Our final league game of the season & we travel to Shildon for a 3pm kick off
We have to win to stand a chance of finishing outside the bottom 3 & even then it may not be enough – we fed all the permutations into the Fugaku supercomputer in Japan & it melted
There is a map in the Match Centre for the intrepid independent traveller – postcode is DL4 1HA.
Ian is running a supporters coach to the game – so come on, let’s fill it & get behind the boys – leaving North Elmsall at 12.15pm. £10 adults, £5 under 16s. Ring / text Ian on 07790 569075 to book your place(s).
We will be providing live commentary from around 2.55pm via the Podbean app
Twitter updates throughout
Here is my Mike Bassett-esque motivational speech for the players & supporters – ahem:
Once more unto the breach, dear friends, once more;
Or close the wall up with our English dead.
In peace there’s nothing so becomes a man
As modest stillness and humility:
But when the blast of war blows in our ears,
Then imitate the action of the tiger;
Stiffen the sinews, summon up the blood,
Disguise fair nature with hard-favour’d rage;
Then lend the eye a terrible aspect;
Let pry through the portage of the head
Like the brass cannon; let the brow o’erwhelm it
As fearfully as doth a galled rock
O’erhang and jutty his confounded base,
Swill’d with the wild and wasteful ocean.
Now set the teeth and stretch the nostril wide,
Hold hard the breath and bend up every spirit
To his full height. On, on, you noblest English.
Whose blood is fet from fathers of war-proof!
Fathers that, like so many Alexanders,
Have in these parts from morn till even fought
And sheathed their swords for lack of argument:
Dishonour not your mothers; now attest
That those whom you call’d fathers did beget you.
Be copy now to men of grosser blood,
And teach them how to war. And you, good yeoman,
Whose limbs were made in England, show us here
The mettle of your pasture; let us swear
That you are worth your breeding; which I doubt not;
For there is none of you so mean and base,
That hath not noble lustre in your eyes.
I see you stand like greyhounds in the slips,
Straining upon the start. The game’s afoot:
Follow your spirit, and upon this charge
Cry ‘Azzurri for Frickley, England, and Saint Etienne!’
