Ha ha, punch-ups in the dressing room - I am loving, loving, loving, loving, loving, loving, every fucking second of their demise. But I don't want it to finish just yet, there is still plenty of catastrophes ahead with Ten Bob at the helm. More ultra-expensive flops for them to spend millions and millions on, more disharmony amongst the mercenaries, more head-in-the-sand bullshit from the media to cover the cracks that are becoming more and more evident with each passing day.
How ironic that they call themselves 'united' when they are anything but.
I hope the drunken despot doesn't suffer senility, or Alzheimer's: I want that uncouth, foul-mouthed, disrespectful bastard to watch the turmoil and chaos he himself designed for the club. I want that nasty piece of work to know that his sly treachery is at the root cause of all that is rotting and decaying at that worthless pit. And as the rust and the oxidation eat away at the stand named after him: I want to see him there, looking on helplessly as the years of neglect finally take their toll and that whole polythene palace comes crashing down.
Know it, you purple-faced ****, know it.