Cod Almighty | Diary
Whoops, apocalypse
23 December 2020
BOTB Diary writes: Well, two minutes after I send my diary off to Cod Almighty Printing and Promotions Department, I hear Oliver "Ollie" Olleway has left the club via Twitter, thus rendering it mostly obsolete. Once again I feel like Peter O’Hanra-ohanrahan caught in a news tornado. I’m not sure what's going on, but ich nichten lichten.
It seems JF has told Oliver that he is leaving the club, (unconfirmed) and Oliver has already had a blazing row with the potential owners (unconfirmed) so he's off back to Bristol in time for Christmas (confirmed), to drink mulled wine and eat turkey (pure guesswork.)
Reaction on social media has been swift, as you would imagine, and mainly condemnatory. The news (unconfirmed) that Fenty is leaving the club would be the best Christmas present we could have hoped for, but that Oliver should go with him has divided fans. I personally quite liked him until now, but if all of this is confirmed (unconfirmed) it seems he's leaving the club in a frankly undignified manner, when we are in big trouble at the bottom of the league with a bunch of kids and veterans carrying our hopes for safety in their fragile hands (confirmed). Not a class act, especially after he told us he wasn't going anywhere unless he was pushed less than a week ago.
Oh dear oh dear, oh dear. (confirmed).
This is a breaking story. Doubtless tomorrow's diary will have more details.
UTM, Fenty Out, Happy Christmas, who knows anymore?
BOTB Diary originally wrote about half an hour before that: Can I change my name to the Wednesday Doomsday Diary of Defeat? I had a nice cheerful title ready to roll in case we achieved a draw last night and went into the festive break on a roll. Sadly, a couple of great finishes put paid to our crazy-ass dreams, and I've woken up this morning to weather like damp tupperware. Happy Christmas, war is ongoing.
One thing I've learned over the years is that some people are just toxic. They can be pleasant to talk to, make a lot of sense on occasions, even be charming. They are usually 90 per cent decent human. The difference is they are 10 per cent deranged fruitcake. The importance of that extra fruity layer cannot be underestimated: the 90 per cent is used to fool people into allowing them into their lives, their power structures, their company; the 10 per cent is used to create chaos and misery wherever they go. They are like one of PG Wodehouses's aunts: sooner or later, out pops the cloven hoof.
So what, I hear you ask? Well, the thing is, experience tells me that these people never improve. After one horrendous incident you might give them the benefit of the doubt; after all, they now seem to be charming and sensible again. But the fruitcake layer is still there, baked in. Other incidents invariably follow. Again and again they fool you. Many of them end up in jail, or broke, or friendless. Some of them - no names mentioned - end up in positions of power, from which they can be very difficult to shift.
Has this got anything to do with GTFC? Well, who knows? I’m just sharing my life experience. Such as it is.
I’ll try and say something cheery to finish this short but sour excursion into a bad mood. It's the January transfer window soon! If we can get more players with the class of Filipe Morais then we have a chance - he is proof that players who are better than the ones we have are out there, waiting for an opportunity to shine. Surely, surely, Shirley, surely - Oliver has the contacts and the knowledge of the game he needs to find them... was what we said in July.
And last but not least, in the last two games teams have actually had to make an effort to score against us, rather than just standing in our area and waiting for us to present them with goals like a dimwitted but generous uncle. This is the absolute basis on which a team must operate - first build the castle, then you can make attacking sorties from there. We are in a relegation scrap/dogfight/battle and every game counts. If we go back to kicking it into our own net while not under pressure, allowing bobbling balls through our hands, passing it to their forwards in our six yard box and other such non-comedies of errors, we are doomed.
Come on, things might get better. The weather certainly will, the days will get longer, toxic personalities might finally lose their grip on power, transfer forays might produce more Morais, vaccinations might ease the second mutant wave of whatever, The Smiths might reform, Nigel Farage might fall into a pond, and James Hanson might be cured by homeopathy.
Rosabel, believe!