Cod Almighty | Article

by Alistair Wilkinson

4 September 2006

I'm as fickle as the rest and no worse than the 
best – no better than the worse, a fan's 
mutable curse. I called for Groves to go, 
even though he was my hero, and what 
do we have to show? Not much and no 
touch: oh yeah, see ya Futch. 

Two Ms, two points and we're Crewe 
and Buried. It's not tiddlywinks but it's 
fiddly and it stinks, we're put to the test 
and we're less than Bruce's vest. Friday 
fucking nights to avoid Cleethorping 
England sights. Stupid Cupid's black 
and white bow, the string's snapped and 
the blunt arrow's too low, it's a risky 
business upsetting the few, things are 
going down the loo. 

So what do we do, we so few? Boo, 
hoo, boo. The football wouldn't keep me 
away, but there's some make me not 
wanna stay. Too much to boo, the boo-
boys can't see the joys, and I'll admit 
they're well hidden, buried in the 
midden, but are these boos unbidden? 

A cerebral rebellion tries to free an inner 
hellion. It looks like fun to let your 
mouth run and run. Not even tempted, 
may your throats rot untended. I go to 
bitch and whine, to moan and groan; I 
go to see and not to look and to laugh 
and to whisper and shout 'fuck!' I go and 
I see prick and dick who hate till they're 
sick. 

Move the Lodger in! Don't worry so 
about the win. But you do and you boo, 
even the Lump who must get the hump, 
and Reddy wasn't fit you… 

We're in it together and hopefully 
forever. Do we want it? Do we deserve 
it? Town won't serve it, but it's there, 
just a little bit.