Just Passing Through Podcast

Send us Fan Mail

Episode 152

Why, oh why, do I do this to myself? Here I am, a 53-year-old man, dragging myself out of bed at the ungodly hour of 4 AM in Japan, all to watch England play football. Yes, England. The team that insists on playing with my heartstrings like a cat with a ball of yarn.

So there I am, half-asleep, barely conscious, clutching my mug of coffee like it's a lifeline. The Euros are on, and it's England versus Switzerland in Germany. Penalties. Again. My nerves are shot. We win, but it's like watching a drunk tightrope walker: thrilling, terrifying, and you’re just glad they didn’t fall.

Next up, Holland. Great. More anxiety. I swear, watching England play is like having a second job that pays in heart palpitations and grey hairs. But then there's Saka. That lad. He steps up and scores his penalty, shoving it right up the arses of those racist idiots who abused him online three years ago. Talk about sweet revenge! If I wasn't so tired, I'd have danced around my living room.

But seriously, why do I put myself through this? The time difference is killing me. My internal clock is so messed up I wouldn't be surprised if I started sleepwalking. And the games! England are winning, but badly. It's like they’re playing a game of "How can we make this look as difficult as possible?"

I know, I know. I could just record the games and watch them at a reasonable hour. But where’s the fun in that? Live football is like a live horror movie: you can't look away, even though you kind of want to.

So here I am, anxiously waiting for the game against Holland. My brain’s yelling, "Why are you doing this? Get some sleep!" But my heart's whispering, "Come on, you know you love it." And it's right. For all the stress and early mornings, there's nothing like the thrill of the game, even when it feels like it might just kill me.

Besides, if Saka can face down his demons and shut up the racists, I can face a few early mornings and a bit of anxiety. Bring it on, Holland. Bring. It. On.

Music:

Take Me Out - Franz Ferdinand
Feel It Still - Portugal.The Man

Support the show

Insta@justpassingthroughpodcast
Contact:[email protected]

Send us Fan Mail

Episode 151
Watching Joe Biden in the presidential debate was like watching your grandad try to operate an iPad for the first time—painful, confusing, and slightly concerning. There he was, the most powerful man in the world, fumbling around with his words like they were a set of keys he’d lost down the back of the sofa. You could almost hear the collective groan of a nation thinking, "This is the guy with the nuclear codes?" 

Biden's performance was a bit like that one uncle at Christmas dinner who insists on telling a story but keeps forgetting the punchline, so he starts over five times and somehow ends up talking about a completely different subject. At one point, he was so lost in his own sentence I half expected him to pull out a map and compass.

There was that moment when he seemed to zone out completely, staring blankly into the camera like a deer caught in the headlights—or perhaps more accurately, like someone who just realized they left the oven on at home. It's one thing to forget where you left your car keys, but when you start losing track of basic points in a high-stakes debate, you can’t help but wonder if he’s also forgotten what day it is and who’s meant to be picking him up after the debate.

In the end, watching Biden debate is like watching someone juggle knives while riding a unicycle—you’re not sure if you should be impressed or call for medical assistance. Either way, you can’t look away, partly out of morbid curiosity and partly because you’re desperately hoping he doesn’t fall off and take us all down with him.

England squeaking past Slovakia in the Euros was a spectacle that had all the suspense and drama of a toddler trying to navigate a stairway. It was one of those games where you could almost hear the collective sound of English fans' teeth grinding from across the channel.

Jude Bellingham’s wonder goal was an overhead kick that could only be described as pure football poetry. Imagine the grace of a ballerina combined with the precision of a Swiss watchmaker, all while defying the laws of physics. As he launched himself into the air, you’d think he was auditioning for a role in "The Matrix," dodging bullets and defenders alike. When the ball hit the back of the net, it was like watching a magic trick unfold—spectacular, unbelievable, and leaving you questioning reality.

Then there was Harry Kane, England’s knight in shining armor, coming through in extra time to seal the deal. Kane’s goal was like that last-minute save you see in a disaster movie—just when you think all hope is lost, in comes our hero to save the day. You could almost see the relief on his face, a mix of "Thank God" and "Did I really just do that?" As he celebrated, you half expected him to pull out a cape and start flying around the pitch.

