Depraved. Sickening. Toxic. Foul, but also pestilent. The end of days? That last thing wasn’t the end of days. This right here is the end of days.
But is it though? Is it really? Going on a summer holiday is always a bit strange when your life involves staring at sport. Taking a break just as football is preparing to enter its own sweaty, steamy eight-month meat pocket is extra tough. Re-engagement can be difficult. Oh look. There’s football hiding behind a bush in the car park again, frazzled and wired from staying up drinking crystal meth negronis and writing a presentation about merging marketing and sales, all the while gripped with a gathering sense of horror that it’s just not possible.
