A Love Song For Leo Bonatini


Ah Leo. The amazing things I have in mind to wax lyrical at the idea of everything you do. I grab my roll ups and a steaming cup of tea. I am enraged and full of ideas on what I want to say to you. I slosh the tea on the dining table, I roll a fag ready to wax. Turn on the lap top. It’s fucking updating Windows. I sit and wait. It’s endless as I suspect next door has turned his WiFi off.

Of course who knows the myriad of variables that has suddenly (well, last Christmas) turned up to facilitate your lack of goals scored. Who knows? Who am I to try and work out why you have hit a dry point in the moisture inducing landscape of your football? I am at a loss to try and explain it. My mind wanders when I do.

You came from some strange Egyptian team and burst into life within a Wolves team that was just starting to get their groove on. You had power and intent, started smashing goals in left, right, centre. I may unload all the memes and tropes to explain how physical you are and how intelligent. I could wax lyrical about Nuno teaching you to play a different game now. A holding one maybe, darting around the box pulling defenders here and there as you splash your colours all over the pitch. But now as I watch the Apples fall off the tree outside in the back garden I am thoughtful and I am still in awe of your football.

There have been new faces appearing within the team. Jimmy Jimenez, Benik, Rafa, last season, but on top of that you are faced with other minor aggravations. The crowd are rumbling their discontent. They don’t see what I see, they don’t look upon you with my eyes. What do I see? A man that is finding it hard to impress his personality within the swirling madness of the new additions, the new strategies and the new ethos within the team. That is cool. That is life. Trying to fit in and do what everybody else wants you to do. To have that kind of a herd mentality. To sacrifice the Warrior within for the good of the team. To find yourself learning…but not doing.

Football Leo, is the craziest of things. I watched you last week at Leicester with your new trim and your intent raw and dripping. I see your movement and runs, I see exactly what you see on the pitch with the only difference being the angle of our viewpoints. I watch and I observe what you are trying to say and I see this…

You are thinking too much Leo. Whatever madness you have in your mind as you train and think about another barren goalless appearance is weighing you down. These days without a goal probably plague your thoughts when you are sitting resting. Maybe you think and analyse every pass and every movement until the whole thing becomes a cacophonous swirling noise of lights and sound until you just feel like throwing yourself on the floor and smashing your head off it a few times. That’s cool. That is what we want. At least you ‘feel’ everything we do. At least you have some emotion.

When we played Ajax in our pre season friendly I watched you drive off the car park at Bescot with things on your mind. I didn’t see a powerful striker in that car. I saw a man deep in his own mind. In thought, an internal dialogue about the game and the team. Yourself as well. You are in dialogue with a part of your shadow self. That is the darkness within you. That darkness asks ‘Why am I not scoring goals’ or ‘Maybe it’s because I am not good enough for this team’ or ‘Maybe I should have done this or that’. Soon the dialogue with the shadow Bonatini becomes long conversations when you are sitting alone or driving your car and this aspect of the shadow talk is always negative and always dark.

You see Leo, if we maintain the dialogue with the darker aspect of ourselves we soon start to see that dark personality become more and more dominant. It’s a self feeding system where the shadow Leo starts to become self critical and morose. Because this is the result of Shadow Bonatini. Criticism from outside becomes less of a hindrance and more of a crutch. We wallow in negative criticism because we start to agree with it, to nurture it, because at the end of the day we love it, because we always hate ourselves more than others ever will. In fact I bet, as you find yourself in a goal scoring opportunity, that voice starts to shout and to denigrate, you may become a little confused and unsure. Pass the ball instead? Lay it off for Jimmy? Move the ball back to Ruben? All these thoughts transfer to your physical self. The one standing on the edge of the box. It revels in torturing you with it’s shadowy faint but wilful voice. It affects you physically, it ruins your day, it adds ammunition to those 4 am philosophies we entertain ourselves with when every body else is asleep. How can we expect you to win these matches, to win our wars, when you are at war with yourself?

But there is light at the end of this tunnel Leo. There is always hope. Shadow Leo is at the moment relentless in his warfare. The ball never falls for you, maybe that shot flies off into the crowd. Somebody boos or moans and you hear it, and you agree, you are crap, you shouldn’t be here. But Leo fuck that voice, and fuck that shadow self. The way to beat that voice is to enfold and encompass it. We have a light and a dark to us Leo. It is in everybody. The Shadow has a shadow in many aspects too. Within that darkness in us we have another powerful entity. Warrior Leo. That part of us that has to win, that has to destroy our opponent, that has to score that one important goal. It makes us shrug off the physicality of a defender. It gives us adrenalin when we need it most. It makes our thoughts fast and more agile. It is the nitrous oxide of our survival. This is part of the Shadow us, that when we were primeval, surviving in dark caves in cold winters, that would fight back against the powerful sabre tooth tiger, bear or killer hedgehogs. It is the part of us that bites and scratches, gouges and kicks even though we know we are fighting a much more powerful adversary. It is the Shadow part of us that has made us truly what we are.

Utilising this Warrior aspect is simple. Look into yourself Leo and look at all the nasty and wicked aspects of your personality. The one that finds himself watching gore videos sometimes, maybe finding people who trip up a funny and amusing thing. It’s the part of us that wants to punch the person who has denigrated us. It is the dark violence of survival Leo. It is the dark Leo and you have to stretch out your hands and grab hold of it.

You see Leo. These shadow parts of us are an integral part of what makes us what we are. But it must always be subservient to our needs and our activity. In essence light truly does come from darkness here. We utilise the shadow for the greater good of the whole. So what should you do? Be a bastard Leo. Start to revel in your opponents demise and loss. Enjoy looking at their sad fucking faces as they walk off the pitch in tears. Look at the crowd Leo. Enjoy and bathe in the adulation you receive from the crowd. Fucking feed off it Leo. See our faces twisted in joy, see us tumble over the seats, see us sing our songs, feed off us Leo. For surely there is nothing better than scoring a goal and running up to the South bank, your fist punches badge, you are shouting something lost in the volume of our joy, your team mates surround you. You are the King at that moment Leo. You have grabbed the Tigers balls and ripped them off, you hold them up to the sun and let out a piercing razor sharp animal, primal, scream, you are triumphant and you are a God…for a moment.

How does that feel Leo? How is that moment when you feel the world has stopped? It is beautiful isn’t it? Leo, I think you are a beautiful player, you are an artist. But put down the brush and pick up the sword.



