It's a sterile world these days. I've always hated lunchtime kick-offs for 'derby' games (whatever the fuck that's supposed to mean these days) and lunchtime kick-offs on a Sunday simply add insult to injury. "Ooh, we can't have those nasty football fans getting drunk and fighting each other, now can we?" Fucking load of shite. I only expected us to lose today in any case, but it's more the manner of the defeat than losing the game.That's what sticks in the throat.
You may as well not put your team out if you're not going to have a go at it. Where was the fire for today's shameful performance? Nowhere t0 be seen. And it's not as if the game didn't have any importance (stuffing the Rags always aside) as we could have perhaps sowed some seeds of doubt in their title hopes, and push us forward into the frigging Europa League spot - poisoned chalice as that may now be.
To cap it all, the weekend is slowly oozing away and heading towards the inevitable car crash of another day in the office tomorrow. Bollocks to that.
So instead of taking the optimism of at least a decent City performance with me when I go in, I will be haunted by the visions of Coraline (a film I would recommend highly, btw. So good that even French & Saunders were amusing) and dream of buttons getting sewn into my eyes.
2 comments:
Why? Why be confirmed bachelors?
Why not fight like real men, men with breasts and little skirts? Fight like at Inchon, fight like the dragons of McArthur Park and Larry Oliver!
Do not lie down like lambs on Broadway, but, rather and other, take on the mantle of a fighting cock! A team of lovely cocks!
Superstitious as I am, I hope that sly digs in this corner of the internet don't count, and that (perverse as you may think me) Steve Bruce and his band of banditos run Wigan rings around the thrusting red chests tonight. It is one-to-zero already and another 45 minutes to go. Go go go!
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