A critic of Beethovens music once said that a symphony of him was like a load of Yaks jumping about, and believe or not, football is a form of art, music even.

Is watching Cambridge like a herd of yaks jumping about in the cold, a cold assesment of how Cambridge perform, the answer is yes. The crowd, if there is one always expect something collosal, but are always served with agitated water in a vessel.

Cambridge are a weak, innefectual shadow of a football club, its ability to produce any form of competence amounts to a hill of beans.

Droppings from cows on coldhams common, footballing monotony, Wordsworth and his poetry after his death. There wasnt any was there.

The management, the boardroom are half witted sheep, without honor, any poetry, not a gentleman among them, breakers of the commandments including murder, bearing false witness.

The times i have watched United play, and have felt cold steel of a blade enter my heart, then twisted until i cry. That a tadpole, a cheap one wore the cambridge shirt, under a different name, Paddy Rayment, that Italian geezer, Ollie Morah, and countless others.

Feeble, deranged, a cry of curs from the posh seats, my cry of rage goes unheeded. Their souls are black, they are the souls of donkeys, cursed, frothing from their mouths, unholy, unclean, the deritus even hell has to banish elsewhere.

The day united were born bore no sun, but black clouds, rain, lightening, a suffuse face could be outlined by clouds, that of a witch, a stye on her nose, cackling, intent on destruction, doom. And by god she suceeded.

Even now the constant feeling of never ending failure, impending doom haunts my dreams, that never goes away, because i lived it everytime i visited the Abbey.

Iam suffering post traumatic disease, a permanent etch of hell on my soul, if you see it you cant unsee it, that Paddy Rayments face, seen up close standing in the Habbin, that of Paul Barry, of Harwood, Power, all that have desecrated holy ground float through my consciousness forever.

Of John Taylor, the manager.

Can anyone offer therapy? How can i escape my working class beginnings, and move onto discernment, not this excuse for entertainment. This claptrap meant for fitters, moulders, boiler tube makers, dunces, not an artiste like myself, but abandoned by my caregivers into footballing slavery, now discarded.

That i once stood shoulder to shoulder with those who thought anthony wedgewood ben was intelligent or any red agent.

My failings are legion, yet i forgive myself, i finally see the light in the darkness, that uniteds home gate is now in the 4,500s, ha ha......die monster.


I get more entertainment watching christians die in the colloseum on you tube, that i al;so felt their pain, not literally, but in my heart standing on the terraces at the Abbey. Not now. I have grown.