In which we plot the journey to Wolverhampton.
Hello, and welcome back. We’ve got a right treat for you on Saturday in the shape of those past and future masters of world football, Wolverhampton Wanderers. You know the story – back in the days of rationing and Newcastle winning trophies, Wolves won a few friendlies and proclaimed themselves world champions. Then they ended up in division four, where none of their supporters ever missed a match, oh no, had a few decades trying to get back to the top, failing, succeeding, not being there very long and finding themselves a rich owner and an ‘adviser’ who broke no rules and didn’t ever do anything that was in the slightest bit dodgy, oh no, and shame on anyone who thinks different.
So naturally world domination was only a matter of time, except it wasn’t, so their managerial genius was binned and they brought in another managerial genius who’s got them on the verge of getting into Europe, which in WolvesWorld means Look Out Real Madrid, Here We Come. And if you don’t believe me, try and find one of their supporters who thinks any different. In the meantime they have, like every other club within a fifty mile radius, decided that we’re their rivals and they keep on about minding gaps, while ignoring the Great Rift Valley-sized gap there’s been between us for about forty years, not that we ever gave the matter much thought. One day such clubs will realise that the more they keep on about us the bigger we are, but that would require rational thought, and well, no more needs to be said on that one.
You might not know all their players’ names, but you can say with certainty who their agent is and have a fair idea which country they come from. They’ve got a couple missing, so unless we get another of our freak injuries we’re likely to have a stronger squad to pick from. Not that it makes any difference. Form is temporary, class is permanent. And so is the Metro not working.