What the f*** am I doing...

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DaSiimM

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So, here it is.

Well, not really, I mean, it's June 5. 2020. Uhm, in medias res, I think it's called, in the middle of it all. Somehow, and gods are still still looking for the **** who accepted this as a possible timeline, we, Guiseley and I, have slowly realised that we are soon going to start the season off in the League Two. Gone are the days of Vanarama, no more compass ****, no more "hitting the 'local' on the way," this is it. Professional f***ing football. I guess...

I didn't intend for this. This was far off the goal back in the summer a year ago. Sure, we were on an upward form, but so were Leeds once. Sure, some guys put in very impressing performances in the season before, but even Ravel Morrison did that some time. But ****** ****, every person who's ever taken a glance upon our squad, would barely ,just about, suit us right for the Vanarama National. So why the **** are we now staring League Two in it's scary ********? Maybe, just maybe, every other team had a genuine off season, for whatever reason. And maybe, all of our players managed to pull of the best performances of their lives. Or maybe, just god-****-******-***-maybe, we're actually good enough for League Two?

No.

Holy ****, no, we are not. I don't know how it happened, but a journalist once proposed that my tactical shrewdness was the mother of all this, and I've just run with it since. But we've come a long way since my debut days in Stirling, in the Scottish League 2. I didn't even last half a year. I was done, gone into the dust, like Wayne Rooneys talent after the age of 30. Along came Guiseley, and I figured, "Heck, at least it'll give me some time to work on me badges!" But f***ing ****. Some strokes, stress pills, pub fights, AA-meetings, and years later, we are now in League 2.

I am not cut out for professional football. I'm not cut out for being professional at anything. And nor is any one of my players. The board want us to be a full-time pro club, jokes. Wants to offer all of the players and staff full-time contracts, hillarious. Wants to build the club into a Football League side, slapping my thighs. My caffeine addiction, willingness to spend money on Guinness wherever I go, and ability to stare into the empty fridge for hours, are not key stats for a football manager. My dad once told me, never quit before you're thrown out. But then again, he was an alcoholic in a bar, so much he said never really applied. But this is it, I am too stubborn to quit, too impatient to look around for a new job, and too reliable of the Barley Mow Inn to move elsewhere.

Five years ago I was scraping days together in Denmark, worrying for how to survive the next day. Now those days are a dream-to-be in the past. Maybe I should just quit and apply for that gig as the local drunk? *Sigh*, when I look upon the training field, looking at my "finest" scraping and sliding and tossing themselves around, in search for some kind of round leather to kick at, the answer feels sure fire and easy. But knowing me right, I'll still be here tomorrow.

Geez, what the f*** am I doing...
 
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I just created a user for the single purpose of asking, when then **** will this continue? Because blimey, the intro has me hooked!
 
Hoping you are continuing this. I agree with aguywatchingfootball, the intro has me hooked!
 
I am so sorry for how long it's taking me to update this story. But the season is taking quite long to go through, lots of frustration, plenty to write about. I am fully intending to keep it going, just, bare with me. Please. It will be good. Maybe... Hopefully... Probably... Possibly... Bye.
 
'PRE' PRE-SEASON
​



It’s May the 26th. We just won the FA Trophy. I have no **** clue about what competition this is, but for whatever reason we met up with buttom of the league, long gone relegated, AFC Telford. A 3-2 win looks closer than it was. We disposed of them easily. Too easy. We’re not this good of a team, if you ask me. My assistant Iain MacRae asks me “Now what?” I stare confused out the window in my office, and replies, “Lots of Guinness…” Iain asks “And after that?” “Counterbalance the hangovers with more Guinness.” I reply. None of us knows what to do. None of us are suited for League Two. We’ve never been there, how does anything work up there? What the f**k are we doing…

I am a simple man, I enjoy simple things. I enjoy a cup of coffee and a nice **** to start the day off. I enjoy a well poured Guinness. I enjoy a quiet train ride. I enjoy that moment when you find just the right video on pornhub. I enjoy many everyday things. But as a simple man, simple things are able to push me. So when fancy stupid lowlife journalists start to question our relavance in the league, I get ******. And we have been questioned. A lot. Heck, I’ve questioned us myself, but **** it, the only negative ******* allowed in here, is me. So to **** with it all. We are going to do this, and we are going to do it my way.

