Found

We have all been very public witnesses to courage and bravery in everyday life where events and circumstances have placed people in situations of peril and strife. 

We may find ourselves seeking the answer to the question of how we might cope if placed in the same predicament. It is a very natural process to ask that question.  

In a sporting context the level of sacrifice and dedication required to attain the very highest levels of performance and achievement are no less a strain on a physical, mental and emotional level. 

One individual who battled to success and acclaim in professional cycling and earned my admiration and respect over the 20 years of his riding career is Robert Millar. 


12 Tours de France including a 1984 Mountains Jersey win and fourth place overall, twice second in the Vuelta a Espana and wins in the Tour of Britain and Dauphine are just a few of the highlights. After retiring from competition Millar became involved in team management and cycling related journalism. 

Out of the limelight by personal choice there was inevitably a lot of intrusion and speculation by the media including a book entitled “In search of Robert Millar” by Richard Moore. 


I was filled with yet more admiration only yesterday with the following statement published on www.cyclingnews.com

“At the upcoming Tour de France I've been invited to work with ITV4 to help the commentary team bring some first-hand insight into just what's involved in competing at the sport's highest level and, having been privileged to see how Grand Tours are won and lost, it’s a very exciting prospect. To be asked to be one of their experts for certain key moments is a sign that we have moved on in terms of wishing to really understand the complexities involved in cycling, and I’m keen to share my experience of how endlessly fascinating and demanding professional bike racing can be.

The mention of progress and moving on brings me to a much more personal subject concerning the journey I, and those around me, embarked upon at the start of this millennium. The outcome of that journey has meant that for a considerable time now I have lived as Philippa.

As much as I've guarded my privacy over the years there are a few, I believe obvious, reasons to why I haven't had a public "image" since I transitioned. Gratifyingly, times have moved on from ten years ago when my family, friends and I were subjected to the archaic views and prejudice that some people and certain sections of the tabloid media held.

Thankfully gender issues are no longer a subject of such ignorance and intolerance, there's a much better acceptance and understanding. The steps taken over a prolonged period under the watchful eye of the medical profession to complete the transition from one gender to another can be difficult and are always only taken after much soul searching and anguish. And, although the end result is seen as a happier, more stable place, the emotions encountered to get there make for some very vulnerable periods.

While there has been some speculation concerning my gender over the past decade, perhaps it'll now be better understood why unwelcome and unasked for intrusions into that transition have been damaging not only to myself but to those I love. Thankfully the people in my family who I cherish have since matured and grown into strong and independent individuals, therefore the need to protect them has lessened. This, combined with their support, encouragement and the shift in modern society's attitudes, means that this will be a step forward for everyone.

As much as various articles and blogs have been published using my former identity of Robert, well that was then and this is now. I'd like to take this opportunity to thank the different organisations and those 'in the know' for guarding my privacy as long as they have” 

Neither rhyme nor reason

On the front inside page of a well worn notebook that belonged to the poet Philip Larkin there is a small strip of paper pasted in. 

It is a mere slip, probably published originally as one of those "Did you know" features in the Reader's Digest or from a magazine article along the same lines. 

It may even have been typed up on a larger sheet by Larkin himself and carefully trimmed of any excess for intentional use as an aide memoir for his prolific output of gloomy, death-obsessed and darkly humorous observations of human foibles and failings in prose and verse. 

The list is of commonly used words in the English language that have no rhyming matches. 

Of course, like everyone else confronted with such a list I have wracked my brain to try to prove otherwise. That thought process is , well, I would say a bit like being originally enthusiastic about wading across a small river. Initially filled with anticipation and excitement you then find yourself after only a few steps struggling through thick, gloopy mud which symbolises the mental fug of seeking out an elusive rhyming word. 

It appears that there are less than 100 such words displaying this characteristic although a good number of these from a distant bygone era of language or of a specialised scientific or elitist terminology. 

