I don’t even want to write that fucker Atwells name. He disgusts me. What an inept show, what a total disregard for the rules and regulations. He looks like he owns one of those off road Landrovers. He fucks off to Wales with his mates to rollock around country tracks scaring the wildlife. She unbuttons her shirt when she goes to the car wash because she loves the Kurdish lads…is that enough? I think so. Fuck you Atwell you bubble. Why do we always get these doughnuts? I mean I love conspiracy theories but fucking hell I wonder sometimes. That tackle on Cavaleiro was assault. Same old same old. We have to get out of this place. This isn’t our home, up there is, the dizzy premiership, that mad as fuck place.
We haven’t won at Boro for ten thousand years. The last time we won there we were probably still inventing agriculture. What is a Middlesbrough? Chemical warfare that’s what. Pulis with his shitty baseball cap looking like one of those burglars trying to jemmy open your patio doors while you watch him through your night vision CCTV camera. He always has trouble. What are you Pulis? Why did you tell your players to kick the shit out of my team? You must have done that. You knew the Referee was weak and had a penchant for your team. You knew the lack of your idea would be overlooked and ignored. You knew the play could be ugly and Atwell wouldn’t care. Your team have no honour. There are a few in it that would be wise to avoid this town in the future. But I think we knew what would happen. Deep down, us who have seen Pulisball and the emptiness of their hearts. What a decrepit system he plays, what sadness, what shamefulness.
We react of course. Have we not suffered enough? How often can you turn the other cheek. I suspect that Nuno in all his Holiness has as well a dark side and a shadow Nuno. Here is untapped potential and gone are the ideas of gallantry and divine philosophies, instead he is redolent and powerful. He instigated this defence and this resoluteness not through respect only but fear. Did you see him at the end of the match? Warrior stock, animalistic, rage, and victory. This came out of him from the touchline and started as Cavaleiro gets hacked in half. It must be a sending off? No? What? But Nuno. He boiled and plotted, he himself knew that what was to happen. The whole play had been written in those first ten minutes as Wolves player after Wolves player crumpled under the woeful Pulis commanded boot of Boro. But Nuno knew. I guess he would have taken both our goals happily because he knew that now Boros time was short. He had Mr Boly. What a magnificent display from this Prince among men. He bought a matt black Roller. The car would have gone ‘oooh’ when he saw Mr Boly. The Great Wall Of Boly’.
I’m sick by now. I’m still trying to work out where Neves is. I can’t listen to Don Goodman, he’s a lunatic. I’ve turned the volume down. Costa goes down again. Shit did I actually see him get tripped? Replay. Boro player obviously treads on him. Atwell. I find myself watching him and not the match. I’m being malevolent and giving him bad vibes through the lap top. Wanker. Are we in the second half. I went for a piss which takes ten minutes and Doherty has gone. What’s going on. Now I’m confused and I’m looking to see who we’ve got fucking left. Jesus Christ. I still don’t know where Neves has gone. I see our flag and I start laughing but cut to Nuno and he’s got his arms crossed and he looks angry as fuck. Malevolence. But now our shape is compact and formidable and nobody is shirking a tackle any more. This is pure English Championship football. The crucible where these Portuguese players can gather their children around them in years to come and explain the horrors of it to them. And those children will look upon Grandpa Cavaleiro/Jota/Costa/Neves with eyes that are full of love for the bravery of their beloved Grandfather. Jesus Christ we dug in. Costa smashes into this big Boro lunk who’s got his head down and just charges with the ball. No pass for him. Things are hard as fuck in there. It’s a mosh pit. Boro pressing. Last ten minutes but I remember little of the match at all. It’s been that crazy. What the fuck? Shot of Atwell being a prick again. Fuck off.
