Hesitantly entering the ungovernable nether regions of the bloggerati. On a mission to inject fever back into football. Using classically-lucrative Jekyll and Hyde press formula – build ’em up, then knock ’em down .
This must be the way to popular acclaim for an otherwise-ethical journo.
So follow this twisted mantra as I crash sideways into an enigma, supercharged only by a massive steroid prescription.
Earlier this week, I relaxed in a Gumper’s forest jaccuzzi, helpfully provided by a combination of over-enthusiastic anarchist pollarding , po-going and abundant rainfall. Then a bedraggled tofu grower emerged into view, ruining any chance of hardcore meditation as she screamed about ‘kinel’ Purdie.
Now one can understand the axe being taken to the player budget at Hereford United and the need for all of us to sensibly accept whatever 50% slash in wages the bosses deem necessary in these austere times when not even Barclays can successfully fiddle their way to plentitude.
From Estadio Edgar......
Take a bow, Robert Purdie. You were our midfield Pirlo. A graceful act, cavorting across the Estadio Edgar stage. You had your front teeth smashed by a Halifax elbow in the Play Off Final but still played on through three shirt changes.
An ever-generous passer exuding truly magnanimous thoughts, allied to simply laser-powered sight. The vision of a starship captain enriched by the wisdom of the ancients, you glided through 90 minutes of effortless artistry, whilst all around succumbed to the irresistible attractions of the Blue Square Bet Premiership.
Now you choose to forego the Keyte coffers in order to move to Shrewsbury Town, a club I pass regularly on my way to out-patients, in order to achieve an optimum level of expectoration for the benefit of medical science, thermo-nuclear levels of self-satisfaction and complete inner peace.. Aimed at a club with an out-of-town Lego stadium, ideas above its station and a slew of vile supporters who alternate between ghoulish ‘Salop’ chants, sprinkled with a pathological determination to shout everything in proper grammar, howling when the sentences won’t come out right.
Purdie fled to a veritable Bedlam of gutteral disgrace. The whole sorry affair leads one to reflect on whether we ever saw his true character on the hallowed turf of a proper club.
It must take a heart cacked-up with gritty realism to turn your aging back on the Bulls support. Fans lionizing you even as they pretended to curse vacant moments caught in possession. But did you go to a club a reasonable distance away to allow them, slowly, to forgive and forget?
NO. You-went-down -the-A49-to… Slop. Turning your back in the most hurtful way imaginable short of Newport. What did you expect us to do? How did you think we’d react? Was it just the lure of the Turner lucre that blunted your emotional bond with the Bulls? That blinded you to the harsh reality awaiting any out-of-favour midfielder warming the Slop bench?
Did we really glimpse a Brady-esque talent? Or were we blind to a future hindsight of a moderate personality, slow, somewhat cadaverous on the turn; with lamentable communication skills and a sublime flouncing attitude leagues ahead of anything Ashikodi produced?
Now there may be Bulls fans penning hagiographic poems to Purdie, even as I dribble on the laptop through to another fading, but putatively feminist, sub-masochistic literary climax, all the better to release comforting endorphins from a reader’s warped inner soul.
There is perhaps little doubt whether resignation or damnation will infect our fans the next time we play a team fielding a reject.
The fact remains that concentration on Purdie’s finer qualities has little relevance when seeking to quench a rising thirst for swift sonic retribution – but we don’t even play the Slop next season.
Historical records indicate that the Purdie family originated in Shropshire.
Like any outrage of this magnitude, this just adds to our distress.