The Apocalypse could not have come at a more inconvenient time. It was the last five minutes of the big Man U versus Man City game, with City down by just a single point. When the ground ripped open, our plucky eleven continued on regardless, determined to equalise. There was no way they were going to end the last match in history on a loss.
You should have heard the cheers whenever they got near the posts - I mean, we fans have been pretty enthusiastic in the past (I’m thinking the big ’94 game when we got close, only to lose it when it came down to penalties), but it was nothing compared to the roars heard tonight.
This was literally it. Whoever won this was the victor forever. As fire rained down and furies swooped, our men clinched a belter in the top corner. All they needed to do was tap another one in, and we’d be able to gloat in the afterlife for eternity. Nothing would stop them from pursuing that final point, not the spewing lava, not the sheets of thunder a mile wide, not even the Man U supporters singing that we were wankers. Our team was fearless.
And then it happened. Just as Lucifer himself appeared to pick off and pitchfork those in the cheap seats, Man U’s Davison knocked it through the keeper’s legs. The whistle blew. It was all over.
This is the worse day of my life.