HEY! Hey! Everyone! The Reds are impotent again.
All the ball. Endless ball. The Reds are mooching round the hill boys. They all laugh at us, they all mock at us, they all say our goals are numbered.
Our goals are numbered.
In the car on the way home. 212 is going off. Nearest anyone in a red shirt’s come to scoring. Tongue tongue deep in. Banks’ ode to cunnilingus the filthiest thing on display so far today. Go ‘ed. Is right.
The Reds turned up at the Hawthorns. Got it. Gave it. Probed. Got it. Gave it. Probed. The Reds turned up at the Hawthorns. Got it. Gave it. Probed. Got it. Gave it. Probed. The Reds turned up at the Hawthorns. Got it. Gave it. Probed. Got it. Gave it. Probed.
The Reds. The Reds turned up.
Football a funny thing. Lash that performance in during September and we all get to go, you know what, they are alright The Reds. They got it. Gave it. Probed. Alright The Reds. Kept working. Never looked too exposed. Alright The Reds. It’ll come. It’ll come.
It won’t come (unlike the girl with Azealia). It isn’t coming. It isn’t happening. Balo toiling away. Having a go. Henderson joining, joining, joining. Sterling off one flank, Ibe from the other. Having a go. No one isn’t having a go, including the manager. The only thing is this – give Balo a partner. Just give him a partner. What a player he could possibly be.
Pinging it about The Reds. Pulis prone. Happily prone. Consensually prone. Prone. Prone because nothing comes next. No one comes next.
The Reds. Lovren splendid against nowhere near enough. Gerrard in control against a puzzle which doesn’t want to be difficult. The Reds popping it off against a side in their own ground happy with a point.
I saw Peter Marshall before the game. We talked about the glory of goals. A ball you strike perfectly. A header you meet. The ball in the back of the net and the way your body feels thereafter. We talked about being Jermaine Defoe after that goal against Newcastle. Have any of us ever been that alive? Maybe. Possibly. Perhaps. Perhaps when watching last season’s glorious, flowing Reds. Perhaps then. I told him of a banal goal I scored playing five a side a fortnight ago. Passed it into the far corner. Got smashed into my ankle. Ankle still swollen. Marshall – “You scored though. Can’t have hurt.” Nope. It hurts now. Not then. Because Goals. Goals are everything.
Goals are everything. However I reckon a 3-3 today would lead to a greater fume. But in a 3-3 we get to celebrate three times. Go mental three times. Be in excelsis deo three times.
The Reds have taken that away from us this season. Someone has taken that away from us. Sense has taken it away from us. A collective sense that happens elsewhere. The sense of your broadsheets and quality tabloids. You can’t keep scoring and conceding – you have to be like anybody else.
I don’t want to be like anybody else. I want to be in excelsis deo. I want to be joyous. I want my tongue tongue deep in. I want that thing which made me feel. I want that. Why has that been taken from me? Who is responsible for that? Who decided they had sense with their talk of flaws at centre half against Crystal Palace? When does the whole being a flame thing come back.
They toiled The Reds. They were good at 90% of the football. But being good at the other 10% is all that matters.
The Reds. The foreplay rock solid. Nothing is going to go dreadfully wrong. But where is the climax? Tongue tongue not deep enough.
Buy goals. Be goals.
Pics: David Rawcliffe-Propaganda-Photo