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It's our turn but it's not fair
Alistair Wilkinson
9 April 2010
And then I'm convinced it's our turn. The
conviction is like a burn, easily forgotten
but a constant discomfort. Not many risk
a smile. Are we unfortunate?
We lost to Northampton. I couldn't
believe it; I thought we would do it. Win
the home games and survive; revel in
Town's newfound drive. On Good Friday
night I went to the Park with expectation.
I went to the Park with expectation.
Done again, burned again, they only had
to play against ten. Was it fair? Coulson's
hand evened up but it's still not fair! And
now when the aliens come, the virus
consumes us, the egos' fingers hover on
the button, when we've all lost even our
pride we'll not have a Football League
side.
And then we looked to Accrington and
we cursed Burnley, wondering if ever
anything was won fairly. And Tommy
Wright's name is in the kitchen; we only
notice him on the radio; he's yet to come
to the show. 2-0 down and it's a Tommy
Wright Town.
At half time on Easter Monday there's a
ten point gap that stretches and forms its
own space, a solar system centred around
a sun of discontent. There are scattered
thousands of heavenly bodies screaming
and shouting, about players and
managers, about refs and years of
mismanagement. Shouting into a void, a
vacuum. How many annoyed, in gloom?
Not enough.
And then we get three. And we hold on
for another three and it's beer in the
kitchen as I'm slapping the ceiling and
forcing the feeling. It's a six-point Easter
for Cheltenham, so it's Torquay we're
watching – catch 'em!
They sit above us perched on dry
branches. They laugh like crows. Their
feathers are tattered and worn, barely
capable of flight but they're thick enough
to cover the light.
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