We’ve all experienced it. You’re ravenously hungry but instead of ticking into a real dish like bangers and mash or a hefty plate of pasta, you gorge on crisps.
The instant gratification, followed by your tastebuds lurching from sweet to savoury, the satisfying whack of salt, it’s immense. What you’re left with though is a sense of emptiness and on a bad day, constipation.
According to this week’s intern on the club’s website, it’s everyone’s dream to play at Wembley. ‘It’s a bucket list moment for every young fan’.
Are we going to be subjected to a lot more of this?
If you fulfil your Wembley dream by hiring the place, then do you fulfil your relationship goals by hiring prostitutes?
Was it really a childhood ambition to play in a two thirds empty stadium that was hired for the occasion?
The closest to a Wembley feel-good factor I’ll be capable of enjoying is a sense of relief – if we survive it’s stupidity.