DECEMBER 13 2014

So what about that then, eh, Stress?

Lost the will to live, Pie.

Everybody loses the will to live in Rotheringham, Stress. It's one of the things you learn as you grow older.

That's no consolation, Pie. It finally dawned on me during the match that Stuart Pearce is probably the worst manager in the world. Whatever there was to get wrong, he got wrong. Failing to pick Fryatt was the worst mistake, almost as bad as sidelining Vaughan which was even worse, but nowhere near as bad as failing to find a decent midfield combination or, what was worst of all, failing to develop a consistent style of play.

Oh come now Stress, it wasn't that bad, was it?

It was worse. It was the worst match in the history of the world. Not one shot on target. Not one pass completed. Not one player fighting for the shirt. Not a single sign of cohesion or progress on the pitch. Fans tearing up their tickets, fighting over food, hanging strangers from lampposts. It was a nightmare.

I sense a degree of exaggeration here, Stress.

It was like watching cattle fight in a storm drain. It was like being trapped in a fridge watching your sausage harden.

No need for that kind of talk, Stress.

I was reduced to tears, Pie. A grown man reduced to tears. I wept incontinently for hours, wept for humanity itself, Pie. I cursed Rotheringham and their Fat Controller, cursed the gods of football, cursed the fate that had cast me to earth as a Forest supporter. "O my club, why hast thou forsaken me?" I cried to the heavens, but the heavens didn't answer.

Perhaps they were busy. There's a lot of stuff going on, you know.

Which is why I had to kill myself.

You killed yourself?

There was no alternative, Pie. My heart had been ripped out, my hopes and dreams crushed beneath the hoofs of inaqueduct management. What else could I do, as the Guardian of the Club's Soul?

Well, you could have not killed yourself, I suppose.

That may have satisfied you, Pie, with your hopes simmering in the tepid stew of patient expectoration, but for me, only the ultimate sacrifice could express my despair.

Expectoration is spit, by the way, which I know seems a little off the point, but I've always thought it important to get the words right, especially when delivering a message of such biblical stupidity, don't you?


I was just wondering how you killed yourself, that's all.

I forget now, but the method of self-illumination is surely an elephant beside the grand significance of the gesture itself.

Whatever. It all seems a bit embarrassing, though.

What's that then, Pie?

Well, killing yourself after a nil-nil draw which moves us up a place. It seems a bit self-indulgent to me. In fact, it strikes me that there's really no point talking to you, Stress.

Why is that then, Pie?

Because you're dead, mainly. There's really no point talking to you because you're dead.

Just because I'm dead doesn't mean I can't have an opinion, Pie.

Oh dear, you've not really thought this through, have you?

I'm sure I don't know from what you're inferring to.

What was that?

I said I'm not sure -

Odd that. I could have sworn I heard a noise, but no - just a toilet flushing somewhere in the vast pomegranate of time, as Stress would say. Ah well, on to Leed, in the sure and certain hope that things will get better. They will get better, you know.

Don't count on it.

There goes that toilet again.

(01) 09.08.14 FOREST 2 BLACKPOO0
(02) 16.08.14 BOLN 2 FOREST 2
(03) 19.08.14 BORMUFF 1FOREST 2
(04) 23.08.14 FOREST 4 READING LADIES0
(05) 30.08.14 WENDIES 0 FOREST1
(06) 14.09.14 FOREST 1 SHEEP1
(07) 17.09.14 FOREST 5 COTTAGERS3
(O8) 20.09.14 MEWO 0 FOREST0
(09) 27.09.14 FOREST 0 HOVE0
(10) 30.09.14 WIGGUM 0 FOREST 0
(11) 05.10.14 FOREST 2 DIPSWITCH2
(12) 18.10.14 CAERDYDD 2 FOREST1
(13) 21.10.14 WATFOR? 2 FOREST 2
(14) 25.10.14 FOREST 1 BLACKbum3
(15) 01.11.14 UDDERSFEEL 3FOREST 0
(16) 05.11.14 FOREST 1BENTFORD 3
(17) 08.11.14 FOREST 2NORRIDGE1
(18) 22.11.14 WONDERBRAS 0 FOREST3
(19) 29.11.14 BOREMINGHAM 2 FOREST1
(20) 06.12.14 FOREST 1CHARLESTON1
(21) 13.12.14 ROTHERINGHAM 0 FOREST0
(22) 20.12.14 FOREST LEED

Tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow, creeps in this petty pace from day to day, to the last syllable of recorded time; and all our yesterdays have lighted fools the way to dusty death. Out, out, brief candle! Life's but a walking shadow, a poor player that struts and frets his hour upon the stage and then is heard no more. It is a tale told by an idiot, full of sound and fury signifying nothing.