An Englishman, even if he is alone, forms an orderly queue of one. A quote, George Mikes.

Cambridge fans take a knee, no, both knees to any dollied up psuedo chairman, forked tongued, making abuse.

Like the current one, promising financial stability. This tuppence, in a world, nay, a Universe of untold riches, Cambridge fans settle for bronze pocket change.

And some of it is post traumatic stress disorder, that even pennies is better than no existence at all, which was a reasonable fear at the hands of the previous chairmans, either by crime, or incompetence, and both.

The real boss are the fans, now cowed, no esteem, broken. Settling for a man who spends nothing, and now owns the ground. A master in playing the long game.

And Cambridge fans United, impotent, useless, controlled by the club. The club has banned free speech, and its leaders, puppets.

There is no setting out for the promised land, to go all in. Now has never been a better time. But now to boil in mediocrity, banality, mind numbing routine of the ordinary.

In other words, a footballing death, cheap, nasty, permanent poor quality, death by inches. And by god, what you wish for you get, a law of the Universe. And so it is.

Randy of Isleham.