A spoiled evening

I listened to the Doncaster game, surprising for me too. I could have been doing something useful. It pleased me when United went one up, its not Shakespeare, but two late goals would have made the time invested worthwhile.

To listen to the pain of Mark Johnson and Doug Shulman would have been rich entertainment. The relief at a point was as if you could cut it with scissors.

Doncaster must have a poor team. A fish, belly up, and weakly flapping its fins, would have the word United stamped on its belly. Who could not beat that? Doncaster.

Maybe i could write a Shakespearian play, or an Opera about United. It could go like this. I would call it

FAILURE.

If it was an Opera, i would have a musician hitting a cymbal hard every 25 seconds. For three hours.

A play would involve the staff having affairs with everyone else, jealousy, poisonings, a red flag flapping above the Abbey, and multiple suicides. All white people will walk on their knees.

The final scene will show the fictional chairman finally voting conservative, and rueing a wasted life.

Zebedee of Nutholt Lane.