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There's a cat that tries to get in our house regularly. He's a lovely lad. We call him Blue-head but I don't know what his real name is.
(I just asked him. He said Miaow).
It's raining out there; I wouldn't mind if he came in. But one of our Actual Cats, Ikey, does not like Blue-head, and hisses at him to shit him up til he runs off again. Well, it's Ikey's house. Sometimes they have a kind of rapprochement and peace descends - but never for long.
They never fight as such - just hissing and running away and the game of trying to get in when it's raining, to scran the food that's out. Sometimes Blue-head achieves entry unbeknownst to any of us. I've found him fast asleep, curled up on the bed. I've looked round from my computer and he's there, killing a catnip sausage toy. I've gone for a piss and when I've come back he's chomping away at a bowl of KitKat that clearly isn't his.
But he's a good little lad and quite friendly so - gah, life's too short. He's inside now; wet as hell, and a bit nervous. Ikey is staring at him. I doubt it'll be long before Blue-head is chased out again.
And, indeed, life is too short to stay down for long either.
Was it really only nine months ago that I finally reached the end of what I could take? The moment, in the aftermath of a racist comedian in the Nantporth Suite, in the shadow of the failure of the domestic license, after lie and lie again? The moment I became a man without a team?
And, yes, it was. The Bangor City I grew up with had gone, has gone, forever. Broken, broken, broken. Hijacked by owners so dumb they couldn't even cook the books properly. Well, we've been over that before.
And now, that club is likely to be relegated again - demoted, actually, for events off the pitch - cause they couldn't do paperwork properly. I mean, it's so ludicrous now that it's objectively funny. Funny haha and funny peculiar. The club has put an appeal in, of course. What the outcome of that is going to be, who knows. And, in a sense, who cares. I try not to, personally.
Bangor City, or whatever strange and weird cuckoo is colonising the nest and the name, have signed lots of players from Italy, some via Malta. Bizarrely, they have a new Director of Football, who has apparently had experience at Milan and Udinese. This chap's past is a bit murky, according to this article.
Who knows what's gonna happen next week when the appeal is heard? Not me. Not Blue-head (I asked him. He looked at me with his massive yellow eyes and said nothing).
A Man With A Team... soon?
And in any case, it's not important in the way that the new phoenix club is important. Because on Monday, Clwb Peldroed Bangor 1876 Football Club learns which level the Welsh FA is putting them at. A Tier 3-compliant ground has been secured, and management is ready to rock.
It's very exciting. It really is. I feel energised again. The sun's come out. Blue-head has gone out again. And - this never happens - the little black cat from next door came in to say hello too. A new day's beginning. A resurrection.
Nine months ago I was really at rock bottom as far as footy was concerned. I started writing about it. A few people liked the blogs. Some hated them. Such is life.
But you cannot keep a good cat soaking wet for long can you? This Cat will always come back.
It can piss it down, but remember this wisdom (and one of the greatest comedy moments in my lifetime):
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