Spoke to a red yesterday on my way to pick up a pint of milk from my favourite Oslo COOP MARKED YAH! He said justice for the 99 red balloons king kenny never walks alone he has schnerdergerder and maybe the FA told Hodgkiss he'd get the EnkenLAHND job if he relurgated Liven Pole because ov zee conspracee. I asked why he spoke like Harry Enfield pretending to be German and he necked me and nominated Brendan for LMA Manager of 2016 before singing a long ballad about John Arne Riise being able to kill any moose he wanted.
After cleaning myself off in a public toilet in Devon I noticed nine adult males wearing LFC replica socks and pairs of WARRIOR mouldies (that click on a bathroom floor to the Morse code distress-signal sound of a thousand iPhones being lightly tapped by the fingers of men explaining how they're going to murder every member of the Webb family line, even the ones who are already dead), smiling genially by the urinals and holding out small, leather-bound books that told of the life of Saint Shankley, how his poetry was ridiculed by the literary cannon establishment (which had in vain tried for centuries to write him out of history), and how his sainthood itself has been blocked by a succession of popes with Manchester connections EVEN THO, THO, Saint Shankley has even turned over four times in his grave like what a saint's suppose to (this miracle is symbolically re-enacted in the penalty area every weekend by EL PISTELEEEEERo). Upon handing me a copy, all nine began to cry, weep in fact, and seemed unable to control the violent vibrations of their limbs. They fall to the floor, frothing at the mouth, yet solemnly still able to incant the dates of each trophy win. When that ghostly whisper stopped a strange, un-human sound began to rumble in their throats. Their tight, red polyester shorts started to bulge with tiny little baby erections, and then words started to form... walk on, walk on....
