I was at a wedding this weekend. (Hello Larry and Aisling. Sorry about the misunderstanding with the hotel silverware.) At around 4.45 on Saturday afternoon, the church mullarkey having been done and dusted, the wild eating frenzy yet to start, a strange thing began to happen. Many men and at least two women in the company were drawn zombie-like through the hotel premises to a darkened little back room. There we gathered to worship.

We are a sorely misunderstood cult, but well practised in the ways of deception and survival. Fretful Christians bumbling around the catacombs waiting for the one-on-one action with a lion had less to fear than a person trying to sever themselves from an agnostic partner at a wedding reception, thence to go to study the football results.

Technique is all. Never, ever, jump up and say, "Ooh, the football results are on. Back in 10 minutes. Talk among yourselves." Always give the impression of noble and pressing service. Arise from the table with a harried look, patting your pockets and conveying the impression that you need 10 minutes to broker peace with Iraq before you can eat. Suddenly, even if it is out of character, insist on buying the whole company a drink. You can come back and sit down later and nobody will ask where the drinks are.

In the back bar we all gathered in front of the television. An established part of such ceremonies is the observance of the sorrowful mystery that is Celtic. St Johnstone 2 Celtic 1. All shake heads devoutly. Woe. Woe. At no other point in our religion are we so united.

The unitarian Manchester United people left early singing like giddy evangelists. The Saturday results are more a question of checking which bunch of stooges United have beaten than anything else. Lately this has been refined to checking which of and how many of the under-12 team Alex Ferguson has used in the course of the game.

Manchester United is a soft option, a big, fat, permissive faith that demands nothing of its followers. The true sufferers who will inherit the earth (but nowt by way of trophies) are us Leeds United fans, we poor sucker disciples who face towards the austere mecca that is Elland Road.

There are strange things happening with Leeds United just now. On Saturday afternoon, Leeds beat Liverpool at Anfield, an epochal event which had more to do with the disintegration of the host club than any resurgence at Leeds.

No. The strangeness at Leeds runs deeper than results. Firstly, the club has appointed a manager who is invariably described as "the likable David O'Leary" or "the popular David O'Leary". In the old days, when Leeds used to advertise for managers, the last line always used to read "You don't have to be dour to work here, but it helps". Now it's just "No Experience Necessary".

It got so bad and unrelenting that when top sour-dough George Graham arrived to replace the king of comedy, Howard Wilkinson, I thought I would cut 28 years of losses and switch my primary affection to my second favourite team, Wolverhampton Wanderers. But Mark McGhee's stodgy puss told me that I would just be adding guilt to heartbreak.

Anyway, to the likeable David O'Leary. Nothing announces the shrinkage of Leeds from the status of great club quite so grandly as the appointment of a likeable manager. Leeds have traditionally employed the most dour, most intractable men outside of the Democratic Unionist Party as their managers. Now this. A man who can smile. And not just at the misfortune of others.

O'Leary's likability, not to mention his popularity, is a strange, impermeable thing not unlike his hairstyle. It has survived his epic pout concerning the Icelandic triangular tournament when he went on holidays instead of going off playing for Ireland. So effective was the big pout that people think that Davo actually went off on holidays to Elba where he later died in exile and that it was somebody else of the same name that scored that penalty in Genoa during Italia '90.

Davo's popularity has survived his odd and bitter tongue-lashing of half the Irish team in a little tabloid organ on the day they left for the 1994 World Cup.

He is one of that little blessed triumvirate of big-haired Dubs who arrived at Arsenal in the early Seventies, went on to have glittering careers but have never seemed that happy about it. What happened to Stapo, Chippy and Davo in north London back then to make them so joyless? They never seem to look back with anything but anger. What happened? Bad digs? Ugly infighting with the Young Conservatives? The death of Glam Rock? Why is Davo the likeable one? Was there an election? Did they draw straws?

And now Davo is manager of Leeds. I can't say that this doesn't worry me. When the pending manager of a club which has won the league this decade and which has an entire city as its unencroached catchment area uses all his leverage to negotiate the price of one Dwight Yorke with which to restructure the future, well, it speaks of modesty of vision.

This modesty, this tendency to think small, is something which took root under George Graham, who never tired of announcing to Leeds fans that the club couldn't compete with the big outfits. Why not, exactly? This was never explained. It just seems that a big, invariably full stadium, a huge passionate catchment and rich corporate owners is not the formula for success.

The likeable era under Davo has begun well for those of us with trainspotting tendencies. If you fish about on the Leeds websites for news of the youth team matches, following the better players into reserve team action, well, then it has been a feast. Johnathan Woodgate, touted, it must be said, by Davo as a good bit of stuff quite a while back, has made his way into the first team. As have young Robinson and Smith As has Stephen McPhail. There are two schools of thought on McPhail. Depending on who you listen to, he is either so talented that he is the new Liam Brady come to save Leeds and Ireland, or so laid back that he is the new Bob Marley and should retire to a hammock and smoke good weed for the rest of his days. Every time I see him play I see enough evidence to support both arguments.

What else has Davo done to the team? Well, Ian Harte is getting sufficient opportunity and soon I feel my three-year mission to prove to friends that Harte is in fact a very good player will be done and I will move on to another project.

Other than that, it is all pain and suffering as usual. Out of Europe. Out of the League Cup. In the backroom of the hotel, as news of the freak occurrence at Anfield percolated, we looked into the clouded eyes of the Liverpool supporters. Welcome to our world, folks.

Then we all split up and headed back to the reception, mingling smoothly with normal people.