A Little on the ‘Return Of The Scouse Git’

Am I allowed to talk about Morgan our Former owner and big noise? I am anyway, he keeps popping up in things I’m trying to read on Social Media because he’s graced our City with his ‘presence’ again. Business lunch apparently which I know is standing around networking with people in suits from Local Government and Local Business. Strange affairs those. But he was waxing about Johnson and O’Hara being a disaster in terms of signings. Glad I wasn’t there, I would have choked on my mini  samosa and grabbed somebodies tit as I fell on the floor looking the same shade as him. Somebody would have screamed thinking I was having one of those Chamber of Commerce heart attacks. Paper plates would be spilled. Somebody would try the Heimlich manoeuvre and only succeed in creasing my suit with their ‘office wanker’ arms.

Mate you don’t know what a disaster it actually was. You look at the Excel spreadsheet and some beard from your accounts department giving you these funky graphs about how much money you spent getting these pair of abject lollipops into the club. What do you know about pain?

How did it affect us? Morgan got a bit of lip off some lads at Preston where he was probably a bit confused after watching what football we were presented with. Us? Well we kind of huddled in the corner of the shower crying and wailing at first, then we got angry. It was all a load of shit, the complete reign of Morgan was a shit storm from start to finish but what did we expect? He’s a fellow that hasn’t got a creative bone in his body except to make himself cash. He depends on others to give him that particular drive and those people were the anonymous doughnuts that hold paper plates at these meetings nodding furiously at bullshit while they shovelled the food into their gobs. So you shouldn’t expect too much flair and brilliance from his team and didn’t we get that half hearted wank in spades.

I know Morgan should be held responsible and he was. He died by the zeitgeist. He was dead the minute he stormed into a dressing room to berate the players and the staff for another abject display. From then on he was struggling. Our local media haven’t got a voice to discuss the myriad of questions he should have been asked as the club went spiralling down the League system. Instead they were on the same side as him pretty much. Sucking the tit of Morgan for juicy bits to plonk out a 20 line boring load of bollocks about the academy or redevelopment. I’m still angry about it, and I’m angry to see him all over my social media again. He ‘made some mistakes’ he said. Mistakes? For one, if you’re the owner of a club that has the potential to smash the glass ceiling of the Championship with a devoted and dynamic fan base you can’t make mistakes. Decisions on investments have to be backed up with rigorous intuition and quantitative sureties, shit can’t be planned on the back of a fag packet like most of them seemed to be, they had to be planned and those plans should be five year plans stretching out to tentative ‘in position’ ten year plans. Compton is a lovely place to visit, at first glance any way, until you get a good look at the nuts and bolts of the place. It’s very cheap, it looks off the shelf when it should have been a grand location that attracts talent. It looks temporary like it could be knocked down in no time at all to slap up some of the houses he flogs. I was suspicious looking at it. I’m still suspicious.

But it’s all so negative too. It was negative when he was here and he’s still negative and that dark cloud follows him around like a bad fart. There’s something wrong with his presence in the town again and I’m getting itchy thinking what it is. I would have loved to have been at that funky meeting as I like little samosas and paper plates full of food, I bet they had wine too, I like wine if it’s free and you get people talking to you like you are some major important businessman because my name badge would have (cough) fallen off. My mate gave me a Ben Sherman suit that didn’t fit him any more and I look businesslike in it. I would have attracted a great many conversations as I shovelled samosas in my face and none of them would have known I haven’t got a single source of income or a job and I was in fact just a social media degenerate. It’s hilarious, I’ve been to these things before. Senior Leadership meetings where the food was good and the conversations dull and sad.

I think Morgan would have sauntered over spitting sausage roll crumbs in my face as he waxed mightily about his youth thing or whatever it’s called. I called little Callum from the Scotlands who I had to write a letter for to get him out of a custodial sentence after he was nicked at Molineux for being a fud. ‘Hey Callum tell me about when you went to ‘The Way’ (what 50k a year lollipop though that name up?) to get your CV in shape? Well he stood around for an hour waiting for somebody to speak to him then when he went to look where the staff had gone they were all updating their Facebook and drinking coffee. I did his CV in the end and thus he got a decent job lumping stuff around in a warehouse for seven quid an hour. It’s all a load of shit.

You see at the end of the day the club crapped Morgan out like a bad pint. There’s a Kwan that runs around Wolverhampton like a river and that Kwan is that we understand suits very well indeed thank you. We know bullshit when we see it most of the time. We are quite prepared to give an owner a long time to settle in and show some fortitude and some element of intent. But we didn’t see it with him or his appointees. The people that support Wolves are like Staffordshire Bull Terriers, we rarely start fights but we’ll always finish them. It was obvious he was not going to be the saviour the club needed, somebody with a vision and the intellectual global nous needed to get the club on some sort of solid ground. Somebody with half a clue at least. It’s a shame that he couldn’t get his arse in gear to have the vision to propel us into the footballing stratosphere and the reason he couldn’t is because he’s the same ilk as the typical wine gum that attends ‘business breakfasts/lunches/suppers’. He wanted a fight and he got one.

Morgan is now the fella who drunkenly reels back down the street with his shirt off and covered in blood and sliced lettuce  everywhere to carry on the three or four fights he had just lost outside Shariffs Kebab Emporium. Some would call it temerity and fortitude, I call it being a knobhead who should get in a taxi and go back home where he belongs. Now we have positivity and joy, an aura of the Kwan is flowing around the city. It’s Disney Princess time, pastel colours, dancing tea pots and singing cartoon animals, it’s finding something decent to watch on Netflix, it’s finding a pound coin down the settee amongst the old dog biscuits and fluff. So Morgan do us all a favour and fuck off yeah, don’t come back lathering your gloom from the past like an ex girlfriend on Facebook. Give us a break ahk.