Meenzer

Yesterday my dad conspired to have a fall and smash his remaining good hip, so I'm in town all week to babysit my mother while the RVI works its magic. The one and only upside is I might be able to wangle an hour's time off to mosey on past Blue House Roundabout (not a euphemism... yet) and relive those 1993 glory days

I'll right that sentence for a start

Reminds me of this classic from when Twitter wasn't full fash yet:

With a crypto bro for a dad, what hope does he have?

Alexander Isak, son. His name is Alexander Isak, son.

Bob is somehow even funnier than Q

Aye, my first thought afterwards (and during) was of my uncle in Sweden, who was as big a fan as almost any of us. Back in the days before satellite/cable TV, he used to crack open a couple of Brown Ales purchased at no small cost from the government-owned liquor store and "watch" our matches on Swedish TV's teletext. He was very good at English swearing and he'd have no doubt texted me saying he was "over the fucking moon" or something. Not least with a Swede scoring the winner and having such a brilliant couple of seasons for us. Time's a bastard, isn't it.

My watch says my heart rate was over 150 for the entire last 20 minutes or so.

Only because the staff were all "But Mr. Strode, you were the drummer in Kajagoogoo"

Duke's lad.

A club legend-worthy 8.

Can you guess how many appearances he made for them? Go on.

I may be guilty of turning a blind eye to sportswashing but at least I know "churlish" isn't a verb.

Bloody hell, lads.

Fuck me, we've actually turned up for a final. But they can't possibly be as weak in the second half. Howay.