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Sunlight is streaming through the windows.
The sky is blue and cloudless. A hosepipe ban is in force.
It is August, the height of summer.
And yet, just a few weeks hence, September shall be ushered in.
Then will leaves turn golden brown and fall from the trees.
Pondering this fact, one could so easily start to slide down the slippery slope of Melancholy,
And plumb the depths of Depression.
One might be prompted to recall that one has reached the age of forty-three,
Concluding that, though a certain poetess maintains the road leads uphill all the way,
One’s own particular path from now on heads downhill.
Said musings could in turn cause one to pose such questions as:
What’s it all about? Is it all worth it?
Who am I? Where did I come from? Where am I going?
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But no! This morn such brooding would be wholly inappropriate.
For once again the Opening Day of the Season is upon us.
This is the moment of optimism, of hope. A time to dream.
To dream that we who have waited so long might finally get it right,
And scoop our first Title in donkey’s years.
So may all gloomy thoughts be set aside,
Let us have breakfast, and, while we’re at it,
We shall pore over the twelve-page pull-out provided free
With our favourite tab dropped on our doormat by an obliging paperboy.
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I pour myself a nice, hot cuppa.
I spread a generous dose of marge on my slice of toasted Hovis.
Examine the pull-out. Gaze at the familiar gallery of Gaffers:
Moyesy, Arsène, José, Rafa.
Ah, here’s Tiddles, rubbing against my legs, whining for his bowl of Whiskas.
Pee orf! Can’t you see I’m perusing me pull-out?
One bare foot kicks one fat cat.
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And now I am joined by my Lawfully Wedded Wife.
She pecks me on the cheek. Pours herself a nice, hot cup of Kenco.
Shovels a runcible spoonful of Alpen into her mouth.
Her eyes then light on my pull-out. She smiles: “Big Kick Off today, then?”
A slight pause and then she poses the Question:
“So, who do you want to win the League this time?”
Who do I want to win the League?!
Ye gods! You’d think she’d know the answer to that one after twenty years of Married Bliss.
I breathe in deeply through my nostrils. I sigh, and then reply as follows:
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“Chelsea? No, they’re reigning Champions, they’re not likely to repeat.
Everton? Came in fourth last time, they just might pull off the feat.
Liverpool? You can’t discount’em – they could be in with a shout.
As for Monsieur Wenger’s Gunners, they’ll be there or thereabouts.
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Does that satisfy your query? Will this lengthy discourse do?
Pardon me, I’m feeling weary, must I spell it out to you?
Reckon you could solve the riddle, if you really wanted to.
Oh, alright Love, I will tell you, without any more ado.
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As I’ve been since my conception, to myself I still am true.
I will shout it from the rooftops, till in the face I am blue.
Here’s the answer to your question, though I’m sure you always knew:
Who do I want to take the Title? –
Anyone, oh, ANYone, just ANYONE but Fergie’s Crew!!!”