Football Karma and The Turd That Wouldn’t Flush


Well, there you have it Baggy boys and girls.

At around 16.50 on Sunday 13th of May 2018 in South London, the referee paused to look at his watch, put the whistle to his mouth and with a lungful of smug middle-aged man breath blew time on the status of Sandwell San Marino as a Premier League football team.

And in that one exhalation of pompous, egotistical air, the curtain was bought down on an inglorious 8 season stay in the world’s top football division.

8 inglorious years where you’ve won…


Fuck all

8 inglorious years where you’ve qualified for…


Fuck all

8 years where you’ve made zero impression. Created zero new talent. Masterminded zero new tactics. The football equivalent of ballast.

How the fuck did you put up with it? It must be as painful as a daily commute on Ryanair.  As satisfying as sucking the juice out of a urinal block.  As wholesome as a diet of Oldbury High Street kebabs.

But, hey, one crumb of consolation – if there were awards for footballing “Stars in your Eyes”, I reckon you’d be right up there with Huddersfield and Swansea.

“This season, Matthew, we’re going to be a shit Stoke City”

Let’s face it, you’ve survived more by luck than judgement. A succession of managers, coaches, playing styles has made fuck all difference.

“Star” players like Jake Livermore, Nasser Chadli and even the great Nicolas Anelka have turned up, signed on, took the money and took the piss. Snaked off into the long grass, so to speak…

And I’m sure decent players like Jonny Evans and Gareth Barry will be hoping to wipe the last few years off their footballing CV.

Oh, don’t forget there’s everyone’s favourite little soldier – the gift that keeps on giving, Racist Maclean. What an absolute credit he’s been to you and the club – you all must be very proud of him. Well, the uneducated ones amongst you anyway (fuck me, we thought Roger Johnson was bad…)

I might be wrong on this but wasn’t it the great Frank “Bulbhead” Skinner who penned the prophetic phrase “You can’t put lipstick on a pig”? Or was it Adrian Chiles, with his face like a dropped bag of severed bollocks who said “You can’t polish a turd”?

Either one works for you.

It’s actually been fucking hilarious in the last few weeks. As we’ve stormed on to take your place in the Premier League, we’ve chuckled at the all-to-late heroic efforts of Big Dave as he gave you false hope after uncovering 11 unused backbones in the Bryan Robson Boot Room. You’ve been The Turd That Wouldn’t Flush. It’s been like watching an elderly relative die – you know that weird slightly pervy uncle no-one in the family ever liked, with his limp body on life support and everyone knowing he’s about to go, gathered around expectantly waiting for him to cough up his last.

And after today, you’re now doomed to the footballing equivalent of Lidl. Sandwell San Marino. A poor man’s Wolves.

I ruffled a few Throstle feathers with my first blog.

Some of you even paused Jeremy Kyle, put down your steak bake, stopped tossing off over your mum’s / sister’s pants just long enough to write a comment.


“Obsessed!” was the cry from some.

You say obsessed. I’d say it’s more like being glued to your favourite comedy box set. The more you watch it, the funnier it gets.

“Embarrassing!” said a few.

More embarrassing than a club that has had 8 years raping the world’s richest football league for fuck all return? Nah, doh think so.

“Chris Brunt has had more seasons in the Premier League than Wolves!”

Yeah. And the fact that you’ve had someone like Chris Brunt in your team for 8 seasons is sort of the reason you’ve achieved fuck all.

To be honest, I got quite a kick out of having my character judged by people who I wouldn’t piss on if they were on fire. The same fuckwits who lauded over our decline – goaded us on social media, played the “Slap A Dingle” game, celebrated Billy Wright’s death, daubed graffiti on our training ground, unfolded banners when we went in to League 1 or simply scoffed and loffed as we fell shambolically from the top to the bottom.

I know that being a fan of any football club is like being stuck inside a bosted washing machine, on a never ending cycle of highs and lows. And I also know that this blog might age well and unceremoniously come back and bite me on the arse.

It’s Football Karma and I’m happy to say that it’s your turn to take the abuse. You fully deserve it.

And it might be ours again soon, who knows? I’m ready for that. Bring it on.

But just for now, I really don’t care.

Honestly. Trust me. I really don’t care at all.

I’m living in this moment. With my club on a meteoric rise coinciding with the glorious, sumptuous moment in the warm summer evening on Sunday 13th of May 2018 when all the smug, egotistical, holier than thou, empty headed, empty hearted, smarmy, cocky, fuckwitted, slathering Sandwell half breeds saw the nail hammered in the coffin, realising that you were done and down, knowing that we were still celebrating being Champions and ready to take your place.

It feels fucking great.

Enjoy the summer x

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