Following City like a psychedelic trip

The Man In The Stands The Man giggled when he saw this week that our old buddy Giovanni Di Stefano - Saddam's lawyer no less - was looming on the horizon again. Apparently, the controversial figure feels it's time for “fresh blood to enter the Norwich City FC DNA database”.

The Man In The Stands

The Man giggled when he saw this week that our old buddy Giovanni Di Stefano - Saddam's lawyer no less - was looming on the horizon again.

Apparently, the controversial figure feels it's time for “fresh blood to enter the Norwich City FC DNA database”.

Wonderful stuff...

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Supporting Norwich is becoming more and more like some sort of weird, psychedelic 60s trip; utterly bizarre.

If we are not fielding the Football League's most obese player, we are getting advice from a mass-murdering tyrant's defence team.

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We have a caretaker manager coming out with things like: “There's a Scottish character called the Reverend IM Jolly.

“If you want to be the Reverend IM Jolly you can be so, but I am only looking at the game tomorrow night.” Eh?

While we ban fans from the training ground amid fears they are spreading top secret information on the internet - and then don't score a goal for ten hours.

This nonsense, of course, just adds to the usual eclectic mix of strikers who can't score, midfielders that can't pass or tackle, and defenders who can't defend.

If my football team's well-being didn't have such an annoyingly profound affect on my general demeanour, I would genuinely find this stuff funny.

I want to be able to laugh at it - along with our opposition - because that way it won't hurt. But it does, it gnaws away at your gut.

The Man sits next to an Arsenal fan at work.

We used to be able to talk about football, but I honestly find I have nothing in common with him anymore.

When I tell him that more often than not we end up defending our own corners, or can go a whole 90 minutes without having a shot on target, he just doesn't know what to say.

I wouldn't swap Norwich for any other team - unlike that tozzer who was on Five Live this week ditching us for the Gunners - but damn this is tough going


Burnley had not won in FIVE games. It took them FIVE minutes to defeat our brave warriors.

That makes it 11-2 to mighty Burnley from our past four encounters, which have all ended in defeat.

The players - I assume we are still referring to them as 'players' despite issues under the Trade Descriptions Act - should count themselves lucky they are at good ol' Norwich.

Good ol' 'soft as xxxx' Norwich.

Were they at West Ham, or pretty much every other football club, the fans would be chasing them about the car park by now, as they made their way back to their 4x4s after another defeat.

I know they are not very good, but is it really too much to expect someone to show some backbone? Some Churchillian spirit?

The Man guesses it probably is. I need to grow up.

Why the hell would these players care whether this club is relegated anyway? Would I be upset if the company I worked for went under? Not really.

I'd be worried about where I was going to work next, but that would be about it.

The sad truth is most of these players belong in League One anyway, and what we are witnessing is just a natural re-homing programme.

Note to players: please, please, please prove The Man wrong. PLEASE.

Starting next Sunday when we play host to Ipswich.

As fans we've suffered a hell of a lot in the past few years - but hearing those lot sing “bottom of the league, at Carrow Road” to us next week will be the ultimate low.

If there is a shred of decency or leadership left in our dressing room it should implore the team to treat next weekend's game as if it was staged on a WW1 battlefield.

Cheat, kick, spit, bite, dive - hell let's even shoot - let's be nasty for once and make sure we get the three points.

Hux, Dion, Curo: make it happen. OTBC.


Yesterday 10.32am, The Man's phone rings.

The Man: “Hello.”

Caller: “Have you seen what they have ******* done now?”

The term “they” always means the club.

The Man: “What?”

Caller: “This ******* season tickets shirt they have brought out! What an embarrassment. “If the **** had done this we would be having a ****** field day.

The Man: “Yes, I know - I saw that too.”

Caller: “I am ******* livid, it just sums up how out of touch they are.

“I mean, whatever next? Are we going to get a 'we nearly avoided relegation from the Premiership' shirt?

“Or a 'we got a draw at home to high-flying Scunthorpe' vest?

“It is pathetic. We are a joke.”

The Man: “So you don't want me to get you one then?”

Caller: “Maybe - but only if they'll let me burn it in the Barclay.”

The Man: “See you at West Brom.”

Caller: “Bye.”


“Don't skip, Tommy, run!”

The desperate plea above was overheard by The Man last weekend as he walked past a kids' football match.

It was uttered by the coach (parent who had drawn the short straw) charged with trying to get a bunch of eight-year-olds into a coherent footballing unit. Little Tommy clearly would rather have been at ballet classes, and was putting in a performance to rival that of Patrick Boyle. I don't know why, but the coach's plea really tickled me. And no, it wasn't one of our youth teams.

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