Psychedelic Derek (A poem)


I wrote this yesterday when I had five minutes. It's not brilliant I know but
I put in down in biro on a piece of paper and put it in me pocket and forgot it
Until I walked the dogs and met my crackhead and pisshead mates down the canal.
They asked me what I had done that day so I showed them my poem and recited it.
They were confused until I read it again. One of them cried a bit. Not because of Derek
but because I stood there and did it. It was my first live poetry gig. Among the dog eggs and
blue bottles of Cider that ay never seen an apple.                            

Derek Dougan groovin' with the Moog on
His eyes like Tangerines, your moustache thick and black 
lost in the middle of Whitmore Reans, the heart break Red Roofs Hotel
Lost in the North Bank we were mate, feet stamping and shouting 
I used to see you when I was a kid as I delivered the paper
Getting out of your swanky car with your funky flares and mad tie
Lost in the early seventies the sixties just gone
Shot like a big arsed IRA bomb, glass everywhere
Cortinas and Granadas and Vauxhall Vivas, Hillman Imps 
You always waved and said hello, I gave you a free Express and Star
but you were stuck in the strings of the maudlin Cello half the time
that played as it did during most of our games. I am not going to name names
But you Derek, what did you mean? What did you listen to?
Strike fast and keel showing keen throwing shapes
You might have been a Wolves player, a maestro a magician 
but I knew what you really were, I sensed it. The first Rock Star footballer
Playing guitar for the Grateful Dead or Jefferson Airplane
with the songs from the North Bank stuck in your head
the buzz of the bass just kicking in you plinking blues riffs
football as life without and within. I loved you more than George Best
You were always a hero to me and to them. I look at your old photos
As you moved you flashed colours unseen, pink purple, red and violet
of gold and black and luminous green
a wizard you were mate and we all agree fucked up on 250mg of LSD looking at the birds flying up above
Psychedelic Derek scores makes it three, face crushed up the barrier, streams of piss
we sing and shout and scream aloud, looking for the odd fifty pence piece underneath
your suede fringed jacket and hair long and proud
you looked like you should have been in Black Sabbath I think, a rock star not a footballer
avoiding another errant truncheon dink, another shove off a Coppers angst
I keep thinking about you Doog, lately
Especially when the sun sets and I'm listening to Pink Floyd
Wish you were here or Shine On you crazy diamond

Symptom of the Looniverse


At the K-Po stadium yesterday we are only ten yards away from the Crisptown fans. There is one Crisp fan who is jumping up and down next to his son and going full Monkey Bollocks at the joy of his sides second goal. His hair looks like its been trimmed by a bloke with a club foot and a dodgy hard drive. He is a meme of the gesticulating barm pot. He looks he is a Block paver or a Tarmac Gyppo. It’s cool, I love that shit. All the other Leicester fans look like Central heating engineers. They have just come back from Spain or Cyprus whatever. They are the colour of a decent cup of tea. They are ranting like mad. What’s wrong with them? I suspect they rant because they lack something here…the stadium is weird Lego, the area around the ground is the same, it’s that Reading Identi-kit stadium thing. The decaying cheap infrastructure that surrounds it. It was their first home game of the season. They looked pissed off before they went in.

‘Wanky Wolves hahahahah fucking wankers’

‘Mate your flies are undone’ I shout to him.

‘Hahahaha fucking wankers’

‘Dude your flies are undone zip yourself up’

‘Hahahaha wankers wanderers hahahahah’ He shouted over. His son sat with his chin in his hands looking glum.

At one point Mr Blockpavers dong falls out of his Primark shorts and I shake my head and wonder where those pound coins went that flew over my head occasionally. Obviously Crisptown.

Reading about how Adama Traore is fit fills me with a happiness I find hard to fathom. I’m not that aware of what Traore is. I don’t even think he does. What ideas he found under Tony Pulis would probably beggar belief. These ideas probably involved ‘putting a shift in’ maybe ‘getting stuck in’ and ‘get the fucking ball up to big neck’. Stuff like that. Stuff probably that went down well at West Birmingham Albion. To be fair both Boro and Albion sucked long on the strange wormlike philosophies of Mr Pulis. We see those ideas now playing Barnsley and Preston on cold days as we did. So Adama. What have you got for us mate? Lets have a look at the Crisptown  lot first.

Jamie Vardy, striker, handful, fast. Harry Maguire, massive head, like to put his head on things. Silva, Maddison, Gray…it’s a feast of course. Players with undoubted ability. I can’t mention them in a negative light only to say they are the enemy today. Of course my confidence yesterday, my happiness was tempered. I read about Adama being available as I went to take the dogs out. This made me happy. I was smiling as I walked down to the canalside. There were some baby ducks getting rid of their fluffy feathers and putting on proper size. There was a Dragonfly hovering and doing whatever Dragonflies do. There was a Heron further down fishing. I turned the corner…a pisshead having a shit under the bridge. I caught him in mid bite obviously…I didn’t want to disturb him. I am polite like that. His face in shock, me trying not to look at him but wanting to be polite, ‘Orite mate’ I said. He nodded. As he squeezed. Then I wanted to kick him in the head for being an animal. Me dog growled at him.

Last week against Everton was a thing. I didn’t feel like it was a wake up call about anything. Didn’t we expect this football? Are we not entertained? Did a draw really ‘expose’ any weak links or underfunded positions? Are certain parts of our team a bit under the weather when faced with such football. All fluff and thunder I think. I suspect we have performed admirably in our one game and I am loathe to start making any predictions about anything. Only that we will smash every team in some certain way every game we play until we are sat on top of the Premier league…I keep saying it I know. I’m not going to apologise for it. What’s the point in having a scrap if you think you aren’t going to win?

This Leicester team are just that, another scrap. Albeit with all the fanfare of the telly there and maybe some pyro or dancing girls. It’s still the same shit. At Barnsley last season we had to dig deep and face the abyss of Championship games with all the attractiveness of a canal side shite. We had to dig deep. My writing about that game denigrated the town and their team. I offer no apologies for it, my head was stuck in a lovely land of Portuguese football, fast paced and often beautiful. We had to dig like fuck didn’t we? All those games wrapped into one drink fuelled freezing day in Nowhere land.

The Premier league will be just like that, but sparkly. Like the Wizard of Oz tinkling away at his magical contraptions before the curtain is swept aside and we see Jamie Vardy working the pedals and pumps until he notices we are watching him. Yes, this game will be like that. Dig in Wolves but dig with beauty. Play our game and this Leicester team will take notice quickly. Let the nerves flutter away lads, it’s really day two of the campaign. Still early, but at least we know a little about the place. It can be very tough and scary. But if you pretend you have been there a while you can get from place to place quite easily.

