Just going to try to have a laugh for the rest of the season. I don't know exactly what produced this feeling, possibly a combination of our spectacularly humiliating finances, Armand Traore's chimp, Harry being a miserable bagpuss-faced tart, anybody who can actually kick a ball being injured, and the changing light of a March morning as it playfully dances across my fire escape. I know it must be a lot harder for you poor bastards who actually have to go to the games, but I'm there now. Fcuk it. Anybody else? | |