Last night? ROUGH.
No point raking over the ashes and demanding retributive justice and probing independent inquiries. Been there done that BOUGHT THE FUCKING JERSEY.
No. The whole affair can be illustrated by two things. 1. The traumatised subtext of girl-J-bo’s text messages (I have selected just four but there were A LOT. Girl was in a lot of pain. Public pain.) And, 2. Laurie Daly’s shell-shocked post-commentary reaction.
“I’m at the pub with a bunch of nth qld fans. I have ordered a BLT but I am not hungry anymore and at the very least it’s going to be embarrassing to eat juicy fatty pig while we loooooooose”
“I’m so not going to be able to eat that thing when it arrives. I’m dreading the beep of the bistro buzzer.”
“Well, I guess it’s fitting that I ended up with tomato sauce all over myself.”
“Waaaaaaah…Why oh why am I moving back there…….”
By game’s end Laurie Daly was babbling and bereft. Soon after, when asked where to now for the Raiders or some such bullshit question he was rendered speechless and just… gaped into the camera with a pinched, wincing look. When he gathered himself pretty much all he could offer was the suggestion that Dave Furner enlist a psychologist. I’m with Laurie. The schizoid tendencies of the Raiders are completely out of control. Mental disintegration is afoot. Help is needed. Shit is dire. And that’s about all I’ve got to say about that.
Now. For reasons that are not entirely clear to me now, mid-season, I’m going overseas for five weeks, starting this Thursday. This means that I am taking the Raiders Cowboys game with me, into the fucking Himalayas, as my freshest rawest football memory, so help me God (or Buddha. Ganesh. Somebody! Anybody??) I’m taking my Raiders scarf, acrylic be damned. Maybe if the mood strikes me I’ll offer up some sort of high altitude agnostic prayer on their behalf. Yeh. And come home in May to find them riding high on the ladder and, like, completing sets and offloading and doing all that really fancy specialist shit. IMAGINE.