I don’t know what to write about the match. I have stories and angles but none of them fit what I witnessed. I haven’t a clue. I’ve never watched a more complete game of football than that. I can’t cuss Brentford, whoever they are. Played well. We did esoteric things. Otherworldy. If a UFO would have landed in the fucking center circle and Elvis strolled out I wouldn’t have been more gobsmacked. Jess Christ. I don’t watch other teams. I don’t watch them because I dont have any affinity to the end result of their matches. I don’t care. Elvis in his Vegas suit stepping out of a Flying Saucer. Fangyooverymurch Wolves. Amazed. Then the day after…

I do know the inverterbrates at the FA have decided to throw their fat arses around in regard to charging Nuno over the Bristol shoe shuffling out the technical area. You bastards, how dare you…I’m reminded of Bill Hicks

“Shut him up! I’ve got a lot invested in this ride, shut him up! Look at my furrows of worry, look at my big bank account, and my family. This has to be real.” It’s just a ride. But we always kill the good guys who try and tell us that, you ever notice that? And let the demons run amok …

Well the War pigs and the demons are running amok. The demons at the FA the psychic vampires of  joy, a scourge and uncreative listless policy circle jerk. They disgust me…I know Nuno will get a fine and a slap on the wrist. He should tell them to piss off or pay the fine in ten pence pieces. Cheeky bastards. What it is of course is a similar thing to a load of gangland beef. Nuno is the new face who’s making a name for himself but he doesn’t care much for the fat men sitting in their expensive shirts driving big shit cars. He couldn’t give a shit.

Where Nuno comes from is a fucking harsh place to grow up. You see it in Nunos face. It’s years of thinking fast on the edge of shit, kerbside lunacy with the traffic. He’s edgy Nuno is because he’s driven and intent. But he knows that shit could come to an end at anytime he takes his eye off the road. He’s seen it so many times before. His passion and his absolute dedication to his art borders on the metaphysical and the realms of the eternal fight against the light and the dark. That’s probably why this whole Wolverhampton thing attracted him. He knew it was the right thing. Deep down he knew it. On the western side of his island I bet he would have spent a lot of time looking at those Atlantic storms smashing onto those rocks and feeling that awful power through the rocks under his feet. Yes, he has passion and knowledge. They are afraid of him. He scares them. They are knocking his door. Fucking around with his car. The FA are the person on the other end of the telephone at 3am and they aren’t saying anything just breathing heavily. So he gets the fucking message.

Helder my little pudding. It’s one of those times isn’t it? Everything seems to be going to shit. Every ball that comes to you has the wrong spin or is just off center for you to collect. You run, you dink past a player and he gets the merest of toes on it, a taste that’s all and its lost. Maybe you feel the ankle tweak a little, maybe some other turn of the great wheel of the universe bobbles over a metaphysical pothole. A lost pre-season, maybe Lambert playing you through an injury. Who knows?

I do know what it’s like to try and regain some kind of movement after injury and I know it’s tough and I was nowhere near the athlete you are. But I know it was a bloody grind trying to do the same things I did pre injury. I know it’s shit looking at all these fresh faced new recruits who seem to be able to twist and confuse the opposition as you do. Watching them receive the love. I love you Helder and I’m thinking about you every match, I look for your name on the team sheet, I sing your name loud and proud, you…Helder are ‘my’ Helder Costa.

I know it can cause a bit of depression and a feeling of isolation maybe too. We used to call it ‘The Clutch’ in skateboarding. You see we would often have almighty fractures and concussions that took months and in some cases years of rehabilitation to get somewhere near full flexibility but then the Clutch gets ya. What is the Clutch? It’s the fear Helda and the pressure. The injury is done and dusted but the fear is still there. In your case it’s maybe the fear of getting a further injury, a long lay off, it could be the fear of not being able to do what you did before the injury.

Last night when you were subbed in the Brentford game my heart dropped because I knew the Clutch had you. You were upset about being subbed as all good pros will be but you came off after doing a sterling job. You decimated Brentfords left back. He was fucked. You ran him all over the place. Your movement off the ball was sublime. I know we were getting our Jota and Neves love bone going. I know most people were watching them, but I was watching you Helder. I was watching you because I understand what you were doing and what the whole game play was. Now I could wax about how great it was to watch the game last night. It was brilliant and it was entertaining and to be honest it was that beautiful I sat with my keyboard on my lap ready to write the ‘ab’normal match report I do every game and all I could think about was you walking off the pitch.

I don’t think you have found your ‘place’ or know how valuable you are within the team, I don’t think your Kwan is flowing brother. There’s a blockage there that makes those potholes appear all over the pitch. Get that Kwan back Helder, have some time to get your head straight as you above all people in that team deserve to walk onto the pitch with your head held high. Remember last season? Remember how you settled into your rhythm? Remember how you ripped apart defenses with your runs. You alone fought through the bullshit Lambert months while others sat and fiddled. You alone stood up and puffed out your chest and ran those channels with aplomb. You Helder, little Helder had the whole world of Wolves on your shoulders and you did fucking brilliant. Now is the time little brother, to castigate the naysayers, to throw caution to the wind and let your footballing soul burst through these dark clouds we have had in the skies above and state your claim again. Get that Kwan back, listen to Nuno, listen to us. Believe in yourself little brother, believe in yourself like we believe in you.