But let's not kid ourselves; England didn’t exactly waltz to victory. It was more like they stumbled and tripped their way there, with Slovakia putting up a fight that was more stubborn than a two-year-old refusing to eat vegetables. The whole match felt like a never-ending tug-of-war, with both teams refusing to let go of the rope.In the end, England’s narrow escape was akin to watching a cat narrowly avoid disaster by landing on its feet—ungraceful but effective. It wasn’t pretty, but it got the job done. And as the final whistle blew, fans were left to breathe a collective sigh of relief, already dreading the next match where, no doubt, their nerves would be tested once again.

Music:
Hey,Joe - Jimi Hendrix 
Alive - Pearl Jam

Support the show

Insta@justpassingthroughpodcast
Contact:[email protected]

Send us Fan Mail

Episode 150

I rip open the festering wound that is England's footballing history. If you're an England fan, you're well-acquainted with the gut-wrenching cycle of hope, hype, and inevitable heartbreak. This show is for you, the masochists who get up at 4 AM to watch yet another uninspiring performance, only to ask yourself, "Why do I do this to myself?"

The Nightmare Begins: Mexico '86

Let's start with Mexico '86. Diego Maradona and his "Hand of God." Are you kidding me? That wasn't just a handball; it was a slap in the face to every England fan who dared to dream. We had Lineker, we had hopes, and then we had a middle finger from the football gods. It's like being promised a brand-new Ferrari and getting a rusted-out Fiat instead. And we took it. We took it like chumps, crying into our pints, and still saying, "Next time, we'll get them."

Italia '90: Gazza's Tears and Our Collective Breakdown

Fast forward to Italia '90. We thought we had it. Gazza was on fire, and the nation was united in its optimism. Cue the waterworks. Gazza's tears became our tears. Penalties against Germany? Why not just march us to the guillotine and be done with it? Stuart Pearce and Chris Waddle's misses are seared into our brains like traumatic childhood memories. Yet, we wore those scars with pride, saying, "It's coming home," even though deep down, we knew it probably wasn't.

Euro '96: Football's Coming Home... to Disappointment

Euro '96. Ah, the home soil advantage. The sweet promise of redemption. "Football's coming home," we sang. And for a moment, it felt like it might. Until it didn't. Gareth Southgate—now our managerial savior—missed that crucial penalty. The air was sucked out of Wembley, and with it, our dreams. We had been the life of the party, only to be shown the door at the stroke of midnight.

The 21st Century: A New Millennium, Same Old Disappointment

The 2000s brought no respite. World Cup 2002 saw us dumped out by a Ronaldinho lob that seemed more like a cosmic joke than a legitimate goal. Euro 2004? Rooney's metatarsal shattered our hopes. World Cup 2006? Portugal again, and this time, Rooney's red card added insult to injury. It's as if the football gods delight in our suffering, throwing obstacles our way just to watch us squirm.

Recent Years: Rinse and Repeat

And now, we arrive at the latest chapter in our saga of sorrow: Denmark, 2024. We started strong, but like clockwork, the wheels fell off. Another tournament, another unfulfilled promise. It's like Groundhog Day, but with more swearing and fewer laughs. The hope that kills you has become our unofficial motto. We've mastered the art of snatching defeat from the jaws of victory.

Why We Keep Coming Back

So why do we do it? Why do we put ourselves through this relentless cycle of pain? Because we're England fans. We're addicted to the agony, the fleeting moments of joy, and the eternal hope that one day, just maybe, it'll be our turn. We're the Charlie Browns of the football world, always believing Lucy won't pull the football away this time.

So, grab your beverage of choice—tea, beer, or something stronger—and join me as we navigate the rollercoaster of emotions that is being an England fan. Because if there's one thing we know how to do well, it's to keep believing, no matter how many times we get kicked in the teeth.

Music: 
Kasabian : Underdog
Black Pumas : Old Man

Support the show

Insta@justpassingthroughpodcast
Contact:[email protected]

Send us Fan Mail

Episode 149

It was 2006, a year filled with dubious fashion choices, bad pop music, and me, at the ripe old age of 35, freshly single and drowning in self-pity at a bar that could only be described as a dive for people too drunk to notice. Picture it: the kind of establishment where the air is thicker than a Glaswegian accent and the floor sticks to your shoes with a mystery substance that likely has its own ecosystem. I was nursing a whiskey, contemplating the futility of existence and the cost of alimony, when she walked in—Helen. Think Lady Macbeth with a credit card and a desperate need for distraction.