Will Traore play? I hope so. I wish to see him doing his ‘thing’. Physical yes and fast, but I suspect there is something, some space in his head that wants to be filled with an idea or two. That he wishes to become his own man with his own ideas I suppose. I watched his football on YouTube for an hour last night, where he liked to move and run, how he made use of space, how he twisted and turned. It was beautiful and at times scary too. So in my minds eye I substituted his team mates on those videos for our players. I try to see in my own mind something of Nunos mind, why Traore was bought, how he would fit.

Traore can shield that ball. He has that Low Centre of Gravity that Nuno likes, the ability to protect and nurture the ball until players have arrived in his wake…now will Traore have players already there? We move fast, unlike Boro. We will have heads going mad for that ball Adama holds up, keeping the JAMS at bay. I don’t want to hear about how his ‘final product’ is lacking. I don’t want to hear how ‘physical’ he is or how he is a ‘beast’. I don’t like it. If being overly developed muscle wise is some sort of memetic pre requisite for how a footballer performs then I’m not interested. I want to know how he reacts to Nuno. I think that big hole in his heart that Pulis and Villa have ripped out will be filled up with understanding and love maybe. Probably some great ideas too. You can’t tell me that Nuno hasn’t watched Adama with that forensic eye. I see Nuno and his team sitting watching him in a dark room, discussing his movements, how they can squeeze a little more out of that move, this idea or that pass. In Portuguese of course…fast paced chat with plenty of hand movements and drama, arguments. Can they add to his game? He wouldn’t be here otherwise. Will this be your day Adama Traore? Are you going to be our new talisman like er…… Sako? Maybe?

Of course all these quasi philosophical bollocks are OK in the scheme of great wins away. We should have been three goals up in the first half. We should have been more clinical, we should have had more aggression. Blah. I wasn’t even pissed off I will be honest. Even the bloke with his little dong flopping around while he denigrated our Town didn’t bother me too much. We were still happy I think. Pissed off yeah but happy. What a great load of football that was really. We scored a lovely header. Doherty, bloody hell. Skimmed off the top of his head. I bet Patricio is thinking what the fuck is happening all his players having a bang at the wrong goal. Second one for them is a deflection off Conor. Shit happens when you are faced with attacks like that from a lively but weird team like Leicester. That boy Maddison eh?

I didn’t like Bennet being targeted straight away but little incisive attacks where his pace or lack of it was EXPOSED? I dunno, maybe he was a bit off the pace when he has some ten stone whippy young player throwing shapes you could never hope to deal with. But I think he did do OK of course. This was another day of learning for our team. Another day in School maybe. Learning and assimilating. But learning what? We hit the post that many times we should have uprooted the fucking thing. I bet their groundsman this morning is shovelling some Compo down the holes as I type this. Thundercunt shots from Moutinho and Jimmy. Chances squandered. We were at times fucking lovely on the ball. It looked bloody effortless at times, like we wanted to be there. I looked to my left at all our fans, we were two nil down mate but there they were singing their hearts out, shouting, getting involved. I look to my right at the Crisptown fans. They looked sad. But they were winning. What the hell was their problem? They should be ecstatic. There is an illness within Leicester I don’t understand. Something is up. Someone throws a Clapper at us. Oooh you’re hard.

Of course it’s always a thing when their chances and half chances are converted and ours are not. This was a game where the cogs and gears of the Wolves Looniverse have decided to get a bit of grit in them. We were maybe half a second away from full on domination in terms of winning the second ball. Maybe an inch or two away from a three goal lead in the first half. I watch Nuno for a few minutes pacing the technical area. Looking at him is like staring at a three bar electric fire. Premier League eh, fucking hell. But is it that whole Premier League experience? We looked like we deserved to be there, we looked like we weren’t really the new boys, the fresh meat. We did not look out of place, we did not look like strangers in this landscape.

We were just as good as these doughnuts. Maguire, England International, fresh from the world cup looked decidedly average as our attacks cut him up again and again. Reg Vardy, England Striker. Average. Gray, average. Crisptown was full of average shit. But two goals up. They ride their luck these teams. It is a symptom of Premier quality games where chances have to be taken, have to be smashed into nets. We are learning that for sure. I see our team still being too beautiful. We are far too smart for our own good sometimes. Far too pretty too. I suspect that our philosophy was laid bare for Leicester when they decided on 51 minutes and two goals up that they had to start time wasting. Wasting time? You are a Premier league side for fucks sake. Have you no self respect? The ball rattles out of play and one of their players goes to collect, he drops the ball and kicks it further away from himself, he dawdles, he slinks to collect and moves twenty yards up the touchline away from the original position where the ball left the field of play. Jesus Christ. Crisptown.

Traore comes on and immediately I see spacetime warped around him as his presence if one of intense gravity. Jesus Christ he’s massive isn’t he? Even the air sweats when he is around and I enjoy his cameo where he throws Leicester players around like the free t-shirts the ground staff were throwing into the crowd at halftime. He was beautiful, I love his kind of football, in your face stoical shapes, shrugging off the JAMS. But what was this game crying out for? Ryan Giles.

Can I maybe throw that suggestion forward with my lack of knowledge? Maybe. I could see Giles throwing some of those shapes down the side for sure. I think Matt Doherty is ready for a rest…I see Giles playing these funky rhythms with Traore. This is what I see in the future. Vardy has been sent off for a tackle on Doherty. I wave to Jamie as he leaves the field of play. He walks off slowly. Jesus Christ what are these Gonks?

Again we were not disgraced but the chances we shook off are just tweaks. Just little bits of fine tuning and maybe Lady luck has to smile on us a little bit. A Crisptown fan says ‘Wolves are the best team we have seen down here for a while’. That’s good to know. We always need that critical non Wolves view to put everything in focus to give an unemotional view of the day. I always say we played brilliant even if we played crap. But that’s the way I look at things. Always positive, always looking for that sliver of light in the blackness of the Looniverse. This whole Fosun-Nuno-Wolves thing is still a baby of sorts. It’s still finding it’s feet and clicking into place. Some of these players are still finding their feet, sussing out what the whole thing is. We have to be very patient with this particular seedling of ideas, be gentle and look softly at what is going on. I mean, when it does finally click then we are going to start to shithouse results too. Maybe the ball will fall more kindly to us and that second ball will be easier to get to. Maybe our toe poked shots towards goal will go in like theirs, the lucky bastards.