Larkin focuses on those that he is likely to confront in his writing and even provides in his distinctive hand written script a stacked list of additional words. He may have just thought of these or has found out the hard way that they are generally to be avoided in pursuit of that enigmatic phrase or end of line statement.

In the terminology of language and linguistics these non-rhyming words are masculine in nature which makes the fact that "women" numbers amongst them quite fascinating.

The list includes;

Worlds
Warmth
Month
Wolf 
Gulf
Sylph
Scarce
Wasp
Pint
Rhythm
Bilge
Film
Was
Else
Have
With
Bulb
False
Flange
Morgue 
and Spoilt.

There is a strange group of words that also feature all relating to size and volume, these being Breadth, Width and Depth although the reason for this is not clear, whether by pure accident or conspiracy.

It is an interesting list as although many are in regular and everyday conversational use they are rather quirky and just roll off the tongue in a satisfying way. I only wish that I had known about these before attempting my epic poem about mythical and iconic creatures and a buzzing insect in an abstract world where dimensions have a great significance. I would have saved myself days of , in the end, frustration and self doubt. 

Looking for Larkin

A lot of people wander down our street and stand staring up at number 32, a three storey mid to late Victorian era house. 

Their particular and often whimsical focus is on the attic level with its two rectangular and one central arched window in the pointed gable end and, to the right hand side, a further dormer. 

A Civic Society plaque is mounted on the front main wall announcing that from 1956 to 1974 the poet, Philip Larkin lived in the flat at the top of the house. 

The longevity of his residence there suggests that he liked it and indeed in his voluminous correspondence to colleagues, friends and lovers he would regularly champion the privacy that the high rise living provided him with as well as being convenient for the open green space of the public park that it overlooked.

We moved to this inner city location nearly four years ago. It was a drawn out flit from a longstanding stint in a comfortable western suburb of Hull. It took more than 2 years as the first house we went after in the same terraced block was sold before we could offload our own. 

It was only through my wife’s regular and rather suspicious after-work and weekend motoring around the old carriage drive in the park that she noticed another property at the opposite end of the row being sold privately. Everything came together quickly and, after 90 or so text messages with the seller and a buyer for our own house materialising out of nowhere, we were able to move in. 

I can fully appreciate the sentiments that Philip Larkin expressed for the unique surroundings of the street and park with its lake (now a disturbingly toxic green colour), formal tended gardens, Conservatory with exotic reptiles and fish, a statue of a young, thin and very attractive 1860’s Queen Victoria with the separated and rather melancholy figure of her Consort Albert, a largeadventure play area and the expanses of grassed areas for the citizens of Hull to sit, lie, sleep and occasionally, as we have witnessed, get Tasered by the Police, on. 

I can identify with the characters that Larkin regularly saw in these surroundings and these form the main observations in the first four verses of his poem, "Toads Revisited" written around 1962.

Walking around in the park
Should feel better than work:
The lake, the sunshine,
The grass to lie on, 

Blurred playground noises
Beyond black-stockinged nurses –
Not a bad place to be.
Yet it doesn’t suit me. 

Being one of the men
You meet of an afternoon:
Palsied old step-takers,
Hare-eyed clerks with the jitters, 

Waxed-fleshed out-patients
Still vague from accidents,
And characters in long coats
Deep in the litter-baskets – 

In fact, on any of my own frequent forays into the park and with the lines of the poem fresh in my mind the same types and temperaments of park users are still to be found. 

I would however offer a 2017 update to the descriptions of the 1960's Larkin subjects. 

The playground noises are perhaps a bit louder as youngsters are no longer under the post war mantra of not being seen or heard. 

You can substitute tattooed and bare legged young mothers for the rather austere but alluring black stockinged nannies. 

The afternoons still have a good representation from the elderly and infirm (myself currently included in the latter term) although the hare eyed clerks have been replaced by nerve jangled drug and alcohol addicts with a very different type of jitters. 

