Leeds the losers as game of steaming chaos shows their leadership void
D awn breaks in Leeds with a smell of menace. Police out by breakfast, a slow-moving filet of yellow hi-vis beating the streets, lining the alleyways, scanning the trains for trouble. In the stands, songs about Munich and Istanbul, Mason Greenwood and Jimmy Savile. On the pitch, skewering tackles, crunching limbs, collisions you can physically hear. The atmosphere is magnificent, even if it comes from the ugliest of places.