But this time I want to see them utterly destroyed: obliterated, their very own Armageddon. Of course they will have their obligatory pgmol assist but I want that to be irrelevant, whatever it is this time. I want to see that bullying jock crying into his glass of cheap Tesco plonk as our Viking cooly slots the 8th goal in - 20 minutes after KO.
And on a similar theme I want to see the largest alligator in the universe performing fellatio on Ratboy, I want to see a crazed escapee from Broadmoor etching a huge tattoo on ten bob's shiny dome saying 'The Future Is Blue - and I'm a useless ****. The end.'
Then I want to see a nice, comely housewife in post-war Britain, doing her housework in the small, but neat and tidy semi-detached she shares with husband Wilf and daughter Dorothy, who has a clubfoot she calls Marlon.
And the busy, hard-working housewife is whistling a jaunty little air whilst casually ironing ginger pig Scholes' face with one of those old 1940's irons that they used to use, where they would leave it in the fireplace in order to heat up sufficiently to iron the clothes. And I want see his ginger facial features melting slowly as the furnace-type heat scorches his flesh, and all the while little housewife is humming 'Don't Go Under The Apple Tree' rather tunelessly, to Marlon, the clubfoot.
And then for dessert I want to see Wio Ferdinand in a disused canal barge in Copenhagen, being buggered relentlessly by Ru Paul and a man who was once an extra in an old movie featuring Peter Cushing.
You see, this is what happens when I have too much time on my podgy little paws. Bizarre thoughts cascade from my diseased mind, painting the disturbing image you who read this have in your minds.
