a 42bn candella searchlight pierces the night sky from atop the ramparts of norwich castle

the city of norwich. drenched in silence, steeped in rain, pained by what might have been as the farke knight prances his humble horse among the gobs**tes that infest elland road.

the night hangs heavy over the brooding east anglian sky, grey clouds churning like restless ghosts above the stone of norwich castle. a searchlight pierces through the murk and casts a symbol visible from afar, not just any light.

it’s.... the discbeard.

a symbol of hope etched into the sky, bold and defiant, a bald dome and a bristled beard, glowing like smouldering coal. the city cries out not for a hero, but for a manager of grit. one who speaks in gravel and acts in steel.

somewhere miles away, in a layby off the A1, a man feels it in his marrow. sean dyche looks up from his half-drunk thermos of builder's tea. he spies the glowing discbeard symbol distant in the clouds. it is time.

dyche flicks the stub of a roll-up into the damp grass and discarded fast foot containers punctuated by piles of dogs**t, steps into his citroen berlingo flair, a vehicle that growls louder than it should and guns the engine.

the wheels spit grit. the radio hums static. dyche doesn’t need directions.

he knows where he’s needed.

norwich has called.

the discbeard rides.

amen

Posted By: Tombs, May 3, 20:14:46