Larkin’s reference to those waxed-fleshed out types can easily apply to the zombie-esque appearance of those engrossed in their social media screens or just being vague and worse for wear from the rigours of modern life. 

The same individuals can be found, as in any era, in long raincoats and delving into the waste bins.

Larkin speaks of the place and people with a deep fondness. “Pearson Park exercises a fascination over me and I always enjoy an hour in it” he wrote to his mother. 

He was as it seems forcibly moved out of the flat in number 32 after 18 years. It had only been intended , under the ownership of his employer, Hull University ,as temporary accommodation for academic staff awaiting other and perhaps more suitable lodgings and housing in the city. 

Larkin was sad to leave and as he reported to a friend “The University has decided to sell its ‘worst properties’, which naturally includes the house I live in”.

My own writing desk is about 100 metres east and at least 7 metres lower down than the attic from where Larkin found his inspiration and penned his trademark gloomy, death-obsessed and darkly humorous observations of human foibles and failings. 

Being a resident myself I don’t think that he could have done it anywhere else than down our street.

Tour t'France 2014

Whixley Crossroads.

The sort of junction that you could easily tootle-on by in a car without a sidewards glance up the intersecting roads.

The A59 trunk road is a fast exit from the City of York in a north westerly direction and takes a constant stream of traffic out towards the well to do towns of Knaresborough and Harrogate. A good proportion of the users do not make it into the leafy market and Spa towns but take the respective slip roads to the A1 motorway which is the great old route from London to Edinburgh up the spine of the country and swinging out to the north east.

The upper road of the crossroads is a steepish hill between a tree lined verge with only the horizon visible to the eye. Just beyond the crest is the village from which the junction takes its name. It is one of those typical North Yorkshire places with a core of older stone built properties but with the largest part of the housing stock being on cul de sac or crescent estates and of a non-descript and boxy 3 bed or 4 bed type.

The lower section has a directional sign for a railway station and in sight just on a sweeping bend is a local public house. Just above the distinctive station logo is a list of villages, all evidently quite close together as the mileage resembles a group of low scoring football matches between them. The bisecting A59 is an accident blackspot on this particular stretch due to a combination of speed and the sporadic ,hesitant emergence of cars from the side roads.

Safety measures have been introduced in a bid to cut down on injuries and fatalities. These consist of two strategically placed bollards equidistant to the crossroads with posts and chevrons giving the impression of a narrow bottle neck and encouraging a slowing down in the normal hazard zone. Smaller illuminated bollards sat in the mouths of the side roads giving a strange illumination in the twilight and nightime hours.

I arrived at this point by shuttle bus as the main road had been closed to all unofficial users at 6am, some 50 minutes prior. There were already a few hardy souls in position on the deep, coarse grass verges or sat on the kerbstones and leaning back onto the plastic street furniture. Small encampments had set up at first dawn light in a bid to claim a prime spot giving an unfettered view of the whole roadway. These included a couple of garden gazebo's in dark green canvas and blue and white piping lashed down with guy ropes and tent pegs against the early morning breeze which funnelled through giving a chill feeling. Under this sparse shelter were folding chairs, picnic tables and even a wheelbarrow piled high with barbecue briquettes in preparation for that ceremonial lighting up. Two adults struggled down from Whixley village with a heavy wrought iron bench, straining and perspiring with the effort.

A group of lads brought along a wooden pallet and a few off-cut blocks and fashioned a precarious, ankle snapping viewing platform which made everyone else wince in anticipation of an accident in the making.

One lone motorist braved a police caution by careering in a haphazard and bumping action down the verge and swinging around so that his vantage point would not involve any movement from the drivers seat. This could have been his routine every sunday morning in this spot as far as I knew.

