Butchery.

That time is coming around again, before the season before has finished, friendlies are coming.

Id like to compare any Cambridge team to art, it was possible in the old days, that killer Spriggs pass, created in a genius footballing mind.

Of Alan Biley, that assasin. Etc.

Compared to today, Loft is a footballing turnip painted by Velasquez, and i do Velasquez a disservice. Bennet plays like Piglet from the house on pooh corner.

What is the point, as the world ages, becomes rammed with people all becomes futile. The Abbey Sadium is a cathedral to hopelessness, as most football grounds are.

The Abbey though is different, there is a new futility, a deeper one, risen from falling, falling into a pit that has no floor, just free falling, for ever and ever.

Of a palpable feeling of despair, ingrained, solid, growing.

O fear, of things coming to an end, of ruins, fire, emptyness so deep that an empty hotel bears no resemblance. Of being trapped, trapped in illness, an illness that ends everything, knawing at your bones, eating flesh, then burping.

The sky falls, grey black clouds, of bolts flasing to hit the earth to destroy, all needing to run.

That the walls of the Abbey will crumble, smoke will linger, water puddles on the carpets, if there are any, observers cry, kneel, heads down.

This is what it means to attend. There is no new birth, new meaning, all will be as it is, the past is the future, Barry saw to that, there is no sunrise.

Struggle, lose, struggle lose, struggle lose, that is your fate.