

A man is slumped back in his chair, his face wizened and creased with the permanence of the folds on an old leather sofa. His hair is white and wispy, the few strands he has left protruding in unkempt tiredness. The chair is old and tired and his body sore, his every movement requiring a great deal of effort. His joints don’t work as they once did, his fingers are crooked and there’s an exhaustion in his eyes. Every breath is drawn with a wheeze.
Placed daintily around his neck is a blue and white scarf. And meeting him for the first time, a nurse leans in to enquire about his life supporting Sheffield Wednesday. A keen fan herself, she asks of sepia legends of old; Fantham and Springett, Wilson and Froggatt.
That’s what following Sheffield Wednesday can do to you. It’s bad for your health. It’s a pastime that corrodes and ages, an anti-skincare. The football club should come with a health warning, with its off-field shenanigans and its fan base in-fighting and the constant, overbearing worry over what might just happen next.