No news is rarely good news in blogging, and you may have guessed from my extended silence that the Stoke game didn't go entirely as hoped.
We lost 2-1, and as a result they're sitting pretty in the automatic promotion spot which we just don't seem to have the bottle for (here's the Championship table). If we'd won 2-1, we'd be sat there instead of them. But we didn't, because we were crap.
It's an fine example of the mind-body problem. Because minds ascribe meaning to the precise location of footballs, thousands of tons of human flesh encased in millions of tons of metal will most likely be hurling themselves along the motorway to Stoke next season, rather than Bristol. 32 small panels of plastic are stitched together to form a sphere and booted round a field, their location, vector and velocity act upon the cognitive pathways in our brains, and months later the coaches roll. 150 years after the birth of Max Planck, it's still not obvious where the momentum comes from.
Not that we should be jumping to any dualist conclusions, partly because Descartes' solution to the mind-body problem is a total crock but mainly because the promotion race isn't quite over yet. If we win both our last two games and Stoke lose both of theirs, or lose one and draw one, we can still beat them. Alternatively, there's still the playoffs.
As long as we can amass two whole points from our last two games, anyway, or failing that as long as the other teams carry on being as shit as we are. Otherwise, we could still finish the season as low as eighth. Which we'd have been thrilled at if we'd known at the beginning of the season, but which hardly seems adequate now.
Saturday is Sheffield United away, then we've got Preston at home for the last game of the season. We could go into this game still hoping for automatic promotion, but we could also go into it one defeat away from falling out of the playoffs.
Oh yes, and a happy St George's Day to you all. Did you know he was Turkish? And his mother was Palestinian. Now you know, you surely ought to go outside, find a drunken, flag waving patriot and burst their xenophobic bubble for them. You know it makes sense.