A steady flow of people arrived over the next couple of hours. Spirits were high, assisted by the production of large amounts of tinned beer and cheap wine. Cups of coffee were poured from flasks or purchased from an entrepreneur who had set up a catering caravan in a sheltered wooded copse in the south east quadrant of the crossroads. Most people were obviously acquainted by the fond and familiar greetings and jokings and it gave the impression that many of the villages within walking distance had depopulated and relocated to this place as though drawn by a strange mutual calling.

The roadway was soon hidden due to the sheer volume of pedestrians and cyclists. A few individuals were on their hands and knees with lumps of chalk scratching out names and encouraging words but had to be aware of a few swift vehicles carrying barriers and fluorescent clad workmen on official business.

By 11am there must have been close to three thousand people within a 200 metre linear space. Local police were a bit on edge and were regretting not putting up crowd barriers given the unprecedented level of attendance. Security personnel, mostly young kids in high-viz blousons tried to appeal to the heaving masses to stand back behind the faint white lines in the junction or retreat to the kerb but as soon as they had turned their backs the populus returned to where they had previously been. More vehicles sped through and perilously close to the spectators but with no actual bone crunching impact. Voices and anticipation rose with the appearance of a cluster of five helicopters in the sky east of the junction.

Motorcycle outriders and brightly coloured liveried cars announced the imminent arrival of the spectacle for which the crowds had come for. Sirens and flashing lights cleared a wider path and then a small group of six cyclists rode through to cheers and cries of "Allez, Allez". There must have been a three minute gap until the large group of some 190 or so riders swept down into the shallow depression of the crossroads. A flag waving marshall alerted them, many unsighted, to the presence of the first bollard and as if repelled by opposing magnets the colourful field split either side of the obstacle. The noise from the crowd was amplified to fever pitch and in a matter of twenty seconds the Tour de France had passed through the second bollard island to disappear around the far bend on its continuation of Stage 2.

The buzz of excitement reverberated for a long time afterwards. The welling of emotions at having seen the race and its entourage was intensely moving being perhaps for the first ever and last time in anyone's life cycle.

The party continued under the canvas in a hickory wood haze and amongst the clusters of friends and families there was much re-enacting of the brief race action. Those with a portable radio conveyed information on the progress of the Stage to willing listeners and I could make out the unmistakable North Yorkshire names of Blubberhouses, Skipton and the like.

A small boy, up on his father's shoulders found it all too much and vomited, showering everyone in close proximity. An even smaller child on a tiny,tiny wheeled bike was cheered as he rode in the shadow of his cycling mother along the route.

Slowly but surely the crowds made their way south and north and with the sun at its highest point I found myself alone in the junction. It had been a momentous experience at Whixley Crossroads and one that I will cherish forever.

Lost in France

With a sharp intake of breath and a profane exclamation I too have been aghast at the antics of others. 

We have all wondered at the stupidity of individuals who have been airlifted from the summit of a high mountain having been caught out in adverse weather wearing flip-flops, t-shirt and shorts. 

Similarly a few have been plucked out of a treacherous ocean after having drifted into a main shipping lane on an inflatable air-bed shaped like a cartoon character.  

Others have been caught out by looking for a gas leak with a naked flame or have become stuck in glutinous mud whilst crossing a tidal river in pursuit of a short cut which may have saved mere minutes from the proper and prudent overland route. 

These are all real examples of the foolishness or ignorance of the few. 

Unfortunately I would have to admit to being a strong candidate for such a list. 

It was in July 1984 when I set off on my bicycle from the UK to see a stage of the Tour de France. 

It did help that I was already in the country having ridden, laden with panniers and saddle bags, with my younger brother from the Port of Dieppe to the very posh Paris satellite of Rambouillet to spend a few days with our sister who was working as an au pair or more like a general skivvy for a well to do French family. 

The town of Rambouillet  best known as the location of a Presidential residence, is set amongst beautiful countryside including extensive forests and lies about mid way between the Capital and the historic Chartres. 

Our bike ride had been quite ambitious although saying that, a good part of the journey from Hull in Yorkshire had been by train and ship so that out of the first 350 miles we had only actually pedalled for about 15 of them. 

