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Sunday 18th August 2013.

The weekend already lies on the tram tracks to the oblivious working week,the camels hump ridden by black footed Goblins are gnashing their teeth towards the ticking clock whom tells no lies,there will be no time to hear Richard Burton read Adlestrop there are no Willow Herb or passing steam, in the engine sheds third class has been struck off by Richard Branson in his mission to man space with virgins, would i visit a brothel in space if such a task is more erotic than watching the famous Stockport County on a wind swept Saturday afternoon then perhaps so.
I am still numb from the experience of being leant a season ticket for the opening match whilst it's owner was on some sunshine holiday which escapes my mind....i was left with the promise to make sure he received it back for the bank holiday monday for County's next home game. As he passed it to me i felt such a boyish glee, that feeling for the first time you see your own sperm in wonderment or perhaps the first time some old granny sucks you into her Talcum powder breasts where from breasts become an obsession that lampposts have  become my friends in the frenzied turning of the head. I think in modern times we are called perverts. But sssshhh...
With this in mind i walked into Edgeley park along with another three and a half thousand....soul busters, banter singers, and old men whom have been going for the last fifty years..it was not the performance on the pitch which is best left in the sands of time buried under a see of cocks spit balls and cats on hot tin roofs..it was not the point that the Shed has gone or you can no longer stand in the railway end and listen to the shunters at half time..it was the three young lads whom came and sat next to me perhaps twenty minutes from the end educated with the one word...WANKER..broken by the word GAY as a full stop, for the pink shirt the away goal keeper wore..which for myself i did think yummy but kept that for myself....perhaps they passed the turn stiles for free why else would you shout wanker for ninety minutes when you can go in fields and parks and scream such words to all the spiders in the long grass without paying a bob or two...there was no good pass then on the pitch,or an ooooo when the post was hit... i suppose this is not the the Ra Ra generation is it.....which makes me wonder what has been indeed passed down from the last generation...

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bichoose
bichoose

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