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Throughout this blog I’ve talked about an energy that seemed apparent around Molineux and that the energy seemed like it was causing some kind of sea change in the zeitgeist of the place. Promotion. It happened in some shit hole London ground hundreds of miles away from us. It happened on Twitter for me, you see I was checking scores and throwing HobNobs down my neck as fast as I could. It’s the way I roll man. Then, a last minute header and it was done and dusted. I would love to say I jumped up and face planted the rug again, but I didn’t. I sat there and nodded slowly to myself that it was done. It was Karma for sure. Karma for the shit we have had to deal with this season in terms of referees and clod hopping world war one football espoused by the likes of all the usual suspects. We know who they are. I don’t want to talk about them any more. I would like to cleanse my mind of their football if I can. Kind of gather a new blank slate kind of mindset for the season to come.

Birmingham City was a reminder of the season. It was like a highlights reel of what has gone on for months. You can see why we had to get out of here, why we had to move ourselves along. I’ll be honest with you, I don’t think I could have hacked another season of watching teams like City, Cardiff, QPR et al. My mind was nearly broken by it. Jota rolling around after getting his ankle nearly snapped again did it for me. I was up out of the wheelchair waxing insults from the bottom of the Northbank again.

They sang though, these Northbankers. They had a right shout at times, but it’s always too late of course. Now you sing. Blah. I want to get back in the Southbank thanks. Among my people. But it was a great place to watch Matt Doherty racing down the touchline. He is very physical this lad. I was close you see. Close enough for Dohertys sweat to sparkle as it flew through the air and he out muscled some Brummie doughnut to get a foot on the ball and a beautiful cross. Did Saiss bunk him the ball? I’m not sure but it was forensic for sure. Bonk, right on him. Jota points to the sky. I wave at him like a dickhead. Laughing.

Close up as I was, you get to see the subtle and the sublime movements of a player. He was five yards away maybe? He had that stare going on and he only looked up for the merest second before sliding that ball over to Jota. Of course Jota didn’t fuck about with it. Straight in thanks. Jota didn’t even look hassled by the effort. It’s second nature to him now. These movements are refined and magnificent. His movement is classical, like a ballet dancer. His shots like a bear hug off a brickie. One nil and the script is there for everybody to see. Elbows fly in from Birmingham city players. The beards and the shit trims eh? Only the strip changes, never the lack of idea. They are fighting for their lives. I’ve seen tougher battles getting your hand stuck in a Pringles tube. Jesus Christ. Why did they bother? Who pissed on their parsnips? I don’t care it’s funny.

Twenty minutes in and Digga Davis is huffing and puffing. Looking like you just found him in your shed carrying your hover mower in one hand and your strimmer in the other. You can have the strimmer Dave, it’s shit. They always are, just like you really. Your footballing ability is the same as the strimmer string. Liable to snap and get tangled every few seconds. Oh Digga you poor sod. Of course the ‘dingleboys’ insult was going to come and bite you on the arse. It had to. Your shit tattoos. Your wide eyed realisation that this whole footballing carousel you have been looning around on for the past few years is about to stop. It was slowing down during this match. Soon he will be climbing down from those gay painted steps, the horses wide eyed and mouths open, the cacophony of the jingly music. He will step into the faceless crowd and be gone. Just another doughnut. He will attend a few supporter get togethers with the rest of the Lulus at some shit social club in Northfield. Good bye Digga. Watch what yam doin’.

The City fans were only a few yards from me. Ordinarily I would have been throwing some shapes at them. Having a few insulting waxes thrown back. All these Brummies looked the same. Bowl haircuts, black puffa jackets, tight black jeans, Nikes. Madness. Like angry clones. One of them made a cut throat gesture at me and I laughed. It would have been funny outside, me being chased in my wheelchair by Brummie bowlheads. It would have made a funny headline.

Aside from this Costa was making me laugh too. Man that dude jinks and turns lovely. He was knotting the Bluenoses up for fun. They didn’t have a clue did they? The ambience was good and wholesome for him. He was revelling in it. I think our Helda could play through the Summer and not get pissed off. It was lovely to see. Especially after his trials and tribulation coming back from injury when everybody slagged him off. He turns again and a Bluenose tumbles to the ground twisted up. He puts his head on the grass and just crouches there for a few seconds. You’ve been fucking Helder’ed mate. There isn’t any cure for it. To nobble him like you want to you have to catch him. And we call him little Helder…pffft. Massive player.