Me and Horace are waxing lyrical going back to the car. We are Yam Yamming like fuck talking about the game and every now and then he shouts at the Old Bill about something or other. But we are talking, sharing ideas and views of the game excitedly and with passion. I look around us and we are surrounded by Leicester fans who are quiet and sombre and I don’t really understand it until this morning. You see their chances to grow and develop as a team have gone, they tread water here in the Premier league. We on the other hand are finding the whole thing vastly more interesting than them I think. We have a young beautiful team who are learning the ropes fast, who are starting to rumble into life too. When we do start to mesh and to get our groove on. You’d better fucking watch out mate.

Go Gentle into the Night


Steve McNanamoon is in his shed at the bottom of his Cheshire garden. Outside only the bats are moving, all is quiet, just the gentle purr of another footballers 100k Audi R666 rumbling across the misted fields. His garden is littered with expensive LED lights and abandoned kids toys. Within the shed there is an unholy ethereal light. McNotherloons face is lit by a phone screen. His face is excited as he tries to get blood to flow to his withered member within his pummelling sweaty hand. He is watching something on the phone…on the screen is an old bent man in his garden. There is a smouldering fire in front of him. He pokes it with a stick. He is wearing a blue tracksuit. Around the old man the landscape is dim and dark. In the distance it looks like a body is hanging from a tree. But the phone screen is small, it’s too grainy to tell. The old man is saying something, snarling and guttural…

‘You have to get the Mother Hedgehogs Steve…they will have babies, about five of them’. McNattercack leans closer, his jeans puddled around his ankles as he watches the old man flick another baby Hedgehog onto the fire. The hedgehog screams as the flames take hold. The face of the old man comes closer to the camera…

‘You see Steve…hear them scream, hear them suffer’ McGnadsacka sighs as he pummels away at his balls. The old man on the screen smiles…’We don’t like Wolves do we Steve?’ and we see it is the snarling face of Colin Wanker. The Hedgehogs carry on screaming…’No Uncle Colin..’ McNackajacker says, ‘We don’t’.

Everton are a strange one aren’t they? They have spent 200 Billion dollars on their team. That’s a lot of money. They enter the stadium to a roar of Molineux madness, fire, smoke, somebody leans over bodies in the Southbank and screams into my ear. ‘I love your podcast you cunt’ I laugh as the ghosts of the many beers he has killed that day vapourise from his gob into my face. I am sure he has spit a bit of crisp into my hair. I don’t care. I’m back in the Southbank. Thank God. Somebody stinks of sweat. The bloke in front of me says he’s having a heart attack. Some doughnut violently jabs a flag in my ear. It might have been on purpose. Horace pretends to look at the pitch. Wolves. Premiership football. Fucking hell. Everton. Freemasons. Where is the town of Everton? Is it near Liverpool?

It’s the new school isn’t it? We have a new sports bag with a new pencil case, a protractor, ruler, pens. We look like dickheads in our new uniforms, the sleeves hanging down because there’s no way Moms going to spunk 50 quid on another one for a couple of years. Everton are the kids that have been there a few years. Their blazer sleeves are stiff with snot and have shrunk halfway up their arms. They have a sneeky and hardened look to them this Everton. They look like they are resigned in some way…to re-enact their existence on a football pitch time and time again like Groundhog day. They are dispassionate about their football. As slick and as sexual as it looks it lacks anything to define it. Evertons football looks like it should spend a few years in an isolated hermitage to ‘discover’ itself.

As we walk down the proverbial new school corridor, our team are a little wide eyed I suppose. Jostling and the speed of which these Evertons run around is confusing. We get an elbow in the neck but it isn’t the Cardiffian Warnockian elbow. It’s more like ‘get out of my way while I do my job’ kind of elbow. They score. It’s a lovely cross they put in. As the scorer celebrates two of his team members kind of tut because they have to run twenty yards to celebrate too. It looks like they can’t be arse. Everton fans go wild, but the jollity seems a little forced, a little too loud. It smells of pantomime.

I am enjoying Boly and Coady getting to grips with this whole school corridor thing. They did seem a little confused at times. Boly wont get bullied here. He’s a massive man striding around, bumping, shifting and pulling Everton attacks apart. But sometimes Mr Bolys attention is caught by a colourful school poster or a window to the outside. Coady is content to wait to see what Boly does and sticks close to him. Bennett is doing what he knows best, blend in, look like you have been there years. But don’t make too much noise. Considering we were faced with a 50 million quid striker they did bloody OK thanks very much.

Little Jonny Otto wasn’t taking any shit at all. He’s got that gnarly carved out of granite look to him. Low COG and a wiry thing. He had a few chops at Everton attacks, dealt with most of them, got up a few times to bung a few crosses or passes in. There wont be any trouble from Jonny but don’t pull his fucking string or he will be chewing your throat out probably. Jonny is the kid you leave alone to do what he has to do. He still has to get onto the wavelength of the team. That will come. Moutinho too, listening and learning. Starting to get the telepathy going with Neves. Starting to see in his minds eye where people are without looking. Getting the sixth sense on. He throws a few beautiful shapes while trying to keep a lid on this Everton thing. Crisp passes from them and they are running into spaces like we did last year. Spooning sexy passes here and there. Waiting for opportunities.

Raul Jimenez is a thunder. Darting here and there like a predator. He is moving people out of the way with his presence. Pulling Everton defenders out of position. Jota sees a gap, moves, awful Evertonian tackle and boom. Red card. Phil JaggedElkKa. Free kick right on the edge of the area for Wolves. I turn to Horace. This is going to be 1-1. Smack. Ruben. He is everything to me. Despite having a little less spark he has positioned the ball beautifully. Back of the net. Crowd erupts. Flag smashed off my head. Glasses are off. My bad leg is booted. Pain and ecstasy. Fucking hell. 1-1. Ah, The Premier League. Everybody looks smart in their new Wolves tops. I hope nobody notices I am wearing a Primark pyjama tshirt. It starts to rain. Pickford is running towards the Southbank. People applaud him. I tell him to ‘fuck off’.