Days pass, and I bring in Iain, and long lost in the depths of my countless Guinness’, I muster a tactical meeting. It’s a bit of a “different” meeting, but in the end we come out with a lay up. A tactical standpoint, somewhere to start off. A stupid composition of words to hopefully, most likely not, be the beginning of freaking something; Hit ‘n’ run.

Hit what? The opposing player. Run what? With the ball. Simple as that. We are not a good team, and there is no way in ****, with our reputation and finances (well, lack thereof), that we will ever be able to assemble a squad capable of playing some kind of decent football. It’s just not going to happen, so why even try? Here’s the idea: We will play a flat 4-4-2, now listen, we’re a bad team, deal with it. There’s no point in us trying to play like Barcelona, so let’s just embrace it. Anyway, a flat, highly structured, defensive, 4-4-2. No player within our reach will feature any technical gifts, so we’re better off forcing them to stick to their positions. No lollygagging (love that word). We wil mark tightly, but refrain from closing down, limiting the amount of “having-to-think-by-themselves-ness” from any of our players. We will get stuck in, there’s a bigger chance of getting the ball if you toss a whole person at their face, than having a two-left-footed dingus trying to anticipate. We will be disciplined, with direct passing, and everybody shall just shoot on sight. Will this work? No. Do I care? No. This will result in us giving up 200 freekicks per game, and having 50 shots from the center midfield. But maybe with some luck and the wind going in our direction, we’ll manage to score a goal every once in a while.

Next up is players. I have narrowed my player criteria down to two key strengths: Pace and physical strength. Now, do we have that kind of players? No. Well, I mean, after a quick visit to the local gym, at least two or three of the beasts down there, are actually able to run at a decent pace. They will get signed. Can they play ball? Don’t care, I just want to hurt the others and kick ball at random. Great tactical layout David, really outdone yourself this time… Shut up.

(Next up is transfers, pre-season, and first couple of months in the league. Thank you SO F***ING much for you patience, I’ll try to push out updates regularly going forward. But I’ll promise nothing, ‘cause that’s who I am, full of ****… Also, if you want pictures of anything specific at some point, please let me know, 'cause I suck at screenshotting any importat stuff as I go.)
 
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THANK YOU!!! About time, been waiting far too long for this. But nice to see you kept up the style of the intro, can't wait to see how your season goes, because to be honest, the tactic seem a bit aggro. But loving the narrative!
 
Trimming the Squad

Trimming the Squad

​

SO!!! As the pre-season crawls ever so near, I decided to let my secretary and other assistants come up with, and schedule, a range of friendlies, whilst Iain and I got started on the squad building. And once my assistants return with the schedule, I shall overrule everything, toss it out, maybe yell a bit, and then do it myself. You know, just to assert dominance, and let the establishment know who’s in charge. It also gives me a bit of a kink downunder, so yeah. Don’t judge.


Off to work we are. With my genius tactical layup (as shown below), we now need the folks to fit it. We are not a strong bunch, nor very quick. I aim to change that. The following weeks goes with scouting, watching a various of training matches all over the country (the board pays for the fare, so why the **** not?), and sessions in several gyms all around, trying to find a big guy who can run at a decent pace. Ball control, technique? Nah, f**k it, just push and run. Luck and wind direction will guide the rest.

First bit of dealing, was the release of several of our youth players. We’re not a club with funds in any way, so what can be done without, we will do without. And young kids we can do without. The lack of facilities doesn’t boost any talent either, wich eases the decision too.

Jordan Preston, 25, striker, 84 league apps and 24 goals. Slow, weak, some height, but other than that, nah. He’s out. He doesn’t react to fond with the news, but this is business, and he’s nothing we want. And I don’t like his hair either, looks like a lil school boy. Off ya go.

