Gullible fools who would rather follow the empty promises of their club spokespeople than live in the real world. Naive and easily led, believe only what they want to hear. Acquiescent to the end, they'd rather fill their empty, moronic minds with images of the rags signing world-beaters for minimum outlay, winning every single trophy available to them and generally being the greatest club the world has ever seen.
But it's not happening, Raggie's. Not happening. Your club is as hollow as a politician's promise, and about as popular amongst football fans as another Covid virus. You're not disliked, no no. Not at all...you are fucking loathed and despised. You may well lie there at night under your faded Beckscum duvet, with your grotesque Giggsy lampshade, and your sad and neglected pin-ups of Howard Webb and Mark Clattenburg wining and dining with Gill and the Pisscan, and you may well lie there tentatively fondling your seriously underdeveloped genitalia, remembering the days of Martin Tyler ejaculating whilst screaming out the names of various rag players from the past, but outside your little bubble the rest of the world is watching your vile club doing an excellent imitation of the Titan submersible, and enjoying every second of your long, slow destruction.