A few people around me are cussing Boly. I am not listening. There will be attacks that split us apart, there will be goals scored by ‘them’ whoever they are. These opposition aren’t the mucus addled senseless kick the shit out of it football from last season. Everton are dynamic, they are skilled and they are not averse to falling over dramatically, with much groaning and moaning after a Wolves tackle that wouldn’t have broke the skin of a rice pudding. Richarlison you absolute doughnut. Shame on you. But they play, of course they do. We in response learn. Everton sit deep and Jota-Jimenez axis revolves constantly looking for spaces to play people in, to move them, to score maybe? There are half chances I suppose. We never break tactic or idea. Our movement is constant and dynamic as Evertons. It is perhaps more beautiful because it has an inner glow. Our shirts are shining under the new floodlights. It looks like a sexy Instagram photo filter. We shine and press. We look like we belong here and we do.

Patricio is a Godsend. He’s a good looking sod for sure and tall too. Stretching here and there around his goal. I like it when he comes out for a cross. He is assured and solid. He needs to find his voice within the team and to learn who Boly and Coady are. We move upwards always, it’s always learning and teaching as Nuno and his staff cajole and inform their players of ‘the way’. Richarlison gets his foot on a good shot. 2-1 to them. Bollocks. Fuck off. Everton fans are voicing their joy. I had forgot about them to be honest. Quiet bunch. Let’s sing the signing on song. Throw a few ironic xenophobic slurs about Scousers in the hope that they see it in the spirit it’s meant….no? Oh. ‘With a pen, in your hand, and you’ll never work again’. I’m laughing but they are not. One of them waves a five pound note at the Southbank…we laugh.

But…yes we continue to press the game. The ten man thing, well, I dunno. It does make it tough to move when all they want to do is obliterate our movements and wait for a chance to break. We posses the ball a lot. But movement down the wings is lacking. I think Doherty and Jonny had Everton deeply on their minds instead of Wolves. Doherty stand on the touchline to receive a ball dipped from a long way away by Neves. He collects superbly. Runs into two defenders then the ball is back. None of that physical Doherty who runs at people. Not today. He has one eye on getting back.

But we are getting the ball into the box. Jimenez waits. Stumbles, physical madness and yes. Neves floats a Neves ball in. The fucking thing is singing in the air. Jimmy peels himself from a sticky Evertonian defender. He gets a head on it. 2-2 Jesus Christ. Leveller. Jimmy Jimenez you fucking beauty you. He is massive. He celebrates and is loved already. He reminds me of Bully. Brave and angry to score. There is a hunger in this man I like.

Morgan Gibbs White and Bonatini come on. I love Bonna. His new hair looks scary. I wonder if he has been looking at the whippy trims around him. Morgan of course starts to throw some beautiful shapes. I would love to see him start a game but what do I know. Vinagre comes on for Jonny. There is all of a sudden movement down that side. More pressing down the touchline. It all looks balanced all of a sudden. Perhaps that youthful excuberence was exactly what we needed. Ruben V wanted to wax some important lyrics for sure and he was jinking shapes here and there to get past his man and make a cross or a chance. I like him too.

I liked everything I will be honest. I got wet through walking back to the car. But there was happiness. Yes, I know it’s a new school and we need to learn where everywhere is but we must remember where we have come from. Last season. Barnsley, Bolton, Cardiff and now this. Teams who at least attempt to play some football. We deserve to be here and test our ideas against these teams. When we next play Everton they will stand back amazed at what we have learned and found out about this strange Premier League thing. We will learn under Nuno everything this division has to offer us. Learning curve mate and we nearly aced the first exam.

…on the video screen Steve MunMunnon watches his Uncle Colin stir the ashes of the Hedgehog massacre. Inside the chasm of his existence our Steve mulls over the sad dichotomy of his hatred for Wolves and the perverted wiles of his Uncle Colin. Uncle Colin was right about those Wolves of course. Coming here, playing nice football, with a fantastic Coach, vibrant dynamic ownership. Yes, Steve doesn’t like it…but he knows other people that don’t like the Wolves too. Steve fastens his trousers back up and stares at his reflection in the shed window. He looks ghoulish and wrong especially when he smiles. ‘Don’t worry Uncle Colin’, he thinks. Now down the garden, in last years brown and dried leaves there is bound to be a few Hedgehogs all snug and warm, I will make them a bit warmer…he picks up a can of petrol. There is maybe half a gallon. It was for the Lawnmower. There are a few cobwebs on which he brushes off with distaste.

Don’t worry Uncle Colin.





The New Jerusalem


A Brief Discussion on the Redevelopment of Molineux

What an emotive subject. Moving Molineux. Of course us ‘fans’ have a load of shit to occupy us most of the time. Work, kids, inebriation, life in general really. How do we deal with all the shit? How do we pick through the fog and mist of ‘suit speak’? I don’t really know…but I’m going to have a crack. The greatest thing about being a football fan is that you get to bump into people that are skilled in all areas of this thing we call life. Want your carpets cleaned. I know a bloke. Want some funky sticker graphics? Same. Want to know how to build a state of the art football stadium? Yeah, I know somebody. So I fling a few mails about, make some calls, get my ear burned off from phone radiation.

So what are the stinky facts? Lets  delve into Suit world and have a look shall we? Come with me for a bit…

What point are Fosun at? Where have they got with their plans? It’s foggy. Everybody is wearing tight suits and have got IMacs and techno shizz. They are using big words I hardly understand…what the fuck is a ‘control option’ ? What is all this stuff about Architects and construction madness to a simple doughnut from Wednesfield? Where are we at the moment?

Essentially Fosun will have commissioned and been presented with a series of Control Options for the New Ground. Let’s  use this term ‘new ground’, as this will include a range of plans and designs, some based on staying in the vicinity of the existing ground, on top of the existing ground and on a potential brown field site(s).

It is worth recalling at this point that Sir Jack and Jonathon Hayward undertook a similar exercise when redeveloping Molineux and the race course was muted as a potential site. This appeared in the public domain at the time and it’s generally accepted that Sir Jack himself said no. Similarly there were discussions at the time over capacity. So this whole New Jerusalem thing has been mooted a few times in the past and then quickly brushed under the settee for some time in the future.

I see that. Dunstall has some history and it also has a rail spur that serves Dunstall Sidings. Fans can be moved rapidly into the stadium and back out. It would be a captive site meaning we have to spend our money there as it has the canal to its North West. Railway to the North East and Whitmore Reans to the South. You can’t really move around well. So basically the Hotel and Casino/shops/restaurants/fast food shops etc could be crammed onto the site without much hassle, it’s huge man, the whole site. Probably, at some point in the past Wolves may even have played a match or two there in silent movie times when everybody walked fast.

