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. 

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.  

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 a welcome 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.  

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.  

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. 

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

That’ll do.