Flog - Newcastle? Testicles...

Horrendously, I have recently referred to the writing of these little pieces as ‘Flogging’ or ‘to Flog’. I’ve made my own, new, terrifyingly efficient verb. It cuts my sentences down by almost four words each time.
Anyway.
This week’s Flog comes courtesy of a lift. Or, if you are reading this in America- which would be incredible as Flog has not reached beyond Clapham Junction yet- an elevator. Nothing more. Nothing less. Just a lift. Or elevator.
I’m not often the sort of person who seeks or acknowledges ‘signs’ from above unless it is literally a sign, above me, telling me to do something. Don’t get me wrong, I don’t ignore huge metal frames with ‘Don’t feed the Lions’ on, for I have become quite partial to my arms. However, this ‘sign’ was too hard to ignore.
When entering the lift at work, I found myself thinking about the Premiership table and how for another season it’s sordid grip on us is slowly fading away with each extra minute on sunlight in the morning. As it does so, of course, teams start assessing their season. My thoughts turned to Newcastle.
Immediately, and I mean as soon as the word ‘Newcastle’ hit my mind’s eye, the (mildly sexy) lift voice exclaimed ‘Going down’. I was stunned. As if it couldn’t get any worse, my Toon friends, even technology designed to simply transport people up and down seems to have given up hope.
I have focussed on Newcastle before. But it’s not particularly hitting home with people I don’t think. In five games, Newcastle could be in the Championship. Newcastle! AND they have Alan Shearer! Five years ago predicting that scenario would leave you being sectioned (possibly for listening to an elevator’s relegation predictions as well).
A friend of mine the other day said he would ‘give a testicle’ for Newcastle to go down. Of course he was joking, but then, I have not heard many people outside of the Tyneside masses saying much to the contrary, even if not as self mutilating. Does everyone want them to go down? Or, more likely, is it just the joy of seeing another ‘big club’ sink into trouble? Or is it the fun you get out of seeing Mike Ashley slowly sink further and further into his own body, gradually becoming just a black and white striped blob on a plastic St. James’ Park seat, with a beer dribbling down what used to be his thighs but which are now joined to something that resembles his former left earlobe to become some super-flab monster? A mixture of the three, let’s say.
Cup weekend happened as well, although from what I’m reading in the news most of the managers involved thought it was some glorified episode of Ground Force. Notice that it was the losing managers who voiced most concern over the pitch, but in the cleverly disguised ‘we’re just saying’ kind of way that you would expect from Mr. Wenger and Mr. Ferguson. Fantastic managers they are, but what a couple of old women they can be, too. Also, what a brilliant result for football with Everton making the final for the first time since they took the trophy in 1995. Although if Cahill takes another penalty, have a spare ball ready, that thing nearly caused another rebuilding job of the North Stand of Wembley. In contrast, just hit one like you were delicately scraping dog turd off the ball like Dimitar Berbatov.
Both games I thought were too slow- whether you blame the pitch of the fact that just having Berbatov near you can make you want to take a nap- and lacked the old passion and gung-ho attitude of past semi-finals. It has been said before, but I will say it again- why on earth are they playing the penultimate round of the FA Cup at Wembley? Is it so ‘all fans get a great day out, even if they don’t make the final’ as those with the last word in Soho say? Or would it be because all fans don’t have a choice but to follow their team to the ground the FA decide to make up for massively cocking up their new stadium?

I’ve asked a lot of rhetorical questions today, haven’t I? Haven’t I?