Magicpole
Well-Known Member
A derby day is a mixed blessing. All week beforehand, you swing from absolute certainty, to utter gloom.
We should win, but we will fuck it up, just wait and see.
No, will we fuck, we will do them.
All these conversations take place inside your own head. It wears you out. I, like most, have the negative me inside the same skull as happy go lucky me. The pessimistic **** is always there. He is like
This weekend saw us take on our friends across the city. We have issues.
This morning I awoke convinced we would make an arse if it. By 10.30 I had us winning six nil. My missus looked at me with a look that screamed, you need help you annoying ****.
The game was a relief. I had nothing more to do to ensure the result. I had decided not to drink the night before, as twenty minutes came, I noticed five empty bottles that had contained beer. Duck knuws who left them there.
We dominated, we created good chances, we missed every fucking one if them. My negative side was whispering.
Your going to get fucked. You missed three great chances. You will regret that.
On and on the **** went.
In the end we won. It was great. I love nothing more in football than to beat them and text my pals afflicted by supporting the gers.
I'm sitting in the garden with a fire smouldering, a gin in my hand listening to tunes and wondering if I will make it back inside without tripping over something and ruining my gorgeous face.
Derby games are great, but they fuck up even the mildest of souls. As I'm not a mild soul I bear the brunt of my own expectations.
We won. And the optimistic me has parted the miserable cunts balls.
I think I might start breathing out now. My pal, a ger, will need my support in these coming days and I will be right there to remind him that it could be worse etc etc.
I do what I can.
We should win, but we will fuck it up, just wait and see.
No, will we fuck, we will do them.
All these conversations take place inside your own head. It wears you out. I, like most, have the negative me inside the same skull as happy go lucky me. The pessimistic **** is always there. He is like
This weekend saw us take on our friends across the city. We have issues.
This morning I awoke convinced we would make an arse if it. By 10.30 I had us winning six nil. My missus looked at me with a look that screamed, you need help you annoying ****.
The game was a relief. I had nothing more to do to ensure the result. I had decided not to drink the night before, as twenty minutes came, I noticed five empty bottles that had contained beer. Duck knuws who left them there.
We dominated, we created good chances, we missed every fucking one if them. My negative side was whispering.
Your going to get fucked. You missed three great chances. You will regret that.
On and on the **** went.
In the end we won. It was great. I love nothing more in football than to beat them and text my pals afflicted by supporting the gers.
I'm sitting in the garden with a fire smouldering, a gin in my hand listening to tunes and wondering if I will make it back inside without tripping over something and ruining my gorgeous face.
Derby games are great, but they fuck up even the mildest of souls. As I'm not a mild soul I bear the brunt of my own expectations.
We won. And the optimistic me has parted the miserable cunts balls.
I think I might start breathing out now. My pal, a ger, will need my support in these coming days and I will be right there to remind him that it could be worse etc etc.
I do what I can.