Weed

Myself and the Mogul were seven minutes late into the game yesterday. We had both had a bit of a dash into Stoke-on-Trent and as we knew we were going to be late we were in no particular hurry from car park to turnstile and were in fact enjoying the unusual sonic quality of the crowd noises as heard from outside the stadium. We sauntered along behind three guys who were smoking a rather fragrant brand of grass; they were in no rush either, surprisingly enough. I remember spliffing up before matches in the mid-eighties, a time when I spliffed up with more or less everything I did. It improved the actual and perceived qualities certain activties, no doubt, but I can never remember it doing anything at football other than generating a sense of paranoia you could well do without in the environs of Old Trafford, Stamford Bridge etc. Ricardo Fuller did something extraordinary with the ball yesterday involving dragging it back to go round a defender instead of hitting it at goal when he was one-on-one with the keeper. Maybe he had had a little one-skinner beforehand as part of his winter warm up and two step…

Little Weed with Pulis and Gudjon

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