Scottish Arsenal fan, suffering from an over-estimation of wit. Wispa Gold saviour. Fanshare. Aspiring commentator.
Each letter was scribed on the finest parchment and despite being daubed using a fountain pen not one accidental blot spoiled what was the most elegant of handwriting. He had placed each epistle in a thick sheath and then delivered them in turn by hand in the wee hours. Every detail had been seen to. The invites were completed.
Now he waited......
Week after week, matchday after matchday - a certain correlation occurs. No matter what allegiance you bear, this pattern shows itself to everyone who call themselves fans. Is it the vitriol aimed at whoever is this weeks donkey? No. This occurs but isn't what I am highlighting.
Could it be the peals of laughter aimed squarely at Alan Pardew and the fact that he has zero talent to couple with his lack of knowledge of the game? No, but this is also commonplace and quite frankly hilarious.
The link I speak of is the constant deriding of match officials.
I've had many exploits in my short time on this earth. Many of which cannot be aired via the world wide web - not least without the proper certification. These proclivities have simultaneously darkened my soul and shamed my former reputation. These nefarious tales will no doubt be released when my hamwich-fuelled body is cold to the touch and residing in a plot known only to Government scientists.