Dan Atkinson, 24. Right back, 114 league apps. Used to be useful. Then he became useful on the bench. Then he became useful on his couch. Which is where he will stay. Bye bye.

Joshua Stockwell, 24, striker, 111 league apps and 51 goals. Man, I actually like this guy. Signed him up myself back in 2017. But he’s not what we need. He’s not quick, he’s not strong, and he’s just not what we need (repeating myself, yeah!). I’ll put him on the transfer list, as he’s far too expensive to release directly.

This goes on for a while, assessing players I brought in myself, only to realise they no longer fit in. Ross White, 92 games, out. Peter Skapetis, 88 games, out. Rob Atkinson, 181 games, out. This process hurts my kink, why? Could it be, sympathy? Do I actually feel some kind of fondness for these guys? No, stop it, I empty my Guinness and continue. Thomas Hammerton, 73 games, out. Max Allen, 45 games, out. Joe Coveney, 55 games, out. Josh Thompson, outstanding last season, out. Ronan Murray, 112 games, 40 goals, out. And that’s not even all. I sit here, with a long list of people I, myself, brought in. And now I’m telling them they are not good enough. I sat down with all of these guys, and many more, and ensured them of a grand time here in Guiseley. We would never be corrupted by business, come on, we’re just a small club, having fun, making a living. I pour up some Bowmore instead, this is going to be tough. And would you PLEASE STOP CUTTING ONIONS?! Geez!


In the end, 33 people from my first team and reserve squad has been released or put up for sale. Anything between starting regulars and prospects, all of whom I’ve brought in myself. Some people have stayed, despite their evident lack of what I need. Will Hatfield, 29, cm, 188 games, no kind of pace or strength, BUT! His technical provess and flair will play a key role in the center of the pitch. I hope… Tom Koblenz, cm, a guy I was looking to get rid of once promotion got secured, is going to stay. He is strong, with decent pace, so if my tactics prove to wok, so will he. Jordan Slew had a terrible half season last year, but suits what I want now, so we will see. Last chance bud. Lionel Stone, cb, the only guy I ever paid money for, strong but slow. He’ll stay. But I still need to strengthen that back line. And midfield. And the attack. And the bench. And my *** life. And pretty much every **** thing in this club (note to myself; hire a new secretary, Herbert is doing well, but we need something more… intriguing, going forward). As I note stuff, whether or not it being important, I am presented with the pre season schedule. I look at it, throws it in the trash, yell a mixture of profanities in several different languages, and sighs that I’ll just have to do it myself. Ahh, the kink is back, good thing this big desk covers it up. All is good again.


I sit at my desk, fairly impressed with my own kink, as Iain enters the office. He presents me with a long *** list.

Iain - “Here it is, the final list of every single player available for us to sign. Took me quite a time, rather long list.”

Me - “But Iain, these are all terrible, I don’t recognize any name at all. I mean, look at this guy, striker, 6 goals in 20 games last year for Virum-Sorgenfri? The Danish fourth tier!”

Iain starts to sweat, but points out “Yes, I know, but they’re all fairly strong.” “Oh really?” I ask, with a renewed interest. “Yes, and quick too David. Strong and quick.” I look through the papers, **** what a long list. “Bring ‘em in!” I exclaim. “What, all of--“ “YES! All of ‘em! Bring them in for trials. We must see them, do, uhh, stuff and such, before we sign them.” “But David, there’s more than a thousand players on this list, I mean… are you sure abo--“ “Yes Iain, dear friend, I am quite sure! Come on, not all of these guys will accept a trial, and those who don’t, they are clearly not what we need.” I leave the details to Iain and my assistants, plan friendlies against Burnley, Sunderland, Bolton, Everton, Carlisle, Bradford City, Crewe, and Worceste, and go back to work.


