Saturday 30 August, 2025

We roll. We roll because the road is ours, and the road is all there is. No gods, no maps, no meaning—just the hum of the engine and the beat of our hearts. Camus asked, “Should I kill myself or have a cup of coffee?” He chose coffee. We choose football.

We’re bound for Reading, League One, Saturday showdown. Our compass? Three spirits: Buddha, Lemmy, and the immortal Matty Carragher. But there’s a fourth ghost in the machine—Robin Friday, that young soul rebel. The outlaw striker who shone for Reading and Cardiff City. The beautiful loser. A thief, a drunk, a lover, a legend. He broke rules like he broke defenders. Borstal boy turned psychedelic wanderer. He stole angels from graves and booted Mark Lawrenson in the face. He lived like a firework—brief, brilliant, burning out at 38. Camus would’ve called him an absurd hero. We call him a kindred soul. We know that spirit will be there, somewhere on those Reading streets.

Us and Reading—same record, same struggle. Two draws, three defeats. We dwell in the basement of the table, but we’re not buried. Not yet. The Carabao Cup cracked open a window, let in a breeze of possibility. A chance to hit the gas, to chase the horizon, to taste freedom.

Because beauty will save the world.

And football, in its wild, chaotic glory, is beautiful.

So we drive on. We drive on.

Robin Friday. 1974. Photographer unknown.