At the time of Christ, men would meet on street corners to discuss philosophy and religious revolution. Their conversations would be punctuated by nervous glances over their shoulders looking for soldiers ready to throw them to the lions. They wouldn't know who to trust or who to engage, and ran much like the French resistance during the war, by leaving signs on walls and drawing a well-known fish symbol ('Ichthus') in the sand.

And so on Friday night, in a Brick Lane curry house I negotiated some rickerty stairs to find the Gents hidden in the basement. As I carried out my business, I glanced up - as is customary when you have nothing to do and your hands are engaged - to see the below etched on the ceiling:



For the unaware, it undoubtedly stands for Leeds United Football Club. I smiled, and began to think about how few Leeds fans I know personally, yet know they are out there in their masses. Driven underground ever since our fall from grace a few years ago, we leave ourselves wide open to attack from the followers of other faiths, particularly in London. This sad fate has brought about a resilient pride, with chants of "We're not famous anymore" at the inevitably packed grounds up and down the country from Old Trafford to St Mary's, who all turn up to see us -the scalps - play.