98.
A demonstration if ever there was one that C*ty don't belong in the Championship
None of the 82ers have yet explained how it's possible to spend £41 million+ on a team and still get so comprehensively redlegated. It simply beggars belief.
It must go down as a minor miracle, it's almost physically impossible. What were they signing - gold plated unicorns with three legs?
When you think of the starving, deprived, uneducated little children in the world, and I'm talking about Shiny of course, it's practically immoral that that quantity of money can be pissed away on such a total shambles.
The fact is that the last couple of years have been an object lesson in exactly how not to run a football club. And yet the foaming-at-the-mouth, swivel-eyed, self-deluding and ever-reducing number of ****wits that glumly traipse down to their red tin boxes every other week have the bare-faced effrontery to take the piss out of us, a club clearly (to everyone apart from the bewildered and bile-filled 82ers) on the up.
You have to laugh at them. They're like a drunk tramp that's just shat himself, flailing around and blaming everyone else for the appalling state he finds himself in.
I can't believe we've been so restrained. A couple of seasons ago they were merrily ****ing themselves off with excitement when we went down. Our reaction has been rather more circumspect, content as we are with the progress we're making, as their club folds in on itself like a collapsing brown dwarf. What do you get when that happens (forgive me for coming over all Prof. Brian Cox here), you get a black hole - an area of nothing that no light escapes from. And that's what their club is - a big black hole of nothing. It sucks up money, hope, aspiration and more money.
I do fear for the future. That fear is principally that the world will run out of surgical thread for me to sew up my sides as they will split so often from uncontrolled laughter watching their pitiful outfit struggle with FFP rules, League 1, the planning appeals process and their increasing capacity for self-delusion.
The dictionary entry for the phrase 'poor judgment' should be: 'Bristol City 1982 (Guernsey) Ltd'. It's rife from the top to the bottom of that travesty. That owner of theirs for example; he sure knows how to make money from financial services (although I'm really beginning to wonder whether Peter Hargreaves is actually the real powerhouse behind that particular arrangement, but that's another story) but **** me, he hasn't a Scooby Doo about sport, does he? Basically, he's handed the whole shebang over to his dimwit son the way I might sort my kid out with a paper round. Pantsdown Jnr may as well be floating over the Marianas Trench he's so far out of his depth - Keith Dawe must cry himself to sleep every night.
The deluded Teds will chirp up with 'blah blah basement division etc. etc.', but I can tell you for free that I'd rather be exactly where our club is right now than trapped in the vicious downward spiral that their shambolic outfit is. No doubt about it. Their capacity to hoover up the **** served to them by the puppeteers that run 82 is breathtaking - each one of them must contain more ordure than the average slurry pit.
Anyhow, dear Gashead friends - we're safe, they're down and to paraphrase a recently interred mad old woman 'Rejoice, Rejoice, Rejoice!'
UTG!
A demonstration if ever there was one that C*ty don't belong in the Championship
None of the 82ers have yet explained how it's possible to spend £41 million+ on a team and still get so comprehensively redlegated. It simply beggars belief.
It must go down as a minor miracle, it's almost physically impossible. What were they signing - gold plated unicorns with three legs?
When you think of the starving, deprived, uneducated little children in the world, and I'm talking about Shiny of course, it's practically immoral that that quantity of money can be pissed away on such a total shambles.
The fact is that the last couple of years have been an object lesson in exactly how not to run a football club. And yet the foaming-at-the-mouth, swivel-eyed, self-deluding and ever-reducing number of ****wits that glumly traipse down to their red tin boxes every other week have the bare-faced effrontery to take the piss out of us, a club clearly (to everyone apart from the bewildered and bile-filled 82ers) on the up.
You have to laugh at them. They're like a drunk tramp that's just shat himself, flailing around and blaming everyone else for the appalling state he finds himself in.
I can't believe we've been so restrained. A couple of seasons ago they were merrily ****ing themselves off with excitement when we went down. Our reaction has been rather more circumspect, content as we are with the progress we're making, as their club folds in on itself like a collapsing brown dwarf. What do you get when that happens (forgive me for coming over all Prof. Brian Cox here), you get a black hole - an area of nothing that no light escapes from. And that's what their club is - a big black hole of nothing. It sucks up money, hope, aspiration and more money.
I do fear for the future. That fear is principally that the world will run out of surgical thread for me to sew up my sides as they will split so often from uncontrolled laughter watching their pitiful outfit struggle with FFP rules, League 1, the planning appeals process and their increasing capacity for self-delusion.
The dictionary entry for the phrase 'poor judgment' should be: 'Bristol City 1982 (Guernsey) Ltd'. It's rife from the top to the bottom of that travesty. That owner of theirs for example; he sure knows how to make money from financial services (although I'm really beginning to wonder whether Peter Hargreaves is actually the real powerhouse behind that particular arrangement, but that's another story) but **** me, he hasn't a Scooby Doo about sport, does he? Basically, he's handed the whole shebang over to his dimwit son the way I might sort my kid out with a paper round. Pantsdown Jnr may as well be floating over the Marianas Trench he's so far out of his depth - Keith Dawe must cry himself to sleep every night.
The deluded Teds will chirp up with 'blah blah basement division etc. etc.', but I can tell you for free that I'd rather be exactly where our club is right now than trapped in the vicious downward spiral that their shambolic outfit is. No doubt about it. Their capacity to hoover up the **** served to them by the puppeteers that run 82 is breathtaking - each one of them must contain more ordure than the average slurry pit.
Anyhow, dear Gashead friends - we're safe, they're down and to paraphrase a recently interred mad old woman 'Rejoice, Rejoice, Rejoice!'
UTG!
so for a team 2 divisons below you, we still took more away to the same area of the country 
