The Holy Trinity


I’ve tried my best to explain yesterday in words, I don’t know whether I have done a good enough job. It kind of describes the game, it kind of nibbles around the edges of it but is it a real thing? I don’t know. I did me best.

How do you write about that? How do you sit down with a cup of tea and try to put this four dimensional football onto a two dimensional medium like a web page? Standing behind the Wheatsheaf pub after the game I was struggling to understand anything about it. I was standing up straighter I know that and we were all louder than normal. The sounds of our laughter bouncing off the walls around us. I had another sip of beer and actually felt like sobbing. Why? It was an emotional game. No ghosts, no departed souls in mind but the beauty of what I had just witnessed drove me to the edge. My normal miserable view of the world had been shattered by that football. Now the world had turned into a weird blend of 60 yard passes, of Neves, of Jota, of Cavaleiro, of Coady, Boly and Bennett. The whole drama was running like a film in my head now. It was cold and my fingers were numb. The night was dark but…I don’t know man.

But four dimensional? Sweet football. It transformed from the edgy sometimes clumsy ‘getting to know you’ vibe of some of the last few matches into a feast of effortless and transmutated football that inspired me and also left me speechless. All I could think about as we talked about what had happened was ‘what the fuck am I going to say about that?’. I’m fucked. It has destroyed me. Can one man be so filled with awe at what he just watched that all he can do is sit and stare at a screen and all he sees is that pass from Coady to Cavaleiro, the sublime manipulation of the ball to Neves and my heart stops, Neves looks up for a split second and then he puts the ball into the air. I see it floating and the time had stopped, relativity my friends. That ball took at least twenty seconds in my mind, until it hit the inside of the post and went in. I didn’t even shout as the Molineux exploded into a noise I had not heard for a long time. Was this the point in which our voices unleashed that anger and passion we had been holding back? I’m not sure. But I turned to Horace and we both just stared at each other in absolute magnificent respect for that absolute pearler of a goal. It transgressed the idea of ‘goal’, it twisted and turned the definition of the word and I can’t say ‘wonder goal’ because it wasn’t that either. Relativity I suppose. Some people saw an excellent goal, perhaps it was ‘fantastic’ maybe even ‘sublime’. I don’t know. But I have to be a good loser here and say in all honesty that I cannot truly find words to describe it. Lets just say it was 1-0 to us and Sheffield United were already fucked.

Deane and Agana eh? Those battles we used to have in the lower divisions when we were battling for top spot and promotion. They were always a noisy lot these Yorkshire bastards. But today. Nothing. Their ideas were unforged and lacklustre. They stunk. Lee Evans boots the ball into the family enclosure. The petulant little bastard. He’s put on weight, he looked slow, he was a pondering kind of player for us. He lacked quality here even under the tutelage of a decent Coach in Jackett. But now his career is sliding back into the abyss with his cohort Leon Clarke. We all knew that Leons time as a goal scorer of worth would end. We saw that yesterday evening as he threw himself at Coady and Boly time and time again with no result. His runs were short and aimless. There was nothing the United midfield could give him. At one point he held Jota by the throat and Jota just laughed at him. Don’t fuck with the Little Wolf Leon, he’ll bite your fucking hand off.

This Sheffield United thing. They too had lacked any real focus pinging balls at each other on the rare occasions they had possession. It seemed like nobody wanted the ball. Big Alf did. Rumbling across the pitch. If Jota is the Little Wolf then Alf is the Big Bad Wolf. Slathering passes, holding the ball, getting into that twenty yard space in their half and blowing the fucking door off the little piggies house and eating him in one bite. Beautiful. Coady again massive. I told you he would be England Captain one day and he will. Effortless defense, vision and thought. Here is the class that this lad shows, here on the pitch in front of us. The whole edifice of the Nunoist philosophy is built upon the foundation of the Boly and Coady nexus. Of that rock solid partnership. They understand each other because they have the intellectual nous to be a companion to their physicality. This is Nuno, this is what he has built here and again watching them I am fraught with fear. Am I a good enough fan and supporter to appreciate this? Am I able to understand it? Am I worthy of watching it? I’m not sure. I can’t look sometimes during the game and I shout abuse at the Sheffield fans instead for something to do. I can’t stand the utter beauty of it. I am ignorant and ugly, my language is course and gutter ridden, my boots are stained with mud, I have nicotine stained fingers and bad teeth, my hair looks shit. I am shit. I really am not worthy to watch this.

