This team is pathetic.
Cant go 6 tackles without dropping the ball,
cant go 6 tackles in defense without giving away a penalty,
have no idea how to kill a game off,
Cant kick more then 20 yards without the ball going out on the full,
no idea what to do when they get to the try line,and the same excuse every week, 'were a work in progess'
Rubbish, were nearly half way through the season....
The way its going £4.67 a match is extortion
We will be lucky to finish in the top 8, never mind the top 4 hood hs been banging on about.....
And no, this is not a kneejerk reaction to Catalans, the things above have been happening all year

You must have missed the downpour, and that Catalan who won four on the spin, were as bad.

Hmm, i said that it wasnt just catalan though, didnt I?
and so what if it rains, 'profesionals' should be able to hold a ball,
i have seen under 10's doing it in much worse conditions

Were Catalans any better than us today (conditions?). Did you not think we were the better team and could easily have won against Leeds (twice actually). We are not great for sure but are you being a little over the top?

See the point about not been able to kill a game off....

Catalans didn't kill the game off either despite having better field position.

Those conditions were perfect for an error strewn low scoring game.

No thanks,
they lost 32-6 to the welsh joke

Max Boyce?

Exactly. We were on a short turnaround and missing one of out main playmakers with little practice time to work around it. We came up against one of the form teams in poor conditions and salvaged a point. Hardly the disaster you made out.

foook me, a point away against an in-form Catalans, using Sykes as 6, following up the great effort against Leeds, yet it's the end of the world for some.

What the feck are you on about?

Put down the crack pipe.

I have to say, that coming on to this board after a loss is usually more depressing than actually losing the game.

Coming on after a draw is like walking into a ward full of dying kiddies.

More like a field full of forrin footballers writhing on the ground following the merest tap with a buttercup, each feigning to be more terminally hurt and outraged than the next.