Sunday’s game can only be described as a drubbing. Unless you prefer the word massacre, in which case, I’ll grant you that.
My dear boys, my Essendon men. Please. Don’t put me through another year of this. I don’t think I can stand the strain. Especially since we’re once again having problems with our membership, and had to buy tickets to Sundays game. Which, because of time constraints, meant climbing up to the last row. Yes, the last row. The last bloody row when we have away seats on the wing three rows back.
A few words for some individuals. Laycock – Wear Velcro on your hands, keep your eye on the ball and invest in some super-glue. Something. Keep your frickin’ hands on the ball, would you? Stop dropping it, or you will become the new Bolton. And that isn’t a place you want to be, now is it?
Spike. I love you, you know that, don’t you? But honestly, Sunday just wasn’t up to your usual standard.
Dyson – whatever you’ve been doing over pre-season, keep doing it. Something or someone has put a rocket under you, and it shows.
Oh Lloydy. It isn’t enough that our premier full forward is the butt of so many jokes. No, you have to take it one further and kick like a gumby when we need you most. Pull your finger out, my friend.
And to the Essendon administration – give me my bloody membership, will you? This is getting beyond a joke.
3 days ago