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Friday, 14 January 2022

Untwinings

Quite some time ago

a lifetime or two past,

not decades but years,

the bustrip screenshot

the trees who reached

for each other,

intertwining,

catching each other’s leaves

dropped with care;

love-gifts

promise new flowers.


Let the record show

that nothing can last:

no embraces, nor tears,

an ignoble rot

makes mulch of our dreams.

Soil smothers

and unbreathing

rootstock dies too; trees

no longer there,

only missed

by bus travellers.


And the seasons flow

in both directions:

a locus-point here

for the fallen forgotten.

But listen – the eons

can uncover

the flap of a wing

and the miniscule breathing

of the hare,

which rake rifts

in the forever.


Thursday, 13 January 2022

AMWAT: The End Game (again)

 Unsurprisingly, the zombie club has been suspended from all football for non-payment of wages, and continues to attract fines every time they miss a game because of the same.


Now, this doesn't necessarily mean the end of the story. And neither does the fact that they haven't applied for a licence for tiers 2 or 3.


But it does mean that - in the unlikely event that the administration does not simply go bust completely - any regime would have to start at the bottom again, quite possibly Tier 4 (where 1876 are currently) or even Tier 5 (where 1876 had to start).


There are still some whoppers on one of the old message boards trying to puke out the same old idiocy about 'collaborators, traitors, twixers' and the rest of it. What a ridiculous thing to nail your colours to. And what a moron you must be to cling to the long-disgraced rags masquerading as a Bangor club.


Ymlaen, forward, and fan-owned: if 1876 get promoted to Tier 3 next season the adventure hots up. If we don't, it'll be on footballing terms and never anything off the pitch, which is how it should be.


And we'll stay at Treborth, I hope. Nantporth is cursed, and falling down through a mix of neglect and shoddy building standards in the first place. Long-gone is that manicured pitch, lovingly curated by a groundsman treated like shit in the first throes of this drawn-out death rattle.