Just Back

Quoted from Knut Anders Fosters Voles

Brain dump for next season, when Bratford don’t go up and we wreak revenge:

- Don’t walk past the Tesco. You can’t cut up

- Bratford stinks of exhaust fumes, brake fluid and burnt out clutch.

- Police horsefücker LB 3019 (quote this ref when complaining about the animal farm cünt). Trots up to the (innocent) Town fans queuing to get into the East Stand. Shouts at Town fans for almost getting trampled by his equine lover. “Howay, if yee didn’t move for mee big fickin filly, yer fückin doyles, I’ll trample thee to Peterlee (he was from Co Durham, sniffing out the overtime)”. LB 3019 starts laughing like a hi-vis hyena.

- Sat in the Bratford stand, Sue (62), from Frizinghall, asks me to move because someone else normally sits in my seat. But I’ve bought that seat and it’s next to my mates? I prove it by showing her my ticket on the phone. Sue tuts at such technological witchcraft.

-  An enemy created.

- The next 15 mins, pre kick off, are mostly spent by Sue pointing at me, huffing like a stream train and telling everyone on the rows below how miserable and selfish the youth of today are (I’m 40 and old enough to be Sue’s toyboy).

- Respectful clapping for Prof Sharpe. I clap. Sue
claps. I clap hard. Sue claps harder. I look mournful. Sue looks scornful.

- Six minutes of sterile Town dominance. Sloppy defending. Gilliead through Emmanuel and Crocombe like a Karachi curry.

- Sue suspicious.

- Town on the ropes. Smith getting closed down like a Bratford high street shop. Is Smith actually awake?

- Taylor into space. Clifton charging in like an eager haddock. Tumbles. Penalty. Yellow. Holohan - pray to the Saint of Mary. 1-1

- Subtle fist clench. Screams of delight from my fellow Town fan behind me. Sly wink to the Town fans across the tarp divide.

- The wink - in hindsight this adroit act of kinship towards my fellow Fishies may have been misconstrued as a forward gesture of homo-eroticism on my part. Certainly, my frothy-mouthed, Grimsby brethren were not impressed by the wink.

- Enemies to the left of me. Enemies to the right. Here I am, stuck in the middle with Sue

- Sue spins in her seat. Part Exorcist, part Jack Lester. ‘Geerrrrr ahead and t’clap if thou wantest duh. God giveth life, God giveth it awayyy, not yuhhh. I fink yer are the devil ifthself’

- Sue has the radge alright.

- I pretend I’m French. It doesn’t work. I pretend I’m German. It doesn’t work. I show her a photo of my Bradford Council tax bill.

- Sue’s now confused. Conflicted. She’s still trying to understand what I am - who I am - when Smith bundles home Town’s second.

- The Andy Cook song starts up from the Town fans. Sue moans that, “t’its dissgusssting. They be kids around”. Exactly Sue, there are kids around. That’s why we are warning them about him.  

- Half-time. Town 2-1 up. The cold. I didn’t feel it before. Has Sue drugged me? I can’t feel my fingers - it’s April.

- I accidentally trap Sue’s beige coat in my seat. She looks for a steward.

- I look at McAtee

-  If possession is nine tenths of the law, McAtee would be arrested. As McAtee thinks about this…and sharing a flat for the next 6 months with Bim Pepple in some sort of shït ITV sitcom…he takes a slightly crude block to the visage by Stubbs.

- McAtee is now the angriest man in the ground, on the assumption that Sue identifies as a woman.

- Glennon and the linesman flirt over some odd throw-in calls in our favour. Glennon has a fine thatch - does he condition?

“Bratford have only got one ball. The other is owned by Stuart McCall”…

- McAtee, still in a funk, uses Glennon by not using him, and passes infield to a shirt-split Smallwood. Then blames Glennon for his own inadequacies. Bratford almost equalise.

- Momentum shifts like a Waterfall crossfield pass.

- Cook starts bullying Smith again.

- 2-2

- McAtee has now gone 20 mins without finding a teammate, holding up the ball or anything. But it’s Lloyd’s fault according to McAtee.

- Sue’s now getting flirty.  She can tell I’m nervous.

- Cook. 3-2! Instead of celebrating with his teammates, Smallwood repeatedly cups his ears to the Town fans like a nonce in a nonce-off.

- Whistle goes. Sue and I swap numbers and at least one bodily fluid

UTM

Quoted from Knut Anders Fosters Voles

Brain dump for next season, when Bratford don’t go up and we wreak revenge:

- Don’t walk past the Tesco. You can’t cut up

- Bratford stinks of exhaust fumes, brake fluid and burnt out clutch.

