Its bound to happen, or something similar. The turgid, odious, smell and stink of failure will assert itself like it has never been away.

The head down zombie like shuffle of the fans will be on show at 5-00pm, mumbling and moaning under their breath. Some breath, this club stopped breathing a long time ago, limp, weak, stumbling, hopeless, more Bradford Park Avenue than Bradford Park Avenue.

Woe woe woe, the empty eyes, the foolishness, the mud churning, chaos and confusion, as we again listen to the sermon on the mount.

Take me down oh lord from the cross, flay me again if you must, but dont make me pay for this again.

Force an Armenian bride on me, make me eat marzipan, and when i throw up, make me eat more, knot my flesh till i scream like a banshee, but take this hell away.

Hal of St Barnabas Road.