There’s nothing I like more than the ring a ding of sleigh bells at Christmas time. I thought I’d done alright with presents – two selection boxes, some little red leather high heel boots and half a pound of lambs kidney – until I saw my sister’s brand new half season ticket. But my envy soon turned to chuckles when she asked after the 5 nil Norwich defeat “Dad, when you’ve got a season ticket, does it mean you have to go to every match?”

In the past my column has pointed towards sinister deeds at Hillsborough being the cause of bad performances and poor results. Voodoo pigeons, the curse of Transylvanian Dan Petrescu, and Frankie Fredrick the guinea pig with powers of exorcism have all been outed by my rovering reporters snout.

Now I am reconsidering my position and have decided to take a post-modernist scientific approach to my analysis. Let’s face it, the players are crap, the manager isn’t up to it, the board is useless and you can’t buy Winalot at any of the pie stalls, though you can buy lose-a-lot.

But what to do instead of football? I’ve taken up fishing, but it’s not the same as football. No matter how hard I kick the fish, I can’t seem to get it to go further than about 5 yards – perhaps young Mr Haslam practices with a fish? But at least he practices, you’d think that some of the blue and white heroes hadn’t met each other before the games. “ Who are you in that blue and white shirt? Better pass the ball to the big lad in the yellow just to be sure” seems to be the thinking of the Wednesday midfield for most of the last few games.

The other alternative Saturday pastime could be rugby? But no, what pleasure can there be in handling odd shaped balls and rolling about in mud with big muscular men and ripping at each others clothes? My mum used to be a season ticket holder at Hillsborough but now she plays rugby. I don’t know why.

But no. Now is the time for all good men (and dogs) to come to the aid of the Wednesday. And anyway the worst thing that could happen is that we go down to the second division, sell what few players we have, go into administration and travel to Darlington for a cold trip in November. It’s not like the beer has run out or anything is it?

What we need to do is all join together and spread a little love around. Get into the spirit of Hendrix and Pink Floyd and think our way to success. Steve Hillage is probably our man with his Ombardyomombardyon chant. We need to get that Mr Hemmingburn tuned into the underlying forces of the universe and use his trumpet to direct lay lines into Gerald’s shooting boots.

Failing this, we could get one of those management gurus to reengineer the key processes of the club, oh yes and to have a mission statement. I could do it. The mission statement could be “ We need to score some goals and not let many in” and the reengineering programme could be how to pass a ball in lovely little triangles, cross it in from the wing, then shoot or head the ball into the opponents net. It all sounds so simple from this Deming trained hound dog – and all for only £1,000 a day, much cheaper than an on loan Man Utd reserve.

So, what is to be done? We can try magic, mysticism, exorcism, management guruism or a good bollocking in the dressing room. But the sure fire method came to me on New Years Day. Still nursing my head from my over indulgence in seven and a half pints of Barnsley Bitter I was getting ready for the trip to Preston only to be informed “ All off Stan – frozen pitch “. The way I see it is that we just to get back to that fourth from bottom spot then get all the frozen peas from Morrisons on the pitch and refuse to play another game.