WHAT THE HELL IS THIS?

What the hell is this, Stress?

It's a predictor, Pie. The clue is in the word PREDICTOR at the bottom. If it was a biscuit, it would say BISCUIT. But it isn't a biscuit. It's a predictor.

A predictor, you say? So what does it predict?

The results of Forest games, of course. You do realise what this brings to the table, don't you, Pie?

Er...

No more dragging yourself off to live matches and sitting there crapping yourself mental for nigh on two hours of abject misery. Just set the predictor going for a few minutes of stress free entertainment, and Bob's your uncle.

So how does it work?

Well, the Forest score is on the left, and the other team's score is on the right. It seems fairly obvious to me.

No, I mean how does it work. How do you input the form data to ensure a plausible result?

I don't know what you mean.

What principles govern the movement of the little ball?

That's a secret, Pie.

It's just random, isn't it?

I don't know what you mean.

It is - it's just random. So according to your predictor, the outcome of games is decided by the bastard offspring of Dame Fortune.

No need to swear, Pie. And anyway, aren't you always telling me that football is more to do with Chaos Theory than facts and figures?

Well yes, but...

There you are then. I think you'll find that my patent predictor is just as accurate as any other method. And there's one more thing, Pie - one more little secret which can actually influence the outcome of the game.

And what would that be then?

Will Power, Pie. You'd be amazed how Positive Mental Outlook can drag that ball into the opposing net. Try it, Pie.

You're an idiot, you know that don't you?

We'll see Pie, we'll see.

Oh look, we've lost.

Or won.

Or drawn, as the case may be.



CHAMPIONSHIP 2015/16
B O R E M I N G H A M
B L A C K B U m
B O L N
B E N T F O R D
H O V E
B R I S T O L S   C I T I E S
S H Y   M O O R   F O L K
C A E R D Y D D
C H A R L E S T O N
S H E E P
C O T T A G E B O Y S
U D D E R S F E E L
U L
D I P S W I T C H
L E E D
M I S E R A B L E B U G G E R
M O N K E Y D O N S
F O R E S T
P R E S T O N   N O B   E N D   (misprint)
Q U E E N S   P A R K   L A D I E S
R E A D I N G   L A D I E S
R O T H E R I N G H A M
W E N D I E S
W O N D E R B R A S


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.