And a week later, after regretfully selling Chris Hussey, my star left back, to Chesterfield in our own league, but hey, he was slow, they offered money,I love money, and yeah, decisions where made, I walk into my office, slightly hungover. I mean, negotiations takes nerve, and Guinness gives me nerve, you can judge all you want. I am met by Iain, he smiles. Ehhw. “What do you smile for Iain?” “Have you not noticed?” “Noticed what, Iain?” “I got almost all of the people down here for a trial period. Did, did you not see the training fields?” “No, Iain, I did not notice the training fields, Iain, because I feel uncomfortable looking at other people training, Iain. I start to sweat, and I hate to sweat, Iain! Why do you think I’ve got the curtains down, huh, IAIN?!” “David, look out the window then” he says, pointing towards my mistakenly removed curtains and clear windows, with a great (horrible) view over the fields. I drop my jaw, “Iain, what the actual f**k have you done?” “What you told me to, I got as many as I could to join on a trial for some weeks. But you were right though, most did actually decline by default. So only a half, about 532, agreed.” I stare out onto the training fields, which can only be described as freaking ground zero. “Well, Iain, I am very happy that you went through all of this, to bring about 532 players on a trial. But next time, maybe not have all of them here at THE SAME F**KING TIME, IAIN!!!!!”



(Sorry for the lack of updates. I have come to realise I am probably as unreliable as my fm counterpart. The story keeps going, but so does my everyday job, apologies. But again, if you wish screenshots of anything, let me know. An I also apologise for the weird pacing of the story. I wanted to be well into the season by now, but whenever I start writing, all this stupid nonsense end up on the pages. So yeah. Bye.)
 
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This is absolutely brilliant! Please continue
 
****** **** thats was funny xD

Keep up with the writing, OP..this is good!

Sent from my Redmi Note 3 using Tapatalk
 
Well, aguywatchingfootball (great name btw, very specific), I might just down a couple of pints tomorrow and toss up something on a paper, and, with a bit of luck, that'll materialize into a new chapter/update. Stay tuned son. Stay tuned.
 
Sign folks and play teams
​




What the ****?! How the fu-- why the f**k are we top of the league? How the actualt f**k are we top of the f**king league?

Okay okay, I guess we should go back to were we left off from last.
So, our squad sucks? Yep. We’re favourites for relegation? You **** right. Did I bury myself deep in the foam of several Guinnes’ to, just for a moment, feel like I’m back in Denmark, not giving a f**k on a daily basis? **** to the yes.

So let’s go back, as I stared out the window, looking at ground **** zero happening on my training field. I don’t-- like, I don’t even know what to say about the amount of bodies tossing about in such a small area. But come the end of weeks and pre season, signings happened.

We sign Max Hazeldine as a striker, he did well in Vanarama National, so let’s pull him up. We also sign Sammy Ammari, German striker, as he has had some games in League 1, so yeh, show us your worth kid. We bring in Joshua Debayo on the left back. He was way too good for Halifax in Vanarama North, so a bid of a gamble, though I’m confident he’ll bring the biscuits. Josh Moore comes in for the right wing, ****** terrible footballer. But he bossed the gyms, and he can run too, so biscuits will be brought. Matt Smith for right back, strong and quick and young, ez decision. Johnny Gordon for central mid, strong and quick and young, feel like I’ve said this before, and I also want a cookie? Almamy Yattara, centre back, no idea why he has no contract, but **** it, he can bake biscuits, and we will eat them, strong and quick, get in the van. Kieran Parselle, centre back, tore up League 2 last year, strong and quick, just 23 years old, no brainer. Adri Íñiguez, right wing, bringing competitiong to Josh Moore, though Adri is stronger and quicker, and has a cool name, biscuits galore. And lastly, Armando Pelaez, American left winger, quick and strong (surprise, huh?). He’ll need some training to his passing, but should share the biscuits with the rest of the class. All in all, we have way too much cake in this room, IAIN! WHO AGREED TO LET ALL THIS **** IN?!