However, in the misty dawn of disembarkation on the continent we had about 150 miles ahead of us. 

I was at that time a keen cyclist and had competed in road events for a couple of years but my younger brother, aged 15 although thin and athletic had only managed a two hour practice ride in the weeks leading up to our trip. 

I have no idea on the route that we took from the coast inland. 

It was just a succession of wide roads, pretty towns, sleepy villages, gradual ups and downs , historic bridge river crossings and more of the same. 

I do however recall being mightily impressed by the cathedral at Rouen which we stumbled across by accident at about one third distance. We sat on the stone steps to eat a lot of chocolate filled pastries. 

For all I know we may have just ridden in a series concentric circles for our 15 hours on the roads as my Michelin series map was one that covered from the far North of Scotland to the shores of North Africa and with very little discernible detail by way of routes in between. 

It was certainly more by luck and fluke that, by that evening, we eventually rolled into Rambouillet and were met by our very stressed out but relieved sister. 

We had a couple of days rest in a large country house setting , although we did have to do domestic chores which was a great source of amusement to our hosts in that the English were, for a change, in servitude to the French. 

Part two of my haphazard plan was to see part of Stage 6 of the 1984 Tour which took the race from Cergy Pontoise to Alencon passing within 80 km or 50 miles of our base. 

I knew that if I rode broadly north west for roughly that sort of distance I would at some point cross the actual race route. My potential failings were many although would be seen by my contemporaries as complete stupidity and naivity. 

I knew nothing about actually getting to a position to bisect the course nor the timings of the riders. Add to these imponderables the prevailing weather, the mechanical reliability of my bike (now stripped of carriers, mudguards and touristy attachments), my fitness and my limited abilities of French language which only consisted of a few phrases from my O’level some 6 years previous. I would, I kidded myself, get by if the only people I met were called Monsieur Leblanc and they had a dog or a cat. 

I set off on a cool summers morning with a determination to, hopefully, offset the negative factors that could at any time curtail my intentions. It was a wonderful day and on my lighter machine and some improved fitness from recent exertions I had a sensation of great well-being and forward speed. 

I liked counting down the kilometres as it gave an enhanced sensation of progress when compared to boring old English miles. 

Good luck and fortune over the next two and a half hours brought me to a deserted stretch of main road with way markers attached to signposts announcing that I had reached the actual route. It was by now early afternoon and evidently the Tour de France had not yet passed by. 

I sat on the grass verge and waited. 

The fact that I had not brought any food, drink or money did not strike me as important. I was treated to the Tour entourage from the publicity vans and hospitality cars to the police outriders before the full field of riders hurtled past. 

My basic Canon camera, well before the digital age, only managed a few hasty shots and my own vantage point of the race was through that slightly fogged up viewfinder. 

I still wonder how I found my way back to the small English enclave at Rambouillet but I did and in one piece, man and bike. 

It was not until a few weeks later that I got the film developed. 

Amongst what are now my most prized possessions are a series of photos of part of Bernard Hinault’s face, Sean Kelly’s right eye and the pictorial masterpiece that is Laurent Fignon’s distinctive Renault Elf headband. 

Visentini 1987

The clash between Stephen Roche and Roberto Visentini at the 1987 Giro d’Italia (The Tour of Italy being one of the three major tours including Le Tour de France and The Vuelta Espana) remains one of the most-talked about conflicts at a Grand Tour. What made it more striking however was that they were on the same team.

Roche’s subsequent story is familiar to all cycling fans. It was a momentous year for the Irishman who completed a very rare triple of the Tours of France, Italy and also becoming World Champion. This feat was only achieved by one other, the dominant Eddy Merrckx and arguably in a very different era of the sport.

Behind the history making Roche I have often wondered what became of Roberto Visentini?

It seems that even today, he’s still angry about what happened.

It may be one of the longest held grudges in cycling history.

