I’m an actual non league football club, get me out of here

What’s shovelling another helping of kangaroo anus into your ageing barely familiar face got to do with Luton Town and non league football? Well? Nothing, that’s what. NO-THING. Alright? Good.



This game’s knackered. It’s corrupt. But what did I do wrong? How did I end up here...

I was massive in the 80s. Fucking massive. I was on the world stage. The national press swooned. People from far flung places like... like Norway - SCANDINAVIA for crying out loud - places I’d never dared to dream of reaching were tuning in on their heavily taxed TVs, smashed on hand-crafted moonshine and A-ha records. They loved me. They all wanted a piece. And now? Now you ask.

Well now I’m forced, week after week to ritually humiliate myself in strange undiscovered places, lapping up the cold dead remnants of once living beings and non-entities that every so often get the better of my increasingly fragile constitution.

Every so often one of the wriggling mites sticks in the back of my throat and I choke. And every time I choke I can hear them groan.

They groan because they saw me before all this. Before my crooked manager tried to strip me of my dignity and my money. Before the tortuous nationwide tour of forgotten towns. Before the game made me cynical and tired. Before the phone vote. Before the powers-that-be banished me here to scrap for a living in this never ending parade of young upstarts who’ll never amount to anything and a couple of other old ‘names’ whom I can barely look in the eye.

It wasn’t supposed to go on this long. “Months, that’s all it will be and then you’ll come back a hero”. That’s what they said.

Well I’m sick of the sheep’s bollocks now. Sick of the anus. Yeah I must admit there was some novelty value to it at the beginning. At the beginning they must have thought “Wow, look at him down there. HIM! Slumming it! He’ll be back”.

But it’s been 4 years now. 4 years.

I think the cameras have gone now. I saw a couple of the younger, prettier ones managed to escape. “Off to the big time for them” we grimaced.

Now it’s just me. Me and a band of no hopers so impotent and love-starved that I don’t think any of us actually want to win anymore.

And if I’m honest, I’m not sure anyone’s even watching.