Oh, and remember that guy, the striker, the terrible who-the-f**k-is-this-guy guy, who got released by Virum-Sorgenfri in the Danish third tier? Stephen Schultz-Jørgensen? Yeh, we signed him.

View attachment 90582


But how did pre season go? Well, it came and went, simple as that. Come on, I had a f**king thousand of players stacking my training fields, I don’t freaking have time to give a tiny rats *** about pre season. I mean, I guess I should spend it to assess this tactical "wtf" I have created, but nah. The Barley Mow Inn has happy hour now and again, so screw it. I know my home. So we lost six and drew three. Yes, that’s a 0-3-6 stat for you there. Pretty nice *cough*. Do I care? No, because I am a genious. And like Gregory House once said; “Whatever.” Least that’s what I told the reporter, when asked wether I had any tactical doubts after the friendlies. Do I have faith in my system? No. Do I care? Not too much, too lazy. And stubborn, so f**k you reporter. “No I’m not doubting anything, I’ve played way more FM than you ever will, so I'm pretty sure I know what’s best.” Nailed it.

View attachment 90581

Now, off to the first match of the season. It’s an away fixture against Ebbsfleet, who finished 22nd​ last season. If we where to get a nice start to the campaign, this would be it. I went with a starting line-up of whoever performed the best (or least bad) in the preseason. Joe Fryer in goal, back four of Dan Andrew, Yattara, Parselle, and Debayo. Mid consisted of Pelaez, Johnny Gordon, Luke Woodland, and Íñiguez, going for strength above all else. Hazeldine and Slew took the front two, going for the strongest and the most in-form.

View attachment 90580 View attachment 90578 View attachment 90576

However, 33 minutes into the first half, Ebbsfleet scored. Faustin Makela flew through our back line, picking up a loose **** from the mid, and easily pushed it past Fryer in goal. Only thing that kept me from spurring profanities and change everything up was my hangover from last nights Guinness marathon. We finished the first half, looking like a bunch of ducklings frozen in firm ice and smashed by hockey sticks lead by the entire New York Rangers. And I told them. I yelled, smashed stuff, punched stuff, bit stuff, spilled stuff, mumbled stuff, and with a bit of what-the-****-was-that-ness, my players re-entered the field for the second half. With style.

We came out with, despite no tactical changes, to dominate everything. We took possession, and if we lost it, we demolished whatever Ebbsfleet scum who had the leather, and regained control. We started shooting, shooting at will, and after 57 minutes, following a throw-in on the left hand side, Debayo tossed it into the Ebbsfleet box, and somehow Pelaez reached and scored, 1-1. But kiddies, we’re not done with you. We continued to push, and with Sammy Ammari replacing Hazeldine after 65 mins, just prodding the Ebbsfleet defense, Ammari suddenly saw a gab, duked past one defender, ran past the second, and passed past the third, to a Jordan Slew who volleyed it into the far off corner of the goal, 1-*****-fuka-2!!! Three, 3!!!, points, and suddenly I look like someone who knows how to coach a football team. Guinness to everyone!

View attachment 90575

Look at that!!! I might just be a genious.



Wait, wasn't this thread dead? Yes, it was, due to personal issues. But I've been slowly getting a normal day back, and since I absolutely love to write this stupid stuff, I figured I'd give it another stab.
 
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Back to Marley

​

Following that ecstatic evening at the Roots Hall visiting Ebbsfleet (well, it was 15:00, but this is my cold opening, indulge), we set off to visit Bury in the first round of the EFL Cup. Bury is in League 1, and will certainly prove to be a challenge, but to be honest, I don’t really care about the EFL Cup. Like, the name, so uninspiring, and the final are played in late February, like, what the **** is that?! And we’re playing on a Wednesday, come on. Only saving grace is the 24°C, making me sweat more than a T-Rex trying to ********** before his parents get home from their T-Rex jobs. I don’t know, it was warm, okay, geez.