Helen was rich, successful, and so bored with her marriage that even a bloke like me, who looked like he’d been dragged through a hedge backward, seemed like an upgrade. She sauntered over, oozing money and Chanel No. 5, and parked herself next to me. "You look like you could use some company," she purred. In any other setting, this might've been the start of a crime drama, but here, it was just the universe laughing at me.

Fast forward through a couple of overpriced cocktails, and Helen had decided that what she needed wasn’t a divorce but a hobby. And that hobby, astonishingly, was me. Now, I wasn’t raised to be a gigolo. My mother had dreams of me becoming something respectable, like a taxidermist or a career criminal. But there I was, signing up to be Helen’s personal boy toy. And no, it wasn’t about the money, I told myself. It was about the adventure. Alright, it was mostly about the money.

For a few months, my life was something out of a bad rom-com. I was dragged to high-end restaurants where the food was as pretentious as the clientele, luxury shopping sprees where I learned that socks could cost more than my rent, and weekends at her beach house, which was basically a mansion that screamed “compensating for something.” My mates were half-convinced I’d sold my soul, and they weren’t far off.

But like all good things, it was bound to go tits up. Enter Lydia, the wife of an arms dealer to the Asia-Pacific. Lydia was the kind of woman who made Helen look like Mother Teresa. She had the air of someone who could order a hit with the same casual ease as ordering a latte. We met at one of Helen's ludicrously expensive parties, and despite my brain screaming, “RUN, YOU IDIOT,” I was drawn to her like a moth to a particularly well-dressed flame.

Our affair was brief, torrid, and about as smart as juggling chainsaws. When Helen found out, she went ballistic. But Lydia’s husband? He made Helen look like a teething puppy. Messing with the wife of an arms dealer is like playing Russian roulette with a semi-automatic—it’s not going to end well. Suddenly, my life was less "Pretty Woman" and more "No Country for Old Men." I spent a few weeks dodging shadows and contemplating witness protection.

In the end, it was Helen who saved me. She used her ridiculous wealth and connections to call off Lydia’s husband, possibly by promising to buy him a small country or a football team. I didn’t ask for details. The whole escapade ended with me back in the bar, broke and single, but now with a story so absurd that even my friends started buying me drinks just to hear it again.

So there it is. The tale of how I became an accidental gigolo, got entangled with an arms dealer’s wife, and lived to tell the tale. And if there's a moral to this story, it’s probably something about not mixing whiskey with desperation. But who am I kidding? I'll probably be back at that bar next week. Cheers.

Music:

Elbow - Grounds for Divorce

Support the show

Insta@justpassingthroughpodcast
Contact:[email protected]

Send us Fan Mail

Episode 148

100-year-old World War II veteran, Harold Terens, and his sprightly 96-year-old bride, Jeanne, tying the knot in Normandy. Yes, you read that correctly. With a combined age of 196, these two lovebirds have decided to spend their twilight years not in a serene retirement home, but in the throes of wedded bliss. Harold, who once stormed the beaches of Normandy and witnessed horrors beyond imagination, is now facing a new kind of challenge: revisiting hell on his wedding night.

The setting is the Élysée Palace in Paris, where Harold and Jeanne have somehow stumbled into a state banquet honoring President Joe Biden. While most of us would be thrilled to avoid family dinners with our in-laws, these two have managed to crash a party with the leader of the free world. Imagine the scene: Biden, who’s barely younger than Harold, is making small talk with the newlyweds while trying to remember what year it is.

"Love isn't just for young people," Harold croaks, his dentures almost making a bid for freedom. Jeanne, beaming beside him, squeezes his hand with surprising strength for someone who probably remembers the invention of the telephone.

As the evening progresses, the happy couple steals the spotlight. Forget the lavish banquet or the presidential presence – everyone’s eyes are on Harold and Jeanne, who are undoubtedly the oldest newlyweds in the room, if not the world. There’s something beautifully grotesque about seeing these centenarians bask in the glow of their new love, like watching a zombie apocalypse with a happy ending.

You have to wonder what brought Harold and Jeanne together. Maybe it was the shared understanding that life is fleeting, or perhaps they just couldn't find anyone else who remembered the Great Depression. Either way, their courtship must have been a whirlwind. Harold, likely forgetting where he put his glasses every other hour, somehow remembered to propose. Jeanne, whose hearing might be more selective than actually impaired, probably said yes to shut him up.