The Holy Trinity of Jota, Cavaleiro and Costa. Helder, I knew you would stop ‘believing’ and start ‘doing’. How happy I was to see the movements you presented to us. How many times was another Sheffield player left tackling empty space? Loads. Every time you did it I laughed. This wasn’t entertainment, this was art in it’s purest form. The play smashing the whole abstract ideas of football into a coherent and tangible beauty. You Helder, you little treasure. I told you it would come, he skips past two United defenders who might as well have just seen the Holy Ghost wafting between them It was like he wasn’t really there as his movements are ethereal and unreal. A dip of the shoulder and a twist of the hips, accelerate, move, pass, collect the ball back, twist and he’s gone again. I never stopped believing in you Costa.

Cavaleiro. What can I say about you? Again, words fail me. They aren’t sufficient a medium for you, there is a famine of superlatives for your play. I think a piece of music or maybe a big canvas would. Darting between players he swapped places again and again. Appearing here, then there, then again over there until it seemed as if there were two Cavaleiros playing. Sheffield United were dizzy now and their Kwan was non existent. Their fans were stunned into a silence that is typical of many opposition fans we have seen this season. They are quiet because they are sad. They will never have this. For as long as we watch this passion from this Holy Trinity we will see again and again the sad long faces of the sticky headed opposition fan bobbling in disbelief. Watching Lee Evans comedy football and then looking at Neves. Lee Evans is the Austin Allegro compared to the sleek Maserati of Neves. Even Evans haircut looked like it had been done by gerbils gnawing on his head, his whole countenance lacked anything of value. What a disgrace he is.

Their Goalkeeper tries to decapitate Jota. He is sent off. This is their reply to us. Violence and physical reaction to things they will never understand. Cavaleiro takes the freekick and a deflection, a bobble, their sub keeper disconsolately picks the ball out of the net. His first touch of that ball and the ball was probably still vibrating with excitement and intent. It was 2-0 now and I honestly thought the Referee might as well blow the whistle and save Sheffield United blushes. Things will go two ways with that Sheffield Team now. They will be sitting in their cars outside the training ground silent. Staring out of the window of their slick luxurious cars, just looking at the sky maybe. The radio is off. They grip the steering wheels tight as they replay what had just happened. Afobe comes on for Cavaleiro and the whole stadium erupts. Healing. We have ripped off the bandages and see pure flesh, unmarked and unsullied. The ghosts of Morgan and Moxey are silent in their tombs with just the gentle tinkle of a chain as the wind that Nuno has wrought blows the doors of their tombs. He came close too. He was a handful. We know that just being in this place will give Benik another half a yard of speed. Another phase to his game. Benik Afobes back home and it is actually magic, the whole crazy thing is esoteric and spiritual. This feeling that we are bound for glory is tangible and real now. Benik slaps the badge on his chest and my heart skips a beat or two and I fill up again. What is wrong with me?

This isn’t a match report. Jotas goal was beautifully taken. The whole aspect of the game for me was metaphysical. In the pub before the game I was with people I love, in the ground I love watching the team I love. What madness this whole season is. Nuno smiling on the touchline, Cavaleiro grinning, Coady slapping somebody on the head again. Beer thrown in the air, singing in the subway. Me searching out people like Stan who I have known for years, asking him…’What are we watching Stan?’ and him replying ‘I don’t know’. I don’t think we will come to terms with this season until we are sitting in the garden one day in the summer, watching the Bees fly around the plants. We will be wondering whether to have a can of beer maybe then it will hit us like a delayed reaction and we will fall face first onto the lawn in shock. A mouthful of grass as we suddenly understand it all. And this is just the start of the whole fucking show. This is just the beginning my friends. And if this is the beginning what will the end look like?

