Joined: Jun 01 2007 Posts: 12635 Location: Leicestershire.
Pivotal game coming up but it feels to me like we’re in a bit of a weird interlude, after the exhilaration of a good run of form.
The semi-final itself… the squad is looking a little bit stretched for the first time this year. We might win and we might not. If we do, then I’ll celebrate with or small glass of Chardonnay and a little bowl of foreboding. And the start the futile negotiations in my head with the indifferent Rugby League Fates, Agnes (goes by Aggie, likes a Bakewell) and Jonathan (JonNO). ‘If we could score at least one try…’ ‘Please no, not Saints and James Child…’, that sort of thing. Every so often, unbidden, a ‘but you never know, anything can happen over 80 minutes…’ will bubble up through my consciousness to live briefly before being stomped on by a ‘you ******* do though, don’t you?’
If you’re posing it to yourself, is it still a rhetorical question? He asked himself an unpopulated forum.
So, my mind keep getting drawn to points in the more distant future, to the post-Smith era. Playing new coach Cluedo and looking at the list of Rovers players contracted to the end of 2024 and beyond, rather than focusing on the chance of the current team playing in a major final. It’s like the head coach’s grumpy statement of intent (to leave) is sat like a turd in the bog that we could flush, the toilet isn’t broken, but we daren’t because the silence seems so important and fragile. Was it a tantrum or a justified response to a provocation? Not knowing justifies my fence sitting, but really its about not saying anything that might slightly upset somebody who has a small chance of doing something that might make me happy, or at least prevent me being as sad as on 29th of August 2015. Being honest about my own intellectual and emotional dishonesty, it’ll feel a lot less tantrum-y to me if Rovers win the Cup or even just put up a decent show having reached the final. Whatever happens, at least it’ll feel like we can breathe without worrying it’ll wake any sleeping dogs.
'Thus I am tormented by my curiosity and humbled by my ignorance.' from History of an Old Bramin, The New York Mirror (A Weekly Journal Devoted to Literature and the Fine Arts), February 16th 1833.
Joined: Jan 15 2007 Posts: 11924 Location: Secret Hill Top Lair. V.2
I'll'll come back to this, but ruddy Hell, are you balls deep into Nietzsche at the moment?
If there is no struggle, there is no progress. Those who profess to favor freedom, and yet depreciate agitation, are men who want crops without plowing up the ground. They want rain without thunder and lightning. They want the ocean without the awful roar of its many waters. This struggle may be a moral one; or it may be a physical one; or it may be both moral and physical; but it must be a struggle.
Joined: Jun 01 2007 Posts: 12635 Location: Leicestershire.
Jeez.
On the plus side…
At least we didn’t save this up for White Hart Lane
Minchella sent out the signal early and I’ve been able to get some chores in while nipping back in to catch up on x6, x12 and then x30. Our line speed has seemed pretty good to me, as a result
Tony Smith seems rather less irreplaceable and the new coach should be announced (and maybe even in post) soon
'Thus I am tormented by my curiosity and humbled by my ignorance.' from History of an Old Bramin, The New York Mirror (A Weekly Journal Devoted to Literature and the Fine Arts), February 16th 1833.
Joined: Jun 01 2007 Posts: 12635 Location: Leicestershire.
Yay, not nilled!
'Thus I am tormented by my curiosity and humbled by my ignorance.' from History of an Old Bramin, The New York Mirror (A Weekly Journal Devoted to Literature and the Fine Arts), February 16th 1833.
Joined: Jan 15 2007 Posts: 11924 Location: Secret Hill Top Lair. V.2
That wasn't much fun and then I thought we were going out for a few scoops afterwards and everyone else fecked off home, then the train got cancelled and when I got home, Ms. Goose had bought one, yes count it, one 7 inch pizza.
If there is no struggle, there is no progress. Those who profess to favor freedom, and yet depreciate agitation, are men who want crops without plowing up the ground. They want rain without thunder and lightning. They want the ocean without the awful roar of its many waters. This struggle may be a moral one; or it may be a physical one; or it may be both moral and physical; but it must be a struggle.
Joined: Oct 07 2006 Posts: 4911 Location: Drypool Bridge - watching out for invaders from the East.
Sandro II Terrorista wrote:That wasn't much fun and then I thought we were going out for a few scoops afterwards and everyone else fecked off home, then the train got cancelled and when I got home, Ms. Goose had bought one, yes count it, one 7 inch pizza.
To be fair to her, she probably thought you wouldn't have much of an appetite.
Joined: Jan 15 2007 Posts: 11924 Location: Secret Hill Top Lair. V.2
Hessle Roader wrote:To be fair to her, she probably thought you wouldn't have much of an appetite.
She was quickly aware that she had not added a positive to my day.
If there is no struggle, there is no progress. Those who profess to favor freedom, and yet depreciate agitation, are men who want crops without plowing up the ground. They want rain without thunder and lightning. They want the ocean without the awful roar of its many waters. This struggle may be a moral one; or it may be a physical one; or it may be both moral and physical; but it must be a struggle.
Joined: Jun 01 2007 Posts: 12635 Location: Leicestershire.
I see that our preference for ‘playing footy’ has seen us start the season slowly on the heavy grounds and then succumb to injuries before summer. Familiar. Has any club, across multiple coaches, ever invited bullyball beatings so consistently over so many years, I wonder?
I really hope Peters doesn’t come in with a philosophy or moral narrative to drive. Just win, or at least make it the top priority. Then you can paint whatever story you want onto it, afterwards.
'Thus I am tormented by my curiosity and humbled by my ignorance.' from History of an Old Bramin, The New York Mirror (A Weekly Journal Devoted to Literature and the Fine Arts), February 16th 1833.
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