The real kicker, though, is imagining their wedding night. Harold, a man who once faced the Nazi war machine, now faces the daunting prospect of getting it up for the first time in decades. With a cocktail of prescription drugs strong enough to tranquilize a horse, Harold’s bedroom performance is as unpredictable as a Russian roulette game. Jeanne, equally ancient, has her own set of challenges, but let’s not get too graphic here – suffice to say, it’s a match made in a geriatric ward.

As they fumble through the wedding night, it’s hard not to draw parallels to Harold’s war days. The confusion, the fear, the sheer terror of it all – only this time, there’s no enemy to shoot at, just a Viagra pill to find. It’s like reliving the D-Day landings but in slow motion and with a lot more nudity.

In the morning, as the sun rises over the beautiful Normandy landscape, Harold and Jeanne emerge, victorious. They’ve survived another night, proving that love, much like war, is not for the faint-hearted. And so, as they hobble down to breakfast, hand in liver-spotted hand, we salute them – not just for their incredible longevity, but for their unwavering determination to prove that you’re never too old to start a new chapter. Even if that chapter involves more creaking joints and bathroom breaks than romance.

Harold and Jeanne, here’s to you: may your days be filled with love, laughter, and an endless supply of whatever the hell keeps you two going. Because if this isn't a testament to the power of love (and modern medicine), I don't know what is.

Music:

Charles Bradley - No Time for Dreaming
Niel Young - Old Man.

Keep on keeping on,

Darren.

4o

Support the show

Insta@justpassingthroughpodcast
Contact:[email protected]

Send us Fan Mail

Episode 147

In the ever-entertaining saga of American politics, President Biden seems to be playing a high-stakes game of legal whack-a-mole with Trump, aiming to keep him occupied with courtroom dramas as the 2024 election looms. It's almost as if Biden is hoping to score a political knockout before the big rematch.

But hold on to your hats! If Trump pulls off a comeback and wins the 2024 election, he's got a revenge tour planned that would make a reality TV producer drool. Top of his list? Biden and his son Hunter. Trump’s ready to dive into the controversy surrounding Hunter’s business dealings in Ukraine, not to mention his infamous struggles with meth and encounters with sex workers.

So, get ready for Election 2024: where the plot twists are wild, the stakes are high, and the drama never ends. Who knew politics could be this... colorful?

Music

Jay-Z - 99 Problems
Primal Scream - Jailbird

Thanks again JPTers

Support the show

Insta@justpassingthroughpodcast
Contact:[email protected]

Send us Fan Mail

Episode 146


I recently had the pleasure of hosting my friend Dale on my podcast to discuss his favorite travel destination: Bali. Dale’s been visiting Bali since 1979 and has seen the island evolve through every decade. From the bustling streets of Kuta to the serene landscapes of Ubud, Dale’s experiences paint a vivid picture of this enchanting island, flavored with a pinch of humor and a dash of nostalgia.

Dale's first visit to Bali in 1979 was nothing short of an adventure. The island was a hidden gem back then, not yet discovered by the masses. He landed in Kuta, which was still a sleepy fishing village with dirt roads and palm-thatched huts. Fast forward to today, and Kuta has transformed into the throbbing heart of Bali’s tourist scene. Neon lights, thumping music, and surf shops line the streets. It's a paradise for surfers and party-goers, but also home to some of the island’s best street food. Dale fondly recalls his first taste of nasi goreng from a street vendor, a dish so flavorful that it could bring tears to your eyes—either from the spice or sheer joy.

Navigating Kuta’s roads is an experience in itself. The streets are a chaotic ballet of motorbikes, cars, and pedestrians, all moving to their own rhythm. Dale's advice: keep your wits about you and don’t be surprised if a chicken crosses the road—or a tourist on a rented scooter with no clue how to drive it.

From Kuta, Dale’s journeys often lead him to Ubud, Bali’s cultural and spiritual center. Nestled amidst rice paddies and steep ravines, Ubud is a world away from the hustle and bustle of Kuta. It’s where you go to find inner peace, explore art galleries, and practice yoga with views that would make even the stiffest bodies feel zen. Dale describes Ubud as a place where time slows down. Here, you can wander through the Sacred Monkey Forest, visit ancient temples, and dine at organic cafes where the food is as Instagram-worthy as it is delicious.

Bali’s food scene is a culinary journey. From warungs (small family-owned eateries) offering traditional Balinese dishes like babi guling (suckling pig) to upscale restaurants serving fusion cuisine, there’s something to tantalize every palate. Dale’s top tip for foodies: always try the local dishes. “If it’s got a name you can’t pronounce, it’s probably going to be amazing,” he jokes.