Where ya bin Benik?


Well it happened. Not Benik Afobe grinning on his signing video. not us feeling the love ‘again’. We loved Benik any way. He’s just been on holiday to Bournemouth as far as I’m concerned. Not the excitement of seeing him playing the Athenian Harp in the Emerald club either. What’s happened? Healing. The wounds have been covered up by the wonders of Chinese medicine. The last infection of the Scouse Virus has been given a killer dose of Antibiotics.

Benik? Horace has been round. He was having dinner with me and bought some French Fancies and some sexy Baguettes while we waxed some bars down about you. While I made the tea we talked about you, Dan O’Hagan and some other doughnuts. We had to get you straight in our minds, we had to talk about it because we are happy you are back. We both loved you man. Now everything is good and positive again… what the hell you are going to think of the passes you are going to get is anybodies business. Dude these balls are going to fall at your feet, we have magicians not footballers. We have a Coach that is metaphysical as well as physical. You are going to love this stuff.

Those wounds that Moxey and Morgan opened up when Benik waved goodbye have been open and festering for me at least. They stunk the whole place up. I couldn’t talk about it to anybody. Even when I started this blog the whole Afobe thing was one I couldn’t touch. What was the crux of the whole matter? Benik didn’t want to play for us they said. Thelwell in particular, probably instigated by Moxey. But these political machinations are far above my head but I took those words to bed with me while they festered and wormed their way into games I watched and conversations in the pub too. I was lost. Who wouldn’t want to play for us? Who would want to go to fucking Bournemouth of all places? That’s where people go to die. Thelwell will be big enough to go up to Benik and shake his hand and welcome him back but I bet the first goal Benik scores for us he will point up to the Billy Quiet and point right at Thelwell and wink. Gun fingaz. Boom. Have that. Bludclaat.

Healing. Jeff has bandaged my angst up. He has metaphysically demolished probably the last damaging thing Morgan and Moxey did to this club. Broke up the old school Holy Trinity we had. Sako/Dicko/Afobe smashed against the rocks and thrown to the lions. And yet we were so close with them. They had a telepathy that was spooky almost. Every cross and every pass falling onto the feet of their mate. We know how that goes though don’t we? We know the people closest to us, have some kind of telepathy and that feeling is golden and new. Until it was disrupted by hearsay and destruction.

I was angry when Benik went of course. All the missives coming out of Castle Molineux were dismissive of Benik. I know that’s the propaganda via the fog of footballing wars. But I’m one of those truthful, honest fellas. I took the rumours coming out of Molineux under the tutelage of Moxey with a fair and open heart. I actually believed it. You see, even at that point I still believed that Morgan and Moxey would be working for the benefit of the club and the City (in the wider scheme of things). Maybe at points they were doing some good. But that 5,000,000 in the Molineux coffers after Benik got sold certainly went some way in making the transition to Fosun a lot more attractive for certain. So it’s swings and roundabouts I suppose. I’m just a dull and simple lad who can’t figure out how these things work and to be honest I don’t want my Kwan contaminated with that stuff. I see it as it is and that’s it. Morgan and Moxey. They cost us a year those motherfuckers did. They condemned us to another Championship season. This was their legacy and it stinks.

