BBQ Fallout

The last few months of the previous season. Post Wembley spirit. Pre season. The first three games. Fenty's BBQ (pre drive home). The spring in the step and the chest strutting nasal twang of the early Eighties Croft Baker spirit returned.

They are still the same players.

It is still the same management team.

It is still the same £49.99 B&Q BBQ that sits abandoned in John Fenty's shed, rusting like Ian Knight's legs, coated in horse manure, livery entrails and the unringfenced viscera of the public sector.

Just like the charcoal that Lyndsay Fenty bought from the Shell Garage instead of using Hurst's Homebase vouchers, the embers have been slow to ignite. Amond and Bogle have flickered but the dripping fatty deposits from Alan Alger's gristly joints of doom have so far conspired to douse the promotion flames.

What do we want out of our football club? I want us to be self-sufficient and for whoever to wear the three fishes to wear it with the respect it deserves. I feel that the current crop are as talented a group as we have had in a while.

They are trying.
Often very trying.
Whilst they continue to try, everyone at the club and the fans who have dug deep to fund Operation Promotion deserve our continued unreserved support.

The past few results have been poor but with the continued support of the management and players by us, the fans, we can claw it back. If someone is willing to offer Gary Hooper £32k a week - exclusive of the use of the Hillsborough VIP box for the chunks of iron, ball bearings and molten slag that masquerade as his friends - then we can recover and overhaul the Evil Vegans.

Our protein deficient rivals will stall once the clocks go back. The Vegans' solar powers limited by the dark nights, whilst Fenty's special hormone ridden meat treats begin to take effect at the turn of the year.

Matches have been tighter than Paul Hurst's family (Pleasure Island coupons clipped from Friday's edition of The Sheffield Star. A year's worth of coppers collected for the two penny seafront slots. Nights in front of the hearth painstakingly splitting double ply tissues into two to soak up post donkey ride sweats (not an LJL erotic euphemism)).

Fine lines.

And I'm not talking about the conceit of Steve Evans' moisturiser and mascara collection. Bogle against the post. McKeown with a naive fumble in the gazebo. Fenty with a bloodied banger, still pink in the middle despite Fiona's protestations. "I'm not eating that Dad!". And she didn't.

Fine lines.

One stray Fenty sausage ingested. Fiona is sick on Brown. Brown's shirt stained rather than the image of the club. Amond cuts the mustard. Toto is pushed up front, all griddle action and smoke signals, maturing into the Paul Warhurst totem for Generation Rent.

Fine lines.

I'm an idealist. A romantic. I dream of Paris Mariner stalking the Banlieue for the next Akpa Akpro. Forza Ivano navigating the Po, hunting for a gangly Regista. Most of all I want a Freddy Shepherd era vision of eleven black and white homegrown, and presumably vertically stunted, chemically challenged, North East Lincolnshire footballers kissing the trawler crest with pride, rather than leaving the area or becoming the next sheet metal apprentice to be tied up to a pole with a haddock up his bottom. A world where Grimsbypete can sail up to the Broads, slip on his Diadora 94/95 away kit and punt with pride.

If we stay together. Stay strong. This can still happen.

Eff the Premier League. Eff Barclays. Eff BT Extort. Eff Sky, Rupert Murdoch, Bosman, Platini (sub human slimy scum who is the buttock puppet of Sarkozy and Sheikh All Fanni (prenez-moi de vous courtiser chatte)), Blatter, Warner, Mourinho, Berahino, Gervinho, Mazinho, Filet Mignon, Alberto Contador, Dave Challinor, Mark Flatts, everyone at the Qatari principalities of Catalunya and the 16ème arrondissement, Ed Woodward, Pini Zahavi, Jorge Mendes, 667 Govan Road Narcissistic Off Licence, Kevin Mustwat...

...the list is endless.

But please don't take my Paul Hurst away.

The majority of us still believe in him and I am proud to have him manage my club. In a business full of u-bend bothering turds, Hurst is my toilet duck, Doig is my bleach and Fenty should not flush unless his bowels are heaving with a world class bran fuelled replacement.

In Toilet Duck & Bleach I preach.

UTM

John Hollins

Tl:dr

What the heck you been taking?? That was mental.

Who are you? And why do you hate Chris?!?

Just wasted two minutes reading that twaddle.

I'm going to take a guess at one of the GO pioneers, probably the poster formally known as Blackandwhitebarmy.

I have it (on very good authority) that the bbq all went wrong when Brian Laws turned up with some cheap chicken wings.

WTF is all that about heard hurst has 2 games to save his job

Poojah was better tbh...

excrement man ...... I thought my posts were bad ............

I thought that drug use in GY was on the decrease.