Barry
Town 3, Bangor City 0: FAW/BBC Invitation
No-Chance-Of-Euro-Places-Alright-Arthur?-Stick-To-Rugby-Mate Cup, September
1997.
"That's
It" slurred The King, as their 3rd goal squirted past Dave Williams in the
City goal, "I'm taking my pants off, and going on the pitch.". At
this Andy woke up from his stupor and swung possibly the slowest haymaker ever
in the history of the world at Pruney, which missed, before he resumed his
muttering all curled up at the back of the stand. It was an improvement in
sleeping conditions for him because at the half-time interval he had had to be
rescued from his slumber in the dirtyass toilets by one of the boys climbing
over the cubicle door and releasing the lock which Andy had thoughtfully
engaged prior to resting his eyes.
As
far as I was concerned, ever since Diving Darren Ryan had curled them rich
fuckers' second goal around our truckdriver keeper, I had decided that the best
plan was to get my top off and reveal my new nipple ring. It was then, I felt,
pertinent to invite the Barry Family Stand to enlighten me as to exactly which
league position would they enjoy without the Chairwoman's millions, and
furthermore where the fuck were you lot when you were skint anyway?
I
recall a philosophical discussion was entered into as to exactly which orifice
those cunting bongos that they insisted on playing wildly out of time would fit
the best, and I believe I had some fairly strong opinions on the matter, which
were no doubt shared by the silent majority. <Although the silent majority,
by their very nature, and as their moniker would surely indicate, are a fairly
timid lot>.
So I
told Sharpy that these Invitation Cup games were bollocks, and we'd have the
yellow bastards in the league anyway. I like to think that he was impressed by
both my candour and my agility in a five-minute tumble over the advertising
hoardings behind his dugout. You don't get that at Everton! No siree Bob.
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