TheNamelessThing.com

We went and beat the bogey-men and West Ham are hammered. One down, two to go, eh? All we need to do now is beat Wigan next week, and we're in like Flynn. And of course, there's that date with the girly-boys on May 21 in Moscow - which, if we don't win will be a very grave thing indeed - followed by a million-strong celebration in Manchester city centre. Again. We can only hope.

But Super-Nani was sent off today in an incident reminiscent of Pards nutting a punk in the Wilton Lounge in the early summer of 1983; the punk had a pronounced mohawk, and had been posturing about the pub for an hour or so. Pards took the hump, and intercepted him as he tried to get out of the door. I don't think Supernan knocked his man out cold, but then he wasn't brought up on Carr Clough estate like Pards was; in Carr Clough you have to make 'em count.

We're so close right now, but anything could still happen and the blues of West London could take it all away from us. I don't feel I can post a blog entry until this bloody business is finished. It's too nerve-wracking. So maybe I should speak about my cats instead:
Last week one of them caught a snake, and then it caught another a few days ago. Thankfully, both serpents were alive and, er, kicking (kind of) so I released them back into the wilds of Connecticut. Not a day goes by without them coming in with at least one meadow vole, and a mouse or shrew. Yesterday, while I was at work (but the missus was on the phone to me) one of them brought a live bird in that escaped its claws and flew around the house, coming to rest on a beam. The wife had to chase it out with a broom handle. There are no other cats in the area, so there is no pheromone spray anywhere, on trees, bushes, walls, etc. Consequently, the little bastards have no bounds, and they roam across a ridiculous radius for a predator so tiny. But there are other members of the food-web out there. Foxes, coyotes, deer, bears, and a horrible four-foot long weasel with huge claws known as a fisher cat. You'll have to ask the Yanks why it's called a cat, cos I'm fucked if I know. Maybe cos they eat cats. That might be it. I live in fear that our annoying little beasties won't come home one night, themselves victims of the food-web they have recently jumped into with both feet. I could be a clever arse and say "what goes around comes around.." but what would be the point of all those vet's bills and innoculations, etc, if I didn't care that some terrifying weasel had torn my poor pussy's back legs off and gobbled them down whole, like a fat docker with a Lion Bar..?

Come on United, do the business next week at Pieland, and we will be almost there. Just two more to go, two to go...let's ave it!