Of course, no conversation about Bali would be complete without mentioning the people. Balinese hospitality is legendary. Dale speaks warmly of the locals' genuine friendliness and their uncanny ability to make visitors feel at home. Whether it's a hotel staff member going out of their way to help or a vendor at a market sharing a laugh, the people are what make Bali truly special.

However, Bali isn’t without its quirks. Dale notes the influx of poorly behaved Australian tourists over the years with a chuckle. “They come in droves, especially during school holidays.” While their antics can be a source of amusement, Dale emphasizes the importance of being respectful to local customs and traditions.

In the end, Bali is an island of contrasts. It’s where the chaos of Kuta meets the calm of Ubud, where traditional culture coexists with modern tourism, and where every trip offers something new to discover. Dale’s decades of travel to Bali have given him a treasure trove of stories and experiences, each visit adding another layer to his love for the island. As our podcast wrapped up, one thing was clear: Bali isn’t just a destination; it’s a state of mind, one that captures the heart and soul of every traveler lucky enough to experience it.

Music:

America - A Horse with no Name
Cat Stevens - Wild World

Support the show

Insta@justpassingthroughpodcast
Contact:[email protected]

Send us Fan Mail

Episode 145

In the grand halls of Buckingham Palace, the unveiling of King Charles's latest royal portrait was nothing short of a spectacle. The room buzzed with anticipation, aristocrats and art critics alike whispering in hushed tones. As the velvet curtain was drawn back, revealing the artwork, gasps echoed through the room. There, emerging from what looked suspiciously like a bath of blood, was King Charles himself, with only his hands and face visible above the crimson tide.

The artist, Jonathan Yeo, stood beside his creation, beads of sweat dotting his forehead. His hands shook slightly as he attempted to explain his inspiration. He nervously explained his attempt to capture the essence of His Majesty's reign and the deep, historical roots of the monarchy.

One couldn't help but wonder if Yeo had tapped into the blood of Britain's ancient dalliance with empires long past. Was it the essence of 250 years of conquest and colonialism that stained the canvas so vividly? Or perhaps it was just the result of a particularly overzealous session with a bottle of Bordeaux.

Spectators marveled, some with morbid fascination, others with barely concealed horror. Was this a portrait or a scene from a vampire novel? It looked like he was about to rise from the depths and start a new reign of terror.

As the audience continued to take in the ominous scene, one question hung in the air: Was King Charles sending a message to the world, "Don't fuck with me?" With a portrait that seemed more like a dire warning than a royal tribute, it was hard not to imagine the king himself giving a sly, blood-tinged grin and nodding ever so slightly.

Despite Yeo's evident nervousness, the portrait seemed to encapsulate an eerie truth: the monarchy, drenched in the blood-red history of its conquests, still holds a spectral power. As King Charles's eyes seemed to follow each guest around the room, a shiver ran down their spines. Was this art, or an omen? One thing was clear: Yeo's masterpiece would be remembered, though perhaps not for the reasons he intended.

Keep on downloading people.

Thank you all again.

Darren.

Music: 
The Rolling Stones  - Paint it Black
Neil Young - The Painter

Support the show

Insta@justpassingthroughpodcast
Contact:[email protected]

Send us Fan Mail

Episode 144

Ah, the late '80s and '90s in West Timor—a time of adventure, mischief, and unforgettable experiences for my friend Jamie, a wide-eyed 18-year-old setting foot on foreign soil for the very first time. Picture this: a young lad brimming with excitement and naiveté, ready to take on the world and all its quirks.

Jamie's escapades in West Timor began with a bang—or should I say, with monkeys stealing beer! In this tropical paradise, mischievous monkeys were the ultimate party crashers, known for swiping unguarded beers and causing mayhem. Jamie quickly learned to keep a watchful eye on his beverages, lest they fall victim to these furry thieves with a taste for the good stuff.

But monkeys were just the tip of the iceberg. West Timor in those days was also a hotspot for military build-ups—a slightly less amusing aspect of Jamie's adventures. Picture this: Jamie innocently wandering into a local market, only to find himself amidst soldiers gearing up for who knows what. It was a surreal experience that added an unexpected twist to his travel narrative.