I was initially under the impression that the handsome and charismatic Visentini was a bit of a poster-boy in his home country. We have all come across similar characters in other sports who just seem to come and go.  However, having read about him more widely he was obviously incredibly talented as a junior rider, winning the Italian championships in 1975 and later that year adding the Junior Worlds title to his Palmares.

Three years on, at the age of just twenty, he turned professional for the Italian Vibor team. Many talented juniors have found the transition to the professional level demanding, but it didn’t appear to have been difficult for the man from Brescia.

He was entered into the Giro in his debut season, and finished in an incredible fifteenth place in addition to winning the best young rider title.

The following years would see him go from strength to strength as he continued to improve on his General Classification  position in the race, as well as winning a number of stages.

He also claimed victories in the major events of the Giro del Trentino and Tirreno-Adriatico, amongst other events.

In 1985 it looked likely he would win the Giro d’Italia, having worn the pink jersey for nine days. However, he had to pull out of the race before the end due to illness. Finally, in 1986, he would win the race overall, beating the likes of Greg LeMond and Francesco Moser.

So, he returned in 1987 as defending champion. But among his team mates on the Carrera team was Stephen Roche, who was in the form of his life. He had just won the Tour of Romandie and amongst an impressive early season had won or placed well in major races.

Visentini had also been at the same events but Roche in his book "My Road to Victory" claimed that the Italian had given no help to him or the team and had not really performed himself. Team management at the 1987 Giro decided they would start with two team leaders but before and during the early stages of the race there were lots of arguments between the two in the battle for supremacy within the team. An Italian on an Italian team and riding on home territory would always be better supported and Roche sensed that Visentini was the golden boy.

In the first week of The Giro, Roche was in the leader's Pink jersey and carried it for a total of 10 days but with no help from the pro-Italian element of the Carrera Team. After a crash, injury and resultant lack of confidence Roche lost the jersey to his Co-Leader and as far as fans and the media were concerned the race was all over.

Roche seized his opportunity to win the race on the fifteenth stage to Sappada. Going against team orders, he attacked early on a descent and was away with two other riders.

The Team Manager (Directeur sportif)  Davide Boifava drove alongside in the team car and  told Roche to stop the attack, but he continued on. Behind, there was the farcical sight of Carrera team chasing their own man. They were quickly exhausted and did a deal with another Italian team to chase Roche down.

It was a gamble that just about paid off for Carrera who recaptured the break but on the final ascent yet more aggressive riding from the Irishman saw Visentini losing over 6 minutes. Roche managed to take over pink by five seconds from Switzerland’s Tony Rominger.

Visentini, his chances of a repeat victory gone was livid afterwards, as were the Italian fans.
Despite receiving extreme abuse from the tifosi over the last few days, and a threat to his lead from Erik Breukink, Roche hung on to win the race overall by nearly four minutes from the Scottish climber Robert Millar.

Roche's main allies were team member Eddy Schepers and his faithful mechanic, Patrick Valke. Their respective roles had been to protect Roche from his own squad or any risk from roadside attack from Visentini sympathisers and to ensure that his bike was not sabotaged. The Italian press called Roche a Judas and with his colleagues being referred to as The Rebel and Satan respectively.

Roche left the Carrera team at the end of the 1987 season. Visentini stayed on but he never won another race. He continued to compete for another three years for a number of smaller Italian teams, but his heart was not in it any more. He retired from the sport in 1990.

The Italian was interviewed a number of years later about his career, and despite the many highlights it seems he still cannot shake off the events of the ’87 Giro.

He admitted it was the biggest disappointment of his career.“Being attacked by opponents was normal, but it was my team mate and I could just not stomach it, I sometimes lost to star riders like Moser and Saronni, but I never complained. Roche’s attack was unacceptable.”

He wasn’t just unhappy with Roche though, but with the team manager Boifava too.

