Armadillo Roadkill I don’t know. Maybe there will be goals. Maybe Reading will play really well but lose heroically. Maybe they’ll be pants and lose. Unheroically. Maybe a unicorn will land of the pitch. Maybe Dave Edwards is still alive. Who knows?
All bets are off. Storm clouds, dark omens, dire predictions; all swirl around the majestic Mad Stad like a vortex in the whirlpool in an oil slick. Sweat, blood, tears. We know it. It’s in the air. Strained sinews in the heat of battle. The darkened, bruised sky over our beloved Berkshire. A rectangle of grass, the effort and exertion of our valiant warriors, flags flying, honour challenged and defended. The flight of the ball, the caress of the cross field sprayed pass, the gonad-twisting crunch of a flying tackle.
Injuries, adjudicational errors, umami-laced hydrogenated and saturated fat snack, effluent influenced beverages. Sone-A-frikkin-Luko.
It will be massive. Snarling, angry, Monkees-hit-singing, Thames-Valley-Police baiting massive.
International break can kiss my arse.
u ok hun? xxx