So what’s the conspiracy here? The ‘establishment’ want to know where the cash is going and why it isn’t going in their pockets. The English FA and the Press have a great relationship, the English Press and shadowy business interests have an even greater one. It used to be forged with secret handshakes in Masonic lodges and in the corridors of power in Westminster but as you know Jeff the world has changed.
Southbank Resistance August 27th 2017
Benik scores. I’m beside myself, I’ve never wanted anything so much as this beautiful touch from my Prince. That strength, every sinew of his body twisted and resolute as he fought off the ministrations of a Leeds defender. The onrushing goalkeeper. The gap narrowed as they closed in on him and he saw the abyss of the goal narrow as the geometry closed in, became acute, the Wolves fans around me drew in breath. We never wanted as much as this. Air filled our lungs and were held inside, the rush of blood now drowning out the noise and the cacophony on Elland Road. The twirling of Leeds scarves stopped as if a new wind had taken the air from them too. Right leg extended. The simplest of touches and it seemed the boot of Benik hardly touched the ball. It was a lovers touch, the simple subtle touch versus physicality and there were now only three players on that pitch as the Goalkeeper flapped his arms in the face of this intent, of this assured moment. It was your time Benik, and your boot did indeed touch lovingly that ball and it arced into the air. Time had stopped but flowed nonetheless. Geometry and art as it flew into the air. Desolate, the Leeds defender had a look of anguish on his face, the goalie vibrated with a loss, a disaster for him, twenty five yards out from his line. They knew where that ball was to settle and so did Benik. The ball hadn’t even crossed the line and the tableau of these three men was frozen like a Renaissance masterpiece. The Salvation of Benik by Michaelangelo. In primitive oils it could have graced the stucco plaster of some dimly lit altar in a small church in Rome. The ball crossed the line and the lungs of us, these acolytes of this belief, these disciples of Nuno erupted. 3 fucking 0. Have that Leeds. My knees hit the seat in front. I fell forwards. My glasses half came off, I couldn’t see. I fell back. Somebody was hugging me. I held my gaze on the top of the stand roof as if calling out to God himself as I have done so many times over the past season. I looked for Horace and his face was a delight. I fought past bodies to reach him and celebrate. Fucking hell, what a team…and then a little tear came out of my eye. A relief, a victory. After these past weeks of Fulham and other senseless matches, this. We always believed and we were always resolute and our courage was rewarded, our belief and knowledge scoured the furrows of these barren Championship fields and we were harvesting. Emotional Benik.
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.
Southbank Resistance February 1st 2018
They hate us. They always have. Now the angst mafia are in overdrive. Steve Bruce can’t keep his fat head shut. Now his superiors are joining in with the peasants as they storm the gates of Molineux with their flaming torches of hate and murmurs about Mendes, of Financial Fair Play that they don’t have the fucking wit or intelligence to understand, of Gefistute or whatever it is, of Nuno our Saviour, our Moses and our Prophet. Broadcast media bite their knuckles in anger and they pontificate and promote their false heresies and their bile right now in ever increasing amounts. This gives me belief, this gives me courage. Because when the most dynamic and creative business ideas encroach upon the sordid desolate landscape of English Championship football and suffers the ignominy of half researched facts and ball punching articles then we have won. We have won the battle of ideas. We have emerged from the doldrums of the past with new ideas and have grasped them with both hands. Us the fans have always believed. We only wanted belief. We only wanted somebody with a set of ideas that weren’t borne on the backs of a cigarette packet in shitty biro.
Boly scores from a Douglas corner. Saiss scores, again from a Douglas corner. What misfits these players were. Left out in the deserts of their former clubs intent. Outcasts. Not wanted, not needed. They could have gone anywhere these players. They probably would have had good careers somewhere else, maybe they would have faded and gone somewhere else but…
Nuno. Our players have cost some cash ably provided by our owners who have had a vision much lacking in previous regimes. A global vision of movements of talent, where the football landscape is one not of passion and love but of hard hearted decision making, investments and return. They look to the fertile football grounds of Europe and possibly beyond to glean prospects and the disenchanted. The possibility of making money. But if this is the hard battleground of money then they had to offer a balance. A philosophy also in order to attract these disenchanted warriors kicking their heels at other clubs training grounds. These men needed a pure and non dogmatic theory of football ably provided by Nuno himself. We have bought talent in? Yes. But the most important signing was Nuno himself. Only here could we expect that the previous games would be annihilated by this purest form of football led by a man who will be the greatest football Manager the world has ever seen.
