Something Not Worth Thinking About...

Forget Brown vs. Cameron, Red Ken vs. Snooty Lord Boris or even Obama vs. Hilary. May's real, almighty, life-altering tussle is between Leicester City and Southampton.

Both former Premier League clubs have fallen messily from grace and are teetering on the edge of oblivion, faced with relegation to League One and joining the ranks of fallen angels such as Leeds United and Nottingham Forest.

Southampton play Sheffield United at Home on Saturday, whereas Leicester take the bumpy, pottery-strewn A50 up to promotion candidates Stoke City. Should Southampton beat the Blades, Leicester could be faced with having to beat Stoke in order to send their newly-forged south coast rivals flailing toward eternal hellfire.

As a lifelong Leicester fan, I have endured my fair share of dizzying highs, terrifying lows and creamy in-betweens. I remember the heady days of Martin O'Neil, when we won the Milk/Worthington/Carling/League/Littler Cup not once, but twice at Wembley. I remember when giants such as Gerry Taggart and housewife's favourite Ian Walker stalked the earth. I remember when we were all but guaranteed a scrappy goal courtesy of players' wife-bothering Steve Walsh's hoofed clearance, a knock down header from 'heeeerrrrrrm' Ian Marshall and a well placed shin from workmanlike Steve 'Stevie' Claridge.

But those days are gone, possibly forever. I also remember the train-wreck that was Peter Taylor administration. I remember the time he set off on the over-night ferry to Nigeria in a van containing five-million pound coins and returned two days later with a scared-looking sprinter named Adi Akinbiyi. I remember when attempts to teach this plucky runner the rudiments of football failed spectacularly resulting in Leicester's elimination from the top tier.

I have long forsaken the pursuit of deriving any pleasure form supporting Leicester. I don't live there anymore and don't have the money (nor inclination) to clamber aboard a train to watch City lose every Saturday. Whenever I mistakenly tune into Final Score, only to see Leicester have pulled off another scrappy victory, I am not happy; Leicester should win away at Scunthorpe, but they shouldn't even be in the bloody division. To hear our manager, Ian 'Honest Ollie' Holloway spout in his West Country drawl how proud/heart-broken he is - the script alternates week on week - would be unspeakably depressing were I now not so perfectly apathetic to the fate of the club. Trust me, it's easier this way.

Play-Doh faced presenter Adrian Chiles, in his book We Don't Know What We're Doing, claims "It's not the fear, but the hope that destroys you." I have long since lost hope that Leicester can play a part in bringing joy to my life.

I have to say, living with two Manchester United fans doesn't help. My sister (born Leicester, raised Leicester) and her boyfriend (born Sydney, raised Wycombe) are forever donning their unmuddied red jerseys before settling down in front of a match and waiting to be entertained. Their idea of a bad season is one in which they just sneak the double on goal difference after having to penalties awarded against them in consecutive months. They cannot lose.

When Chelsea deservedly beat the Red Devils last weekend, Man Utd players fought with ground staff, fabricated racist provocations and kicked an innocent stewardess, leaving her with what is, on all accounts, a rather nasty bruise. It is no doubt to this bloody-minded allergy to losing that has got brandy-stained Alex and his merry band of millionaires so far in footballing terms. As respectable and graceful individuals, however, they lack humility like a best-in-show Toy Poodle.

My sole, insufficient and irksomely petty consolation is that, in the cosmically unlikely event that Leicester kick, claw and knee their way to victory at Stoke, they will send Southampton down.

I spent two years of my University life living with an avid Saints fan. We always used our mutual disappointment to comfort each other; together we were fans who, although consistently deflated, still harbored delusions that our clubs would claw back the bastions of defensive mundaness they once were. We convinced ourselves incessantly that our clubs were too good to be in the Championship.

Fissured by graduation and various commitments, our friendship is still haunted by the concept that this weekend, one of our clubs will prove too bad to play in the Championship.

So it comes down to the Stoke game, especially televised by Ruthless Rupert on Sky Sports in order to maximize potential grief. If Leicester win, and Southampton are relegated, I shall magnanimously call my friend and offer him the chance to switch his allegiance (and encyclopedic early-nineties team sheet knowledge) to the foxes. He will refuse, of course, but then proceed to get misty-eyed about how good Matt Le Tissier once was.

If however, the footballing gods fail to delivery favour upon Leicester and the racing certainty of our relegation is confirmed, I shall not gurn. I shall not throw myself to the floor and curse the day that Milan Mandaric ever considered hiring an Bristolian as manager who he thought was honest by virtue of his open and slightly sardonic accent. I probably won't even care.