The advantage of death, they say, is that it's someone else's problem. For them, the preparations, the rituals, the forms; for you, a bit of unhurried cellular degeneration in a well-appointed 7'x3' antechamber for antecedents. But what of death without death, the shambling in-between of an entity neither alive nor allowed to rest? Stripped of spirit and deeply beset by rot, yet forced to undertake the performative to-and-fro of one's more vital compatriots? The tortured presence of zombies, ghasts, and Southampton FC? For them, no "was a good one, truly" glossed finality that skirts the ugly details; it's hard to apply rose glasses or sepia tone to that which lurches aromatic, emblematic of darker truths afore the blackened hearth. And lurch it shall, for the witching hour in football begets the winter of our discount spend, and if the fate of cowards is to die not once but a thousand times, cowardly football sides are fortunate that their deaths are capped at 38, though their humiliations may be replayed manyfold that. We sleep, perchance to dream of glories had and gone and dreams all torn asunder. But perhaps those are a distant memory; it's hard to see the briefest blossom of spring once the quagmire sucks us under. A deep gulp of air, a last glimpse of the dividing line of now and yon, and grim acceptance of fate. What will be will be, even if we may not. That only others will remember our folly when we rot. PRE-GAME PUMP-UP MUSIC! Lineups! Saints: Eleven lost souls, condemned to an eternal hunt for a ball that will never be theirs, arrayed in a formation beyond their ken. Ings to score at 3-0 but who the **** cares really. Man City: a many-faceted bulldozer, each gear and cog an instrument of our demise, a mechanized grindstone on which our bones will be rent to dust. Prediction: sorrow.