“Kane come here!”

The whole of Castle Warnock trembles as the cracked voice of Colin Wanker echoes down the mouldy stone corridors. The foundations creak as if the very earth wants to rid itself of this evil edifice. The tapestries of his many infamous victories flutter with anticipation. Sheffield United shirts, Cardiff shirts stained and tattered are nailed to the dank walls.

Harry Kane is asleep in his basket close to the dungeon doors. He has been whining all night and sniffing the ceramic stained bowl next to his basket that still has no food in it. Master Warnock is a harsh Master. Didn’t Kane do his Masters bidding yesterday? It has been tough learning under Mourinho. Jose is just Warnock in a better suit and hair. But Kane puts those thoughts out of his head for a moment and runs up the moss covered stone steps to the dark court where Master Warnock sits and glowers. Kanes eyes struggle to adapt to the darkness at first but he can see the red glow of Master Warnocks eyes.

Kane runs to the steps before the throne of Warnock and falls upon his back in soft resignation. His nervous pissing erupts into the air in a great golden spurt and splashes the feet of Atwell sitting at the feet of Warnock.

“For fucks sake man GET UP! You’re not at Molineux now you idiot!” Warnock aims a kick at Kane but misses. Kane falls over again as if shot. Atwell blows his whistle and tries to give Master Warnock a red card. Warnock laughs and the sound is like somebody trying to have a shit down a sink plughole.

Colin Wankers pale crusty hand gently rubs Atwells head and scratches his ear. Atwell tries to lick Warnocks hand and Warnock slaps Atwells head hard. The slap echoes throughout the court and everyone present winces and whimpers. Atwell scurries under Warnocks throne beaten and sad. He starts to lick his own arsehole.

“Come here Harry you filthy beast” Warnock growls. Kane crawls to the feet of Warnock and his long fat tongue licks feebly at Colins stained slippers. From the toe of one of the slippers a yellowed deformed Warnock toenail  peeks out through a worn hole and the tongue of Kane licks and slathers around that foul digit. 

“Harry you did well today at Molineux and there will be rewards YES! Rewards!” Warnock declares. The shadows in the court cheer but it is louder than it should be. It is a display of sorts to curry the favour of the Master of Castle Warnock. Harry Kane runs around and tries to bite his own arse in excitement. Warnock puts a pale hand within his robe and pulls out a rancid half chewed bone. He throws it towards Kane who falls over his own feet trying to catch it, the decrepit bone hits him in the forehead and bounces towards Atwell who tries to grab it. Kane snarls and Atwell retreats under the dark throne, growling and rubbing his moth eaten head on Warnocks foot. 

“What is this Nunoism Harry you filthy animal, what is it?” Warnock cries.

“Beautiful football? Beautiful players? Team spirit? A philosophy?…what is this strange and horrifying thing these Portuguese bastards have brought to my beautiful country?” Warnock stands and angrily points to an effigy of Nuno studded with bite marks and arrows that stands not ten yards from his throne.

“Where is the tackling?” Warnock cries. The Court wail as if in pain.

“Where is the snot and bollocks? Where is the combat? The blood? WHERE IS THE PAIN?” He shouts. He steps down onto the Court floor and kicks Harry Kane full in the face and Harry grabs up his mouldy bone and hides under Warnocks throne pushing Atwell out. Atwell runs behind a tapestry to hide. 

Warnocks piss stained robe flutters as he dances around the flagstones while his acolytes shiver. There is Sean Dyche trying to pull out his own eyes dressed in a suit that tight it looks as if his head is about to pop. We see Eddie Howe dressed in a black SS uniform but it is only the silver glint of his deaths head badge that gives him away. Gary Linekers ears flap like bats wings as he nods his head furiously in agreement with his Masters voice. 

“Yes Harry you dirty little sod, much was done yesterday and I will say under duress you did well, but this is a war and not a battle. Beauty must be crushed!” Warnock gargles and points his skeletal finger at the Nuno effigy…”Beauty has no place within football! We are Britishmen are we not? Our sport was built on combat and warfare! Not art and creativity! This is what our crowds want! Anger and violence, tears and snot! BLOOD AND DISHONOUR!” Warnock screams. 

The bats fly from the attics of the Castle and into the black night sky. Yes there will be further battles Warnock thinks as he kicks Harry Kane in the face again as he walks back to his throne. Yes there will be more battles. 

“Bring me my baby Hedgehogs!” Warnock cries. The fire is getting low and there are plans to be made….


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