This Blog isn’t about football really. Part of it is football of course. But mostly it’s about the ‘experience’ of football. It’s about how it makes us feel on match day. The things we think about and do. I try to portray what it’s like to be a fan of Wolverhampton Wanderers. The ups and many downs, the emotional aspects. It’s called Southbank Resistance because it resists as much as it can the empirical and the quantitative. It resists the metamorphosis of the football supporter as customer or client, as a body if you like. It’s about saving money for your season ticket, being part of the experience during the match rather than reporting it, it’s about listening instead of hearing, seeing instead of watching. It’s about us, the South Bank regular as much as ‘them’ on the pitch. A holistic view of the whole thing.

Each piece is written in one sitting. I don’t add parts or edit them. I go to the match, have a few beers and then I gather together the thoughts I had during the day and write them down. There is little editing so sometimes it doesn’t flow as well as a more polished football blog. Sometimes there is some bad language. Often there will be things that upset the more delicate minded fan.

I’m not a ‘cool blogger’. I don’t have privy to inside information. I don’t socialise with the players or the press, I don’t understand the game as well as I should even though my first game was in 1972. I’ve been watching Wolves for 45 years. I’ve shed blood in that stand, I’ve stood there while I’ve shook from the effects of chemotherapy. I’ve stood in that stand without anybody by me for twenty yards around while the east wind whipped around the side. I know the ghosts that wander it at night.

Enjoy it if you please. Really it’s for us, the people that work and live in the town/city. The ones that work in cold/hot factories, trudge through the mud of a building site, work in shops, healthcare, the people who graft, the people who can’t graft, the people who don’t want to graft. We are the people that fall out of the pub at a quarter to three and wind our way through the madness of the crowds to fall into the turnstiles singing and shouting. It’s about YamYamism. It might not be about you, but it’s about us.



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