I went with basicaly the same line-up; only changes being that I started Sammy Ammari instead of Hazeldime-- dine? Hazeldine? Okay… -- instead of Hazelnutfilleddinnerbiscuit. Not much for starting the same eleven over and over again, since it insinuates an unwarranted feeling of content with how everyone is performing. And that’s not what I want; I want every sweaty body to run around and fear for their future career for 90 minutes, unless they have an impact. I want them to wake up in the middle of the night, screaming, feeling my gaze wherever they go, and fearing they’re not contributing enough. I like that thought, love it. The thought of me inflicting mental damage on grown men, while the fact is that I just wanna get the day over with so I can return to the Marley Bow Inn, soothes me. Yes it does, it soothes me, in an increasingly worrying erotic way. Feel like we went off track?

Uhm, but yeah, Ammari instead of Max Hazeldiedastripper. Onwards, go lads, off to the Grigg Lane.

View attachment 90467

Well first half was a dudd, but once again, ‘sploding out of the gates to begin the second half, having subbed in Hatfield and Hazelbutterjeallytime for Pelaez and Jordan Slew. And after 47 minutes, we were looking to break through the well-playing Bury defence. Luke Woodland at the edge of the box, his back to the goalie, men on each side, what’ll he do, what’ll he do? He gets tackled by Curtis Nelson, who just cannons the leather up the field, and somehow it found its way to Lucas Atkins, behind our defence and all, where he just slowly waltz towards Fryer in goal, gives it a little nodge, and we’re behind. I was livid, what the f**k are Woodland doing? You have ALL of the freaking possibilities, and for some reason you just gave it away. And what the ACTUAL F**K (!!!) is the DEFENCE doing? You f**kers! You looked like a VIP gay couple who just bought really good seats, and who are simply watching the game! Get your fingers out of each others *****, and perform some ********** defence!
Luke Woodland is tossed off the pitch, get out damnit! He’s replaced by Thomas “Hammertime” Hammerton, who sees out the game without any big impact or mistakes.

And after 53 minutes, while I’m still trying to tell Woodland to try and keep the ball with him and his teammates for the future, Iain suddenly screams of joy (terrible sound, ech.), I turn around, “Shut up Iain, I’m coaching here!” “But look,” he says, “Look at the scoreboard!” My goodness, we had equalised. A freekick on the left hand side by Andrew gets cleared, but only as far as back to him, he finds Debayo back in the field, who smashed it farward, smacks Johnny Gordon in the face, and while the Bury defenders laugh out loud (I’d imagine), Max “Whatismyname” Hazeldine picks it up and fires it into the backnet. Ahh, just like we practised it, *cough*.

The rest of the match waves forward, mostly towards our end of the field, which my stress and borderline alcoholism can’t take. But the clock ticks on, all the way to the 89th​ minute. Bury's given a freekick. ****. Jacob Mellis stands to toss it in. **** ****. It’s cleared, but only as far as Kamara who gives it back to Mellis. **** **** ****. He takes a couple of steps to move out to the right of our box. F**king defend damnit! ****. He drills it back to the edge of the box, where Curtis Nelson, the ****, first times it into the far corner.

View attachment 90466

F**k this, f**k this game, f**k this cup, stupid f**king ridiculous nobody-cares-about-you-cup cup, f**k Curtis Nelson. F**k this, I’m f**king off to the Barley Mow, catch me in a haze in a weeks time, a**holes.


 
A Game Is 90 Minutes
​


Like a wise man once said; “Let’s get on with this ****!” - Toad 40:31

So following the despicable disregard for what’s best for me, by Curtis Nelson and the rest of those twats at Bury, we set our eyes on the upcomming league fixtures. A meeting with Iain MacRae followed, with him suggesting different tweaks to see out a game in the future. My thought through decision was to completely deny all f the suggested tweaks, as that would mean more work on the training field. I pull out my finest bottle of Bowmore. We cheered, we yelled, we sang, we cried, I threatened to fire him, he threatened to quit, because who else would take my **** on a daily basis on what can only be described as half your average slaves minimum wage. Banter.

