Our tale begins with the years since 2004 having been poor in harvest. Since the revolution needs to start somewhere, where else but France & the tyranny of the foul Allan of Rolland could have provided the seeds for dissent (& descent) that must now lead to rebellion against the old guard and the rise of a new Phoenix from the ashes of our discontent.

On the 25^th day of April, in the year of our Burke, peace & good health be upon him, 2008, the noble personage of RucknRoll arrived in the fair (look there’s going to be poetic licence throughout, go with it) market town of Chester-le-Street, to pick up the serf (that’s serf not Smurf, I know I’m short & can turn the air blue, but that is a different story) slacker & Mrs Slacker. slacker had worked hard all the evening before, preparing to provide nourishment & succour for the others he knew would be travelling to the South West, to support their cause, raise noise unto the sky to support their Chevaliers, the brave, but small, force of Black Knights, the Falcons.

The day had not started well for either slacker or Ruck, thinking that they should go in to work prior to claiming a p.o.e.t.s. afternoon, but, as always happens, with half an hour to go, the phone will always ring with some “simple query” that will take a day to sort, so they threw off the yokes they had been shackled with & did a runner. All went reasonably well on the long march south, until at half past four slacker received a phone call to ensure he had not fallen down a hole, or the privy, from the fiefdom he served. Buoyed by coffee & a raspberry muffin he was not to be waylaid by the highwaymen & brigands that would steal his time, sucking the soul from his very body, so he lied through his teeth that all was well & he was tilling the fields elsewhere.

Apart from the slow crawl behind a bridge that had been strapped to the back of a lorry along the A42, verily unto almost Ashby de la Zouch, whilst watching the fights and protestations of two nobles, of BMW and Hyundai, both attempting to pass the lorry & the (cara)van with flashing lights to warn there was not enough room to pass, but the nobles both still attempted to mount verges & straddle the central reservation, as though at joust, but failing to exceed the 50 miles per hour we all had to travel at, so were left full of murderous intent. Suicidal, at least.

At Worcester, they passed the temple in which they would worship, on their way to the lodgings that had been arranged. Other pilgrims were staying too, but were making their way toward the Cathedral of the Warriors by the time they arrived. Now fair folk, take heart that even in these dark times the hand of friendship can reach out from the most unexpected of places. The owner of the Inn, despite not worshipping the same gods as our merry band, offered to take them back the last three miles to the cathedral, in order that they may take of the hearty fare on offer (mighty fine pork sarnie, a tad overpriced but the traveller knows well the cost of devotion) and to the Ruck’s delight, a fine bottled ale.

So, dearly belove’d, the scribes have well documented the brave, yet fruitless battle that took place that eve. The forces of Darkness conspired against themselves after striking fear unto the Warriors of the opposition for the opening gambits of the contest. During a brief cessation in hostilities the slackers set about their friends, companions, fellow faithful and occasional foes to dispense what they hoped would be all that was needed to lift the spirits & give lift to the communal hymns being sung. Muffins of raspberry, cake of ginger and loaf of marmalade were passed amongst the travellers, even unto the Father, father of St Jonny of Wilko, but to little avail. The sides resumed their fight, only for the sorcerers of the West Mids to plunge the battleground in to darkness. The faithful were not to be swayed though, whilst their   counterparts remained seated & silent, raucous noise & joyful song was raised to the heavens ‘til the light returned, as did the combatants.

Sadly, the fight was valiant, but in vain. The forces of the dark were vanquished, only to be seen briefly as they struggled & straggled off the field to pay tribute to those who had supported their efforts (although Little Jimmy Grindal was to be found in the bar under the East Stand later that night).

It was as our brave three left the ground, prior to getting in to their carriage, that further seeds of doom were sealed when Mrs Slacker sayeth unto the others “I could murder some noodles”. Ruck was game, but pilgrims, where could sustenance be found at just shy of midnight in an industrial estate? They considered journeying in to the nearby city, but chose to retire & look forward to breaking their fast on the morrow. All was well, thought slacker. But nay, gentles, Ruck struggled to get to sleep as he was taunted by visions of what might have been, chow mein or chop suey with prawn crackers, & Mrs Slacker awoke in the middle of the night with hunger pangs. Only slacker slept the sleep of the innocent, wrapped warm in the comfort of Guinness.

The day dawned & large amounts of pork products, eggs, toast & tea were consumed, whilst the travellers three struggled to answer the philosophical debate of “Are beans breakfast food?” Pleasantries, along with monies were exchanged with the Inn keeper, for he was humorous, then the long journey home was considered. Having been turned away unsatisfied from one place of worship the band took in the sights and sounds of the other Cathedral in Worcester. It was whilst stood at the tomb of King John discussing masonry, that slacker felt the cold hand of history upon him. “The Land & King are One” he remembered from Arthurian legend, but that was not right. The lands around the castle of the Dark Knights were divided, the populace were beginning to revolt. Magna Carter, the Barons & Lords took King John to be held accountable, that the power was not his alone, to rule unjustly, raising taxes as he wished rather than ensuring that his people were looked after properly. This vexed slacker, but he could not quite see why. So the band retied to the Pasty Shop of much repute to stock up on supplies for the long & winding road home.

And so, good folks, what more to be said of our valiant few, chastised in the fires of defeat, weary from the imbibing of holy waters? Ruck was most disheartened when news of Tha Toon going behind to a second goal reached him, he offered a prayer unto the highest, “Burkey, why hast thou forsaken me? What else can goest wrong this weekend?” It would appear nothing as the slackers were delivered safe unto their front door, after communion was arranged for the following weekend and the visit of the unholy of unholies, the heathen Tigers of East Mids.

Where now, brave hearts? slacker, thinking of King John was reminded of France once more. How does one start a revolution? Take the weary, the poor, the huddled masses & subject them to the loss of what they love. Starved of victory for so long, he wondered if the chains of repression could be thrown off, taxation reduced, the Knights to redouble their efforts & fight the good fight with all their might until dissatisfaction be overthrown, the tyranny of failure banished and peace returned to the Lands of the North.

The fields though are barren. What was sown has been reaped, including the whirlwind that took the roof of the West Stand and post at the North. Of the Lords Fletch & Walts, banished after they were usurped, no news. As the year comes to a close we have an abundance of nothing. Battles have been fought and lost. Uncertainty abounds over the remains of the contents of the coffers, are they full, are they empty?

slacker had but two thoughts, that he be known as citizen, and when all else fails, when you need to find the spark to ignite the fires of revolution, listen to the words of Marie-Antoinette, the populace are starving, they have not their daily bread, so

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