The aforementioned Control Options will have been reviewed and the preferred choices would then have further work done on them. The work could be programming, costing, outline design and the phasing of a build – how you would build it around a live environment? It’s a bloody complex subject for sure. We could perhaps whisper that this is the stage Fosun are at and consulting on and considering. Each option would be weighted for a myriad of considerations unique to each option. Primarily, the guess is the revenue or loss of it that the redevelopment would mean (as stands were demolished and rebuilt) is a major factor. The Algorithms are on the march, the dudes with those little measuring wheel things in safety kit, clipboards and furrowed brows will be doing their thing. But less people in the ground?

Less crowd means we would start to lose money straight away. That would be pretty crap for sure. But it’s an investment. Risky. Plus the demand for tickets would go through the roof. The logistics would make your head spin I bet. Safety of existing support within the stadium. Road closures. Tendering. All that madness has to be put into some weird large report for some poor bastard to look through. But what’s the general groove about building in situ. What’s the nitty gritty shizz we have to contend with if ‘we’ are pretending at this moment to build a new stadium?

Molineux as a site is greatly hampered on two sides by infrastructure and neighbours. They don’t own the land and consideration of what the expansion would mean in practical terms for said neighbours would be a factor against the redevelopment option.
The Jeff Shi announcement is a timely and interesting pointer to where they are in the decision making process. Though there is nothing on the Councils Planning Portal that formal Pre Application advice is being sought, it clearly is. There may well be conversations taking place with Officers and Members and is it something in these that has prompted Shi to put it there? Yes, I suppose, in simple terms, but recall the many factors that go into the process on settling on a final option. Basically Fosuns proposal is in the broader discussion to double the size physically and capacity wise the size of Molineux. On the existing site with all its constraints. Eek.

So Fosun are quite prepared to enter the legal Dragons nest that building in situ would bring. That means Mr Singh and Barny Crackhead who have lived on the Waterloo road all their lives are a bit miffed. Of course they will moan and legally groan at the whole show. Throw in potential road re-routes and Council angst and you have a machine you could get tangled in rapidly if you ay careful. It’s not time for Morgan-esque bullying tactics but a soft ‘hand that feeds’ approach. Basically Jeffs announcement is telling us that the plans to build on the Molineux site are ongoing, kicking off, getting a bit serious. But how do we extrapolate the need to build in situ with the problems of existing infrastructure? I mean the roads, transport networks, paths, subways, bridges? Have we moved on from the ‘Disaster’ led narrative of stadium architecture in the last twenty years or so…

People forget that disaster has driven ground re development up until quite recently – Fire at Bradford and the Hillsborough disaster. Seated stadiums, big evacuation plans, and recently Anti-Terrorist plans and architecture. The important factor is that grounds (today) that remained on their existing sites always had large capacity, but it was made of standing capacity – Old Trafford, Anfield and Elland Road. The only exception was St James’s Park Newcastle. Those teams have argued successfully that the infrastructure was there to cope. The expansion of the grounds put no more strain or capacity on those networks. All other major ground redevelopments have gone to brown field sites for this reason. Coming back to Molineux there is a Planning precedent as the North Bank was redeveloped but some of the crowd figures quoted as the final figure for the Morgan/Moxley scheme is hard to understand. Was 40k the final figure  on the complete scheme?

So what are the specifics of the pre-planning? How the fuck do you even start something like this? Write an email, do a report? Have a look around the stadium and point?

On the specifics of the Molineux Redevelopment let’s list the following factors as reasons to stay:

  • No Land Purchase Costs if it can be sited on the existing ground
  • Risk of Planning on a new site
  • Precedence for expansion after the North Bank Redevelopment
  • Existing Infrastructure
  • History
  • Location
  • Existing Capacity albeit limited

Reasons not to remain:

  • Limited foot print of land available
  • Loss of capacity during redevelopment
  • Loss of revenue
  • Objections from Planning Process
  • Infrastructure limited
  • Location
  • Development around Molineux and the constraints it puts on the site

Reasons to move:

  • Infrastructure
  • Could be built whilst using Molineux
  • Purpose Built for the Capacity – Design to Expand
  • Sites are available

Cons of moving:

  • Land purchase costs
  • Planning Risks
  • Infrastructure Costs
  • Fans reaction

To be honest its impossible for fans to remain objective on the subject but I don’t believe Jedi Jeff would put something in the public domain that firstly if they weren’t seriously considering it, but secondly had viable merit as an option with all they have found out as the process has moved on.

It’s a crazy thing Ladies and Gentlemen. Of course as fans we deserve a little bit of attention, I mean we have been going to Molineux for a long time. I think this whole ‘fog of war’ thing is a bit daft to be getting embroiled in really. Especially as we have Everton sludging down the Stafford Road next Saturday. There are new players to bed in, new tactics, new Nuno ideas to look at and be amazed. But we can put the above points somewhere safe so we have an idea what to say when at last somebody looks out of their window at Molineux and realises that the baying crowd outside might need somebody to come out and explain in simple terms what’s going on. At least we will be able to have some idea of the major points if somebody does actually ask us our opinions.

Jedi Jeff


I love Fosun and Jeff Shi. He’s a ruthless player of the game, part diplomat, part salesman. I’ve often wondered about writing a Biography of Nuno but I think that a biography of Jeff may make better reading. Maybe.

The Express and Star have been summoned to Molineux towers and been sat down in front of Jeff. ‘Of course moving the new development away is an option we have considered’.


Of course if you were that way inclined you could either join the torch wielding mob the large part (of which I would be among) The Sacred Order of Saint Derek Dougan. Or I would vent my injured angst on Social Media. Crazy times. We should make stickers and flags and demonstrate.

Or we could sit back and digest the zeitgeistyness. Jeff Shi is a fucking Jedi Master. There have bound to have been tentative below the radar pokes into the world of Wolverhampton land acquisition in the past 18 months. Maybe Jeff just had a look on Google for a minute see what was going on. Maybe he has a small crowd of degreed up to fuck Land Law specialists drawing up plan A-B-C-D-E and F for the tactics they are going to use. One of my mates is Chinese and he worked in the family Take Away after emigrating from China. He was a Lawyer for the local Land Registry a fine job. He left because he was given a case to arbitrate a land dispute that had been going on for 185 YEARS! Is Jeff Shi hardcore about this? I fucking bet he is. I bet you something else too. He knows how to deal with shit. You see I’ve met Jeff twice now. He hasn’t got a clue who I am. So when I looked at him past his PR face there is a bloke behind the smile who would hammer six inch nails into your head if it brought him honour and success within his company. He knows these battles to come.