We travel to Stoke to take on Port Vale at their 19,000 all-seater stadium, Vale Park. Why do they have such an awesome stadium? All we have is the Nethermoor, which can only have 2,500 people, and 500 of them have to stand. Anyway, we were off to Vale Park, who got relegated from League 1 last year. Surely they gotta put up a fght, eh? Well, losing half of their players on free transfers after the relegation, and replacing them with very sub-par bodies, they’re not actually that good this year. They’re seeded to finish in 19th​ this season, so I actually fancy our chances. If we can get stuck in there, hurt them, scare them and scar them, make them whine like a b**ch dog in a bag going down stream (too much?), then we should be able to pick up some vital points.

Iain hands me his suggested line-up for the day, and as per procedure, I rip it into four pieces and toss it. So here’s the line-up. Fryer in goal, as he is technically the only kepper we have in the squad. Whoops. Andrew on the right back, still going strong. Debayo on the left, and a central partnership of Yattara and Jonathan Johnson. Considered keeping the usual partnership of Yattara and Parselle, but this way it looks like I’m actually doing some tactical considerations. Heh, suckers. Pelaez, Woodland, Gordon, and Íñiguez in midfield, and the front two will be Slew and young Bolton graduate Luca Navarro. Ammari will go back to the bench, as he played terrible against Bury, and he looks more like an impact sub, and the same thinking goes with Max Hazelisjustmystrippername.

View attachment 90446


An eventless first half goes by, something we’re getting good at, and I decide to bring on Max Hazeldine instead of Slew, who just hasn’t been able to run up any kind of pressure or ball movement. Hazelnipple got the pace and the lungs.

53 Minutes, freekick on the left hand side of the Port Vale box. Navarro steps up to take it. Cleared, damnit, but only as far as Navarro can pick it up and cross it again. Not a very dangerous cross, Port Vale-keeper Burton is surely gonna grab that. But somehow, like a slippery soap pending the unevitable doom for the newly prisoned inmate’s rectal region, it slips through his grasp, drops, and slowly trickles over the line. Own goal, 1-0 to Guiseley, **** to da mega f**king yeah! Eat it Burton, take it all in, just close your eyes and go to your happy place, this’ll all be over soon! What were we doing again?

Oh yeah, after 68 minutes we somehow forget to mark men, you know, as you do sometimes, being a paid professional f**king football player. And Port Vale midfielder Michael Smith storms through our defence to pick up a loose ball and smash it in behind Fryer in goal, 1-1. For christ sake.
But as the game slowly comes to an end, we kee pushing. I want that win, I really want this **** win, there’s no ****** way I’m going to get pulled into a relegation battle straight off, no freaking way, I want the points, I want AAAALLL of the f**king points! And in the 89th​ minute, Max “Pleasesaymynamerightthistime” Hazeldine recieves the ball at the centre circle, turns around his direct marker, looks up, and delivers a silky smooth delicious ball up through the field, to Sammy Ammari, who takes a touch before easily sliding it past Burton in goal. Oh, God, what a beautiful pass from Max, and in a situation like that, Ammari is cold as strawberry ice, no chance for Burton. But we’re not done. As the celebrations die down, once again, Hazeldinho recieves it near the half way line, turns and slides off his marker, picks out Ammari with yet another beautiful pass (**** son!) who this time picks out Johnny Gordon in the box, and it is blasted home. 3-1 to Guiseley, it’s done, three points in the bag, let the dog out, let’s go home, let’s celebrate, I know a place.

View attachment 90445


With that win, six points in our first two games, we are off to a better start than I thought was possible. But it’s been against, on paper, easier competition. These are the kind of teams we need to beat, in order to stay up comfortably. Our next game against last years number six, and one of the favourites for the playoffs this season, Crawley Town, will really make us get an idea of what our abilities actually are. I’m nervous. This’ll take at least seven pints of Guinness. But that’s not a pretty number though, nah. Okay, eight then. At least the next game is at home.



 
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