‘You’re basically sports reporting’ she said. No, this blog isn’t about ‘sport’ it’s about Wolves, a subject far important than sport. But hey! A friendly against Crisptown. What a strange place Leicester is, so strange that I can actually spell it first try with right clicky red squigglies. Cool as fuck. A team full of strangers Leicester are. Like Walkers Crisps they promise (on the packaging) a taste sensation, a luxurious dip into the world of the thinly sliced deep fried potato. Until you open them and find a sad little collection of over flavoured, overpriced  spud. I never liked them since I was doubled over laughing in the 80’s when their fans ran down a dual carriageway (at our away support) dressed in dungarees. Mad Clampett fashions. Relegation for them this season. Their Kwan is gone.

So I’m engaged with other football fans of various teams over the whole financial fair play thing. Of course I am well versed in the complexities of the regulatory initiative of European…..ok I’m not, but if you type loudly and offer perfunctory violence then the steam and fume from these strangely dressed social media-er-rers becomes muted and unsure, they start to nibble their finger nails, they start to question their own knowledge. Money is King in football, chuck enough money into a club and they will gather the necessary players to do that. 20 squillion squids on Alberto Nicetan from some sun drenched shit hole in France or Spain will be good. He sprays passes around as an afterthought, he runs like a man possessed. Welcome Alberto and the media team go ‘say Wolves ay we’ so the freaks on Facebook get semis. Alberto doesn’t give a fuck and to be honest neither do I. What I want is Alberto to lash a few goals in, make the plays, listen to Nuno who seems like he has a fervour, or Fosun showed him videos of what happens when the third Dragon Tong from Honk Kong are called in.

The thing is, there’s no other club in the UK that deserves the thrills and spills of top quality football than Wolverhampton Wanderers. We invented football, we invented floodlit night games, we invented passion, we invented everything to do with football. So why aren’t we playing the likes of Barcelona and Madrid? Let those questions drop where they may. Scouse Mafia, Compton Mafia a cosa nostra of fuck ups and circle jerks. We deserve top flight football because simply put we really are the greatest team in the world. We may not have the trophies and the honours to prove it (lately) but trust me we are the fucking Godzilla of English football. Thus awake we trawl through the sludgy depths, eyes blinking at the bright lights and attention until announcing our arrival with a roar and a quick left jab at some high rise office building.

But what about the Kwan? What about the game? I had to skip between feeds, I had to phone people, I had to stitch together uploaded videos.

Douglas. I like the cut of his jib and at a million quid he looks like an absolute bargain. His link up play going forwards was a joy. Constantly watching the movement of players in front of him he has second sight when it comes to moving forward. No hesitation in him at all but a feeling, a metaphysical knowledge of when to move forward, when to hang back, constantly watching and probing.

Commander Coady. After being shifted around like a shit ornament last season he has grown. Grown or realisation? I’m not sure, but his voice booming over the pitch, shouting, giving out the orders reminded me of someone but I can’t remember who at the moment but it will come to me. Coady is a dude that will flourish under the tutelage of Nuno because A. He’s not daft and B. He’s not daft. Put Boly in there too and you have a unit. What is Boly? He’s not human that’s for sure. Playing against Boly must be like trying to wrestle telegraph poles or shuffling skips. What is Boly? Who knows so far but I tug my forelock at him. Same with Miranda, he didn’t look like he gave a shit. His undoubted knowledge of his position was amazing. All of a sudden a player that had an almost telepathic understanding of how an opposition player was going to move. Who were these people? Why weren’t they falling over like normal? Running into strange unthreatening positions making the defendable undefendable. I don’t know. Next week when Boro come down here I’m seriously thinking of staying sober so I can work out what in the fuck is going on. If only so I can watch Boro players arseholes squeak when the Bolynator comes out for a fifty-fifty. It must be like getting hit by a UPS van.

Neves was a thing. A thinker obviously, undoubted athletic ability, a quality and a breath of fresh air. Searching the variables of the midfield he had it sussed in minutes and thus as all greatest workmen he crafted a pass here and a run there, a little dink of the ball on his left foot, shift weight gently and he was off again, searching, looking for movement. Of course as he envelopes the whole team and understands how they move those passes will become as natural and unconscious as the greatest teams.

There are probably other players I should have mentioned but shout out to Jota, Cav, Saiss and a shout to Costa as well even though he’s injured because I love him too.

On a final note we are searching for a striker. I see that, we’ve had some misfires, misfits and misanthropes since Bully. This stage is set for a Hero so the picking has to be correct. What Pro striker wouldn’t love to be at the sharp end of those foot juggling lunatics from Portugal. Mate, you’ll be shouting for the ball running full tilt towards the Southbank and it will bonk you on the head before you get a word out. In fact I think the striker we are after should fucking pay to play with such a team.

Anyway. It’s a week away. Contain excitement, stop dancing around when you get up, stop acting like you’ve found a box of kittens. Time to get that stern face on. The Southbank is our Church and Saint Nuno our Holy bringer of joys, its a fucking long season, blood will fall, icons will be torn from their alcoves, new heroes, new villains, the madness is soon come.