Right, so last night I dreamt that Carrow Road was a sentient fridge.

Stay with me.

It wasn’t a fridge in Carrow Road. No. The stadium was the fridge. Yellow and green laminate exterior. Big old Delia sticker slapped on the butter compartment. You opened the South Stand and inside was a lone jar of pickled gherkins labelled “Gossy Balls” and a decaying block of cheese whispering “one 'r' Morison.”

There was a small Gary Holt living in the ice tray. He was screaming. Constantly. Not in pain, just existential awareness.

I sat there, inside the fridge, shivering next to Darren Eadie, and we were trying to piece together why every time the light turned off, we forgot who Bryan Gunn was.

And then it hit me: We are all the fridge.
We are sealed shut, humming quietly, filled with expired hope and half-eaten dreams wrapped in cling film.

Let me be clear: I’m not on anything. I’m just tired of pretending football is sane. Tired of watching us pass sideways like we’re drawing crop circles on the pitch for the benefit of some alien tactical scout from the Betelgeuse Sunday League.

We win, we lose, we moan, we dream, we write angry posts on Wrath, while eating toast at 2am like that’s going to fix the back four.

Nodge is the sock you lost in 2008 that just reappeared behind your washing machine, covered in lint and whispering about promotion like it never happened.

Up the fridge.
Down with reason.

Delia, if you're reading this, please stop appearing in my dreams wearing a crown made of sausage rolls.

Posted By: Samsara, May 24, 22:59:08