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.

Special Guest PNE Fan Hanna (@Hannamayj)

DIRECTIONS (Assuming no Red has ever been further north than Bolton before) :

Go north up the M6 for 30 miles and exit at the Tickled Trout, or Junction 31 to non-Prestonians (we had a town meeting to decide the naming of all major junctions. Probably. Either way, that’s a thing) and marvel at yet another fallen industrial giant:  Preston.

FACTS:

The last time you came to Deepdale (our theatre of dreams) was a long time before I was born but not long ago enough that it’s legend. 1972. Someone won. Nobody kept count.

Preston (The Lilywhites, PNE, Whites, Invincibles) play the former champions of the world almost exactly one year on from the passing of club leg-end Sir Tom Finney. Go check out “The Splash” statue dedicated to the phantom winger outside the stadium. No really, it’s pretty cool.

No I don’t work for the Preston tourist board but we don’t get many visitors, not even for Europe’s largest bus station…

There’s a disappointing lack of Pom Bears in both the club shop and stadium bars. I’ve had words but they fall on deaf ears. Sorry.

We hate Blackpool.

We will sing ‘Premier League, you’re having a laugh!’ Even if we’re losing.

TEAM:

PNE tend to play a traditional 10 outfield players and one goalkeeper.

Manager Simon Grayson (formally of Leeds United for some old-school, long-winded rivalry, but still a better manager than Sir Alex Ferguson’s sperm) will probably start with a 3-4-1-2 of Stuckmann; Super Tom Clarke, Huntington, Wright; Wiseman, Welsh, Kilkenny, Laird; Super Paul ‘Gally’ Gallagher; Super Kevin Davies, Super Joe(y) Garner.

A return to form for Preston in all February fixtures after a drop in Jan means ABSOLUTELY NOTHING IN THE GRAND SCHEME OF LIFE but will probably be used by Sky pundits to patronise the shite out of ‘lower-league opposition’.

PREDICTION:

Garner’s gonna score a hat-trick and celebrate with his chicken dance, Gally will get a brace from 2 free-kicks and SKD will either end a player’s career (probably Smalling) or score the world’s worst dink to bring his total career goals tally to 151 or total career red cards to 50,000.

No midfield or defensive play is allowed in League One stadiums.

Garner will be knighted and given freedom of the city of Preston (yes, we’re a city now).

David Moyes will tip up to say ‘hi’ to both of his old clubs before returning to certain sunshine and glory in Spain. Miss you Moyesy. Not you, us.

SUMMARY:

A game of association football in the fifth round of the FA Cup will be played in a 23,400 seater stadium and either a “Giant Killing” will occur and Mark Lawrenson will gush for the next 20 years about THE MAJIK OF THE CUP or the third place team in the Premier League will beat the fourth placed team in League One. Either will get stuffed in the next round. Make U Think.

I only wrote this to annoy McGhee.

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Benno (@Benglorious)

I found out today that the team we’re playing today isn’t even in the same league as United today.  Not gonna lie, my world has been shaken by the revelation that football even exists outside the Premiership League.  Pressed On are the opponents, and United are having to travel an unascertained distance to their stadium, Deed Poll.  They should probably change that.

Mum just told me that the game tonight isn’t part of the Premiership League either, and NOW I DON’T KNOW WHAT’S REAL ANY MORE.  Why can’t it just be the same two teams every week, jumpers for goalposts, next goal wins, “no, you go in goal”, “no goal-hanging”, “let me go in goal now cos I’m knackered”, “that’s a bad hack”, “rush goalie, innit” instead of all this ultra-competitive, eighty games a season, “your team’s the worst”, “no, your team’s the worst”, “yeah, but our strikeman’s the best”, “no, our strikeman’s the best” professional football?  I guess we’ll never know.

Prediction:  Vangle to step it up tonight and stop messing around.  Rooney up top with Falcao and Mata in the hole with support from Herrera and Di Maria.  Once we’re five goals up, then and only then will Fellaini and Wilson come on to give Men Of The Match Mata and Ander a well-earned standing ovation.  1-0 Preston.

Jonny texted me to say he was more than happy to come by and tell me his three favourite things in the whole world.  I told him I was busy:

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Tom (@tom_mcghee)

Remember when Preston stormed off Never Mind the Buzzcocks? Bet they don’t mention that. Narrative. I read Brett’s first.

Hanna thinks Steve Martin is Leslie Nielsen.

Prediction: If the Martin Keown angle plays out, who knows? Twelfty 6 to United, Joey Garner to score 8 goals and inspire the home fans to write, direct and perform their own updated version of Jesus Christ Superstar meets West Side Story. For reasons that are unclear.

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Brett (@bifurcated_mufc)

If there’s one thing this website has taught us over the years, it’s to never trust a team with a very specific geographical, most likely racist, agenda. It’s also taught us that having a chat when you’ve finished your tea doesn’t make you an after-dinner speaker, but it’s still okay to put it on your c.v.

I’ve picked up from my friends at the football writers guild recently that the use of the word narrative, wherever possible, becomes a prominent narrative when providing a season’s narrative and should be used wherever possible, narratively speaking (and it also makes you popular with the laydeez, cos it makes you look all interlectural like), and that that narrative tends to line-up in a classic order, disorder, order restored formation; in fact my journo bros sometimes see ‘order, disorder, order restored’, and whisper “that’s classic narrative” to themselves.  In this particular instance the means of re-ordering the disorder, created by Vangle’s insistance on winning without playing nicely, like the Ferg we don’t deserve, will take the form of exacting revenge for a list of modern day football misdemeanours the length of my arm:

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1. PNE invented David Moyes the manager irl.
2. PNE’s ex-England International Kevin Davies lit a bonfire on the future (T-ClevZ).
3. PNE’s Sylvan Blake has given an online money lending site permission to use his name for their underhand marketing campaign.

I have a very long body, okay. It’s just perspective. It’s a very short list. ‘Length of my arm’. Oh, forgeddit.

The most exciting thing about this game is it’s on the beeb! And that’s exciting cos that means I don’t have to get out of bed at all today, except to stick my foot through the telly when Martin Keown. Actually, might just stick my foot through the telly now to save me having me to get out of bed to do it when the coverage starts, then I really can stay in bed all day like the Nietzsche times Bear Grylls maverick squared you all adore.

Prediction: The stylist who sticks Martin Keown’s head in the tumble dryer before he’s allowed out of his cell to leave it in there for much longer than the usual cos someone has delivered them a brown envelope stuffed full of Bifurcated’s staff tips. Hopefully, they accept, “WTF!! That doesn’t even make any sense … give it up you pricks”, “Punch yourself and your friends in the faces before I do, if I ever find you”, “Actually, just kill yourselves to death”, as suitable bungs. 2-3 United.