In other news I see that the rats are chewing away at our ideas again. Mr Dan O’Hagan has suffered some pelters lately. I do actually feel sorry for him for even this humble scribe has suffered a few digs on Social media after having a go at Barnsley or Swansea. Thing is, the difference between me and him in one respect is that I got a ban, a hack and threw a few threats around too. He can’t do that. But then again it’s obvious that us ‘fans’ are a bloody vehement lot. Other clubs can crow and get high and mighty about their successes but are we not allowed? Do we have to shut up and buy our clappers, foam hands and just gobble up the bullshit the media ladles out? They can go and bollocks. You see if I was in a Pub and Dan started having a go at our owners and management etc. He would get pulled away to one side and told to shut the fuck up. You can do that in wine bars and trendy gastro pubs. Don’t do it in a shithole pub next to the ground full of angry tired excited Wolves fans who have just done a Saturday morning. Because that is basically what Social Media is. A shit pub full of lunatics.

Yes, it is strange that we can crow about the success we are having but fucking hell, we deserve to be able to. These Journalists have that passive aggressive banter, office wanker level stuff. Where they bet each other over some result and the loser has to wear their rivals shirt. It’s geek bollocks. I could never even touch an Albion shirt yet alone put one on. Banter to us leads to swapping blows on the factory car park behind the containers so the cameras don’t see you. It leads to splits in families and friendships. I know it’s daft and I know it’s stupid but thats simply the way it is. These pundits concerns in life are their mortgage, their exposure and their careers. We don’t have careers, or mortgages half the time so our football club takes up a lot more love than we can handle.┬áThat’s why you get the piss ripped out of you and this battleground is full of half insane people who love their club a little more than is good for them.

That’s why these doughnuts are a bit shocked that the reaction to their pissant depressing posts about Wolves are being met with such disdain. They operate within a sterile passionless environment where soundbites and not succinct analysis are the cloth from which their careers are cut. But because their missives are short and defunct most of the time so is their emotive styles that they cast on Social Media. To them it’s a passive aggressive soundbite. To us it’s a fucking declaration of war. How fucking dare they.

This is why those emotions lack context and background information. It just sounds like babbies throwing their dummies out of the pram. And I know why that is. Nobody fucking talks to them any more. The broadcast and print media are seeing the powers they once had fritter away like their hair. They are pissed off. Now they have to utilise Social Media like never before and they don’t fucking like it. They don’t like being pulled up about some ‘fact’ by Reg Bollockrash from Gornal about the intricacies of the transfer market or over past tweets. Social Media has made ‘them’ have to interact with ‘us’. They don’t like it. No more Press buffet warmness, no more back slaps off Managers, no more quaffing a clubs wine with the rest of the Lizards, no more first name terms with star players. They, like us, are just passers-by now.

So take any news off these pundits and Social Media lizards with a pinch of salt. Don’t get too annoyed by the depressing comments and the snidey bollocks they tweet. They aren’t important any more. The club has never been important to them either. They always bow to their job and career before the Club and that’s the way they will always be. Them chatting up the sexy lady friends in their plush office and us fighting two Albion fans behind the containers…remember it’s always their right to pull you up over insults forgetting they started it in the first place. By all means define your arguments empirically and quantitatively but when the information you are getting is half researched ‘points of view’ quality shit then it’s time to steam in fists flailing. It’s opening these presents your rich Uncle has brought from Europe and moaning because your presents are better than everybody elses. It doesn’t make sense and neither do their trims.

Benik man. I always loved you even when the propaganda machine went into overdrive. I loved you even more when somebody told me what your Dad said the day before you went to Bournemouth. The real story. Out of respect for the person that told me I’m not going to repeat it. I suppose we needed the black ink in the books to get us sold and out of the hands of the ‘Double M’ mafia. I suppose in a way we just ‘pawned’ you for a while. Somewhere nice too, the seaside, playing for a team that had all the attraction of a dusty Pawn Shop window too. Now we have the ready cash we can buy you back and put you back in the team again. So the whole sorry saga can be put to bed and we don’t have to talk about it any more just ‘Yo Benik, what ya sayin?’ when we see you. Nuno is here now, and you can talk to him about your ideas safe in the knowledge that we have an intellectual in charge of footballing matters. Listen to him and learn Benik. Listen to him and learn to love him like we do. When you score you can run up to us in the Southbank and remember us. You’re home now mate, everything is good again.