I've said on here many times, that Saints mean zero to me. They're there with Salford. Localish, but no proper rivalry.
Wigan, Widnes and Leigh are my rivals. Always have been, back to the days when I first started watching us, always will be. When they visited, we'd get an extra few hundred on our attendance, but the Railway End would still be well under half full, unlike the three I mentioned before. We never had glamour dates (bank holidays) against them. Like I said, Salford level
However, since the dawn of SL, they've dragged themselves from the slime at the bottom of Carr Mill pit, and lorded it over all and sundry, with their delusions of grandeur. Their dodgy GF wins over Bradford (99 & 02). Frank Cannon (McRea) and his sneering attitude of our club. Their stands full of fatter versions of Johnny, funny as a running sore, Vegas, and their chav teenage girl fans swooning over Wilkin. A statue of a salad dodger that looks more like their arch nemesis Andy Farrell, than it's intended subject, I've (as you've probably guessed by now) grown a great dislike for them. Not jealousy, no sireee. How can I be jealous of people who can't pronounce bottle or hospital.
No. Just their sheer arrogance. Coming on here, giving it the big "I am" on weeks we play them, telling us how inferior we are, and what's going to happen to us.
Regards, etc. No it's all b0110cks.
Since 10 pm, last night, I have a warm glow surrounding me, which would indicate that I've eaten 6 bowls of Ready Brek, and alternate my holidays between Sellafield, Chernobyl and Three Mile Island.
We may indeed take a beating next Saturday. C'est la vie. But I can sleep easy, knowing my team has piddled on their chips, wiping smug grins off the fizzogs of Richardson and the Cockney wide boy, and laughing at the "Village People moustaches" of Barba and Wilkin.
Choose life, Choose Wire
