The honest team dribbles ineffectually, no one can be blamed. Saved' or else, discontents, we are transferred long decades back, like Faust must pay the fee. The Night is early. Great phantoms in us stir as coloured jerseys hover, move diagonally on the damp turf, and our eidetic visions blur. Because the obscure Staff of Hell rule this world, jugular fans have guessed the result half way through the second half and those who know the score just seem depressed.
Small boys swarm the field for an autograph.
Silent the Stadium. The crowds have all filed out. Only the pigeons beneath the roofs remain. The clean programmes are trampled underfoot and natural the dark, appropriate the rain Whilst, under lampposts, threatening newsboys shout.