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M8, you’ve got one of them green beetles on you..
Special Guest PNE Fan Hanna (@Hannamayj)
When I signed up for this (I didnt sign up for this, I was held against my will) I didn’t realise it would extend to banter at both ends so here’s a match review which may or may not include mostly fan fiction…
I arrived at Deepdale to the open arms of Archangel David Moyes; the spirit of Tom Finney ruffled my hair and opined his usual yet eerie “us Preston boys gon’ get those big-timers, kid”.
Princes Joe Garner, Kevin Davies and Tom Clarke led out the defenders of the North against those Red Devils in what would surely be a bloody and ruthless expulsion of the demons by the righteous and virtuous soldiers of the White army…
The chaste ser Simon Grayson had taken the measure of Lucifers left hand, the man they call Louis Vangle. His vanguard would ride down the devilish reds in a battle that would finally reinstate a world order where common sense and fair play would thrive!
Instead, the devil Vangle sent fourth a balding sprite and an exotic bird of paradise to confuse and misdirect the natural balance of the angelic whites.
A turncoat prince, a giant and a troll fought past the White army and while one virtuous blow met its mark the Red Devils, few though they were, damaged the defences of good in a triumph for all of greed and jealousy.
The troll used his evil powers to tempt and madden the last line of the Pure defence, using the moment to his advantage and foiling the righteous for the mere mortal souls they were folly enough to lay bare.
While the battle was lost, the whites left the battlefield triumphant! So long as key watchers insisted on defrauding the red troll and reporting unfair tactics the whites would leave content in the knowledge that their path towards salvation from the third tier of hell was now clear. ALL HAIL.
BACK TO REALITY
Ok so we miffed bout that balding twat but hey, wtf was Stuckmann doing right RIGHT!
Garner’s still gonna be knighted though.
Yeah you won. Shut up. Go home. I have wine.
RECAP
Yes we were singing about David Moyes.
Yes we were a match for you in the first 60 minutes.
Yes we think Falcao is a massive waste of money.
Yes you should start Ashley Young on a weekly basis.
Yes it’s cold at Deepdale.
Yes we ran out of pies… No we’re not proud of that.
ONE LAST THING
I can’t handle a 10th playoffs… PLEASE GOD OF FOOTBALL LET US GET THE SHITTY SOCK OUT OF LEAGUE ONE AND BACK INTO THE CHAMPIONSHIP THANK YOU PLEASE WITH LOVELY CHERRIES ON THE TOP! Here’s my pancakes as an offering.
Help us, Obi Wan Kenobi. You’re our only hope…
Brett (@bifurcated_mufc)
16 years ago I was stumbling from one party to the next. The same faceless faces – some of them familiar, for what that was worth. For what that actually meant back then. Faces I’d seen around, but didn’t have the time, the inclination, or the humility, to find out more about. It was a simpler time. A time of endless possibilities. A time without time.
There was one night – so many since lost, as memories tumble from my ageing, addled, tired mind as the sound they once created becomes a distant echo on a dystopian landscape – I will always recall; like it was only yesterday…
A couple, whose names escape me, were giving up their lives for each others and a celebration of the news had been maniacally arranged at the expense of other’s personal plans, so that we could all feel that little bit worse about ourselves in their presence. Another night when strangers were friends, and I was alone.
I never went to these things with the intention of observing: the attendees at the waxwork pantomime projecting outwards the charade that the reality that their real life occupied betrayed; but when you navigate the threat of conversation with such calculated precision, it’s all you have. Those that don’t know you’re watching don’t care; those that do, the same. I’d say I’d seen it all, but I know there has to be more. Because there has to be.
The male of our species without question, would throw away everything: his family, his children – for an unsatisfactory fumble with a relative stranger. And they do. Those that say otherwise, never see temptation. And sure there’s the inevitable ontological anxiety the following morning, but not enough get what they’re due. It’s only man who believes he’s bulletproof when holding a gun to is own head. Women could do worse than remove the safety catch.
On this particular night there’d been a few flashpoints; vignettes co-habitors would soon be going over in their heads in a day or two, on the spare futon around a friend’s house. Nothing of note. Nothing special. Nothing. And then.
When the last of the people making the most dutiful of appearances, have finished off their life story at the door, you get to see who’s really at a party. Three thirds of the time it’s wall to wall me. Like staring into a mirror bigger than the room. This time was different.
I was already on the furthest side of the room before I was conscious of standing up, such was the impulse; though the lactic acid was already flooding through my limbs. Beads of sweat tempted my tongue to my top lip. I leaned in towards her. She cupped her ear to my mouth… “Falcao is that tin of Quality Street at your nans that turns out to be full of sewing kits”.
To this day I still don’t know where it came from. Maverick thoughts.
Thought for the day: Theft is the highest form of flattery.
