Sallow, low functioning beings wander, existing on an intravenous of deep fried nothingness and corner shop booze, swathed in sweat shop seconds. There’s a post war fatigue feel minusthe relief, etched into the faces of this tribe.
They are the near dead battery in your man draw. The tea bags that weren’t kept airtight; now just pouches of tea flavoured ash. The tepid ladle of baked beans spludged upon a hot breakfast. They are the tickets you can buy on Groupon. They are millionaires made from publishing snaps of housewives wearing horse brasses as nipple rings and the sales of crotchless knickers to beasts on a beano to Brighton.
A win for us today would put us 2 points off second place. A win for them would allow them to leapfrog Norwich and let Stoke know they have company. A draw does very little for either at all.
We beat Villa 0-4 of course, and there was Fulham 0-3. But it was Defoe, the Midget Gem who scored a brace in both of those games. So what must we do now? Well the ball must be kept on the floor, West Ham need to be passed out of this game. Whilst they like to think of themselves playing in some mystical, ‘West Ham way’ in reality it’s merely a marginally more sophisticated version of hoofball. If we join in with fat Sam’s strategy we’ll achieve nothing.
Our team sort of picks itself. I’ve run this time with what I suspect the gaffer will choose. Prediction? I’d be delighted to see us thump them, but am struggling to look beyond a 0-2 …that’s where we are these days and it feels good.