The Weekly Bobbins: The Bin Of Disappointment

We’re almost there, folks. Almost at the end. Not the polished, finished article we all hoped to see on the pitch – just the end of a season that looks exhausted, frayed and ready to be cast into the bin of disappointment.

All any of us want now is for this sorry campaign to be over. The latest tepid, football‑by‑numbers, lifeless corpse of a performance against already‑relegated Rotherham United was turgid in the extreme.

They were down, checked out, the dictionary definition of “on the beach,” and we still couldn’t muster a win. Next weekend brings Blackpool, who are also on the beach – quite literally – and it promises to be just as soulless, if not worse.

But that’s how it has felt for most of the season. Empty. Hollow. A matchday experience stripped of jeopardy, thrill, tension or even the faintest spark of expectation. I still love my club – that never changes – but the soft, fluffy sentiments have withered away. There are no flowers to hand out.

What’s been missing is that sense of growth, of watching something fragile turn into something beautiful. This season’s chrysalis never even twitched. It died before it had a breath of life.

This is on the manager

And in my opinion – stop me if you’ve heard this one before – this is down to Leam Richardson. Whatever vision he has for this football club, it’s not one I’ve felt any connection to. Not once. Not all season.

Yes, we won games. Yes, we briefly touched the playoff spots. But there was no momentum, no sense of a team galvanising, no feeling that we were becoming more than the sum of our parts. It was a numbed existence:

Win game. “Does it feel any better?”

No.

Win game. “Are we improving?”

No.

Lose game. “Did we learn from it?”

No.

Because of that lack of progression, going to games has regressed into something else entirely: a social outing. A reason to get out of the house, breathe some air and share the shared grief with friends and family.

The side dish has become the main event. The football – the whole point of being there – has become an afterthought. That’s how un‑fun this season has been.

Nobody wants a manager to fail initially. But fans are now at the point where failure feels academic. Six months into his tenure, it already feels like Richardson has reached the point of no return. The rot has set in, and quickly.

Nothing he does seems to land. His tactics, regardless of the opposition’s state – even relegated opposition – are restricted, unimaginative and dull. The players have tuned out. They’re playing well beneath their capabilities. The switch to auto‑pilot was flicked months ago and Richardson hasn’t noticed the flashing red warning light.

The fans have mirrored the apathy. We don’t see the effort. We don’t see the spark. We don’t see the intent to make wins happen, so the fans have responded in kind.

I have always believed fans react to players doing something exciting – not the other way around. It’s their job to get us off our seats. It’s the manager’s job to inspire them to do so. Neither has happened.

Then there are the injuries. Endless injuries. Season‑long knacks, repeat issues, setbacks upon setbacks. There seems to be little investigation or recovery in sight. It’s only got worse.

Take Jack Marriott’s hamstring. Why was he risked against Cardiff City when he clearly wasn’t fully fit? Hamstring injuries reoccur – we all know this – yet the dice were rolled anyway, despite the playoff maths being stacked against us. The risk‑reward ratio was absurd. And yet he played. Make it make sense.

And then the academy. With all these injuries, surely there was scope to involve more than a token handful of youngsters?

Emmanuel Osho got a deserved call‑up and played 12 minutes. Sean Patton, five. Luke Howard travelled, warmed up, sat down. David Hicks travelled but wasn’t selected. What are they learning from that? What’s the point of being involved if involvement means sitting on a bus and watching a dead rubber unfold?

The saddest part

At this point, the manager is so afraid to lose that he’s stopped even trying to win. And that’s the saddest part of all. When the football becomes this risk‑averse, this joyless, this devoid of intent, it drags everything else down with it – the players, the atmosphere, the matchday, the fans’ belief.

The only thing Richardson managed this weekend was to drain whatever was left of our patience. The faith has gone. The flame of belief, if there ever was one, has been extinguished. The fire has never been there.

Six months in, and it already feels like we’re watching a relationship where everyone hates each other and they want out, both sides going through the motions because nobody wants to be the one to say it out loud first.

Next weekend will come and go. The season will finally end. And maybe – hopefully – that’s when the real work begins. Reading fans aren’t asking for miracles. We’re not even asking for playoffs. We’re just asking to feel connected again.

The manager is the glue that unites players to the fans and vice versa. Right now, the only sticking point is Richardson himself.