IT'S JUST LIKE WATCHING.....TELETEXT?!? by Purple Cones from issue 21

I was sat there watching the telly, just me and my woman sitting there relaxed, the only thing spoiling the chilled atmosphere is me switching back and forth from Page 307 of Ceefax, no score, no worries, just a rush of adrenalin each time the pages scroll through to that page, 0-1, Mitchell, me bouncing around the room, to the fridge, a couple of tins, BBC2, The Outer Limits - shit programme, back to the Ceefax, 1-1, Drewitt - I knew it, you don't release players of his enthusiasm and commitment, still it's a point, back to the outer limits and some stupid scientist morality tale.
9.47pm, I scroll through to page 307, "come on boys, a last minute winner " eh 2-1, not for them , Stafford win in last minute, depressed, back to fridge, clear the stock of lager, slumped and dazed, appeal to the great Chairman in the sky who replies, "I sent you Addison, what more do you want?"
Tuesday Night. The 2nd of May and a night of total anxiety and stress, crossing legs, fingers, eyes and making promises to God a must for those dedicated followers of fashion, Merthyr fans. Personally I can't handle the pressure of watching Eastenders in between bouts of teletext so I bottle it and decide to pay my Grampa a visit. Into the car and the pre-match build up between Cardiff and the Jacks is on Radio Wales. There are too many chants of "You Jack Bastard!" floating through the air for my liking so a quick flick of the wrist and I drown out the blueturds with Oasis. Far better, Supersonic comes to an end as I cruise into Galon Uchaf, dodging petrol bombs and naked kids. I arrive at destination, 4th Avenue.
On entrance, Bianca, Debbie, Cindy and Sanjay's missus are on TV celebrating; Southport fans I thought optimistically. NO. The Queen Vic have won 2-0. Maybe Merthyr should sign Ricky Butcher. He looks OK.
My Grampa makes the tea as I laugh at Bill & Ian on Question of Sport. Fat twats, english twats, as I look on Mark Hughes obviously agrees. Half hour later and I have to get home, teletext beckons once more. Southport -vrs- Telford, Stalybridge -vrs- Macc & Tractormen -vrs- Welling. But first it's Ninian Park and the dying seconds of the semi-final, the air is full of whistling with the score at 0-0. Cardiff are in the final, the radio commentators do their best to hide their capital city bias. I can already picture tomorrows Western Mail, too sad for words.
Back home the mind is focussed on the GMVC/Bob Lord Page 308. Lucky it's not 208 because my "2" button is bolloxed. I ignore the torrents of abuse from my mother who was trying to watch Peak Practice. I wish I hadn't bothered, it's all over, we're down. Surely. My old man mutters something about money changing hands under the table and something about the english and trust. Me, I'm too gutted. All the scores go against us, still I pour myself a cool fizzy lager and take a seat disgruntled.
Ten minutes later I check the teletext again just to be certain. Southport 2 Telford 1. Yessssss !!! I've come in my pants, ecstasy! Still there's Saturday and Gateshead at home. Perhaps it's not over yet!



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