Season 37 Game 660 The Tale of the Dallas Hand-Wife

Rags week in Valhalla

Did anyone else not meet the hottest late thirtyish red-head today in the large print

section of the Central Library, and make stinky monkey time on the changing table

in the upstairs family nappy crapper?

Perhaps rhetorical.

Bear with me, petulant menchkinder.  May I draw Your Honour's attention to Exhibit A.
First half finds the usual lost souls escaping family and DIY trivia to entertain the lost and injured. If you will, some of the best footie I've seen for ages from the black collective. 

Fenian interlopers ON THE RACK. Nintendo magnificate! Michael Michael doing what Michael Michael does. Ming  tells me he's chasing shadows. I tell him he's pushing the bastards wider and buying older legs just enoughtime in the centre.Raggspaz is mis-filing himself very effectively.
Graham is an elegant ghost in mid-field. Foiled only, in a break-out move, by their clearly drug-enhanced keeper. Roscoe sharks away. As sharks do.Tiberius is the barber's cat. Hard-used as a dollar a day apprentice. Working his guts out, as usual. The swarthy one, on a dickey passport, is also a soft strangle short of goal bliss. 

AG, poster-boy for well-priced tantric anti-hopelessness week-end retreats, has a BLINDER. Save of this,or any, season. Our very own negro panther finds Christmas morning on the fingertips of his right (so right!) hand. Skeatsy's hair is wonderful.

Stentbythehour continues to seek 360 degree closure.  Heart-stopping commitment. Armpits so full of violets. Bloody magic!

JB and me agree on something .First time last time. First half over. Nil all. ROBBERY. Should be 4-1, and waggling private parts in the face of their dryishaunties.

JB leaves. Anna is crook. In hospital.

Say, 10 in, and they score.  An ok goal. But nothing to put the chips aside for a self-root during Dallas re-runs. ( Ellie-May was always my go-to hand-wife.) There is great hara (look it up) to be taken. A thing of wonder and bravery, that first half.
The second too.

Rags week in Valhalla.
The Bitch goddess doesn't play favourites

Ask Phar Lap how that worked out.
But, if she is flame-haired, 
and of gently failing sight.
I may be at the Lido
before seven or after eight
through most


Cub reporter Marky Mark
(under fire,largely, of his own making )

(last message from the the star ship Nostromo)