Cod Almighty | Article

by Alistair Wilkinson

20 November 2006

Remember...

I can't remember as I look around the town centre. I see cheap fibres (more expensive than we know) stretched taut, showing them as caught. There's enough flesh in 11 to fill a team with its benches too, and they're always red and blue – or the wrong black and white.

I'm tired, I'm losing the fight. I'm losing the will and I've forgotten the thrill. I watch 11 pork chops, in products beaten from sweatshops. And I've approved while the rest are unmoved.

Who gets the exploitation, is it the taste of a new generation? Nah, the other one, Nationwide's been and gone; Endsleigh's been and gone. 2-4, 1-3, 0-2? Child sizes and now an England everyone despises.

Year after year of transient anonymity; year after year of elitist depravity. What about me? I try to think, try to write, but I'm just killing trees.

The Lodger's gone; he came and went. He always paid his rent and it's not much of a wrench, he was never Heaven-sent, but... deserving of gratitude for the right attitude... I'll always remember Palace and Barnsley...

Now it's time for AB, back to make it look easy. There's another dawn's glow on that older familiar face, he's certain that quality's not a race, and certain of our lack of pace. We'll do it right, we'll keep it tight and he'll expect a fight. We'll shout and scream and expect it as it has been - we'll fly to that rose-coloured scene. And if we don't, and if we won't, and if we can't and if we shan't... well, there's always room, and breakfast too. Welcome home, now pass me to the comfort zone.