Big Alf who came on for Jota. Yes, I love big Alf. He’s a treasure. So physical yet so refined. He dinks a ball through to Benik in the second half and my black Prince chips the goalie and it’s all done and dusted really. Will we keep Benik? I hope so. He’s learning strange Nuno things, wizardry I suspect. Benik is praying at the feet of Nunoism but it’s early of course. What else will he learn over the summer? What freedom will he find in the Premiership? Much I think. Buy him yes. I would.

I think City didn’t even know what was happening to them. The match took on the aspects of an exhibition match. A display of total football. I don’t think we broke shape once. Nuno kept everything on the down low. No madness, just pure unadulterated love ball. Sliding balls through their midfield with aplomb. Even the Blue Jota looked impressed, though he must have wondered what the fuck he was doing in this side. But how much did their Jota cost? Millions I bet. Poor sod. Sitting in his hotel room, the beaches and beauty of his ends reflected back at him as he looks through the window at the dystopia of Birmingham below him. He flicks on the TV. It is a sad existence. You could tell in his face, he looked resigned. He will be phoning his agent after this game. Talking tactics and escape plans. I wonder if he’s building a glider on the roof like Colditz. Plotting airborne escape. There is no escape from Luluism young man. Ya fucked. Look at Digga, look into his eyes. Deep. You’re fucked son.

At the final whistle there was cacophony, there was madness. Three dudes got on the pitch and we had a bit of kiss chase with the stewards. Fair play to them I suppose. The madness of youth. They probably wont be watching Wolves for a few years and those few seconds on flicking the V’s at the miserable Lulus will seem a long forgotten memory I suppose. I cheered. Clapped a lot. The delight of getting promotion would have been nice with a win right there in the ground. You can’t have your cake and eat it I suppose. I knew we were going to be promoted all season, I’m not joking. You can read the past posts on here to see it between the lines. I celebrated when the team were playing in Austria, watching it on the web stream. Watching these young men go through their paces. I was happy to sit back in my wheelchair and just groove to other people enjoying themselves. Especially the kids. Now they can wear their Wolves shirts proudly and people will know what team they support. People will now know us.

Me? Well I’ve been here before. The joy is tempered by experience of course. I’ve already seen the likes of Manchester United and Liverpool getting dicked at Molineux. Tottenham, Everton, all of them. My emotions have run riot all season. Tears have been shed, pain has been felt. I’ve met beautiful people. forged friendships that will last forever. Talked about the football, loved the football. Taken away memories of goals that will stay in my mind forever. Bennet, Bristol City. This is what I will celebrate, this is what I will remember. Seeing our South Bank Resistance flag on the stand I love made me weep. There can be nothing bigger than this for me….apart from that Neves screamer, you know the one….maybe watching Benik score.

You see, the club will progress and will grow. The times we have had this season will be the most important of things and I sat there, in the chair with a few sad thoughts really. The whole zeitgeist will change now. The whole club will be changing and creating new paradigms for us to try and get our heads around. Premiership football for Gods sake. I can’t quite get my head around it of course, can’t quite understand it. I know the season tickets wills rise in price. How will we deal with that? Fuck knows. But we always do. Maybe it will be by pre drinking maybe, have one beer in the pub. Maybe get rid of Sky Sports, keep the car for another year, do some overtime, be a bit scruffier this year, tell the kids that Weston-Super-Mare is a great place to go on holiday as you clip out and save the Sun holiday vouchers…fuck knows. We will be there of course in August. Still singing and shouting, watching all the new sexy players Nuno will bring in. Keeping the belief strong and the passion flowing. Because at the end of the day it’s only money, worthless by itself. You could start a shit brief fire with nearly 500 squid. Go on holiday to Spain or somewhere. Cook your head in the Mediterranean sun as you chug cold weird lager out of the bottle. But for fucks sake, the feelings this club give us, the love, the hate, the holding your head in your hands, grabbing strangers and kissing them. That’s what it’s all about. Fuck the ticket rise. You can have my money. Take it. Give me love and pride back and we will call it quits. I watch the Lulus stream out of the ground. Sad bitter little faces. But they are envious too. Most people will be envious next season too. I want to watch it, want to breathe it all in again. I want Nuno to take me to heights of joy I have rarely felt in this past decade.

Bolton next. McGinlay. We have never forgotten. This is what we live for. The journey has only just begun. Soon we will be back on Nunos Crazy Train.