You can smell the stench of fear in the North...the inferiority complex, the self-loathing, the general gutlessness and 'End of Days' hysteria, the swinging of limbs at their own brothers and murderous attempts to impale the Spanish bogeyman's eyeballs with clutched NSNO straws. This is how it all ends, faux fighting spirit in tow.
Goodbye, prideful Scouseland! Sunk by Iron hellfire from the South, we drop the Anchor of Doom and descend to our muddied grave with only a list of excuses in our pocket and the fingers of blame up our own backsides. Let us meet Davy Jones on the banks of the Royal Blue Mersey; the Mad Pirates of Walton are no more...woe is us.
HMS Everton...undone by its own crew.
Requiescat in Pace