I am not usually prone to bouts of reading the stars for signs of great portent, but this weekend several events transpired that left me convinced I had witnessed 3 signs of the Apocalypse.
Sign 1: Friday night I was walking home with Jemma when I heard what sounded an awful lot like bird shite falling from the sky. I instinctively moved away, and then looked back expecting to see the tell-tale pigeon micturant on the road. I was taken aback to see a green lizard there instead. We both looked up at the nearby houses and saw no open windows or sign of lizard chucking. Lizard falling from the sky = sign #1.
Sign 2: Saturday Jemma's phone ceased to work. No connection. Damned freaky shit if you ask me. Sign #2.
Sign 3: Today/Sunday ManCHEETERS United not winning the Premier League. Yes, despite getting their customary 30 odd dodgy refereeing decisions a season they messed it up. Quite a mystery when they play every game with 12 men. Sign #3
I would have included Bath City F.C.'s marvellous promotion to the Football Conference, but this was a joyous occasion and despite being a little strange, pitch invasions and 4,000 hoarse voices tomorrow morning does not an omen make.
However... Today/Sunday If Arsenal were to lose to Fulham and Tiny Tottenham beat Burnley, then the perennial loose-arsed underachievers from White Hart Lane would finish about Arsenal. This event would more then constitute the final 4th sign. Harry Rednapp might as well be twitching in on a white horse bringing plague and pestilence with him. With this in mind these are the final scores of those fate-deciding games.
Arsenal 4 Fulham 0
Burnley 4 Tottenham 2
Normal service resumed then. Phew *wipes sweat off brow* think we dodged a bullet there.