I'm fifty three and my dad started talking me in the early seventies. One there was a massive ruck on the Bolton road with Sunderland fans. My dead had to stick me over a garden wall out of harm's way (I was still only little) before he smacked a few of them so we could both make a dash for it.
We're moved away from lancs in the seventies too. Rovers is my link to where I'm from. It's actually part of my identity. I don't get to see many games. But they're always the first result I look for.
Genius are slowly killing the club and their reasons for obstinately refusing sell, I can only guess at.
Someone said earlier, the fans are exhausted. I'll bloody bet they are. We're fighting reality on a weekly basis because we all went these shite hawk arseholes to get the hell out of our club, but they just refuse, against all sense. Of course that is going to be exhausting over a timeline such as we've seen. In fact, you could end up really making yourself unwell like this.
I've just had to stop caring because it's just so toxic.