Another shitty evening game in shitty weather at shitty Selhurst Park with a shitty draw. I swear that The Real WFC 0 Some Other WFC 0 didn’t happen, because I certainly don’t remember ANYTHING from this game that I didn’t write down. Honestly.
All right, so I decided to spend much of the second half drinking beer before the SS decided to ask me to move along. Bastards. But seriously, what the fuck is wrong at WFC apart from the obvious? Many people are calling for TB to relinquish his position, and had circumstances been “normal” he probably wouldn’t be here. The team seem demotivated, or at least just can’t get together. Perhaps when Koppout tried to sell Morgan it just ripped the motivation out of the team. Hell, when Swivel Eyes is trying to do what Goldberg did at Palace, why would YOU bother?
Speaking of bothering, why does TB keep with the same old excuses? Crap atmosphere (hey, you think we enjoy it here?), crap pitch, blah blah blah, 100% effort yada yada. Burton’s excuses are fast becoming as imaginative as the performances, and he too may find a nasty shock a-coming. You don’t like it Terry? Fine, just walk out the door. Unless Koppout’s paying off your mortgage that is.
Now for the bits far more entertaining than the game:
Plus points: Well, I suppose we didn’t lose or concede a goal.
Minus points: Everything from 7.45pm to 9.30pm last night.
The referee’s a……. : Watford fan apparently. And he still couldn’t raise the ire.
Overheard: A well known programme seller (that’s the OFFICIAL programme to you scummy Y&B tossers) was almost sacked from his position after Reg Davis overheard him say that Y&B was a far better publication. Hallegedly, of course….
Woking watch: The return of the popular* feature which may become quite regular depending on how much comic mileage I can get out of it. Anyway, Woking was sticking to lager, rather sensibly, but did decide to show me this little gem to your left. Hmm, it’s supposed to look like me. You can obviously read what it says, but let’s just say that the camera never lies. And it’s never a good idea to get totally off your face in a public house full of your own kind. As for Woking himself, he certainly wasn’t as alcoholically enibriated as some others yesterday. Which given the performance on the pitch yesterday, probably was not such a wise move after all. Vodka and red bull, Woking…..? 🙂
* – popular with everyone except Woking himself, seemingly. No, nobody’s going to take the piss out of you…..
Quotes: Sorry, once again I wasn’t paying attention. Funnily, everyone is being careful what they say around me ATM. Can’t think why.
Watford fans: There weren’t that many of them really, were there?
Truth is stranger than fiction: (1) Why was there an Alan Cork chant during the game? (2) The PA announcer cocking up the name of one of the Watford subs. Bring back Phillo. (3) Kelvin’s kicking, more chance of the British Army not shooting pregnant women in Afghanistan than him kicking straight yesterday. Maybe he really does love the “Sully” chants? (4) I cannot remember the last time I fell asleep at a game.
Speaking of people who you want to fall asleep permanently…… : Didn’t see him TBH. Though the only way even his spiteful presence would have got me going last night was for him to have been torched at the stake on the centre circle during the game. At least it would have given TB a new excuse for us not winning (“the smell of his hush puppies put us off”).
West Bank Male Choir ensemble: Seriously – and I mean SERIOUSLY – good anti-Koppout songs for 10 minutes. Even the comatose mild mannered Main Stand joined in. Cost us the game, of course.
Anything else? If you seriously think I’m going to comment any more on that poor excuse for a game, you can fuck right off.
Umm, OK. Er, was it worth it? If you’re the kind of person who gets thrills out of having your genetalia strapped to an electric diode whilst being submerged in ice cold water for long periods of time, you may have found yesterday a similarly satisfying experience. For those who have some degree of pain threshold and/or sanity, I seriously doubt it.
In a nutshell: Neil Ardley’s sliced volley. Nuff sed.