A slow painful procession, flowers, black cars, heads down. Tears.

A black cloud, huge, enveloping everything, faces like concrete. Silence save for the thud on earth on the coffin. And the father, Paul Barry, following in his helicopter, or limo, aghast, breaks the silence as a loud uncontrolled fart booms, and walks like he fouled his small clothes.

And then smelt it, and with the money sense of an money changer from Jerusalem.

And i co k a hoop, happy, care free celebrate, that there is justice, that god willing United will tread the boards of Carlisle, that out post, free from football, as incompetent as an asian blowing up a scottish station.

Die Cambridge die. Make Cambridge free from the choke damp of this turgid entertainment, because there is none, its just a heavy slap across the face.

How dare United sign Ryan Loft.

Havent the fans, what will be left, suffered enough? That on top of being robbed, abused etc, that this fish out of water piroeuetes like a ballet dancer across the Abbey. Pants showing from the froth of a mini dress.

Knock the Abbey down, oh it will be, but sooner, plant potatoes instead, parsnips, carrots, watching the seeding, and its growth in the rich earth is far more entertaining than this canker.

Of Dan Barton trying to defend, what a hapless situation.

He has the strength of tissue paper, cant tackle, has no concept of how to defend, yet the manager expects him too.

Its SUICIDE. VIVA Monk, way to go mate. Three month funeral indeed, the disaster will go on.

The funeral will never end.