At this stage all the redevelopment madness is in its initial birth phase. Ideas have been thrown out to consultancy teams to look at traffic flow and facilities, health and safety plans, evacuations, ways in and out, costs. Maybe they will love the idea of an environmentally sustainable stadium system. Hotels, shops, bars (not pubs)….it’s all exciting. The consultants would have found a group of Architects they like, maybe these Architects are commissioned to produce stadium A-B-C-D-E-F and to extrapolate all the information to potential sites 1-2-3-4-5-6. But Jeff probably has his hands behind his back and he’s looking out over the dingy car park and the top of Molineux alley. He knows Molineux is Wolves because he understands the magic of geography. He understands ‘Territory’.

Robert Anton Wilson once said that ‘The Map is not the territory’. He was right of course. but there are exceptions. Jeff and Laurie know that the real enemy they have to deal with isn’t the owners of the land. It’s the Council. Not the Councillors of course. They will get their snout in the trough at some point. You could move the Molineux to Telford for all they fucking care. But the politicians of the civic center do worry about votes. Voters wont be happy that the one jewel in Wolverhamptons Crown is about to be pawned off for a car park or fucking student apartments called ‘The MoliMews’ or some crazy fucked up shit. So the enemy Jeff is thinking about are Council Officers. These are the grey fucking suits of the Wolverhampton Kremlin mate. They wield great power behind the scenes and they are the ones Jeff has spoken to over the medium of our local newspaper. That fucking news was just for them wasn’t it Jeff. You wanted to have a little chat before the big files start to fly around the murky world of local politics and services. What a fucked up place. Would you put ‘Little’ Jeff Shi at war with these reptiles and lizards?

But Jeff isn’t daft. The name ‘Jeff’ belies what lies beneath my friends. Remember the six inch nails. Jeff has said ‘Hey guys, this is how it is and this is step 1 of the whole discussion. You give us a slice of the big city cake. We will build beautiful infra structure. Invest in jobs, build huge projects, change the face of Wolverhampton into a vibrant tourist attraction where people will watch great football and have great times looking at the things we have built…or we can fuck it off somewhere else. Your Councillors will face the abyss of disinterest in anything to do with Wolverhampton center. The couple of million squid Europe threw at us will dry up. Investment will be at an all time low. Social problems, the negative list is endless. What will the Wolves be without Molineux? Another Milton Keynes Dons. A manufactured entity for an easily beguiled audience across the world? How long before some billionaire then decides to start a new Wolverhampton team, call it Saint Lukes, Steve Bull would be on the board probably, maybe Planty as well.

Jeff ain’t going anywhere.

I bet, thinking about it. Maybe Jeff has got plans B-C-D-E-F tucked away on his hard drive somewhere or the FOSUNCLOUD a great fucking satellite computer in space. Who knows. But Jeff aint opening them. They are just the back up plan to show the Gonks at Fosun China that he has his head screwed on. What Jeff has read is Plan A at Location 1. The redevelopment of Molineux. This place fucking drips emotional history. It has soaked into the stadium and the surrounding areas, blood and soil I suppose. Or blood and tarmac. Jeff knows the power that idea of territory actually is. Because Robert Anton Wilson was right. The map is just a system of lines and angles on a piece of paper or a computer. Territory is something much deeper. It is a relationship to the land no matter how dysfunctional it seems. It is love and respect for that territory, because the territory holds all the fucking history. Does Jeff know this? Of course he does. The Chinese revere history, they learn from it constantly, history and the study of the past is reflected deeply within that culture. It is academic and metaphysical at the same time. It is a most successful model. Molineux is Wolves and Wolves is Molineux. We are rare that we still inhabit the same place we began all those years ago. Most of the other clubs in the Premier league do not have that. These grand renamed monobrand stadiums a spectacle but not spectacular.

I’m sure the whole tangled propaganda machine will keep spurting out claim and counter claim. Subterfuge on an industrial scale. Threats and counter threats. We will watch from afar like cowering humans as the giants hurl mountains at each other. Ah fuck knows. I do know we ay going anywhere. Tomorrow I will wax about the land around Molineux and all that shit.


Cheese at Halftime? What?


Being smart is a strange thing…I don’t mean ‘smart’ as in clever, I’ve never been that…but smart in terms of appearance. I wonder as I bump shoulders with Jeff Shi and Laurie Garglypimple in the catacoombs of the Billy Wright whether that particular zeitgeist is a thing. The team look very smart and so do I. The new infrastructure in the Billy Quiet is also smart. The glasses in the Executive thing where we ate Corporate food is crystal. It ‘tings’ beautifully as we clink glasses like Kings drinking 30 squid bottles of wine. Can I extrapolate my penchant for Motorhead T-shirts with holes in I was wearing most of the week with our fortunes? I’m not even going to try. But there is a bloke dressed as a Gas Boiler walking around the Hawthorns and I’m watching Mouthino warming up. Patricio looking all shades of awesome. What is a Villa Real? A team. A bloke is walking around West Birminghams ground dressed as a fucking Gas Boiler…I will let that sink in.

Sitting in the Billy I was struck by the amount of kids in there with their new Wolves Tops, also the amount of people in there who didn’t really have an idea of what they were actually watching. The kids gave me a glow of happiness, the future mate. I also notice a lot of bald men too. Does success make your hair fall out? I watch Nuno for a bit. He’s shouting something at Moutinho and motioning with his hand. Moutinho moves position, immediately he collects the ball and is in space. Nuno is conducting this symphony mate, Nuno is doing his Wizard shit already. That’s why he stands on the touchline. He’s smelling the football, analysing it, he’s a player himself, he is coaching but fighting for every ball, making decisions, a shout here, a word of warning there, a slap on the back for a player, soft words and hard words. Beautiful to watch and to be a part of.

