What a Stud

And so our cup dreams come crashing around our ears like a hat made out of meringue as our plucky run ended with semi-final heartache. We are sick as a team of parrots who have got that parrot disease - you know, it begins with a P - sounds like pizzicato, that one. It was a game of two halves but, early doors, at the end of the day, the game didn't have our name on it. We tried everything - using the channels, channeling the passion, triangles, square balls, moving it round. But they literally took the wind out of our sails whilst we dug our own grave using the rod we made for our own backs. Literally.

Maybe next year.

In other news, we went to a dinner party yesterday. A proper dinner party like what they had in the 70s.