09-22-2020, 10:06 AM
West Brom vs Brentford (Sep 22 2020, Hawthorn Community Stadium, 7pm)
Good evening my friends and fellow lAVVRO lovers – my name is Garth Crooks, and I will be narrating – nay celebrating with you – your lAVVRO journey of prediction and all-male love for this week’s thrilling encounter between an Albion of West Bromwich, and London Brentord City.
Perhaps now is a satisfactory juncture to inform you that – don’t worry lAVVRO lovers – Mark isn’t dead or merely self-isolating. He does nothing himself and that’s why he’ll live forever, or to 120, whichever comes second. Anyway, the silly scouse cunt, bless him – whilst sitting (not sat… don’t you just hate that? Well, I do, heathens; he/she was SITTING, and not sat, one is never sat), naked beside a lava lamp at a generous, walnut desk, in the office annex of a ferociously extravagant Salford Quay’s presi-suite at the license-payer’s expense – our beloved Mark was wounded – nay savaged – by the sumptuous interior design of the AC Hotels by Marriot when – upon learning it was indeed London Brentord City he was scorecasting upon, I mean THE London Brentord City… yes they – he jumped and squealed so much that he forgot that he was chained to the desk in order to “work hard so he can play harder afterwards… oh and for those lovely little blue pills to kick in.” He’s now in Wythenshawe hospital having a rectal exam and full colonoscopy, which in his own words “I want your hot milky Barium right up to my collarbone, doc, I want them to make me look like John Goodman, but when he was entertaining”; even though he was only admitted nasty grazing and a slightly-suspected sprain to one of his ankles.
So… me, Garth Crooks, galant, hardworking, earnest, gay and clearly resembling Yoda more than ever as I approach an old age of all things fruity, fudge and footy, here I am to assist, my good bummers.
I shall commence our footballing horoscope quest of truth with a little riddle. Do you know what three words hit me – nay, penetrate me even – about Mr Bilic?
Pensive.
Purposeful.
Pounding.
And punishment.
Actually that’s five words. No… now nine words. Now thirteen words. Now sixteen. Now eighteen. Now twenty. Now twenty-two. Now twenty four. What the fuck, there’s no pattern… just words and more words! Now thirty eight and counting. Fourty three, focus Garth, forty seven (why is it going up… whisper type, whisper type… shite we at sixty one already what the fuck going on… come back mark come back… seventy four…. the limit on clubs on the ‘Mason/Dean on Poverty Line’ or below only get a hundred or less words… oh fuck it.
Prediction: West Ham 3: London Queenbee 1
P.S. I think it’ll be a shit game, and Mark done this on purpose. I am gonna press his Morphine button so hard during visiting hours later, and when he awakes he’s going to be choking on a Crooks Shank. With bollocks for dessert.
Lets him sing Benramarama’s ‘Guilty’ with twenty pounds of me in his whiney, scouse gob… they don’t call me Garth (in)Vader for nothing. I am your father, bitch!
Good evening my friends and fellow lAVVRO lovers – my name is Garth Crooks, and I will be narrating – nay celebrating with you – your lAVVRO journey of prediction and all-male love for this week’s thrilling encounter between an Albion of West Bromwich, and London Brentord City.
Perhaps now is a satisfactory juncture to inform you that – don’t worry lAVVRO lovers – Mark isn’t dead or merely self-isolating. He does nothing himself and that’s why he’ll live forever, or to 120, whichever comes second. Anyway, the silly scouse cunt, bless him – whilst sitting (not sat… don’t you just hate that? Well, I do, heathens; he/she was SITTING, and not sat, one is never sat), naked beside a lava lamp at a generous, walnut desk, in the office annex of a ferociously extravagant Salford Quay’s presi-suite at the license-payer’s expense – our beloved Mark was wounded – nay savaged – by the sumptuous interior design of the AC Hotels by Marriot when – upon learning it was indeed London Brentord City he was scorecasting upon, I mean THE London Brentord City… yes they – he jumped and squealed so much that he forgot that he was chained to the desk in order to “work hard so he can play harder afterwards… oh and for those lovely little blue pills to kick in.” He’s now in Wythenshawe hospital having a rectal exam and full colonoscopy, which in his own words “I want your hot milky Barium right up to my collarbone, doc, I want them to make me look like John Goodman, but when he was entertaining”; even though he was only admitted nasty grazing and a slightly-suspected sprain to one of his ankles.
So… me, Garth Crooks, galant, hardworking, earnest, gay and clearly resembling Yoda more than ever as I approach an old age of all things fruity, fudge and footy, here I am to assist, my good bummers.
I shall commence our footballing horoscope quest of truth with a little riddle. Do you know what three words hit me – nay, penetrate me even – about Mr Bilic?
Pensive.
Purposeful.
Pounding.
And punishment.
Actually that’s five words. No… now nine words. Now thirteen words. Now sixteen. Now eighteen. Now twenty. Now twenty-two. Now twenty four. What the fuck, there’s no pattern… just words and more words! Now thirty eight and counting. Fourty three, focus Garth, forty seven (why is it going up… whisper type, whisper type… shite we at sixty one already what the fuck going on… come back mark come back… seventy four…. the limit on clubs on the ‘Mason/Dean on Poverty Line’ or below only get a hundred or less words… oh fuck it.
Prediction: West Ham 3: London Queenbee 1
P.S. I think it’ll be a shit game, and Mark done this on purpose. I am gonna press his Morphine button so hard during visiting hours later, and when he awakes he’s going to be choking on a Crooks Shank. With bollocks for dessert.
Lets him sing Benramarama’s ‘Guilty’ with twenty pounds of me in his whiney, scouse gob… they don’t call me Garth (in)Vader for nothing. I am your father, bitch!