You only have to listen to his commentary from last night to know there is something not right about his attitude towards us. Whatever it is about the club that has inspired such negativity from him we can only speculate on. But there can be no mistaking the fact that Martin Tyler, professional football commentator employed by Sky, has a disproportionate hatred towards Manchester City FC.
Years ago -when that revolting bastard, the Pisscan, was cheating his way to success, you could tell Tyler was a 100% committed rag fan. His ill-disguised contempt for us was only equalled by his shameless, parasitical fawning of all things rag.
His grovelling sycophancy is as nauseating as his anti-City comments.
I have a vision of his grey, almost transparent figure, sitting alone at night in front of his TV watching a rag game. His bony, trembling hand furiously pounding away at his ancient knob as his watery, insipid eyes try to focus on the events happening on the flickering screen. The rhythmic pummelling of his manhood suddenly escalates to a climactic orgasm, and a ribbon of tepid population paste squirts from his helmet and splatters grotesquely on to the carpet in front of him. And from there, he shuffles to the bathroom, with his pants and trousers scrunched up around his ankles, where he stands in front of the mirror and gazes forlornly at his wretched reflection, and it dawns on him that he has just masturbated to an image of a shirtless Luke Chadwick making his way down the tunnel at the swamp.
And as one final, languid micro-bubble of Tyler spunk makes itself apparent from his flaccid member, he realises just what an utterly futile existence he has led, and sheds a single solitary tear at the sheer wastefulness of his life.