Of course itching in these clothes was offset by the spectacle itself, and it was a spectacle in spite of the whole thing being a Pre-Season Friendly. Villa Real not Villa Fake. Beautiful footballing team absolutely oodles away from those Witton bastards and Duffel bag head Steve Bruce we had to contend with last season. Nuno I suspect had put out his inked in squad and how he expected them to play when Everton pour down from the North next week. So we see Neves and Joe Moutinho in midfield. What’s Joe like? Well he was deffo quality. Minor teething problems for sure as Ruben and Joe hassled for the same space a few times and there was a bit of Ying Yang going on as they found each others bumpy bits a few times. But the quality of Joe Moutinho was apparent. Some of his area management was gorgeous to watch as he tracked players and moved the ball around. Was it an upgrade on Saiss and Big ‘Olf? Ar it was for sure. Big Alf got a nice hand when he came on. Have we upgraded on him yet? I’m not sure. Maybe an Alf type player will be coming in. Monday/Tuesday/Wednesday and Thursday are going to be mad. Shopping possibly, I dunno. I like Jonny.

Saiss in defence? Ah well theres a problem at the moment and of course you can’t lump a player like Saiss into that hotbed of madness without some lubrication. Villa Real started putting some slicing balls across the back three. Those balls had a slight clockwise spin on them which automatically lead Boly, Conor and Saiss to hesitate a little, they are split and the Villa Real pacey bloke who’s name I forget dinks one over Patricio and boom. 1-0 down ahk. Teething aggravations. First half madness. But it was all there. Jota doing his Wolf thing. Tenacious and aggravating movements that plucked the ball out of no-chance periods into all of a sudden a movement and  a chance. Everything of course was defined by that ‘friendly’ aspect and fair enough the contact between the two sides was muted for sure. Legs being pulled out of tackles and contact minimal and soft. But our shape was lovely. Our position high up the pitch unleashed pressure. This Spanish team were put on the back foot a few times. Lovely to see and better with a four course meal inside you…have I mentioned I was in corporate? Suits man, everywhere. Decent shoes, clean collars, moist handshakes with the lizards of the Billy. Crazy. I watch Coady for a bit. That makes me happy always. People have been giving him neck…that’s … just like…your opinion man. So Coady positions a beautiful cross field pass to Jota forty yards away. I clap and shout. People look at me. Billy Quiet. I’m not sorry. I look great in my new Burton sales outfit but I’ve got odd socks on and my pant holes could strangulate a bollock if I’m not careful. Shape is good. Saiss isn’t understanding the Coady and Boly thing. Apparently there is a Cheeseboard and wine at halftime. Instead of a roll up by the Grit Bin. I fancy a roll up to be fair. A chat with some lunatics. Some dude is shaking my hand and he thinks I am someone else called Darren. I laugh. Cheese at halftime. Darren FFS.

Wolves have done a good job of the executive groove inside the Billy. Air conditioning. Staff running around everywhere. Jeff Shi pops up every five minutes and he’s running around like a blue arsed fly with his Joey right by his elbow. We are given excellent service as the waiting staff rapidly suss out that we are normal. Of course we get great service as we are laughing and yamming. It was A’La Carte? Something like that? Big plates and the food scrunched into the middle all sexy looking. Not enough mash….sorry fondued potato or something. Not two ladles of mashed tata with a chunk of butter and a splosh of milk. No Sir. I asked the Waitress if some of the food had fell off. She laughed. Some tables didn’t eat their cheeseboard so we nicked it and ate it as ours was all gone. I probably wont be in there again this season. It was a Spring onion that confused me. And a little weedy carrot on the plate. I know this is fancy food because I’ve only just started eating and it’s gone. I nicked two lemon tarts nobody ate at the last Wolves dinner and shoved them in my suit pocket for later. I eat everything here. Nothing left. There was a little mini Shepherds pie the size of a fifty pence piece. Mad mate.

Second half came Ryan Bennett. OK we knew that was going to happen. Strange how he was denigrated by Norwich fans and yet five minutes on the pitch and Coady-Boly look a much happier unit. Those slicey dicey balls are cut out by Ryan. He is assured and solid. Weird thing is that I never wrote much about him last season but now…yeah Ryan Bennett. I see you, I see your presence mate. Shape in defence is now stoic and solid. Perhaps Coady can now take his eye off the ball and watchdog what’s happening in front of him. That’s what happens. He’s confident in Bennett to his right and can channel his thoughts elsewhere, which he does filtering out attacks on the box. That sliced cross box ball for their rapid nine to chase onto? Gone now. Coady is out of his head shutting off the route. Closing shit down. Trusting Bennett. Coady does nothing wrong for me, ever, we are lucky to have him.

Jimmy Jimenez I liked. He looked hungry as fuck to be honest but still needs a bit of that communication love between him and Jota-Costa. But he was physical and fast. His movements were lovely, he got a beautiful tap in for our second goal that was moistened by the temerity and full metal jacket lunacy of Costa on the touchline goofing his feet everywhere in order to pop that ball out of the melee he was involved in to get the ball onto the feet of Jota who was pegging into a crossing position for the cross Jimmy would tap in. Helder bloody Costa you marvel. That’s what I want to see. It’s our ball, and no, you can’t have a fucking kick of it. Piss off.

Strange thing…watching our potential subs warm up. Fucking hell. Quality subs. Blokes you would actually play from the start in your first team. Three blokes with the physics and the ability to change a game. Quality. First the cheese selection at halftime and now the insanity of these beautiful players warming up right below us.

Everything looks good and I sit in the Billy quite happy with the way things are going. We press high, play the ball from the back. Press and consolidate our shape onto the game. Watch the opposition try to ameliorate the passion and speed of our football. They counter with some excellent football of our own and for a moment I’m transported to Barnsley or Preston last season. The cold and the rain. The awful quasi-football of lacklustre shameful teams we faced. It’s getting hotter but I think we can impinge some idea on this season to come. We look good, we don’t change shape over the game, we force change on the opposition, we make our ideas much stronger than theirs. Nuno is shouting. Substitutions. Morgan Gibbs White who I keep calling Mowgli. Cavaleiro, how I love watching him play. I keep looking over to the South Bank to see who is in my seat. One of the Wolves staff recognises me and says ‘Not like the Southbank is it?’.

Nah it’s not, but it’s the same really. Somebody is castigating Neves as ‘useless’ behind me. I laugh. Maybe it is different being in another stand maybe it isn’t maybe it’s just me struggling to keep pace with everything that’s going on and trying to form some sort of consensus in my own mind as to what’s happening. The last fifteen minutes are post coital. Light a cigarette football full of endorphins and lazy cocktails. I can’t wait to get back into my own stand. The cheeseboard is nice. The Cheesecake was powey and nom. I could eat another one mate. It’s all funky and gorgeous, beautiful and sexy, same as the football. Everton next. What is an Everton?