Strong language warning.
I am lying in a hospital bed in London with a painful cocktail of drugs sluggishly going through a drip in my arm. I do not sleep. But I dream.
Febrile, rancid dreams. Incremental to the morphine intake.
I am at Mass.
I see him.
I see Dr. Fucking Spacehopper Head. Cuntsultant. Makes Anthony Howard look like Orlando Bloom.
He is in the line.
I see him. I see him. See me. Go on look. It wouldn’t even register would. Eh? Wouldn’t even cause a glimmer on that jowly, pock marked, fuck ugly viz, would it?
"Lord, I am not worthy to receive You".
Smug twat. Name in the newsletter. Mass intentions; "For the People of the Parish".
But only if they come to see you on the BUPA. Only if they pay £150 for you to dispense your wisdom. Your pearls of fucking wisdom. Your pellets of fucking poison for the rest of us though. The ones who. The ones who what? Pay your fucking obscene wages, that’s who.
"But only say the word"
I am on my feet, spewing obseneties. Falling, falling, falling forward.
"And I shall be healed".
The gentle Geordie lilt of BBC Five Live’s John Murray.
We are playing OK. We have plenty of possesion. Stoke pose no goal threat, but neither do we. A point would be welcome as even if there is a decisive result at St. James’ Park on Monday, we could not drop into the bottom three. I can live with that as I still think 36 points will be more than enough.
A corner. The ball pings about, ricochets of the hapless Zayette and Ricardo Fuller is there to snaffle a goal.
I just know that’s it. I visualise the scene, imagine Pete and Dave dissecting what has happened and know that Kilbane, Cousin, Boeteng and the other mercenaries will be wondering if there will be owt doing at Wolves next season….
Half time. I dose but am brought back to reality with a sharp burst of pain as the gluey drip, drip of drugs has a blockage as it enters my vein.
I press the alarm. No response. Ten mintues. Excruciating, I begin to drift into desperation. I grasp the sheets in between my teeth. I am drowning, losing it, about to weep with frustration and pain.
A nurse arrives.
"Would you mind licking the piss off this pungently, putrid stinging nettle?", I say. At least that appears to be what this member of the Angelic Profession thinks I have said.
The look passes across her face; "Wot you talkin’ ’bout Willis". Yer daft racist I laugh to myself.
The next 20 minutes are expended unjamming the canula from my gummed up vein, and then relocating it. I observe the dried blood stains in the curtain from yesterday.
It could be so much worse.
I could be at the Circle as Jamie Lawrence smashes in what sounds like a goal of the month contender to bury and lingering hopes City may have harboured in this game. Dawson’s free kick in injury time is far too little and far too late.
The left back revealed to the Guardian’s Louise Taylor that the players had snubbed Phil Brown’s offer of a trip to Chester Races. The Boxing Day hangover remains in the dressing room it seems.
Hull City: Myhill, Ricketts, Turner, Zayatte (Geovanni 67), Dawson, Garcia (Mendy 60), Boateng, Kilbane, Barmby, Fagan, Cousin (Manucho 60). Subs Not Used: Duke, Hughes, Halmosi, Marney