One very wonky squad of promotion-winning Canaries coming up. It will probably be a disaster. Look at Emi Buendía - this is as good as it’s going to get.
RTs spread the pain 💛💚
Good grief it’s a rough start
About thirty more of these to go. Could be a long day. No one is going to come out of this well, least of all us.
Oh lord
This hasn't gone well. Not well at all.
Moving on
Giving ourselves a solid 3.5/10 for this
On a scale of 1 to 10, how big should Teemu Pukki's beard be?
We have our doubts as to whether his neck can really be that long. Seems unlikely.
No Tettey, no party 🥳
Awful
Manchild
Two bad things happening - one, we are bad at drawing and two, our yellow sharpie is running out which could jeopardise this whole sorry endeavor
I play for a football club. Not a very good one, in fact we're in the lowest possible rung of the football pyramid, plying our trade in the (formerly) RT Harris & Sons Oxford City Football League. Our average age is about 36. We've won one game this season.
But if we suddenly got our act together (or signed some players born after 1987) we could feasibly get promoted to the Oxfordshire Senior League. And after a few more promotions, we'd could make it to the Hellenic League. THEN the glamour and glitz of the Hellenic Premier.
After that would come a couple of divisions of the Southern League, rubbing shoulders with the might of Didcot Town and Banbury United (I'd likely be in my late forties by this point but assuming our selection criteria remains the same would hope to still do a job on the wing)
Huddersfield Town - brace yourselves, we are drawing you ✍️
Suggestions needed please. 36 wonky Terriers to be doodled. Our attempt at Andy Booth shouldn't fill anybody with confidence.
RT's appreciated
P.S. we can't draw very well 💙🤍💙
Just horrible. Straight off the bad, a horrible, horrible picture.
Things have fallen apart in record time as for some reason we thought Andy Booth was Scottish for some reason so this entire endeavor is already ruined.
Got a pizza delivered yesterday and it was like a Cold War hostage exchange. Headlights in the dark. Heavy drizzle. A man emerges from the car, clad in black. Stands staring, waiting for The Signal. I flick the kitchen light on, letting him know it's okay to approach.
He walks slowly, deliberately to the front door, and places the pizza, still in it's protective hot-bag thing, on the front step, then turns and RUNS back to the car.
I open the door, squinting into the gloom at pizza man, sillhouetted in the hi-beams. "Should I... should I just...?" I begin.