Date: 22nd February 2011 at 12:15pm
Written by:

Mornin’.

Tangerines away it is. Negatives other than the abject squalor of the town itself out the way first then. Our physio bench is once again to die for… calf strain again (hence the daft headline), Charlie still recovering from an assassination attempt, , Wooders, King, and Bale all writhing with .

This is only leaves us –  excluding the Dutchman – with the journeymen dregs of the squad what beat Italian giants at the San Siro last week. So what does that say? I tells me in louder tones than a whisper that we’ll batter them. Battered tangerines. One of our pal, LOTW’s 5 a day.

arrived in the looking like a brand new shiny happy thing. Sunshine on a stick. A troupe of unheard of players all as keen as custard led by the quintessential seaside cheeky chappy. The landlady had a wink in her eye, the fairy lights burned brightly, the candy floss was extra fluffy and the livin’ was easy.

Then reality hit Blackpool like a Tom & Jerry safe free-falling from the tenth floor. Splat. The hot dogs were cancelled due a Health & Hygiene Order. The shops, bars, so called nightclubs and hotels’ fixtures and fittings in Blackpool are worth more than their receipts.

Blackpool’s borrowed time is  like watching a piece of film you’ve seen before in slow motion. Not gloating, just calling it as I see it. Whatever Holloway had going on evaporated before Charlie Adam became the white Flava Flav. The reality is that Blackpool came like too many before them into the Premiership ill equipped for the task ahead and I’m not talking about under-soil heating.

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Looking for way to feed and slurp myself I see Azza Blud as man who may skin a few tangerines tonight (see what I did there?) and Anytime Scorer in a modest 0-2 win is just dandy at 25/1.