Amidst the chaos and curious encounters, Jamie found solace in unexpected friendships, including getting intimate (figuratively speaking) with the Danes. Yes, you read that right! Not only did Jamie befriend travelers from Denmark, but he also found himself in hilarious and memorable situations with them. Whether it was bonding over shared misadventures or exploring the local scene together, Jamie's escapades with the Danes added a delightful Scandinavian flair to his journey.

And let's not forget the cultural immersion—or should I say, misadventures—in West Timor. From attempting to navigate the local language (with comical results) to sampling exotic delicacies (some more palatable than others), Jamie's experiences were a delightful mix of curiosity and comedic mishaps.

As we reminisce about those bygone days, Jamie's tales from West Timor transport us to a time when travel was raw, unfiltered, and bursting with unexpected moments. It was a period of growth, laughter, and discovery—a coming-of-age story set against the backdrop of a tropical paradise.

So here's to Jamie and his wild adventures in West Timor, where monkeys stole beers, military build-ups added intrigue, and friendships with Danes brought joy. May these nostalgic anecdotes remind us of the joy of travel and the magic of exploring the world with fresh eyes and an open heart. Cheers to the memories, the mishaps, and the moments that shaped Jamie's unforgettable journey in West Timor.

Music:

Ocean Colour Scene - Travellers Tale
Chris Stapleton - Traveller

Support the show

Insta@justpassingthroughpodcast
Contact:[email protected]

Send us Fan Mail

Episode 143

It’s been 25 years since that fateful day when Bradford City threw a spanner in the works of Ipswich Town’s Premier League dreams. As the football world turned its attention elsewhere, a simmering hatred was born in the hearts of the East Anglian faithful – a grudge that has since twisted and morphed like a vindictive caricature, finding new targets along the way.

Enter Leeds United and Huddersfield Town, two Yorkshire clubs unsuspecting of their impending doom, yet unwitting pawns in Bradford’s cosmic football vendetta. Yes, you heard it right – Bradford City, the unassuming Bantams, have been quietly pulling the strings from West Yorkshire all this time, orchestrating chaos in the football leagues and laughing all the way to Valley Parade.

Picture this: a shadowy council of Bradfordians, adorned in claret and amber robes, plotting over cups of Tetley’s tea, declaring, “Let’s keep Ipswich out of the Premier League – just for kicks!” Little did they know the seismic ripple effect their actions would have over two decades later.

Leeds United, perennial yo-yo club and once the darlings of English football, found themselves ensnared in Bradford’s wicked web. The Bantams’ mere existence seemed to irk Leeds supporters, who saw them as an annoying little cousin meddling in their affairs. As fate would have it, Bradford’s unrelenting quest for chaos culminated in Leeds’ relegation woes, leaving Elland Road in a state of bewilderment and mild disdain for anything claret and amber.

But wait, there’s more! Huddersfield Town, the Terriers of West Yorkshire, fell victim to Bradford’s jinx as well. Bradford City, with their devious charm and underdog spirit, delivered the knockout blow that sent Huddersfield tumbling down to the depths of League One. Oh, the agony! The fury! The misplaced resentment towards those pesky Bantams!

And here we are, 25 years later, scratching our heads and chuckling at the absurdity of it all. Bradford City, the unwitting instigators of football melodrama, couldn’t care less about the mayhem they’ve caused. They’re too busy sipping their Yorkshire tea and enjoying the view from mid-table obscurity.

Meanwhile, Ipswich, Leeds, and Huddersfield fans stew in their own bitter brew of football conspiracy theories, pointing fingers at the claret and amber-clad miscreants from Bradford. “It’s all their fault!” they cry, shaking their fists at the Yorkshire heavens.

But deep down, amidst the banter and the rivalry, there’s a begrudging respect for Bradford City – the cheeky upstarts who dared to disrupt the football hierarchy and live to tell the tale. After all, what’s football without a bit of mischief and mayhem?

So, here’s to you, Bradford City – the accidental architects of chaos, the disruptors of destiny, and the perennial punchline of football lore. As the world turns and the football seasons ebb and flow, we’ll always have Bradford to blame and a good laugh to go along with it. Because in the end, it’s just a game – and Bradford City, well, they’re playing it their way, claret and amber mischief and all.

Music - 
 The Zutons - Zuton Fever
Arctic Monkeys - Fake Tales of San Francisco
Dandy Warhols - Bohemian Like You

Support the show

Insta@justpassingthroughpodcast
Contact:[email protected]