We took our new seats in the Northam/Kingsland corner for the first time today.
I think we’ll go back to The Chapel end…too noisy.
I think we’ll go back to The Chapel end…too noisy.
That’s no good…I was getting Jimi Hendrix feedback on my hearing aids. 
Love the dig from Aussie Saints at the end of this
https://x.com/AussieSaintsSAS/status/1954194075508175253
For non Twits @VancityReynolds is Ryan obv
Why do they call Ryan Manning that? 
Shameless borrowed from Saintslist…
A Tragicomic Tale of St. Mary’s Green
Dramatis Personae:
The Saints: Men of Southampton, arrayed in red and white.
The Red Dragons: Wrexham’s proud company, clad in scarlet.
A Bard: Your humble reporter.
SCENE I. The field of St. Mary’s. A sun-kissed afternoon.
(Enter The Saints, a host fresh-descended from the Premier League’s high throne, their pride still bruised, yet their hopes reborn. Their captain, STEPHENS, a man of stout heart, leads them forth. Against them stand The Red Dragons, a band of humble origins, yet thrice-promoted, their spirit forged in victory’s flame. Their leader, a canny PHIL PARKINSON, has his men arrayed in a firm, unyielding phalanx.)
The Bard: Hark, gentle friends, and lend thine ears to me, A tale of sport, of strife, and destiny. The Saints, late fallen from the highest tier, With fresh-sprung hope to vanquish doubt and fear, Didst meet the Dragons, rising from below, Whose glorious climb a wondrous tale did show. Upon this field, where fortunes do reside, They came to test their mettle and their pride.
(The match commences with a furious pace. The Saints press forward, their youthful energy a torrent. Wrexham’s defence, however, stands firm as a castle wall, with CONOR COADY, a seasoned sentinel, at its heart.)
The Bard: The Saints didst strive, with passes swift and keen, To break the lines of Wrexham’s scarlet scene. But Coady’s wit, and Ward’s most saving hand, Didst keep their hopes from ever touching land. Then, lo, a foul! A careless, clumsy deed, By Edwards, born of haste and desperate need. He fell a Dragon, in the box’s square, And gave a penalty for all to share.
(JOSH WINDASS, a striker of great renown, steps forth to take the penalty. He places the ball with a steady gaze and strikes it with an unyielding will.)
The Bard: Young Windass, with a coolness none could match, Didst send the keeper sprawling, ere the catch. The orb didst nestle in the net’s dark keep, And Wrexham’s men didst roar from victory’s sleep! Southampton’s hopes, it seemed, were dashed and cold, A bitter lesson, painfully foretold. For ninety minutes, though they sought the score, The Dragons held the line and asked for more.
(The match enters its final, fraught moments. Wrexham holds a slender lead. The Saints, in their last gasp, are awarded a free-kick. RYAN MANNING, a man of recent introduction, stands over the ball.)
The Bard: The clock, a tyrant, gave but little grace, And Wrexham’s triumph shone on ev’ry face. But from the bench, a player, Ryan Manning, Didst rise to challenge, bold beyond all planning. He struck the sphere, a curling, artful blow, That left the Dragons nought but bitter woe. A wondrous goal, that kissed the upright’s post, And Wrexham’s lead, alas, was spent and lost!
(The crowd at St. Mary’s erupts. The match, now level, is not yet over. The Saints, spurred by hope renewed, launch a final assault. The ball, a frantic pinball, ricochets in the Wrexham box. The Saints’ captain, JACK STEPHENS, arrives at the far post.)
The Bard: With spirits high, and time a-nearing doom, The Saints didst press, and banish all their gloom. A tangled melee, in the goalmouth deep, Where fortunes danced and secrets they did keep. Then Stephens, captain, of unyielding soul, Didst pounce and strike, to reach the final goal! The net didst bulge, the crowd didst lose its wit, A final triumph, in a glorious fit! Thus Wrexham’s hope, a castle built on sand, Was swept away by fate’s most cruel command. The Saints didst cheer, their victory hard-won, As Wrexham’s boys lamented what was done. A bitter pill, a lesson truly learned, For in this game, the cruelest tales are turned.
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Well I never saw that revival happening as it was past beer o’clock
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Surely beer o’clock is breakfast time for you PS.
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Screwdrivers for breakfast as it has fresh orange juice in it.
If I have enough thats my 5 a day 
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