But something else is at work here too. The Kwan, I talked about it in my first post on this blog. Kwan is the power at work here. Nine men. Nine fucking men against eleven Boro Heretics and one Referee. But Kwan. It knits and flows through this team. Their playmaker gets sent off. No heads dip but new shapes are formed on the pitch and everybody knew what to do? They knew everything Pulis presented to them. Every shoddy biro and a fag packet tactic Pulis put forward Nuno and his team reciprocated with a better, newer more ductile shape. Attacks were being sniffed out before Boro players had formulated them. There were moments of course. The Coady clearance. The bravery and brilliance of Coady. Smashing into each other. Fuck it was like a Wolves Fancast wrestling podcast not a football match. But the Kwan.
You see the Kwan on Coadys face when we score or when we win, we score, You see it in Wily Boly walking cool as fuck barely displaying emotion but you know he has it coiled within him, but he can’t let it out not yet. You see it in little Helders smile, Douglas furrowing his eyebrows, Ruddy concentrating hard, Saiss shuriken sharp. That crazy Kwan took Nuno onto the pitch at the end and show us what he is made from and what he feels. Those ten seconds tell us more than any interview will ever do. Nunos thoughts and hopes as well as his dreams are all there on the pitch and wear the colours of Wolverhampton Wanderers. His past is probably there too, entwined in every pass and movement. Maybe it is like that, beyond words and everything is winning but winning beautifully. Maybe that stoic defending we did looked ugly and crazy at times. But I think this was what was needed. This was a statement match. This is the match that other teams fans would watch and hope that in the face of such ignorance we would crumble. Then Warnock, Holloway and Bruce would sit and watch too and their dried desiccated hearts would shiver as the time ticked on and we stood and faced the barrage of idiocy and stinging attacks.
Statement match this was. Now the rest of the Championship can fuck off. You have thrown everything at us this season. Shitty referees. You let our players get assaulted, you cast lies and accusations, you belittled yourselves in the information wars. Your propaganda has failed. Your soul sucking grounds have failed. Your fat media friends have failed. Man you are going to shit your pants at our successes in the future. You will have to say ‘Wolverhampton’ a fucking lot. It’s going to choke you and every time you say it you will look like you trod in shit and I will laugh loud at your discomfort. Nine fucking men you made us play with. Nine fucking men. Yet they still held the line and stood in front of your attacks. Man what can I say. We’ve done it haven’t we? It’s basically happened. I can’t see any other outcome. I’m not looking at points and games but I’m looking at the team and the passion of them. This shit you can’t buy. If you could then fifty million quid could buy you a lot of passion. But it doesn’t. Boro are an expensive crew. They spent. But within them with their boot on the Wolfs throat they paused for a second. Unsure, wondering. And the Wolf quickly flipped it’s head and chewed the fuckers foot off. This doesn’t happen to us. There’s another reason and the Gods do finally love us and have smiled down on our town. And there’s nothing all the fucking Warnocks and Bruces in the world can do about it. You had nothing at all either of you except bile and untruths. You have been found out. The good guys always win in the end lads.
The nutters I watch games with, get drunk with, and people I never met got together after they heard about my injury. They clubbed together and bought a big fuck off Southbank Resistance flag. It’s massive. I saw it on the telly today and nearly cried. It was massive. I hope in some way that the love I felt for them at that time was a big thing for me. It took me over a little. I wondered whether any of the players looked over at it and saw the word resistance? Perhaps a couple of them did. Perhaps the word ideas and resistance could have been a subliminal memetic command in some way. Maybe it rolled around their brains as they played. Maybe, who knows? I like to think so. I predicted a 1-2 win for us. They couldn’t take our flag to it’s first game and we don’t win. That’s not how it works. Now that cloth has lost it’s virginity and has taken on a distinctly holy groove. It’s first game was a battle and a victory for good against evil. What emotions soaked into that cloth once lifeless but now holding the emotions of two thousand Wolves fans on the edge of hysteria. Now we can take that flag into Europe and hang it up in some German bar while we wax lyrical about matches like these. Drink that strong beer and get giggly. Try to explain to some German football fan where Middlesbrough is and give them a warning never to visit there. I hope they fluff the playoffs.
Our flag is beautiful and I thank every one who donated to it. It’s our flag, you know that. Now it’s a fucking Holy relic living through this game. I thank you all, come and dance with me when we are in Europe.