it was aÌýwelcome warmth after years of freezing in the bitter and exclusionary cold of dwelling in the bottom 8. Sadly, that comforting heat soon ignited and flame-grilled those who stood too close. Ìý

So here we are, back in familiar territory, a loveable bunch of lads who flirt with greatness then forget their boots. They know they can beat the best; we know they can beat the best; the best know they can be beaten by them but invariably they beat themselves. This season has been the perfect illustration of that precis. Ìý

I may well be wrong, and it brings me no pleasure to forecast the age-old struggle of staring down the barrel of must win fixtures before the inevitable mathematical chance phrase permeates the narrative.Ìý

It’s horrid I know, but maybe LAST year was our year.Ìý

That’ll do. Ìý