Thats all it took for the Cambridge fans at Barnsley for the weekend to be over.

All that planning, packed lunches, secret cans of beer, driving, cold, and now miserable. On top of that a sending off sending hearts soaring, only to understand that it kept the score down.

Even 11 against 10 is not a fair match, Cambridge are still at a disadvantage with most of the game still to go.

At least Barry will be happy, sucking in his cheeks, thinking thank god.

Did you think paying toy town wages for two geriatrics was enough? Even Lankester got on.

500 of them, wernt there 500 spartans? These, hunchbacked with sadness, deaf men, sponges, pimpled, public hired clerks, fancy men, bleak faced, have no fight left in them.

Like Ironside, Digby, Lankester, ( never had any), Warman, and Mitov, the gift to Barnsley and so many others.

The hard faced board, loathe to put their hands in their pockets, if they did, only to find paste baubles, con men, vacuous, empty, ready to blame others.

And Barry, his joy in being a United fan, as he scans the property sites for a future sale. The football, a sop to idiots who believed his fanness.

Oh, oh, oh, the exquisiteness of the Barnsley goals, and the suffering that followed, and in my minds eye, the bulldozers flattening the Habbin the Corona kop the ground , for two thousand one bedroomed rabbit hutches that cost 700,000 each.


That in comparison the hovels in petersfield are palaces. While the child of Harwood drink champagne for breakfast.

62 minutes for a shot, miles over from digby. Are you mad?

I refer to you, sir, the payer at the gate, who despite having a steel gauntlet slashed hard across your face today, will pay again tuesday. You need treatment, a good talking too, a heavy tranquilliser, a stern telling off.

Now listen to the voices, Boner, etc, trying to inject something, and only sounding silly, ridiculous, defeated. You are dead United fans, but you dont know it. Yet.