We’re off to Wolves on Sunday. That’s bound to be fun.
On Sunday we’ll find ourselves in a strange… Sorry, we did that one last season. Not that worrying about what happened last year, or in the last century, matters much because we’re travelling to Wolverhampton, where the decades might come and go but the fashions never change. They still sell postcards of the hanging, the circus is still in town and they might let you in there if you’re an away supporter, unlike the pubs because Wolverhampton is still the only place in the league where anyone who isn’t a local won’t be allowed to drink. That’s another bygone relic courtesy of the land that time forgot.
They’ve nailed the curtains, they’re getting ready for the feast and they’ll be coming out open-mouthed to see the Villa back in town, fresh from our latest brushing aside of crack Continental opposition (and why was it only ever foreign sides that were called ‘crack’?). This time last week they were convinced that they were about to be relegated, then they beat Manchester City so the Spirit of Billy Wright abounds once more and world domination is but a matter of time. Their manager looks like the bass player in a skinny jeans-wearing indie band who appeared on Soccer AM once but they kicked him out for quoting Ezra Pound and T.S. Eliot.
Just for a change we’ve got a few more injuries, including one that’s come back after it was supposed to be fixed. They’ve got a worryingly good record against us, even if that gap they used to keep going on about seems to have narrowed to the point of invisibility and gone the other way over the past couple of years. They’ve also got an away section which isn’t the best place to watch football but at least when it’s all over and we’ve won, nobody has to think too much about going there again this season. The Titanic sails at dawn and it’ll still get you home quicker than the Metro
