We are playing g shit right now, there is no getting away from that. Already up here the Sevco loving journos are sitting about in a Paul McCartney style wanking session.
Their fans, never ones for a balanced approach, they have convinced themselves every year that they would win it. This year that has gone interstellar and it’s all but in the union flag bag they take to Tesco to show they’re staunch.
The last game they played us should have been 5.0. We pissed all over them and put them back in their box. Fast forward a few games and the lid of that box has been blown the fuck off, again.
Let me be clear, we aren’t at it. That doesn’t mean we won’t be. Sevconians have only two states. Their team are either the worst in the world,or the Glasgow Barcelona. They are a self whipping froth of a support, but as we all know, froth is fragile. I love their over confidence, their swagger, to see the hope return to their hearts, black as they are.
The reason for that is simple. I don’t want them resigned to being second. Where’s the fun in that, I ask you. No, I want them buzzing, I want them convinced of triumph. For it is then and only then, that the maximum suffering can occur when we put them to the sword. And we will.
The 55 Express has roared out of the station every year, only to be blown to fuck by the Celtic Cruise Missile. This year it may get fully out. The passengers high on delusion will see daylight, they will have a great time for a few stops of the way. However, and you can all take this to the bank, they will emerge from a tunnel and see us waiting to derail them into an abyss of suffering.
It’s not over until we stand over them laughing like fuck.
For it is written.
By me.