I've had such a bad week, laid low with the terrifying complaint known as man flu. It's a dread disease, enough to strike palsied horror into any male and, by the same token, it seems to reduce any woman to tears of scornful mirth as they make irrelevant comparisons with labour pains and other such gynaecological trivia. So there's plenty of lonely misery for the hapless bloke thus afflicted, and precious little sympathy from the distaff side. Fine, we know it's a hard life - and normally we just have to suffer in silence and see it through. Happily, though, it now appears that there may be a cure.
I base this upon my own symptomatology in a short study this evening just gone. At 7pm, I was helpless on my sofa, having missed out on refereeing duties for the local walking football lads, condemned to remain confined to barracks when I had the chance to be at Elland Road for the Forest game, and with every likelihood of being forced to cancel a trip to the Big Smoke (courtesy of that nice Mr. Branson and his tenner return ticket promotion). I was not a happy bunny; I was instead a sad, sick and sorry boy.
Just under three hours later, though, I felt as though I could run a half marathon through several brick walls. To say I felt like a new man would be a hopeless understatement. Charged with energy and glowing with health, I'd left my sniffles, snot and headaches far behind me, along with the leaden limbs and aching joints that have made this week such a nightmare. It was a hearty dose of Twitter video therapy that had done the trick and reinvigorated me - all it had taken to effect a cure was the view, from several angles, of the most stonking thunderbolt of a strike, courtesy of Souleymane Doukara, that Elland Road has seen in many a blue moon. Each different viewpoint gave me a boost, every aspect of the goal was a curative draught that restored and rejuvenated. The boom of boot on ball, the trajectory of the volley past a startled Forest keeper, the delighted roar of the crowd - all combined to provide a treat for all the senses and, lo - I was cured. A miracle!
Doukara's goal was special; to me, that is a matter of medical fact. No word of a lie, I really do feel enlivened and repaired - even the wife's stopped laughing at me (she's also seen The Goal - "Did he really mean that?" she enquired). I expect it's something to do with adrenaline or endorphins or some such malarkey - but I prefer to believe that it was the sheer aesthetic beauty of the Duke's sublime strike that raised me off my bed of pain. I've seen comparable goals in the past, but I've usually been there in person, and I've never before been feeling quite so dire as I was last evening. So, when Tony Yeboah scored against Liverpool, or when Gary Mac knocked in a couple of fulminating volleys, also against the Reds - or even when Sol Bamba belted home a cracker some little while back, I could appreciate all these goals, not least because they were all at the Kop End. I wouldn't say that Doukara's goal was necessarily the best of this prize bunch - that much is arguable. But its remarkable effect on my waning health is not up for debate, so it's in a category of its own as far as I'm concerned, for that reason alone.
Being a collector of data, I'd love to know if any other man flu sufferers experienced such a miracle after 73 minutes of the Forest game. We could perhaps add to the fund of mankind's medical knowledge, who knows. I'm just happy that the Duke managed to belt home such a beauty, and not just for my own selfish reasons of feeling less grottily awful. It also finished off Notts Forest, hardly my favourite opponents. And I know for a fact that I shall never, ever get tired of watching those many angles of that ripsnorter of a goal. Everything about it is beautiful, the way Doukara ran around the falling ball onto his right foot, the way he caught it right on the sweet spot and sent it arrowing into the far, top corner, the keeper's futile dive, which had barely started before the ball was rippling the back of his net...
The default effect of Leeds United upon my health is, generally speaking, at best neutral - and more usually slightly negative. Often and often down the years, I've emerged from Elland Road or whatever away dump we've graced with our presence, feeling deflated, depressed, physically sick, body all achin' and racked with pain - that sort of thing. Even victories have usually been won at the cost of nails bitten down to elbows and veins throbbing in my temples. Last night was different, and it was all down to that one cathartic, sublime, unforgettable moment. So thank you, Mr. Doukara - and my long-suffering better half sends her thanks too.
For the record, I'd also appreciated Chris Wood's achievement, just after half-time, of hitting the twenty mark in all competitions for this season, and here we are only in January. That gave me a little glow of satisfaction too, though I was still feeling horribly poorly and I thought I'd have to live with the tension as United ground out another 1-0 win. Doukara's volley changed all that, it's given me a proper fillip and probably earned me a good healthy night's sleep before tomorrow's capital adventure.
And for all of that - and for the three points at the expense of the Twiglets - I am, believe you me, most profoundly grateful.