Aye. I can picture the lapathy now.
Players trudging leaden footed - like Stan after sixty minutes - heads bowed and watched by pale blue seats of cold plastic. Tombstones of those departed from us.
And from the remaining few, yet to depart, a silent vigil but for a faint and constant 'hiss' of hate.
The drizzle out of a grey sky with a cold wind whipping sodden corner flags into sharp slaps of wet cloth - a cutting mockery of real applause. The Holte silent as the grave except for the occasional keening wail of a fan overcome by mourning for times past.
The mournful "caw..... caw" of an expectant Crow. Black of heart in it's need to scavenge from the dead remains of a once proud band of Brothers. "Aaaaaagh" screams a demented man living in the bowels of the Holte
"It's Vic come back to Haunt us !"
And as if to accompany the slowing heartbeat of those brave souls unable to leave this funeral march of misery and shame:
The Bells. Those Fuckin' Bells.