“If the captain is in the lead, the team must help him. Roche, however, attacked me. But the real crime was by the team management; clueless, heartless.

Visentini's reaction to the management was extreme.  “At the end of the race, I went to Davide Boifava with some plastic bags containing the bike which I had sawn into pieces.”

Asked about Roche’s assertion that Visentini had declared before the Giro that he would not go to the Tour de France to help the Irishman, he said it was “All excuses to deflect blame after what had happened.”

In fact, Roche had known early on in the Giro that Visentini had booked his holidays for July and would not therefore be available to offer to help Roche win in France in return for handing over the Giro without any fuss.

Visentini ended up pulling out of the '87 Giro anyway, having broken his wrist on the penultimate stage.

By this time there was some grudging acceptance in the Carrera ranks that Roche was the best rider in the race.

Elland back

I have always hated Leeds United Football Club. I am not alone in that sentiment. 

I recall that chant, which was a mainstay from the terraces through much of the two decades, from the 1970’s and with some variation in the targets of venom but one constant- yes, Leeds United. 

However, the strong emotions borne out of, well, the fact the Leeds United of that era were high achievers and by being notoriously un-sporting were very much tempered by sympathetic feelings for their subsequent and rapid downfall and hardships which, in the early 2000's, through a horrible combination of gamble and folly you would not wish on your worst enemies. 

Perhaps the club over extended itself on budget and entered into player and commercial agreements that they may well have been advised against but lets face it, success breeds success and to stay at the top of all competitive sports you have to not only spend a lot but importantly to be seen to be spending and without abandon. 

A football club represents a lot to a city, a town and respective communities. Many of today’s Professional League Clubs were founded in the century before last out of small local working class teams with the support of a local benefactor, usually a self made businessman wanting to put something back from their wealth generated from the local population. 

There was a real bricks and mortar connection with clubs being the freehold owners of their home grounds, some modest in their origins but soon developing into respectable stadiums. 

In the days before the madness of player transfer prices a high proportion of a clubs value/worth was tied up in the physical environs of their football grounds. They were indivisible and priceless to a club and its wider community. 

At some time however, their asset value became more important. 

In the case of Leeds United the sale of their iconic Elland Road Stadium was, in 2004, seen as a means of reducing the untenable level of debt that had aggregated and threatened the existence of the club. 

A company based in the British Virgin Islands bought Elland Road for £8 million in a leaseback deal with, it is thought, a commencing annual rental to be paid by Leeds United of around £1.7 million. At the same time the club training ground, outside Leeds at Thorp Arch, was also subject to a similar deal which although netting £4.2 million in receipts for the club also involved a leaseback of about £0.5 million a year. 

Total club costs at that time were in the region of £30 million pounds annually and there followed an enforced exodus of players and staff to significantly reduce this outlay. 

The club owners main justification for their drastic actions to the distraught supporters and wider citizens of Leeds was on a cost cutting basis but there were promises of the capital proceeds being redirected to the senior squad, Academy and ground improvements. 

Leeds United were locked into the Elland Road agreement for at least 25 years from 2004 before there would be an opportunity to buy it back. 

There continued to be political boardroom and financial upheavals amongst the club owners and the team languished in the second tier of English Football with only spasmodic flashes of good form.

It must have been a frustrating time for the City of Leeds particularly as their natural peer group of clubs from Manchester, Liverpool and London United were firmly on the up and up both on and off the pitch. 

It took the ascent to majority ownership by one of the Leeds Directors only very recently for a priority pledge to buy back Elland Road to become actionable and the regional and national media have confirmed that a deal has now been done. 

It will not have been an easy transaction given its lucrative nature to the Offshore owners but a figure of around £17 million is rumoured to have clinched the deal. 

This return of Elland Road, it is hoped will signal a resurgence in the status of Leeds United. 

I still have no real love for the team but I do accept that they have a deserved place in the top flight of English Football and look forward to seeing them back where they belong...and soon.