(@Benglorious)

There’s part of me that knows we will win comfortably like the champions of old unfortunately I left that part in an airport Wetherspoons three years ago

Prediction: we’re not doing the 5 preview thing cos I fucked up

M

 (@tom_mcghee)

I knew the magic of the cup would re-unite the three amigos (friends). Sadly, much like the real three amigos (friends), we are now all old and bitter and bereft of hope and Chevy Chase. The fat old bastard.

Tranmere are a shit-show. Nobody really knows who or where they are and nobody cares. Their pitch looks like Old Trafford but 2 years in the future. Luckily for them, we are still the biggest shit-show in town and I’ll be damned if they’re just gonna swoop in and claim all the shit-show glory; we’ve earned the right to be the worst by spending so much money. Wait…

Aladdin (2019)

Like the cartoon (almost exactly) but with Will Smith instead of Robin Williams and actors not animated characters. There are some animated characters but they’re like the CGI ones you see in a Star War or Marvellous film. That aside, pretty good.

Prediction: Who the fuck even cares anymore?

 M

(@bifurcated_utd)

This is a recipe for disaster:

Milk, two eggs, stir lol like a recipe

That’s scrambled eggs

I call them disaster eggs

Prediction: those two wet towels to claim I stole the above great a joke sequence I made up with my huge brain.

In anticipation of this book, and to placate my impatience at not having it in my possession, I read some reviews and soon noted the many instances where the word ‘detail’ came up (seven, as it happens). I became slightly concerned; perhaps detail was code; political internet shorthand for goes on a bit. Turns out detail, meant … detail. This though is not your garden-variety detail, no, this is deft verbal photography masquerading as detail. And how!

The Promised Land is a land where players wear the tackles of their opponents, astonish free-kicks into the top corner and clueless midfielders tory away their chances when through on goal. Daniel Harris is not concerned with perfunctory documentation – simply re-counting and re-imagining the treble winning season – he sweeps you along, more than willingly, to re-live it, re-love it and re-remember why it was you loved football in the first place. Every sentence is owned: these words belong together, they’re not shoved in against their will where others would have sufficed, they’re pleased to have been selected, to be telling the story, showing themselves off even. The eloquence hits you with the dexterity of a prize fighter – you’re flat out enjoying it before you even know it.

Followers of Daniel Harris on Twitter will already have noticed that he is a crack shot when it comes to highlighting the affectations of the modern footballer and the book doesn’t disappoint on this score either. It also goes further, taking in the cognitive dissonance presented by modern football fandom adroitly with well selected asides and observations.

This book is so good, it would be easy for me to say that any fan of any club would enjoy it, but I think I’d struggle to read the tale of Liverpool’s not-really-a-treble-treble without desperately hoping to feel a little underwhelmed. However, if you’re a fan of books – and if you’re not, then maybe you need to ask yourself: why not? – then all I can tell you is this: The Promised Land is one of the best books I’ve read and I can’t recommend it enough.