The beasts are charging us down and we twist and turn through the landscape of points and goals, of winning matches, of losing them, of weather and rumour. Of the EFL ‘investigating’ our relationships and our investments. These men reflect everything evil and sad about football. They lack vision and they lack moral fibre, they are the whisperers and use the media platforms they have ensconsed themselves within to forge attacks on our pack. Chairmen, Chief executives, pundits, popular social media accounts slather and snarl at us. They are dogs and we are Wolves. Lies and untruths are reported as rote. These disgusting creatures twist and turn on the bloodstained stakes of their own lies. Their untruths are the groans of pain as they see us transform in front of their eyes and they die every time we forge our Nunos philosophies on these godforsaken away grounds on cold nights and colder days.
We played without fault. The pack under attack is a fearsome thing isn’t it? Boly and Batth operate with precision and intent. Hunting down any attacks on our half like missiles. Boom. Neutralise this threat and decimate an attack here. Leeds players wander the pitch in confusion. Their ideas gone in the swirling winds that Jota and Cavaleiro leave behind in their wake. Ideas, new tactics that almost come weekly, every match something different forged on the training grounds of Compton and then forged on these games. New things, new ways. Constant improvement and more importantly the demands from Nuno that they must improve, must work harder and harder. To present what beauty Nuno has in mind to face down the ugliness of other teams. To improve constantly is the liturgy of this new philosophy. To work harder and harder until they have performed as they should, as he expects and as he demands. Bonatini holds the ball and waits for the Gold and Black attack as waves of Wolves players swarm forward to attack. With speed and with absolute concentration. The attack thwarted for a second Cavaleiro rebounds from attacker to enforcer. He slides and plucks the ball from the feet of a Leeds midfilder who spendsa fraction of a second too long in trying to see an opening. This is the difference between these two sides. This fraction exposed and Cavaleiro plunges in a knife attack of such forensic precision I gasp and am lost in it for a minute. Ball to Bonatini and the swarm attacks again, Jota now the little Wolf ghosts around the center circle like a wind. He collects. Cavaleiro collects, boom the passing has it’s own rhythm and the importance of the collection of the ball is between the spaces and the movements. Attack, defend, this route and that route. Changing from one position to another this team has been drilled like an army of assassins.
Danny Batth, his courage is beautiful, his capacity to grow and develop still amazes me. Coady never put a foot wrong for me and I whispered months ago he would be an England Captain one day as every game he commands more and more respect from me and I delight in him, and in him the threads of Nunos philosophies entwine with his own ideas and he is a giant for me. An instigator and a leader and how England lack a man such as him, how it cries out for him..and I will be honest and say this, there will be a time when we will say that we saw him play, and we saw him grow and we will wax lyrical to people who will never understand really, what he means to us and what he has done.
You see, when the ‘established’ English football mafia see the work that Fosun are doing in our City they don’t like it. They never liked Wolverhampton any way. We are too ‘lumpen’ for them. We don’t have the attraction of bigger more glamorous clubs, we talk funny and we are funny too.
Southbank Resistance August 27th 2017
I love everything about walking out of this ground in Leeds. I hardly remember walking back. Young Kate had hurt her knee celebrating and I linked arms with her on the long walk back to the car. Limbs. Scars of our joy I suppose, and there were some songs sung for sure, some shouts of joy outside as various groups of Leeds fans watched us move through those dark tunnels and desolate streets. But we could not be touched. They knew in their hearts they had witnessed a spectacle of beauty they themselves did not possess today. But they knew that feeling. They still remembered their glory days and it was this memory I think that stopped their own anger solid in their throats. We talked and we laughed and we were resolute again. Our systems were alive, our throats sore, our knees and shins were bruised, we had a long journey back but that journey like our teams would be aloft and airy and that hollow feeling within our bellies after Fulham and Norwich was gone into the shadows around that ground. I gave a homeless dude my last £1.50 and rubbed his matted hair on his head because we too were lost like him once, but now we are found again.
Villa Saturday. We will have our Revenge for your untruths.