It’s not some moment of glorious bravado, but more a solemn resignation that I’d completely berate myself for throwing in the towel when the steps ahead were in ‘single figures’.

The fury, anger and disdain at the continued downfall of York City is rapidly deteriorating into something far more detrimental to the future of our club. Apathy.

I was denied a long-desired Donetello figure as hordes descended upon the unboxing of a shipment of the elusive Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles toys - a 4ft victim of grown adults in a frenzied scrum, bulldozing the hapless shop assistant to rip open the cardboard packaging of the years ‘must have’ present. 

Suddenly the argument of “yeah but think of all that holiday you get” doesn’t quite cut it. There must be very few, if any, other menially-perceived professions that demand so much for so little financial return.

He then launched into a lecture of biblical proportions, detailing my apparent vast “ignorance, irresponsibility and complete disregard for the safety of those in the stadium”

I’d not previously encountered the term ‘baby led weaning’ before the stirring enthusiasm of my spouse, which isn't surprising given the ignorance (arrogance) in which I often dismiss any distinguished deviation from the norm as being conceited, self-righteous, or should it be holistically based, ‘hippy bollocks’.

However, all these seemingly inconceivably-idiotic deeds were surpassed the day a pneumatic drill was delivered to his house, his piece de las resistance.

Bootham Crescent would provide the setting for all of the above; the stage for an enduring drama that no far-fetched Broadway production could ever do justice.

Hours pass and night gives way to morning, the sunrise Hare feared would never bear fruition surfaces on the horizon.

For the pupils, the teachers belief in their scholars was justified; initial promise developed, diligent work ethic adopted, and potential eventually achieved.