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.