I fucking demand that you watch Wolverhampton Wanderers. Drop everything you are doing right now. That is unimportant shit. This is what’s important. Nuno Santo a Holy man dragged from the bucolic farty depths of Portuguese football where nobody pays their bills and fucking everybody is owed money. Throw in a Chinese buyer who have their Headquarters on a Chinese Island with Missile defences and dudes with hard hats running around and everything is fucking nefarious. Guo GongChime the CEO laughs, menacingly as he rolls around on his electrical powered chair of power thing, with knobs and levers that do evil things we know nothing of. Add this to a fanbase that have that many mental instabilities I could write a book about that alone. 

Fuck having melancholious, sad sentimentality over the past. Fuck the past. Who cares any more. This….this is everything now. This is fucking everything. Little Gold and Black maniacs this is distilled football, where everything is a little brighter and louder than went before. No more plastic pretend shit but real deal football. Squint and look through the rays of sunshine that spill over the Billy Wright stand. Squint and peer and see the hormonal football. Hormone ball. Sweaty football, for us who stand and sit. Madball. 

Is not this club righteous? Of course we are, we chant that enough to make the fucking thing as real as anything so it becomes a stupid question. This is a sacred time and a dignified time too as well as a finger licking experience. Always again and again and again I watch the ball kicked and moved between our players. I want to bathe in it, in this football I want to become it totally. Fuck fake football. fuck the football that is cleverer than us and more street wise, fuck menial forelock tugging to these Charlatans who we destroyed not a year ago or maybe more than a year…who knows? Who cares?

Monday night. Fucking hell they will come again. This is a thing. They have an offensiveness that offends me. Pretentious but not preening this Manchester team. They are undifferentiated as a squad trapped in the great red machine. There is charisma but no character. Yet any way. Rashford who was fossilised last season may have reached a crossroads and maybe about to sell his soul to the Red Devil, accept the dogmas of old Trafford, they may show him Sir Neville and Sir Ferdinand and there new fine things. Sell your soul Rashford join in the joke. They always come up from London in droves don’t they? The train will be full of them. That tart with the sausage on her lip will be here probably. I met her on the train to Old Trafford last season. She is typical of their support. Dragging dead relatives into it, hearsay from dead parents…’Oh yes he used to support Man United’ when he had little interest in them. Now the legend of Grandads allegiance to a Manchester team is writ large in the annals of family history. He probably watched them once or twice on a black and white telly because he liked George Bests hair or something. Fucking hell. 

You have to realise that Manchester Uniteds football is monotonous and generalised. It bears the needle tracks of Committee decisions. Of whispered telephone calls between Lizards and texts at 3am from the men that do not sleep. The only man that could properly run this madhouse of a club is a psychopath. Ferguson was a lunatic and he certainly took over that asylum. He won everything. He won because his ego was so large Old Trafford could not properly encompass it. Not even the insanity of Cantona and Beckham swirling around could blow out the fire of old Purple nose.

We fucked them up last year. They didn’t know what to expect and there arses got burned good. Wolves were sophisticated and debonair. They played subtle and with flair at times that tore new arseholes all over the pitch. Look at our many arseholes they wailed as they went home. Or something. Fuck. We pulsed all over the pitch like a heartbeat. Bump bump bump the ball regular and incessant. There were groans of pleasure within the crowd. I could hear them, I listen. The team shone in the halo of Nunos idea and everything was fucking illuminated. In the one game anyway…I didn’t go to the home game against them. I gave my ticket to somebody who was desperate to see this team of Wolves. Fucking desperate. They stood there not me.

Monday will be beautiful in many ways. Nuno will be controlling the distortions and amplified insanity that goes on in the stadium. This is football in a form that is available to everybody regardless of who you support. It is an adventure and a madness for sure and it’s roots run deep and fucking everywhere. It is football that you must have ‘taste’ to enjoy. It is football from your own imagination and mind. This is football that doesn’t give a fuck.

Who knows what will happen Monday. I haven’t got the same kind of hatred for Manchester United I used to have for some reason. That area of my mind is not accessible to me any more. Their crimes against me have been struck from my history by time itself. I’ve just forgotten. I am expecting great things. Singalongs. Not a game of football between Manchester United and Wolves but two great teams playing football of aspiration and hope I suppose, that despite all the negative shit that flies around us that maybe we will see some beautiful football from both sides….but more on ours. Nothing is true any more with VAR which means you have to destroy the fucking thing with football so precise and yet so volatile it will render the screens full of static and passion.  

Sing loud hey, so the Gods can hear us and look down and say ‘Hey…this is the Wolves thing’ and it will be galactic football that will make the Gods want to stop eating grapes and drinking the pints of Ambrosia which will not be some Hipster fruity wank beer but something akin to what beer used to be like when Men were Men and not some female version of men. Are we not men? Devo hahahahaha.