- Police horsefücker LB 3019 (quote this ref when complaining about the animal farm cünt). Trots up to the (innocent) Town fans queuing to get into the East Stand. Shouts at Town fans for almost getting trampled by his equine lover. “Howay, if yee didn’t move for mee big fickin filly, yer fückin doyles, I’ll trample thee to Peterlee (he was from Co Durham, sniffing out the overtime)”. LB 3019 starts laughing like a hi-vis hyena.

- Sat in the Bratford stand, Sue (62), from Frizinghall, asks me to move because someone else normally sits in my seat. But I’ve bought that seat and it’s next to my mates? I prove it by showing her my ticket on the phone. Sue tuts at such technological witchcraft.

-  An enemy created.

- The next 15 mins, pre kick off, are mostly spent by Sue pointing at me, huffing like a stream train and telling everyone on the rows below how miserable and selfish the youth of today are (I’m 40 and old enough to be Sue’s toyboy).

- Respectful clapping for Prof Sharpe. I clap. Sue
claps. I clap hard. Sue claps harder. I look mournful. Sue looks scornful.

- Six minutes of sterile Town dominance. Sloppy defending. Gilliead through Emmanuel and Crocombe like a Karachi curry.

- Sue suspicious.

- Town on the ropes. Smith getting closed down like a Bratford high street shop. Is Smith actually awake?

- Taylor into space. Clifton charging in like an eager haddock. Tumbles. Penalty. Yellow. Holohan - pray to the Saint of Mary. 1-1

- Subtle fist clench. Screams of delight from my fellow Town fan behind me. Sly wink to the Town fans across the tarp divide.

- The wink - in hindsight this adroit act of kinship towards my fellow Fishies may have been misconstrued as a forward gesture of homo-eroticism on my part. Certainly, my frothy-mouthed, Grimsby brethren were not impressed by the wink.

- Enemies to the left of me. Enemies to the right. Here I am, stuck in the middle with Sue

- Sue spins in her seat. Part Exorcist, part Jack Lester. ‘Geerrrrr ahead and t’clap if thou wantest duh. God giveth life, God giveth it awayyy, not yuhhh. I fink yer are the devil ifthself’

- Sue has the radge alright.

- I pretend I’m French. It doesn’t work. I pretend I’m German. It doesn’t work. I show her a photo of my Bradford Council tax bill.

- Sue’s now confused. Conflicted. She’s still trying to understand what I am - who I am - when Smith bundles home Town’s second.

- The Andy Cook song starts up from the Town fans. Sue moans that, “t’its dissgusssting. They be kids around”. Exactly Sue, there are kids around. That’s why we are warning them about him.  

- Half-time. Town 2-1 up. The cold. I didn’t feel it before. Has Sue drugged me? I can’t feel my fingers - it’s April.

- I accidentally trap Sue’s beige coat in my seat. She looks for a steward.

- I look at McAtee

-  If possession is nine tenths of the law, McAtee would be arrested. As McAtee thinks about this…and sharing a flat for the next 6 months with Bim Pepple in some sort of shït ITV sitcom…he takes a slightly crude block to the visage by Stubbs.

- McAtee is now the angriest man in the ground, on the assumption that Sue identifies as a woman.

- Glennon and the linesman flirt over some odd throw-in calls in our favour. Glennon has a fine thatch - does he condition?

“Bratford have only got one ball. The other is owned by Stuart McCall”…

- McAtee, still in a funk, uses Glennon by not using him, and passes infield to a shirt-split Smallwood. Then blames Glennon for his own inadequacies. Bratford almost equalise.

- Momentum shifts like a Waterfall crossfield pass.

- Cook starts bullying Smith again.

- 2-2

- McAtee has now gone 20 mins without finding a teammate, holding up the ball or anything. But it’s Lloyd’s fault according to McAtee.

- Sue’s now getting flirty.  She can tell I’m nervous.

- Cook. 3-2! Instead of celebrating with his teammates, Smallwood repeatedly cups his ears to the Town fans like a nonce in a nonce-off.

- Whistle goes. Sue and I swap numbers and at least one bodily fluid

UTM

Quoted from GYinScuntland

Has Sue got a sister?

Quoted from HerveJosse

Rita

Quoted from Spurn boy

It’s been a long season for all the players following on from a successful play off , I think today was the 51st game that Crocombe has played this season and some of the other players have played more games than they would have expected to play so although we all feel a bit peeved about today I think we have had a remarkable season and everyone is ready for a well earned break.

Quoted from TAGG

Definitely need a mew keeper next season.

Quoted from GYinScuntland

Has Sue got a sister?

Quoted from TAGG

Definitely need a mew keeper next season.

Quoted from forza ivano

Hes played 80 odd games without a proper break  hes got to be mentally knackered, that's why the mistakes are happening.
I just wish people would think about how much football, and how much travelling these players have done. Clifton, efete, waterfall,smith, crocombe and holohan all need a rest. I think between them they've played 400-450 games  in the last 18 months.!!