A farewell letter to Sandwell San Marino

Dear Sandwell San Marino

We were quite rightly ridiculed when you lot thrashed us 1 -5, the result which precipitated Wo1ve5 downward spiral. And you were right to gloat when you pipped us to promotion having been 12 points clear. And I don’t blame you for a giggle at our expense when you beat us in the play offs. I bet it was fucking hilarious when you beat us in the cup and took our seats for a pie and a pint. And fair play for the fly over banner when we were relegated – top gloating.

Let’s face it. We have been some shambles from boardroom to bootroom.

Hands up. You have been better than us for the last decade and us Wolves fans have had to put up with more than our fair share of insults and jokes. It would be fair to say that we haven’t taken it well.

But we’ve deserved it – our leaders have been appalling and made bad decision after bad decision. Fans have turned against each other, forums and Twitter populated with grumpy middle aged men with a new platform upon which to complain about the team / tactics / board / fans. The bile and spite amongst us has been painful – but you loved it.

You revelled in the gloating as we tumbled through the divisions – a rudderless, useless, Dean Saunders in a fezz shambles of a club. We have suffered in an undignified rage, unable to compete as you held your position amongst the footballing elite, all the time reminding us of our new place in the league ladder. We had no comeback to the jibes, jokes and outright hostility demonstrated in Black Country workplaces by you lot – we couldn’t have laid a John Osbourne glove on you.

For us, the Thrush mascot had never been more appropriate.

But, I’m sorry to say boys, those days are disappearing fast.

Actually, stop for a minute. I’m not sorry. Not sorry at all.

Sit back and stew over your faggots and pays. Be bitter over your flat pint of Ansell’s Bitter. Cry into your beer boys.

Gather in your locals, social and working men’s clubs to whinge and moan about your new absent Chinese saviour who only turns up for the games against teams he couldn’t afford to buy. Oh, and while you’re there, don’t forget to blame TP for everything.

When you’ve done whinging and the beer kicks in, dream about the glory days of Big Ron, Len Cantello and Richard Sneekes. Recall the great Derek Statham and remember how he should have been picked for England. Lament over the loss of The King Jeff, one of the greatest WBA strikers who ended his career by being humiliating by singing cabaret to Bulbhead Skinner.

(Pity you can’t brag about “one of yer owun” Lee Hughes any more ay it? A thug turned Baggy hero, turned murderer, turned bankrupt. What a lovely bloke! In contrast to our record breaking hero who still lives in the town, works as an ambassador for the club and raises hundreds of thousands of pounds for charity)

And when the beer has taken over and melancholy replaces both reality and kid yourself that you were ever going to be anything other than a mid-table, irritating provincial club who had nothing and will achieve less.

Whilst you’re at it, I hope you suffer for every single minute of the rest of the season, doomed in the knowledge that this is only the start of your decline.

Doomed in the knowledge that while you stew in the lower league(s), we will be taking your place. And some.

Doomed in the knowledge that future Black Country kids will choose us over you.

Doomed in the knowledge that your day in the sun is over, and the Chinese Rot has set in.

And at the same time, I hope you squirm when you here about our latest heroic victory as we march on to replace you.

I hope you’re in utter dismay as your season grinds to an undignified halt, topped off with dressing room brawls, terrace in-fighting and boardroom protests.

Oh, and more player indiscipline please. Let’s see more pictures of drunken heroes in nightclubs the night before a game.

“Taxi!!!!!!”

I hope you agonize over next year’s fixture list when you have Saturday away at Blackburn, followed by Wednesday away at Shrewsbury. Then the big one – live on Sky versus Wigan.

(You’ll  probably won’t be playing the Zulus as they’re even more shit than you are)
Most of all, I hope you will handle the fall from footballing grace in the same undignified way that we did.

It’s funny now how many Baggies fans have suddenly lost their memory regarding the amount of mickey taking they did when we were in their position. All of a sudden, there seems to be a lot of false humility – a great deal of holier than thou “I never took the piss out of you when you were in our position” comments on social media and in the pubs and workplaces.

And let’s not forget that back in THAT Megson season, dear old Adrian Chiles, with his face like a puddle of ladyboy jizz and his sneering contempt of Wolves, was given a national platform to air his petty local ridicule on Radio 5 Live and used it to his own personal advantage.

Oh, but of course, we aren’t even your rivals now, are we? That would be your fellow Birmingham clubs. Silly me for forgetting that convenient little excuse.

The Thrush mascot has never been more appropriate.

I wish you the worst of luck for the rest of your miserable season.

And fuck me laughing, you’ve only gone and followed our blueprint of sacking the manager at an utterly pointless stage of the season, having no-one to replace him and then appointing a middle-aged, middle of the road journeyman who’s only major influence over the team is the choice of which colour highlight pen to use on the tactics board (For Terry Connor, see Big Dave)

So, while you still have two games left to try to save your season, just remember the Lord’s Your Shepherd and keep on boinging.

Let’s hear it one last time boys. Sing it loud and proud with a tear in your eye…

“We know who we are
We know who we aaaaaare….”

Yes, we know who you are.

You’re Sandwell San Marino – we know who you are.

Slump aside Baggies. It’s our turn now.

Kind regards

Wolf On The Common

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