Big away following expected from Coventry.

[Maybes]

How long are the games George?

[George]

How long are the games George?

11 each way I think, pal.

[Kitchandro]

Bloody hell, even I, EVEN I left this thread for a while because I was bored of it. Now I return to find George has rushed back from 5 a side, sprinted in the door and is back on for some more attention.

Not even the usual blowjob from his mother can keep him away from this thread.

[Captain...]

Bloody hell, even I, EVEN I left this thread for a while because I was bored of it. Now I return to find George has rushed back from 5 a side, sprinted in the door and is back on for some more attention.

Not evening the usual blowjob from his mother can keep him away from this thread.

That made me proper .

Shame you spelt even wrong, I would have given that comment a +1 but I just can't bring myself to do it. Sorry.

[Smoky Francis]

Alas, 'tis true. Old Coventry, as poor Sisyphus, toil to little avail. But 'tis truer still that after nigh on fifty years, hauling but a solitary glittering prize, the vitality, verve and humour of the remaining thousands remains like a vestige, although sorely and bitterly laboured. An undying pride in an era where even the moon has barely shone. They question if the the sky was ever blue.

Leicester's fortune has shone like the Orient sun, and they have bathed. They have fashioned wings in lust of more, but wax it holds their feathers. Legions have been attracted, tens of thousands watch them soar, and they watch, silent gaping mouths, and Leicester plunge, for the wings are still an awkward trial. Still...mouths agape...silence...Leicester ascend again, a slight mumour of the name is heard from the mass, seven times, but without tune, then seven again, and again, and again, as a spiritless prayer...and then silence. Never have so many mouths been so songless in such utopian splendour.

Oyez, Leicester will know the sky as a powder blue, as they crash into the ocean. Thirty thousand sullen mouths will continue to hang wide.

Alas, 'tis true. Old Coventry, as poor Sisyphus, toil to little avail. But 'tis truer still that after nigh on fifty years, hauling but a solitary glittering prize, the vitality, verve and humour of the remaining thousands remains like a vestige, although sorely and bitterly laboured. An undying pride in an era where even the moon has barely shone. They question if the the sky was ever blue.

Leicester's fortune has shone like the Orient sun, and they have bathed. They have fashioned wings in lust of more, but wax it holds their feathers. Legions have been attracted, tens of thousands watch them soar, and they watch, silent gaping mouths, and Leicester plunge, for the wings are still an awkward trial. Still...mouths agape...silence...Leicester ascend again, a slight mumour of the name is heard from the mass, seven times, but without tune, then seven again, and again, and again, as a spiritless prayer...and then silence. Never have so many mouths been so songless in such utopian splendour.

Oyez, Leicester will know the sky as a powder blue, as they crash into the ocean. Thirty thousand sullen mouths will continue to hang wide.