Constantly annoying all with their presence, a mutant monstrosity that was born in the toxic dump of the fens, in its stagnant pools, dragon flies, maggots feeding on dead rats, a poison capable of killing Budapest with a cup full.

Cambridge are to football what spray cheese is to fine dining, the rattling of a stick, in a swill bucket, a moog synthesiser at the royal albert hall.

If Paul Barry pointed his cane at me and called me a rogue, i would reply, "At which end Mlud?", divine guidance is needed.
United as a religion is prepostourous, it has no style, the apostolic succession will be Paul Barry to Judas Iscariot, no change there.

If we compare the match programme to the bible what do we find?, is it wisdom, health, wholesomeness, family values?, no we find a void, a soulless production, a pricey attempt at mind bending, a sanitary engineer that has downed tools.

That if you were to enter the Abbeys bowels on match day, all you would see are locusts. And today, match day, my soul is low, can defeat bring me joy, of course, will it happen?, no because the opposition have been knobbled, and someone has allowed uniteds walking frames to say intact.

God help me.